England's Assassin

by Samantha Saxon

  Damont?

  That was not his name, of course, and she wondered if she had known him in London, if her father had introduced her to his family when she was a child.

  No, she would have remembered him. But he was older than she and as she had never made her debut it was highly unlikely that their paths had ever crossed.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  Nicole again swept her hair behind her right ear, trying to appear at ease as she asked the question that would inevitable draw his mind back to her fit of panic. The man met her eyes and proceeded with such caution that she wanted nothing more than to be enveloped by the velvet cushions on which she sat.

  “We must retrieve our belongings and transfer them to the apartment. I assume,” his eyes swept over her extravagant gown. “That you are no longer in need of the items in your burgundy trunk?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.” Nicole looked out the window, feeling his amused condescension to the core. “One never knows when those gowns might become useful.”

  Monsieur Damont shrugged. “Very well and then I thought we could dine. I have not eaten a bite since Minister LeCoeur arrived at his office.”

  Appalled, Nicole turned from the window and stared at him in surprise. “That was at eight o’clock this morning!”

  “Aye, I’m starved.” He chuckled. “But I dare not miss you merely because I was peckish.”

  ***

  Daniel’s fork paused on the way to his mouth as he sat staring at the beautiful woman opposite him in a private dining room of an exclusive café located at the Palace Royal.

  It was not her breathtaking appearance that had impeded his progress, but the manner in which she was separating the breast meat from the bone of her duck a la rounge. She worked with the precision of a skilled surgeon and Daniel felt a chill dance down his spine as he contemplated how she had acquired such deadly proficiency.

  “How old are you?” he asked badly, breaking every gentlemanly decree every made.

  The woman blinked several times as if she had not heard him correctly.

  “Why do you wish to know?”

  He could hardly tell her the truth, tell her that he wondered how old she was and how long she had been executing men for money.

  “Just curious.” He looked down at his meal. “I thought as we are going to be spending the next three weeks—“

  “Two and a half.”

  “Pardon?”

  “We will be spending two and one half weeks together, after which you can return to London with your conscience clear.”

  “I would prefer to go now.”

  “I’m not stopping you.”

  “Aye, you are.” He nodded, his anger causing him to revert to English. “I canna leave you in Paris, knowing that you are placing yourself in danger.”

  “If I choose to do so then what difference could it possibly make to you?”

  Daniel grinned, incredulous. “No gentleman can leave a lady unprotected.”

  “Is that a passage from some sort of tonish pamphlet given you when you enter polite society? ‘No gentleman shall leave a lady unprotected’ which no doubt follows ‘No gentleman shall rut with a whore unless wearing protection’.”

  Daniel could not believe the coarse words spewing from such a pretty little mouth. “A gentleman would rather forfeit his own life than see a lady harmed.”

  At this, the peculiar woman threw her head back and laughed.

  “Oh, Monsieur Damont you are so utterly naive. I can see now how they convinced you to leave the comforts of the haute ton. ‘Damsel in distress’ was it?”

  Her hilarity was so caustic, so jaded that one could not help but feel its bite, but she continued to feed.

  “And while I do appreciate the gesture, I can assure you that I have no need of rescuing, so allow me to do it for you.” She met his eye. “Go home, Monsieur Damont before you are arrested and hanged for espionage.”

  “I have been commissioned to deliver you a warning—“

  “Consider me warned.”

  “And,” Daniel spoke over her interruption. “Bring you home to London.”

  “I won’t go.”

  “Why?” he asked in an airy rush.

  She placed her fork down and smiled. “London is far too oppressive in autumn.”

  How could one possible argue with such a bizarre declaration? He could not, so he simple reiterated. “I will assist you until the assassination is complete and then we will revisit the subject of returning to England.”

  The woman ignored this pronouncement, saying only, “You may assist provided that you do exactly as I instruct.” She took a sip of wine, her authority absolute. “You must trust my judgment and remember that I have done this successful many times.”

  Daniel’s heart bumped in his chest but curiosity got the better of him.

  “How many times?”

  Mademoiselle Beauvoire looked up, intentionally holding his gaze so that she could watch him flinch when she said, “Nine.”

  Chapter Ten

  Daniel towered over the petite woman as she fumbled with a ring of keys just outside the apartment door. She was so small, so beautiful that he could not imagine her harming anything, much more killing nine men.

  Nine!

  “You’re staring at me again,” she snapped in French, pushing the gilded door open before stepping inside the darkened apartment.

  “My apologies,” he whispered in English, following her in with his trunk biting into his right shoulder.

  He watched as she set her keys on a small marble table then lit a candelabrum that illuminated her face, emphasizing a profile that any artist would long to paint. She was study in contrasts, black eyebrows and crimson lips against a canvas of creamy white skin.

  Soft, feminine… deadly.

  “But I canna seem to help myself.”

  The woman ignored him and walked along the inlaid wooden entry and opened the first door to the right.

  “This is the dining room and the kitchen is through that door,” she said, clinging to her patrician French as she pointed down the corridor. “I never hire staff. So, if you are determined to stay, you will have to prepare your own meals.”

