England's Assassin
Page 1
Titles by Samantha Saxon
The Lady Spies Series
NAPOLEON'S WOMAN
ENGLAND'S ASSASSIN
THE KING'S CODE
Coming Soon
THE REBEL’S ROGUE
Coming Summer 2016
The Conspiracy Series
ANOMALY.MIL
OUTLIER.GOV
DESCENDANTS.COM
Praise for Samantha Saxon
“Saxon hooks you from the very first page and keeps you up all night with her thriller romance. A cleverly executed plot, three dimensional characters, a sizzling romance and a mystery that has you guessing to the bitter end.”—Romantic Times
“This action-packed story line grips the audience . . . Samantha Saxon serves up a stupendous Regency romance.” —The Best Reviews
“Dynamic historical suspense that will keep you on the edge of your seat from the first page . . . a must-read.” —Romance Junkies
England's Assassin
(The Lady Spies Series #2)
Samantha Saxon
Tartan Publishing LLC
TARTAN PUBLISHING LLC
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2016 by Samantha Saxon
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at samantha.saxon@live.com
ISBN: 978-0-9971948-2-1
PRINTING HISTORY
Published as The Lady Killer, Berkley Sensation edition, December 2005
Reissued as England's Assassin, Tartan Publishing, April 2016
Cover Design by Daniel Barajas
To my children for exceeding all of my expectations
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Epilogue
Chapter One
Paris, France
October 17, 1811
Nicole closed her eyes, but she could still see the image of General Capette sprawled across the mahogany desk with blood pouring from the ragged wound in the back of his head. She could still smell the gunpowder drifting through the luxurious fifth floor suite she had just been given admittance to clean.
Her eyes snapped open as she turned toward the fearsome crack that splintered the gilded doors nearest the ornate brass locks. Nicole froze, astonished by the transformation of the amiable French soldiers whom had searched her moments ago.
They entered the cavernous room with their pistols drawn, but it was not their weapons that made them lethal. It was the coiled muscles, the hard set of their features and the cold that had settled in their eyes.
“What has happened here?” the lieutenant bellowed as he ran toward her, the sound of his black polished boots bouncing off the carved panel walls.
Nicole opened her mouth to explain but she had no words to describe the horrific scene she had just witnessed. Blood trickled on the inlaid wooden floor and she dropped to her knees, scrubbing at the sticky liquid before it was absorbed into the tiny crevasses.
The tall man lifted her from shock with a firm grip on her upper arms. “Mademoiselle!”
Nicole jumped, startled into answering by his shouting.
“I… I was airing the general’s room when a man…” She pointed to an elongated window and the second soldier rushed toward it, leaning out.
“There is a rope hanging from the roof,” he reported to his superior.
Nicole felt a callous finger lifting her chin and she was forced to look into the hard hazel eyes of the young lieutenant.
“Describe this man,” he said, the muscles in his jaw throbbing.
“Fair hair.” A tear streamed down her face as she forced herself to continue. “Tall, handsome. He… He shot the general and climbed onto the balcony.”
“Gaston.” He glanced at the other man. “Search the roof. I’ll take to the street. Mademoiselle,” his eyes darted back to her the instant that they were alone. “You must remain here until I return.”
“No!” she protested, desperate to get out of this room. “Do not leave me here. What if…”
“Do not fear, Mademoiselle,” the lieutenant said, patting her hand as if she were a child awoken by some gruesome dream. “This man will want to get away from the hotel as quickly as is possible.”
He turned to go but Nicole grabbed his arm. “Please, don’t leave me,” she whispered, sounding terrified.
The lieutenant looked down and sighed with frustration, propelling her out the damaged doors and toward the servant’s staircase. They had descended two flights of stairs, when they rounded a corner on the third floor and very nearly collided with an elderly butler holding a laden dinner tray.
The lieutenant scarcely stopped, leaving her with the bewildered servant, saying, “I must go if I am to capture the general’s murderer.”
But she knew he would never capture the assassin.
General Capette was so reviled by the French themselves that Napoleon had assigned bodyguards to protect his most victorious commander. The objection, it was commonly agreed, was in the barbaric manner in which those victories where obtained. Murderous men such as Capette were hardly the harbingers of liberte.
