England's Assassin

by Samantha Saxon

  His cynical assistant met his eye and Joseph dampened his anticipation. Breaking, with great amusement, the golden seal impressed with a single apple of the fair Eris. He read the brief missive and the suggestion there within before turning toward the lady’s coachman.

  “Inform Mademoiselle Beauvoire that I would be delighted to join her for luncheon and shall be down momentarily.”

  The lady’s coachman bowed, leaving him alone with the all too austere Evariste Rousseau.

  “You know nothing of this woman, Minister LeCoeur,” the major, reminded.

  Irritation swelled and Joseph suppressed it saying, “The lady is being investigated.”

  “Then you should avoid contact with the woman until the investigation is complete.”

  Joseph raised a brow at his assistant’s demanding tone. “Are you suggesting, Major Rousseau, that I remain celibate while you undertake an exhaustive investigation of the lady in question?”

  “Of course not, sir, I merely suggest that you find another woman known to us.”

  “Tell me, Evariste,” the minister’s smile was caustic. “Have you selected my bed partner or am I allowed a choice.”

  The major accepted the reprimand, lowering his black eyes. “There are many woman on our list that—“

  “Will do?” Joseph forgave the young man his ignorance. “A woman is more than a warm place to bury your cock, Evariste. When you are older, you will understand the enticement of quality rather than quantity of lovers.”

  His assistant shrugged in dutiful acceptance of his employer’s assertion then moved on, saying, “You are to meet with Emperor Bonaparte at three o’clock this afternoon. It is now one o’clock.”

  Joseph chuckled at the man’s final attempt to dissuade him. “Never fear, Evariste,” he said, reaching for his greatcoat. “I shall return no later than half past two.”

  “Captain Turgeon.” Major Rousseau called to his bodyguard.

  “No.” The minister waved his guard from the room. “I need no protection for this excursion.”

  “Minister LeCoeur, you are making yourself vulnerable unnecessarily.”

  Joseph laughed his mind on the stunning woman waiting for him just downstairs. “Oh, being alone with Mademoiselle Beauvoire is very necessary.”

  “If I am to be given the responsibility of seeing to your protection, then I must insist that the captain sit with the lady’s coachman so that he might be on hand—“

  “You insist?” Minister LeCoeur felt his hackle rise and he turned to meet his assistant’s steady gaze.

  However, much to his surprise the major did not acquiesce, saying, “Yes, minister, if you refuse to take minimal precautions when venturing out in public then I fear I can no longer be responsible for your safety.”

  “Are you offering me your resignation, Major Rousseau?”

  “If you leave the protection of the Ministry without Captain Turgeon then, oui, I am.”

  Joseph smiled, appreciating the major’s steely mettle.

  “Mon Dieu, Evariste! You worry like a woman. Very well, the captain will sit in the rain with Mademoiselle Beauvoire’s coachman.”

  His assistant bowed, relieved and then called, “Captain Turgeon.” The fair guard opened the door and bowed for them both. “You will accompany Minister LeCoeur this afternoon and inform Mademoiselle Beauvoire’s coachman that the minister is required back by half passed two this afternoon.”

  Joseph roared with laughter and glanced at the man that would protect his life with his own. “Then let us depart, Captain Turgeon, as we appear to be on a very tight schedule.”

  The captain left the outer office and Joseph glanced at his assistant, making sure that the major knew his interference was being tolerated. “Have the documents ready for my meeting with Emperor Bonaparte.”

  Major Rousseau bowed deeply and with great respect. “All will be as you require, Minister LeCoeur.”

  The moment Joseph closed the door his mind was on Mademoiselle Beauvoire. He had not stopped thinking of those eyes, those exquisite breasts since the theatre four nights ago and he prayed that he too had occupied the forefront of her mind.

  The captain at his heels, Joseph rushed down the marble step of the Ministry of Police eager to taste that quick tongue but slowed his pace as he approached her costly carriage, not wanting to appear too enthusiastic.

  Her coachman bowed, holding the door wide as Joseph stepped into the interior of the carriage.

  “You gave me ten minutes in which to join you,” he said, closing the door against the soft rain and all intrusion. “I make progress, no?”

  “No, not particularly.” The lady enticed him with her smile and Joseph sat on the squabs next to her as the conveyance lurched forward. “I just thought allowances should be made for the weather.”

  “Very kind of you, mon cherie.” He shrugged out of his greatcoat and glanced at the silver trays set atop the opposite squabs. “I see we shall be dining in?”

  “Oui,” the striking woman sat up, pleased with herself. “I thought a picnic would be far more enjoyable than dining at some miserable cafe.”

  “And far more intimate?” Joseph glanced at her beautiful face, her ample décolletage and he savored the sight.

  “I had not thought of that,” the nymph teased, placing her gloved finger against her alluring lips.

  Joseph stared at them, the smells of the food mingling with his carnal appetite.

  “What is on the menu, Mademoiselle Beauvoire?” he asked, anxious to feed.

  “I’ve no idea what is to come, Minister LeCoeur” she smiled. “Shall we find out together?” The lady leaned forward, her breasts on full display as she lifted the silver [plate warmer]. “It smells wonderful, if a bit pastoral.”

  The delicious image of Mademoiselle Beauvoire in a shepherdess costume flashed before his mind and Joseph grinning, saying, “Oh, I quiet enjoy the pastoral.” He reached for the wine in hopes of pouring as much of the intoxicating liquid down the girl as quickly as was possible. “Did I not tell you that I was raised on an estate in southern France?”

  “Really?” The woman was truly astonished, causing him to laugh.