  “No problem.” Daniel grinned and picked up the gauntlet. “My mother insisted that we all know our way round a kitchen.”

  The woman stopped walking, her violet eyes wide with surprise. “The males as well?” Mademoiselle Beauvoire asked in English, giving ground.

  Daniel leaned forward as if he were confiding some great secret. “We’re all male.”

  “Seven boys?” She stared, remembering their previous conversation.

  Daniel nodded, amused.

  “Your poor mother.” She continued down the hall. “You must be Catholic.”

  Her pronouncement was said with that touch of superiority that every Protestant injected into observations of the Catholic faith. But at seven and twenty and a longtime resident of Protestant London, Daniel was impervious to insult.

  “Aye,” he said, deliberately thickening his brogue. “’Tis my favorite doctrine of the Holy Catholic Church.”

  He waited and curiosity eventually caused the woman to stop in her tracks.

  “What doctrine is that?” She turned to look up at him.

  “That a wife canna deny her husband his marital rights,” he teased, thinking it more likely that his mother had demanded hers.

  But rather than lightening the mood his jesting had pulled her eyes into angry slits.

  “Yet, another reason I am not Catholic.” She scoffed. “Nor Protestants, for that matter, as they are equally barbaric to their women.”

  Bloody Hell. Perhaps he could see her killing nine men after all.

  “We shall allocate this as your parlor.” Daniel glanced about the room lined with numerous books and dominated by an enormous marble fireplace. She pointed across the hall. “And you may sleep in the front bedchamber.” She opened the door and placed the candelabra on the t
able next to a large bed surrounded by yard of chartreuse velvet that hung from a walnut canopy. “Good night.”

  “Wait,” he requested, his fingers overlapping as they wrapped gently around her wrist. “Aren’t you going to show me the remainder of the apartment? I’m afraid I did not see much when I was divesting you of your pistol.”

  Even in the dim light he could see her cheeks turn an enticing shade of pink.

  “In the morning, I shall take you on a tour,” she said with a considerable amount of irritation. “As for now, it is well past midnight and I’m very tired.”

  Daniel looked into her face and saw fatigue clinging to her delicate features. He nodded and with a rakish grin, agreed, “Alright, a tour first thing tomorra mornin’.”

  She closed the door to his bedchamber and Daniel sighed, kicking off his absurd French shoes. His tightly fitted jacket came next, followed by his exorbitant silk waistcoat. He began to unbutton his shirt when a disturbing thought struck.

  What if she left the apartment? It had taken him three days to track her and he did not relish repeating the exercise.

  He picked up the candelabra and silently walked to the front door, which was, as far as he could tell, the only way into the fourth floor apartment. He lifted the candles over the marble table and sighed with relief the moment he saw the set of brass keys.

  Daniel lifted the ring, wondering why she had so many and hoping it would not take long to find the key that fit the front door. But his eyes narrowed when he saw that the hoop held not keys but an impressive array of brass picks.

  His mind spun as he twisted the picks around the ring until he held the only key in his right hand. He locked the front door and returned to his room, hiding the keys in the one place a woman of her height would never think to look—-atop the velvet canopy.

  Daniel sat on the duvet, the mattress sinking under his weight, and striped off his stockings. But the more he thought of the picks and the dangerous woman that used them, the more he thought it prudent to sleep in a different bedchamber.

  He cautiously stepped into the corridor, half expecting the lethal woman to fall from the ceiling and slit his throat. It was disconcerting to say the least and he kept a sharp eye, walking slowly as he proceeded into the depths of the luxurious apartment.

  Daniel had just entered the back salon lined with windows that overlooked the square, when he heard, “Blow them out!” nearly stopping his heart.

  “Bloody hell, you startled me.”

  Nicole refrained from cursing as she ran toward the Scot and blew out his candles which lit up the apartment like a tree at Yuletide.

  “I said I would give you a tour of the apartment in the morning!”

  She ran back to her window and lifted her mother of pearl opera glasses, pointing them in the direction of the residence across the square. The apartment remained dark and she sighed with relief, saying, “Get down, will you.”

  His brows furrowed, but not being a complete idiot, he sank to his rather impressive haunches. “Is this some kind of bizarre foreplay or is there a purpose to my skulking around your apartment?”

  “Go to bed, Monsieur Damont.” Nicole lowered the glasses and squinted as she jotted down the time in a small journal.

  “Not until you tell me what you’re doin’,” he said, surprising her with his propinquity.

  “I am monitoring the nocturnal changes of the moon.”

  “And is the moon trapped in the apartment across the way?” Daniel asked, staring at her with eyes so clear they appear to glow in the dim light.

  She blinked, disconcerted by alluring shadows the moonlight cast over the masculine line of his jaw, the hollow of his cheeks, his lips…

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Then who is?”

  “No one.” But then a light bloomed in the apartment across the way, proving her a liar.

  Nicole ducked and pulled on the Scot’s left forearm until his massive frame sank below the window sill. She lifted the opera glasses and watched as the Minister of Police returned to his home after spending the evening with his current mistress.

  “Is that Minister LeCoeur’s apartment?” The Scot jerked his head toward the window.