There had even been rumors that the general had raped a chambermaid at the hotel, which undoubtedly was the reason Nicole had obtained the position a mere eight days ago.
“General Capette has been murdered?” The old man stared at her blood spattered apron in disbelief.
“Yes,” Nicole nodded. “A man climbed from the roof onto the balcony.”
“Are you injured?”
Nicole’s chin began to quiver. “N
o.” She was not injured, but she would never be the same.
The old man turned to escort her to the kitchens, but needing to be alone, she stopped him. “Your supper is becoming cold. I am unharmed, I assure you.”
Nicole could sense the butler’s apprehension so she descended the stairs before he could protest further. She continued her brisk pace until a mixture of aromas wafted up the stairwell from the direction of the noisy kitchen.
Slowing, she stepped onto the landing and cautiously pushed the door inward. The deafening sound of metal pots, determined chopping and shouting greeted her as she walked into a small room nearest the door. Colorful fruits were piled everywhere as pastry chefs agonized over the finishing touches to their evening’s creations.
She continued walking, trying not to disturb the kitchen during the most chaotic portion of their day. They would learn of General Capette’s murder soon enough and she envied them their last moments of ignorance.
The back door of the hotel came into view and Nicole felt the anxiety ease from her shoulders. She had no intension of sobbing like a child in front of the entire kitchen staff, but feared if she did not leave soon, she would.
Exhausted, she opened the white door and lifted her face to greet the cool autumn breeze before stepping onto the uneven cobblestone street which ran the length of the fashionable hotel. The door closed behind her and she walked toward the Seine as she did every night, stopping only once.
She removed her shapeless lace cap and bloody apron, tossing them both into the river. Even in the dark, she could see the powerful current carrying them away. Nicole watched from the embankment until the white cloth was swallowed by the dark waters beneath the Pont Neuf Bridge.
Nicole turned north toward her apartment, reaching into the pocket of her black muslin dress. Engraved silver glinted in the moonlight as she removed her pistol and absently reloaded the exquisite weapon, remembering that the streets of Paris were very dangerous at night.
Chapter Two
Nicole stripped the chambermaid costume from her body and placed it in the small fire of the boarding house washroom. She watched as the flames flared, causing little tuffs of smoke to mingle with the steam already rising from her bath.
Once the garment had been consumed, she turned to the task of cleaning herself by sinking into the small copper tub. She winced at the intense heat of the water and tried to absorb the pain as she lifted a small square of coarse cloth. She scrubbed, as she always did, starting with the tips of her left fingers and continuing up her arm.
Her teeth clamped shut and she ignored the red streaks she was creating on her delicate white skin. She scrubbed harder, faster, avoiding the deep gash on her forearm made by a protruding piece of metal roofing when she had reached up to untie the pistol from the rope just before… before…
She swallowed her guilt and scrubbed. Nicole had no idea how long she had been cleansing herself, but the water was getting cold. She leaned over and pulled the worn silk cord hanging to the right of the narrow door.
The beleaguered maid entered the bathing room and her eyes narrowed in confusion when Nicole snapped, “I need more water,” for her already full tub.
But when the girl continued to stare, Nicole cursed herself for not having sat the opposite direction. She tensed, knowing that the maid was counting the scars on her back and knowing also that she had not had time to count them all.
“Are you finished?” The girl’s gray eyes grew wide in contrast to Nicole’s violet slits as she said, “Get… me… more… water,” annunciating each word as if the maid were a complete simpleton.
The girl bobbed a curtsy and fled the room and Nicole returned to her cleansing, starting by roughly swiping at eyes that seemed to never stop crying.
She scoured the back of her neck, telling herself, as she always did, that she was necessary, that these men would continue to commit violence against the innocent if they were not stopped. And who better to protect the innocent than a person as equally wicked and depraved as the men she killed.
Nicole stared at the water, its calming reflection calling to her. Her eyelids drifting closed as she slid down until her back lay flat against the bottom of the tub. Black hair swirled around her and she brushed it aside. Her eyes stung as she opened them to stare through the water at the contorted features of the small room. The glow of the fire as it danced on the ceiling, the ancient wooden beams of the ramshackle boarding house.
