Nor was the McCurren clan one to be forgotten. Nicole had met the viscount’s parents when she was a child. His father, Malcolm McCurren, Earl of DunDonell was a mountain of a man with a thick, dark beard and a thundering voice that had frightened her no end.
Yes, she could most definitely see the similarity in size and facial features to his handsome heir. The earl was himself a handsome man, but it was his mother from whom the viscount had acquired his stunning turquoise eyes and auburn hair.
The countess she recalled very clearly. Lady DunDonell had been very kind when Nicole’s mother had died when she was but eleven years of age. The Earl of DunDonell and his beautiful wife had stayed in Nicole’s home on several occasions over the years, but it was this visit that she remembered most.
Lady DunDonell had been the only guest present to acknowledge Nicole’s pain, acknowledge the loss a child felt for her mother.
The kindly countess had done what she could, had spoken to Nicole’s tutor, excusing her from her lessons. Lady DunDonell had even played cards with her on the eve of her mother’s burial. Yet the Earl and Countess were merely acquaintances, nothing more, and by the end of that horrible week Nicole was once again alone.
Her impetuous father had never spent much time with her and why Nicole had expected him to comfort her after her mother’s death she did not know. It just seemed to her as a child of eleven as something a father ought to do for his offspring.
Comfort, protect.
Oh, her father loved her very much, but he was a vain man incapable of showering affection on anyone but himself. Nicole resembled her father in appearance and she suspected that his pride and vanity bonded him to her in some peculiar way. He was forever telling Nicole how pretty she was or how beautiful she appeared riding her mount so well.
But even his cursory interest in Nicole had waned when the Earl of Bansbury had meet Lady Langston a mere three months after her mother’s death.
Lady Langston was even prettier and appeared even more beautiful as she rode at her father’s side.
Looking back with the eyes of an adult, Nicole could now see that they had become lovers almost immediately upon meeting. But they had waited the requisite mourning period, as one was forced to do, before announcing their engagement.
Her father had been so happy that night. Nicole smiled as the picture of her father standing with champagne glass in hand bubbled up from her memory.
The Earl of Bansbury was not a dreadful man, quite the contrary. Everyone liked her father. He had been kind to her, kind to the servants and had been a great deal of fun for his friends.
No, he was not a dreadful man. Her father had just been lacking in depth and incapable of --
“What are you doing?”
Nicole flinched in her delicately carved chair. She turned and looked at the man that had consumed her thoughts all evening. He was so perfect of face and his form… Her eyes descended down his exceptional body and Nicole blushed quickly turning to look at her letter lest the man realize her lecherous intentions.
“I’m writing my sister.”
Not that the man was unacquainted with lustful looks. Undoubtedly, the handsome viscount had hundreds of ladies throwing themselves across his path. And the prowess with which he had made love to her indicated that he had taken quite a few up on the offer.
She had not thought of that, had not wanted to think about the countless women he had taken to bed. For one sublime moment, Nicole had felt the most precious woman in all the world and she would forever be grateful for that illuminating instant.
She heard the viscount walking toward her and Nicole leaned so close to her parchment that one might suspect that she required spectacles.
“And what will you tell your sister?” the viscount whispered, intentionally seductive.
His left palm pressed to the oak desk and Nicole stared at his hand, remembering the heat, the power of it on her body.
“Nothing,” she was inarticulate, slow of mind.
He was leaning over her, peering over her right shoulder. “Will you tell your sister about last night?”
“No—“ Her words stuck in her throat the moment his searing lips pressed to her neck. Nicole let him kiss her again. Just once more and then she would stop him. “Tell her what?”
Oh, god yes, another. She could not breathe.
The air of his soft laughter tickled her nap. “Tell her about us, tell her how we made love.” He kissed the sensitive skin at the base of her neck and her spine tingled with wanting.
Nicole leaned to the left, pulling back. “Why should I tell her about our evening together?”
“You’re absolutely right, lass.” The viscount looked down at her smiling. “Best your family—“
“It won’t happen again.” Lord DunDonell’s brows furrowed as she continued to talk. “I’d no idea when we…”
“Made love,” he nodded angrily, finishing for her.
“Yes,” Nicole spoke to the desk. “I’d no idea when we made love that you were a viscount.”
“What bloody difference does that make?”
She lit the sealing wax and watched the red liquid drip on the back of the veiled letter.
“It makes a great deal of difference.” Nicole pressed her ring to the paraffin and then rose, careful not to meet his striking eyes. “Last night, I thought you a fellow patriot offering his services to the crown.”
“I am!”
“But I now know,” she continued, ignoring him. “That you are a viscount with enormous wealth and responsibility.”
“So?”
“Who came to Paris on a lark.” Nicole picked up the communiqué, her reticule dangling from her left wrist.
“What bloody business is it of yours why I came to Paris?”
“Ahh, I’ve so missed the aristocratic arrogance of Britain’s haute ton.” He was angry, defensive as she stared into his icy eyes, thankful that their sensual subject had been averted. “Very well, why did you come to Paris, Viscount DunDonell?”