  Nicole ignored him. “What time is it?” she asked, trying not to compare the stunning agent seated next to her with the man disrobing across the square.

  “Twelve forty-seven.”

  Nicole swallowed her lecherous thoughts, placing the opera glasses on the floor and noting the time her objective returned to his apartment. “Thank you.”

  “No problem, lass,” he said in a Scot’s brogue that made Nicole wonder why any woman thought French romantic.

  She turned her head and saw Daniel Damont was leaning against the wall with his right arm draped over one knee and the other leg stretched out in front of him. Her eyes scanned his torso and she stopped breathing entirely when she saw that his cravat was gone and the first three buttons of his shirt were undone.

  For most men, this state of dishabille would have elicited nothing more than a raised brow, a reproachful glance. However, with Daniel Damont, she had felt what lie beneath his shirt as he held her in his arms. She had felt the heavy muscles shifting against her breasts as he sank expertly into her mouth and if he would just release one more button she would be able to see the chest…

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” he all but purred, the deep words laced with so much sensual suggestion that Nicole had to stop herself from shuddering.

  “No,” she turned back to the window, her face burning. “Assassins usually work alone.”

  The comment was meant to be sarcastic but Nicole knew that she was reminding herself of who she was, of what she was.

  “You don’t have to work alone. You don’t have to do this at all,” he whispered, more persuasive than Lucifer. “Come to London with me.”

  He touched her hand and the ensuing jolt brought Nicole back to her senses.

  “I have a job to finish.” She rose, saying, “Good night, Monsieur Damont,” before walking to her bedchamber and shutting the white doors.

  Daniel stared at the double doors, his breathing heavy. He had meant to seduce the woman and lure her to England, but the thing that was causing his heart to thunder in his chest was not her reaction, but his.

  He had wanted the woman, badly, and that had not happened since the day Sarah Duhearst had married the Duke of Glenbroke.

  Confused, Daniel stared into the darkness and after many minutes of contemplation decided that his gentlemanly desire to protect the woman had manifested itself as a less then chivalrous desire to claim her. It was a primal need of every male, he knew, to protect and possess. However, in this instance, the line between the two masculine instincts had simply blurred.

  Satisfied with his reasoning, Daniel stood and retrieved the candelabra, vowing not to confuse the two impulses again.

  Chapter Eleven

  London, England

  October 20, 1811

  Evariste Rousseau sat, staring at the English dandies in disgust as they groped the whores at Madame Florentine’s with all the finesse of a pig given a bucket of slop.

  God, how he hated the English.

  He hated their filthy city, their ugly women, their condescending arrogance that made them think themselves superior to the liberated people of France. Made them believe that their blue blood was somehow more precious than his own.

  Evariste smiled to himself as he looked about the room remembering all of the Englishmen he had shown the true color of their aristocratic blood as it flowed from their bodies, remembering the look of surprise on their idiotic faces when they realized that they were not, in fact, invincible and were going to die.

  Wincing as he wrapped his hand around a glass of ale, Major Rousseau begrudgingly remembered that there were… the occasional exceptions.

  He glanced down, flexing his knuckles that were still raw from the beating he had given Andre Tuchelles.

&nbs
p; He had been different.

  Monsieur Tuchelles had looked at him with understanding in his eyes, comprehending not only that he was going to die, but that he would die slowly, painfully.

  Evariste had enjoyed, as he always did, beating the man. But then his hands were as swollen as the Englishman’s face and with each finger he took his time in breaking, Andre Tuchelles eyes had shown only resolve. Had reflected his knowledge of Scorpion’s identity and a mocking silence that had held until shock had comforted Tuchelles’ body. Leaving Evariste with the threat of death as his only means of coercion, his only hope of extracting the name his so desperately desired.

  He had allowed Tuchelles a moment to contemplate, to decide if Scorpion was worth dying for. He asked him one last time for the name and location of the allusive English assassin and then with a respect he had never felt for any man, Evariste had stabbed Andre Tuchelles in the heart.

  No, Monsieur Tuchelles had been different.

  Not like these men. These men were concerned only with their cloths and their cocks, their estates and standing with in Britain’s haute ton while people starved on the dirty streets of London.

  They deserved what Napoleon was planning to do and he could not wait to witness the destruction of the British Empire.

  “You look absolutely murderous and I suggest you alter your continence before you get us both killed.” His companion’s voice was light, jovial but Major Rousseau could hear the familiar steal that cut beneath it.

  Evariste laughed, his dark eyes turning to meet the steady gray eyes of Enigma. “I hardly think—“

  “And that would be your first mistake. You are not paid to think. When in London, you will do as I bid, when I bid you. Is that clear?”

  Hackles raised, Evariste forced himself to bow his head indicating submission, knowing that Enigma was the one French collaborator with the power, the intelligence to sweep him aside before he knew danger was approaching.

  “What would you have me do?”

  Enigma chuckled, enjoying his subjection. ”Lord Cunningham is being transported in two days' time from the Foreign Office at Whitehall to Newgate. He will be guarded by five men, two in the carriage, two at rear and a coachman.”