Napoleon Must Die by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Bill Fawcett

hour, and to Berthier’s tent first?” she asked. “It might be urgent,” he said without conviction; they both knew that such messengers went directly to Napoleon himself.
    “Look!” she hissed. “That horse.”
    The figure riding was concealed by a long cloak, and when the horse stopped near Berthier’ s tent flap, the rider dismounted quickly.
    A moment later Berthier himself bustled out of his tent, his hands moving nervously over his coat. “Good evening, though it is late,” he said to the figure. “I was afraid you would not be here.”
    Whatever the answer was neither Victoire nor Murat could hear.
    “We’d better hurry. We’re waited on,” he said. “My horse is ready. I’ve only to bring him around.” He started around the tent only to find his way blocked by Roustam-Raza. “What the devil—”
    Victoire rushed from her hiding place with Murat on her heels. “We have you now!” she cried out, wishing she had a charged pistol with her.
    Berthier backed up, his face darkening with anger. “By what right do you do this?” He spun around to face Victoire. “I might have known it would be you,” he bellowed at her, and then dropped his voice. The aide’s face was red with anger; only the pronounced dimple on his chin wasn’t visibly darker even in the moonlight.
    “She’s not alone,” said Murat, sauntering up behind her and favoring Berthier with a sketchy salute. “You have to excuse us, but we’re curious about your friend. Do you think he would be kind enough to ... unwrap a trifle? Enough to show your face?”
    Berthier at once became flustered. “It ... it w-would not be a ... very wise ...” He glanced at the cloaked stranger. “Truly, Murat, it would be best if you went your way and paid no attention to ... anything you might see here.” He sniffed nervously. “And if you could c-convince Madame Vernet to ... to be discreet?”
    “What is there to be discreet about?” demanded Victoire. “Or don’t you want it known that you are receiving foreigners?” With that she reached out and tugged at the cloak, pulling it back from the unknown’s face.
    “Don’t!” Berthier protested.
    But it was too late. There was a squeal as the cloak fell, leaving Pauline Foures exposed. She was dressed in a fine rose silk ballgown and wearing a necklace of pearls. Her perfume was a heady combination of roses, jasmine, and violets.
    There was a stunned silence, and then Murat laughed. “Good God,” he said, going down on one knee to retrieve the cloak. “So that’s the game.” He held the cloak up to the lovely Madame Foures. “Best put it back on before anyone else sees.”
    She took the cloak and flung it around her shoulders with a swift, elegant gesture. Her expression had no trace of embarrassment. “Thank you, General Murat.”
    “Oh, the pleasure’s mine,” said Murat, his brown eyes alight with humor. He stepped back to Victoire’s side.
    “What is it?” she asked him.
    “A tryst in the making,” said Murat. “By the look of it.”
    Berthier had now had recovered enough from the shock of their discovery to work himself into a proper rage. “How dare you! Murat, I am offended! And you!” He rounded on Victoire. “What possessed you, Madame Vernet, to take it upon yourself to disgrace this woman?”
    “This woman?” echoed Victoire, uncertain what she had interrupted. “I meant no harm to her. You are the one I watched.”
    “I?” He was aghast. “By what authority?”
    “As a loyal wife,” she began, determined not to be put off by Berthier again. “You want to discredit my husband, and I will not have it.”
    Murat came nearer to her side, touching her arm gently before closing his hand around her wrist. “Madame,” he said, not quite laughing, “I think it would be best if we leave Berthier to tend to Madame Foures.” He bowed to Pauline, and then to Berthier, all the while keeping a firm hold on Victoire. “Forgive the intrusion. And forgive our