This viscount’s jaw set. “My reasons are my own.”
“I’m sure that they are and I shall leave you to them as I have things to which I must attend.”
Daniel watched Nicole Beauvoire walk toward the front door. He watched the way she held her head, her shoulders and then he was sure of his suspicions.
“Well, lass, I may have my reasons for coming to Paris, but you’re not exactly being truthful.” Now that he had her attention, he kept it, walking toward her. “Only ladies of the haute ton ‘miss the aristocratic arrogance’ of its gentlemen.”
The woman saw her mistake and he could see her lovely eyes spinning a tidy lie. “I could have been a maid or a governess—-“
“With your education, your comportment? I think not Lady… Come now lass, make the proper introductions. Lady…” Daniel smiled down at her, the idea of their equal status decidedly intriguing. “I know we’ve never been introduced.” He tilted his head, his eyes staring into hers as he teased her with the possibility of a kiss. “I would have remembered,” Daniel breathed.
His lips fell to hers and she tasted as sweet as she did last night. His fingers slid around the silky skin at the base of her neck, just below her morning bonnet.
The lass was like a fawn ready to jump at the first opportunity so and he constantly reassured her with gentle caresses. Daniel moved closer, deeper and his right hand went round her waist as he slowly coaxed her against his body.
The heat of her flooded him with memories of last night and he was hardening with renewed desire. There lovemaking had been languid as Daniel took the time to explore her exquisite body and ease her fears. But it was that time, the delaying of pleasure that had culminated in a climax that shook him body and soul.
And he wanted to feel the shake of it again.
“Oh, I would have remembered you.” Daniel whispered to himself, but she had heard him.
The lass hit him in the chest with both palms, but it was their mout
hs that punctuated their disentanglement with a wet dislodging of lips.
“You could not have known me in London.” The lady stared at the floor then spun, deserting the apartment without a backward glance and leaving Daniel to wonder who the hell she was and what the hell had happened to her.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lady Juliet Pervill sat in her parlor with her arms crossed over her chest as an annoying barrage of driveled washed over her.
“It is entirely too dangerous, Juliet.” Lord Barksdale shook his chestnut head. “The blackguard in the alley saw your face. He may even have recognized you. Identifying the man to the Foreign Office is ill advised.”
Juliet rolled her eyes and sighed with tolerable impatience. “Real Robert, if I did not recognize him then it is highly probable that he did not recognize me.”
The young Lord Barksdale continued stalking in front of the settee on which she sat as if he were her infallible guardian. “The murderer could know of you, darling. You must admit that your father travels in rather seedy circles.”
Juliet felt a flash of irritation. Lord Pervill was a bastard, to be sure, but she and her mother were the only persons allowed to label him as such.
“You’re over rot,” Juliet said, rising. She walked to the bell pull, sure that a cup of tea would do the agitated young lord some good.
“I am not over rot, Juliet.” Robert lifted his sculpted chin, saying in his most deeply masculine voice, “You are not to go the Foreign Office. I absolutely forbid it.”
***
Lady Pervill alighted her carriage a quarter of an hour later, stepping onto the hallowed ground of Whitehall. Men in every shade of gray scurried passed and she squinted against the sun to locate the front entrance of the Foreign Office.
Locating it, Juliet lifted her shirts and walked up the steps, a gallant gentleman holding the door open as she swept inside. She took a moment to look about the impressive foyer as she made her way to authoritative figure asking, “I have some information that I wish to discuss with a representative of the Foreign Office. Would you be so kind as to direct me?”
The enormous man looked down and with a thick cockney accent, said, “Do ya have an appointment?” in a tone that bordered on the rude.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. You see, if I knew with whom to make the appointment, then I would not be speaking with you.”
The man’s unruly eyebrows pulled together as he tried to decide if he had just been insulted.
“You can’t speak with a member of the Foreign Office without an appointment, ma’am,” the man said, deciding that he had.
Juliet proceeded into the hall to find a gentleman with some modicum of intelligence but the large guard blocked her progress.
“I’m afraid, you will need an appointment.”
“Look here, sir. I have information concerning several murders which took place two nights ago--”
“Well, miss, that would be a Home Office matter,” the man smirked, the condescension wafting off of him.
Anger sharpened her mind as well as her tongue.
“You will address me as Lady Pervill,” Juliet’s displeasure was audible to every man in the front entrance. “Furthermore, you will fetch,” she paused, using the word intentionally. “Your superior and tell him that I have information pertaining to the murder of a prisoner being transported to Newgate prison two night passed.”
All heads were now turned in her direction, but Juliet paid the gentlemen in the foyer no never mind.
“If you do not perform the task for which you have been hired, I shall make sure that you employer is aware of your insolence as well as your disregard for the lives of the six men murdered.”
A tidy gentleman, not much taller than herself, wandered on the scene. “It’s all right, Mister Jones. I shall take Lady…?”
“Pervill,” Juliet said in way of introduction.
“I shall escort Lady Pervill.”
The guard nodded once, embarrassed by her dressing down. “Very good, my lord.”
