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“Treasure hunter,” she teased.
“Call me what you will. But you knew before coming here my experience and education.”
“Yes, too bad you left out the part about consorting with thugs.”
“Annja.” He dug out a few surgical gloves and leaned against the table. “My real passion is teaching.”
“Fencing.” He had a little shop in Sens, but lately, struggled to make the rent. How then, could he afford this mansion? Perhaps more than the exterior was crumbling, she thought.
“Fencing is a romantic sport, oui? ”
“Yes, but it also emulates armed manslaughter.”
“Touché! Ah, but the children. They are so agile and quick to learn. It is a delight to watch them develop their skills.”
She was surprised to hear the enthusiasm in the man’s voice. It was something he’d never mentioned during their online chats. “You teach full-time?”
“I’m down to three days a week. The rent—ah, it is of no import. I have to be free, you know?” He gestured with excited fingers as he smoothed out the paper, yet took moments to punctuate his speech like an air typist. With a wince, he clutched his side, but recovered as quickly. “I live to experience adventure. Jump off of buildings. Trek across mountains. Swim in the Amazon.”
Annja lifted a brow. “I’ve had a few adventures myself.”
“I like that about you, Annja. That time on Chasing History’s Monsters that you pursued the blue flash down the hillside?”
“Not planned, I assure you.” She recalled an episode on the blue flames, which, according to Bram Stoker’s Dracula, were places where buried treasure could be found, but only on Saint George’s Eve. Legend called them flames from all the dragons Saint George sent to Hell. Annja had decided it was the oxidation of hydrogen phosphide and methane gas, though she hadn’t ventured anywhere near a swamp where that should normally occur. “But it did make for good viewing. My producer held the clip for ratings week.”
“You were on Letterman that week, as well. You should flirt more with the man.”
Annja bowed her head and tried to force up another yawn. Why couldn’t she summon one when it was needed?
“You are a very sexy woman, Annja,” Ascher said.
“Yes, well.” The compliment felt great. She didn’t hear things like that often enough. “Right now I’m feeling far from it. Tired, dirty and close to falling asleep on my feet.”
“So! You want to let go of that, or must I pry it from your iron grip?”
“Hmm? Oh. Sure.” She set the sword bag on the paper with a crisp crinkle, and rubbed her hands together. “Hand me some gloves. And focus that light, will you?”
“Your wish is my command, mon amour. ”
“Watch it, Gascon. Just stick to the business at hand. All right?”
“Of course. Gloves. And light.”
Snapping the latex gloves onto her hands released the smell of powder. She then drew out the sword from the bag to place it on the white butcher’s paper. Bits of dirt and particles of the desiccated velvet that had lined the box fell onto the crinkled surface. In their excitement at the dig site, she had already handled the sword without gloves. Hopefully, it had not incurred damage.
Annja let out a huge breath and pressed a hand to her chest. Yes, her heartbeats really could pound that quickly. Here, beneath her fingertips, sat a remarkable history.
She concentrated on the weapon, leaning in to study the length of the hilt, from the flat, slightly curved pommel to the quillon, curved back to protect the hand, yet abbreviated as it swept into the decorative hilt. The blade was about three and a half feet in length, and the hilt designed for a large hand to fit comfortably about the grip.
A gorgeous sword for any cavalier to wear at his hip when out on the town and looking to show his worth or to attract a lady’s eye.
She clicked the camera on and snapped a few pictures.
“Damascened blade,” she said, drawing a gloved finger over the slightly rusted blade. The arabesques were worn to mere suggestions, but still there was no denying the quality of work. She leaned in and adjusted the camera for a close-up shot. “Blackened steel. Folded…I’m not sure.”
“Twelve or thirteen times,” Ascher tossed in. “Most seventeenth-century swords crafted for the French court were designed by Hugues de Roche. Especially the more decorative rapiers. He folded his steel a dozen times and signed them with a mark on the ricasso of the blade, just near the hilt.”
“What was the mark?”
“A simple R in a circle,” Ascher said.
