Good evening, everyone!

This story is titled: Gold Lace and Sapphires

Please note this story is NOT tied with any of my other stories, don't try and link any of the "boys" histories, families, or experiences into this one. Think of this as a "Stand Alone" story.

This is a long one. Because I'm so short on time, I'll be posting one chapter a night unless it's a super short chapter. I'm just trying to keep my head above water right now, so please be patient with me. This story is complete, I'm just doing a few edits as we go.

This story takes place after episode 1 of season 2 and before episode 3.

Special thanks to MountainCat who has been just as busy as I am! Thank you so much for taking the time to edit an review! You're truly appreciated!

Enjoy the read...

Chapter 1

Rochefort stood on the balcony leading to the library hall. He dusted the sleeve of his doublet with the back of his hand and admired the intricate details of the lacing along his arm, the carefully gathered fabrics that were folded and creased to perfection and, as a result, emphasized his newly gained position at the palace. He looked at the ring that adorned his finger, and then the ornate weapons belt that was cinched around his waist and hung elegantly at his left hip. The gold buckles and embossing contrasted the glossy black leather. His royal blue doublet hung to his knees and had been handpicked by the king himself. Everything had been done to perfection: his haircut, the trimming of his beard, and even the manicuring of his fingernails.

He took a deep breath, inhaled the warm summer air, and exhaled. It was dusk. The sun was setting and warmed the sky with its fading brightness of yellows, oranges, and reds. The gardens, he swore, whispered his name and he slowly curled his lips into a knowing, confident smile. It would all be his. His plans were in motion, his tools were in order, and he relished the thought of his station. Being captain of the Red Guard regiment was one thing, but his love for the queen was another. Queen Anne would one day hold France to the bosom of her breast, and he would stand beside her as they ruled together.

Rochefort stroked his mustache and narrowed his eyes as he thought about the pieces of the puzzle he was putting into place. The intricate details that would meticulously come together as the weeks progressed. Each irregular piece matching its mate as it manifested and unfolded. The king would succumb to his insanity, his insecurities, and his cowardice and die a cruel and painful death. The King's Musketeers would fail in their duty and find themselves bloodied and slaughtered outside the roads of Paris. And Treville would simply disappear, never to be heard from again.

The people of Paris would one day chant Rochefort's name in celebration.

His smile widened.

The people of Paris would love him, admire him, and worship him.

He turned suddenly, stepped from the balcony and into the library, where he watched the flames of the lanterns flicker against the leather-bound books Louis treasured. The room, vacant of comfortable furniture and art, was a space meant for receiving guests, not entertaining them. It was a room intended to intimidate.

The books implied knowledge and position.

Rochefort ignored the guards who opened the door as he departed and entered the hall. His booted feet tapped the travertine floors, and he grasped the hilt of his ornate sword as it swung by his side. His steps were long, determined, and confident. With his shoulders back, his head held high, he walked past the private chambers, the kitchens, and the grand hall, and exited through the front doors.

Torches lit the grand steps of the promenade and the flames flickered off the fine architecture that represented royalty, power, and influence.

A bay horse stood ready, held by a groom, and Rochefort swiftly mounted. He pulled the reins through his hands, kicked the animal's sides, and galloped from the palace. Evening was upon him, and he felt the wind through his hair as his mount cantered through the streets of Paris. He ignored the dogs that barked, the children that paused in their antics and stopped to look at him, and the merchants, who scurried out of his way.

The horse blew hard when Rochefort pulled him to a stop and dismounted. He tied the reins to a post and entered a small tavern that was frequented by ex-prisoners, sailors, and miscreants. The stench of old piss, sweat, and vomit permeated the air, and Rochefort grimaced with a frown, and pressed the back of his wrist to his nose. He walked across the sticky floor, ignored the call from the prostitute standing in the back corner, who pushed her bosoms toward him. He entered a room to his right and closed the door behind him. Rochefort cleared his throat and then reached into his pocket but held his hand in place.

"You're late," said the man hidden in the shadows with a heavily accented voice. He shifted at a table and leaned forward to allow the light of the lantern to flicker off his face. Boris Gala smiled broadly. Bright blue, nearly crystal eyes glistened as the flames danced, and his square jaw, straight nose, and finely shaped lips exaggerated his handsome features. His long dark hair hung freely around his clean-shaven jaw and down his neck, and the faint scar ran from the corner of his left eye and across his cheek captured the light. He was a tall man, broad through the shoulders, and narrow through the waist. He was over forty years, but his youthful features defied his age. Women loved him and men wanted to be him.

His black silk blouse, opened at the collar, exposed the fitness of his body, and the claw of a bear hung from a gold chain around his neck.

Rochefort rolled his eyes and stepped to the table. "I thought there would be more of you. One man will not be enough for what I have planned."

Boris smiled, leaned back, and hid himself in the shadows once more. "Don't be a fool, Rochefort," he said fluently in French. His Hungarian accent was heavy as he spoke. "My associates — as you call them — are preparing for the work ahead." He lifted his hand and motioned with his fingers toward Rochefort and for the information.

Rochefort cocked an eyebrow skeptically, pulled the note from his pocket, and then handed it to Boris, who took it and quickly glanced at the names on the list. "War is eminent, but we cannot secure Spain's alliance —"

"We?"

Rochefort clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes as he looked at Boris. "I," he emphasized, "cannot secure Spain's position should these men — these —" he exhaled in displeasure, "musketeers, be allowed to continue their duties. They have proven themselves resourceful and highly dedicated to the king."

Boris, with his elbows on the table, waved the note between two fingers, and said, "These four? These men you have listed — just these four?"