Her lungs were burning now and she told herself that if she had the courage, the will to hold herself down it would all be over. She would not have to kill again and it would all be over for her. She breathed beneath the surface.
But not for the next man. It would all begin for the next man sent to carry out the assassinations.
Nicole bolted up right, sucking in a breath that mingled with the water that she had taken into her lungs. She coughed violently, hanging her head over the rounded metal sides of the battered tub.
She smoothed long hair away from her face, knowing that she was already condemned and thinking her last act of contrition would be to save another from being sent into this perpetual hell.
She rose, rivers of water streaming down her body as she reached for a white bath sheet. Nicole ignored them, wrapping herself in the numbness of indifference as the maid entered the room and poured steaming water into the vacated tub.
“Merci,” she said with utmost sincerity.
The girl left and Nicole crossed the hall to the small bedchamber that had been her home for the last two months. She sat on the edge of her uncomfortable mattress and stared at the missive her English contact had given her three days earlier.
Andre Tuchelles’ distinctive seal was still intact as Nicole could not bring herself to read the name of the next man she was to kill before completing her previous assignment. But General Capette was dead and soon the man beneath the blue paraffin would be too.
Both by her hands.
She ran a finger beneath the wax, creating light blue flakes that fell to the dusty vermillion carpet. Her heart was racing and she paused not wanting to read the name, knowing that the man would be safe if she did not.
Her right hand was trembling when she summoned the courage to lift the top third of parchment and then the bottom. She took a calming breath then focused her eyes on Andre’s bold handwriting. Nicole stared, her heart seizing as she read the name and location of her next assassination.
“He can’t be serious,” she mumbled.
Dazed, Nicole hid the missive and dropped her bath sheet to the floor. She climbed, nude, into the minuscule bed and stared out the window, praying that God would grant his nightly reprieve.
But knowing also, that the wicked never rest and the condemned… the condemned never sleep.
Chapter Three
Paris, France
Ministry of Police
October 17, 1811
The Minister of Police sat at his enormous desk, as he always did, with his back to the brick wall while facing the solitary door to his illustrious office. These were, perhaps, extreme safeguards, but Joseph LeCoeur had learned early on in his career that a careless man was a dead man.
And he was not a careless man.
He stared at the proof of his precaution in the form of a black wax seal that he had not seen in a very long time. Three years to be precise. Trepidation rolled in his stomach as he broke the wax arrows and read the brief communiqué.
“Merdre,” he muttered, his fist clenched. “Rousseau!”
His handsome, young assistant entered his office and stood before him ready to be of service. And while the man was excellent at keeping schedules and making appointments, few knew his true value.
“I have a job for you.” Major Rousseau stared at him with eyes so dark no man could glean his thoughts. “One of our agents has been captured.” Joseph cursed again, bemoaning the capture of an informant that had, for a price, been able to identify British agents working throughout France. “Lord Cun
ningham is being held at the Foreign Office in London.”
“When do I leave?” The austere man did not even blink before accepting the assassination of the informant that he himself had trained when the Englishman turned traitor.
“Have you finished the other business?”
“I call on him tonight.”
“Bon, after that matter has been resolved you will leave for London.” Joseph reached into a drawer and pulled out a stack of English pounds, handing it to the smaller man. “You know where to go for assistance,” he continued, holding up the fractured seal.
“Oui,” Major Rousseau said, his lips twitching ever so slightly at the corner in what was as close to a smile as his associate had ever come.
“But remember, I need you here in two weeks' time.”
They stared at one another and the younger man nodded, saying, “Nothing would keep me from making my introduction to Scorpion.”
The minister laughed, thinking Major Rousseau the only man in all of Paris that hated defeat more than he. This British assassin, Scorpion, had not only eluded them, but was becoming a blemish to Minister LeCoeur’s impressive career. He had paid the English traitor, Cunningham, handsomely for setting a trap for their illusive adversary and had even used himself as bait.
“No, I don’t imagine that anything would keep you from Empress Bonaparte’s Feast, but do remember that I want Scorpion kept alive.”
Joseph relished the thought of staring into the eyes of Scorpion as Major Rousseau introduced the English assassin to his darker talents. The minister vowed to himself that Scorpion would not die until he begged for the pain to stop, until the assassin begged for his own death.