Annja tilted the sword to catch the light at the base of the blade. Smoothing a finger through dust and dirt, she located a small marking. “It’s here. It’s real,” she gasped, not wanting to succumb to the tremendous feelings that threatened to make her squeal like a silly schoolgirl. Not yet. Look it over completely first. And take more pictures, she ordered herself.
“Swept hilt,” Ascher noted. “Gold.”
“Yes,” Annja agreed. “The hilt is three strands of gold, which sweep to form the suggestion of a basket. The grip is wrapped in silver, maybe, and it looks like a black cording twists around it, almost as if it was meant to fit within the channels of silver.”
“The inventory documents of Castelmore’s belongings detailed two swords,” Ascher said.
“One of black steel,” Annja confirmed, “the other gold. But they were believed sold to pay off his debts.”
“How do you suppose Charlotte-Anne got her hands on this sword?”
“Well, that’s assuming this was one of the swords remaining in Castelmore’s home after his death. Neither one was indicated as a rapier. He could have received this from the queen, then immediately handed it to his wife for safekeeping. This rapier could be entirely different from the two documented swords.”
“True. But I don’t think so,” Ascher said.
“You just don’t want to believe so.”
There was only one sure way to determine if this was the actual rapier once wielded by Charles de Castelmore d’Artagnan, gifted to him by Queen Anne as thanks for many dangerous missions, all for the king.
All for one, and one for all.
Such a noble phrase. And yet “all for one” could bear a much greater meaning.
Annja surreptitiously slid a latexed finger along the hilt, tracing the smooth gold. Now she met Ascher’s eyes. The two of them challenged without words. A lift of her brow was matched by Ascher’s grin.
“Shall we check if rumors hold truth?” he asked.
6
“When did you have the time to research this legend, Ascher? In between jumping out of buildings and swimming the Amazon?”
“Exactly. I like the quiet of the bibliothèque stacks. So still and haunted by the ghosts of centuries past. It offers a balance to my busy lifestyle.”
Annja felt the same whenever in a library. Rarely did she find the time lately. Her own loft back in Brooklyn had become a minilibrary. And if she waded beyond the piles of books, field notebooks and research documents, there were artifacts stacked without order. The loft wasn’t a complete disaster; she liked to consider it comfortable disarray.
Balance, yeah, that was something she should never allow to tilt too far out of whack. A good meditation session wouldn’t hurt after her long day.
“Besides Dumas’s journals, which you have read,” Ascher said, “I’ve had opportunity to pore over some of Nicolas Fouquet’s voluminous writings.”
“The royal financier who was imprisoned for embezzlement,” Annja said.
“Yes, unfortunately he is known for that small mistake.”
“And for being a pornographer, thanks to Louis XIV.”
“Falsified evidence. He merely copublished a racy little tome with Madame de Maintenon. She did the majority of writing—he edited. He really was so much more.”
Annja smirked. “And here I thought your favorite Frenchman was King Henri III.”
“The most reviled of the Valois kings—because of his homosexual tendencies—but I’m interested in them all. Do you know Fouquet also had a huge lending library that was the greatest collection of research books in all of Europe? It attracted political advocates and patronages. Fouquet intended to use it to rise in position in the government. But the king wasn’t having it. I’m not sure why Louis XIV was angry with Fouquet. This all happened before the infamous arrest after the lavish party at Vaux le Vicomte.”
Annja hadn’t known about the library. “What happened to the library after his death?” she asked.
“It was divided up and sold. Madame Fouquet managed to save his personal journals. I’m surprised I found the little I did at the Bibliothèque Nationale. The man made copies of virtually every important document he created for the royals, be it for purchases of land or certificates of patents to the nobility or coded secret missives. He was a secretive Saint-Simon, if you will.”
The duc de Saint-Simon had been an infamous chronicler of the seventeenth century, his diaries amounting to thirty published journals. Much like a modern-day entertainment program, Saint-Simon had reported all the salacious and juicy details of court life.