The gentleman held out his arm and Juliet took it, resuming the order of things.
“You must forgive, Mister Jones,” the gentleman said smiling as the proceeded down the main corridor. “It is his job to… assess the significance of visitors to the Foreign Office.”
Unconvinced, Juliet slipped him a sidelong look. “The man is large. I will give you that, but he is not very good at the assessing portion of his post.”
“No, I’m afraid he is not.” The gentleman chuckled, ushering her through a myriad of doors. “Mister Jones is just returned from Portugal and unaccustomed to dealing with the fairer sex, much more a woman of your caliber.”
Juliet knew damn well when she was being placated, but she liked it nonetheless.
“If you would not mind waiting a moment or two?”
“Not at all.”
The man knocked on a nondescript door and then entered. Juliet strained to listen but heard only muffled conversation before her amiable escort returned, saying, “This gentleman will be able to assist you, Lady Pervill.”
Juliet entered the small room and glanced at the old man behind the desk, disappointed. She had half hoped to be shown to some dashing officer who would fall at her feet and thank her for the vital information needed to apprehend the villain that had murdered those unfortunate men.
But this man was neither young nor dashing. He was not even an officer for goodness sake.
“Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Lady Pervill.” Falcon nodded at his assistant to close his office door, while trying not to laugh at the girl’s obvious disillusionment. “I was told that you have some information pertaining to the murders of six men?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
He stared at her wholesome face and dusting of freckles, understanding why Mister Jones had stopped the young lady. She looked all of twelve.
“I am told that you made quite a scene in the foyer,” Falcon said, adding disapproval then watching her reaction, noting not one twinge of embarrassment.
“I came to the Foreign Office because I have information pertaining to the murder of those men.” She began. “What difference could my behavior possibly make to them? Indeed, my inaction would harm their families and the investigation of their murders a great deal more. Don’t you agree?”
Falcon ignored her rhetorical question and looked down to hide his sharpening eyes.
“What is this information you believe that you have, Lady Pervill?”
“I saw the murderer.”
Forced back in his chair by the woman’s revelation, Falcon very nearly knocked his coffee cup to the wooden floor.
“How do you know it was he?”
“It was the murderer.” The girl’s eyes held, burning with intelligence. “The man was covered with blood.”
“Go on.”
“He was rather short, young, twenty five or so. French in appearance, dark eyes and hair, olive skin; handsome. He was impeccably dressed with a golden waistcoat and white gloves that were covered in blood.”
“How did you happen upon him?”
The young lady paled, which from his cursory assessment of this woman’s character would take a great deal to accomplish.
“He threatened my companion, Lord Barksdale.”
“What did the man say?”
“Nothing, not a word, which further indicates that the man was French. As to our ill-fated meeting, I was traveling to the opera when Lord Barksdale’s driver happened upon the scene. Seeing no signs of danger, the Lord Barksdale went to assist and the murderer appeared from the shadows nearest my side of the conveyance. The man revealed a knife… I understood his meaning. He had, after all, just killed six men.”
“Are you sure it was only one man.”
“Quite.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw it in his eyes. He…” The young woman lifted her eyes to meet his. “He enjoyed it.” She swallowed. “
Killing, he enjoyed the killing of those men.”
Falcon nodded, his thoughts flickering to his murdered friend, Colonel Lancaster, who had insisted that he ride with Lord Cunningham to Newgate.
“Thank you, Lady Pervill.” Falcon rose to his feet. “You are a very brave to come here.”
The young lady shrugged. “I am in no danger. If the murderer wished me harm, he would have done so then. No, I suspect this Frenchman has long since fleed London.”
“Why do you say so?” Falcon asked, intrigue by her logic.
“The man was very calm and I believe had formulated an escape route prior to the murders. I would have.”
“Would you?”
“Yes.” The girl said with not a moment of hesitation. “Six armed men—I would have planned my attack very carefully, as well as my escape.”
Falcon laughed, deliberately lightening the mood. “I fear for your Lord Barksdale.”
Lady Pervill smiled, once again resembling a child of twelve. “As well you should.”
“Thank you, Lady Pervill. I shall inform you if the murderer is apprehended.”
“He won’t be, but it was kind of you to offer, my lord.”
Falcon watched the girl leave, thinking her undoubtedly correct. He sat down, nevertheless, and dutifully pulled the files of known French collaborator’s working throughout England. However, none of the men presently being watched matched the description of this bold assassin.
He wrote down this murderer’s description and stared at his desk, wondering how to relay the information to Scorpion, wondering if the lady was still in Paris. He prayed to God that she was not. Many of his agents had already returned to London safely, but Scorpion’s situation was… complex.
Falcon had hoped to send Daniel McCurren to Paris with not only a warning, but also with a pardon. However, it was felt by certain members of the Foreign Office that the lady’s extraordinary service to the crown only further proved her capacity toward violent.
Idiots.
He spun the wooden top and stared as it twirled about his desk alongside his frustration. The brightly painted circles move across the toy and an idea took root. Falcon snatched the top up and turned it over, smiling at the name scrawled in blue paint.
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