Rochefort leaned forward and placed his hands on the table with his elbows locked and looked hard at him. "What other four names have I written on that note?" He looked at Boris in disbelief and added, "The plan I have in motion requires that all pieces fall into place… if you cannot accomplish this, then I will find someone who can. You are supposed to be one of the finest assassins to ever cross into French territory. I understand your skills are very," he paused, "specific, but I'm forewarning you. I will not hesitate to see your demise should you fail. Spain, my plans, and the fall of France rely on those plans — Do I make myself clear, Monsieur Gala?"

Boris chuckled, pushed the table and forced Rochefort to step backward, and then stood. "Do not threaten me…" His features grew stern, and his years of experience were suddenly visible in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the laugh lines near his lips, and the creases of his brow as he frowned. "You have given me a list of four names, names that mean nothing to me unless I want them to…" he stepped from behind the table, toward Rochefort, and towering above him said, "and when I want them to… you will know who has lived and who has died." He shoved the note back onto Rochefort's chest with a powerful thrust of his hand.

Rochefort swallowed, but flared his nostrils in defiance, and met his eyes. "I'm paying you exceptionally well, Boris… don't disappoint me."

Boris huffed. "Why these men… what do they have that you do not?"

"Nothing," Rochefort quickly said, and straightened his doublet. "They are the king's most trusted guards… I need him vulnerable. I need the king to trust me and only me, and if those men are in my way, my plans will be postponed." He cocked his head to the left. "I don't want my plans postponed… Do you understand?"

"You surprise me, Rochefort. A man of your character and resources," Boris said with a look of amusement, "needing to hire an assassin to manage four men? One would think you could have managed that on your own." His face grew suddenly stern. "Or are the rumors about you more substantial than the man standing before me?" He looked Rochefort up and down with a look of annoyance and disappointment.

"Like I said." Rochefort grasped the front seam of his doublet and pulled it closed and carefully ran a flattened hand across his chest. "They have proven themselves resourceful."

"Just these four?"

"And one more after they are eliminated, but like all things, there is an order that needs to be followed." Rochefort reached into his pocket and removed a hefty coin-purse and tossed it to Boris, who caught it and felt the weight. "Your payment. Plus," he said, pleased with himself, "there is extra in that bag should you incur any additional expenses." Rochefort dusted his sleeve, swallowed, and raised his chin. "Do you still specialize in poisons?"

Boris cocked an eyebrow inquisitively. "Everyone else but you know me as the apothecary, Rochefort." He chuckled proudly as he slipped the coin-purse into his pocket.

"I know of an assassin known as the apothecary… I remember reading about the death of Ambassador Fyodor from Russia… he lingered in agony for days."

Boris nodded, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked at Rochefort. "I'd rather be known by my skill… than my name."

"The apothecary… it seems a bit," Rochefort shrugged, "banal, doesn't it? Considering I can find a vast array of poisons at any apothecary shop in Paris."

"You can't find what I have," Boris said with a chuckle. "And nobody in France or Spain… or anywhere in all of Europe can recreate it."

"Regardless," Rochefort said, with a look of fatigue. "I will need some of what you have… just enough for one man."

"The king?"

"One man," Rochefort said, and slowly lifted his eyelids in exasperation. "Something slow… something that will make him dependent upon me… to sway his mind. Perhaps," he shrugged, "something that may cause him to become overly suspicious and then eventually…" he paused, "kill him."

Boris nodded. "I will have Sasha create something for you." He took a deep breath, turned back toward his seat, and said over his shoulder, "He'll arrive at the palace as your physician. Do not make him wait. He is very," he shrugged and then sniggered, "calculated when crossed." He warned. "Be careful with the poison… the tremors it causes become nearly unbearable —"

"I don't want him to suffer tremors — not for the man I have in mind," Rochefort said. "Like I said, I need him to grow dependent upon me… something to weaken him, and then later I will take the necessary steps to accomplish my goal," he waved his hand nonchalantly toward his mouth, "vomiting, abdominal pains. It must look like something… a treatment perhaps…" he shrugged, "that a physician might overdose him on — and make sure it smells like poison in its raw form, but undetectable in wine."

Boris smiled, looked at Rochefort, and then grabbed his doublet from his chair. "You surprise me, Rochefort… you're weak in flesh… but strong in spirit." He smiled. "I like that."

Rochefort curled his lips downward. "I will have more details in the days to come… locations, names, and…" he smiled knowingly, "a surprise gift that I think you will enjoy."

Boris looked at Rochefort unimpressed and with a slight rise of his right brow. "Where?"

Rochefort frowned in question. "Where what?"

"Where will I be meeting you for additional information?"

"Here." Rochefort cleared his throat. "I'll have a meal served and supply you the details you need in order to accomplish my orders."

Boris raised an eyebrow and curled his lips into a wry smile. "Are you afraid, dear man?" He asked teasingly and licked the curve of his top lip.

Rochefort rolled his eyes in exasperation and said, "I will expect the delivery soon."

Boris stood, grabbed his doublet from the seat behind him, and clamped a heavy hand on Rochefort's shoulder. Boris smiled when he felt Rochefort shudder. He said, "When I return, we'll have a much longer discussion about our next steps… and my bonus… partner." He tossed his doublet over his shoulder and with a quick, easy flip of his wrist, opened the door, and left.

Rochefort listened as the door closed. He looked at the barren walls, the empty table, and the glow of the weak lantern. He looked at his hand, spread his fingers wide and admired the ring, his trimmed nails, and the appearance of his clean hands.