Annja had always wanted to get her hands on Nicolas Fouquet’s private journals, for he had been close to Charles Castelmore during his imprisonment for embezzlement. Castelmore had been forced to stay with and tend him while imprisoned as Fouquet waited the king to either call him back from exile or begin proceedings for his trial. It took well over three years, during which the musketeer had not the opportunity to command his troops or engage in martial combat. It must have been hell for d’Artagnan, she thought.
“I believe Dumas had access to the Fouquet papers, as well,” Ascher said.
“To look at you, no one would mistake you for the scholarly type,” she commented, turning her attention back to the rapier.
“Please don’t let the word get out.”
She gave a little laugh. “And here I thought you were nothing more than a treasure hunter.”
“You say the title as if it is so offensive.”
“Treasure hunters have no reverence for history, the condition of a dig site or the people who left behind the objects. Archaeology is all about learning the why, what and where. Treasure hunters could care less. They storm in, kick aside the dirt and haul away the booty.”
“I’m very meticulous before I haul away the booty.” He delivered her a charming wink. “I know how to backfill a site, returning it close to its former state.”
“Even when you’ve got gunmen breathing down your neck?” she asked.
“I am very busy man, Annja. I have…had alliances.”
That statement struck Annja oddly. But she knew now she should not be surprised at anything Ascher said or did.
“Those men who tried to steal the sword,” she said. “You knew them.”
“As I’ve said, I have never seen them in my life.”
“That may be, but you were not surprised by their arrival,” she pointed out.
He drew himself up straight, but with a sudden wince, he clutched his side.
“Did you get hurt tonight, Ascher?”
“It is nothing. An old injury, as I said earlier. Just surprises me now and then. I’m usually quite fit, and can perform remarkable feats with my body. As a traceur, one uses his whole body to perform. An injury keeps me from participating.”
“The parkour? ”
“Yes. A traceur is one who practices parkour. I do not like it when I am injured.”
“It’s been a trying day. Maybe a heating pad?”
“Perhaps.”
Ascher pressed his palms to the white paper and leaned in, his shoulder brushing her arm. Annja could hear his breath catch—he was in pain.
Compassion didn’t come easily for her. She wasn’t a hugger, nor did she often feel inclined to ask anyone “How are you?”
She’d give him some space. He’d take a moment if he needed it.
Tension strummed through her, but it was divided between excitement and the nervousness of being close to a man she had thought to know better than she apparently did. A man she had initially thought to trust.
“Enough small talk,” Ascher said in a whispery tone. “I am well. Are you going to check to see if it is in there?”
“You’re giving me the honor?” she asked, surprised.
“But of course.”
Tilting her head, she peered into Ascher’s eyes. When fencing, it was critical to maintain eye contact with the opponent. The enemy’s next move always first showed in his eyes. But she saw nothing to clue her to defense. And when had she started calling him an enemy?
His mouth slightly parted, Ascher waited expectantly. A shadow of a soul patch dabbed his chin, and lower, a pale white scar curled out of view under his jaw. The adventures that drew him appealed to Annja perhaps more than he did.
Annja let out a breath and placed both palms to the paper, before the rapier. “Can I trust you, Monsieur Vallois?”
He propped an elbow on the marble table. Mischief now danced in his pale blue eyes. A dangerous mischief. While it threatened, it also intrigued. Adventure or not, Annja wasn’t completely oblivious to the opposite sex.
“How can we know when to trust anyone?” he asked.
“That’s not the answer I was hoping for.”
“I can ask the same of you, Annja Creed. Can I trust you?”
“You invited me here. I’m just along for the ride. Amusement-park ride, as it may be. Just tell me before we do this—who wants the sword?”
Huffing out a sigh, he pressed his chin into his palm and eyed her straight on. He was hiding something, and Annja could sense his need to blurt it out. Men always kept their feelings bottled up. Yet their secrets often simmered just beneath the surface, easily excavated with adept care.
Kind of like you, eh, Annja?
“Annja, believe me when I say I have always intended to hand the sword over to France if and when it was found.”
“But now…?”