  “Not all ministers are hatched, Mademoiselle Beauvoire.” He cut a piece of meat and speared it with his fork. “Some of us were reared,” Joseph finished, placing the braised pork in his mouth while he enjoyed the melodious sound of her laughter.

  “Why did you not stay on your ‘pastoral estate in southern France’?”

  Joseph lifted his eyes from his dish and met hers. “Revolution wreaks havoc on the countryside, and the capital’s allure was far too powerful for a bucolic boy, such as myself.”

  “I don’t believe you for a moment,” the lady lifted the red wine to even redder lips. “You were never a ‘bucolic boy’, you’re far too ambitious.” Joseph smiled at her astuteness. “No, it is far more likely that you were hatched in the basement of the Assemblee Nationale.”

  Their eyes held as their minds filled with sensual possibilities.

  “What else do you have to offer me?” Joseph leaned across the enticing woman, placing his empty plate on the far side of the carriage.

  “Grapes,” she smiled, taunting him.

  Joseph watched her pluck a grape from the vine and lifted it to his mouth, asking nonchalantly, “Have you plans for this weekend?”

  Merde!

  Scorpion’s political inference was intolerable but to have the British assassin interfere with his seduction was more than he could abide.

  “Oui, I’m afraid that I do.” Joseph raised a brow, hiding his frustration as he leaned forward to take the tender morsel in his mouth. “Why do you ask?” he inquired, aching for her to admit her desire of him.

  Mademoiselle Beauvoire shrugged her graceful shoulders and his eyes dipped to her beautiful breasts. “I’m—“

  “Amorous?”

  “Uncommitted,” she corrected.

  “Ah,” Joseph picked a plump grape and outlined
her lips with glistening juice. “Now we make progress.”

  He watched, mesmerized as her lips parted and the tip of her tongue gently caressed the smooth flesh of the grape. The woman took the fruit into her mouth, followed by the length of his finger and flash of lust scorched him when her tongue stroked his finger as if it were him.

  “I shall be gone the entire weekend,” Joseph said, his mind whispering of ways to fit her in or rather fit him in her. “I have been invited to Empress Bonaparte’s Toussaint Feast.”

  “Pity,” Mademoiselle Beauvoire purred in his ear as she arched her back in invitation.

  He could do both, Juliet thought, burying his lips between her spectacular breasts. Lord Cunningham had ordered Scorpion to perform the spurious assassination on Saturday at the feast. However, once the Englishman was captured, he could treat himself to Mademoiselle Beauvoire.

  She would be his personal reward.

  Joseph smiled, liking the idea of Scorpion in Major Rousseau’s vicious prison while he lived life to the fullest, savoring such a stunning woman.

  Unless the girl would have him now?

  He kissed her deeply, his one goal to bury himself between her thighs. Joseph wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against his aching cock, his right hand descended to the obstruction of silk skirts only to be stopped by her soft words.

  “I think not.”

  “You would leave me unsatisfied, Eris?” Joseph’s grinned seductively then leaned forward to kiss her lovely neck.

  “Better you than me, Minister LeCoeur,” the lady said, caressing the hair at the back of his head. “If I were to spend mere minutes draining you of your lust, I would most assuredly be the one left dissatisfied.”

  “What would satisfy you, Mademoiselle Beauvoire?” Joseph asked, wanting any glimpse into the mind of this incredible woman.

  “Hours of unfettered exploration,” she ran her hand between his thighs, causing his jaw to clamp down on his self-control. “And days of carnal repetition.”

  “A weekend?” he smiled.

  “At least,” she grinned, their eyes holding.

  “I am permitted,” Joseph leaned forward, kissing the plentiful swells of her breasts. “To bring a guest to the festivities.”

  His fingers swept the golden gown from her right shoulder, hoping that he had distracted her enough so that he might bare her breast to view.

  “Is that an invitation?” Mademoiselle Beauvoire swept her gown to its rightful place, leaving him once again to speculate.

  “Oui.” Joseph met her arresting eyes.

  “Impossible.”

  “Why?” His dark brows furrowed and the woman looked at him as though he were mad.

  “You are Minister of Police! You will be watched from the moment you arrive at the Tuileries Palace.”

  “By my men,” Joseph was looking at her body again, dismissing her concern. “The guest list is immense and I shall be one of several ministers in attendance. Once the feast begins and the wine flows no one will take notice of who sleeps where.”

  “Ladies always take notice of eligible men, Minister LeCoeur.” Mademoiselle Beauvoire was shaking her head. “Rest assured that your room will be observed by more than your guards. No, better we wait until—“

  “I’ll come to you.” Joseph watched her entertain the idea and he kissed her before she had an opportunity to reject him. “I’ll come to your bedchamber and we can spend hours enjoying one another.” He kissed her lovely neck. “Without fear of being watched,” He kissed lower. “Without fear of being overheard.” He finished, aching to make her scream.

  “But how?”

  “Shhh,” Joseph kissed her one last time, making sure to have his fill. “Leave it to me, mon cherie. I am, after all, the Minister of Police.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Oh, look how clever you are Jonathan. You’ve gotten the top to spin all on your own.”

  Falcon smiled at the delight in his daughter’s voice as she looked at her adoptive son. The boy grinned, his blue eye wide with the surprise of his own success.

  “Look granpa!”

  “Well done,” Falcon said, trying to muster an enthusiasm he did not feel as he reached down and tousled the boy’s black curls.

  “Now thank your grandfather for the gifts then go with Mister White to your riding lesson.”

  The boy hopped up from the marble floor and squeezed Falcon around the neck, filling his old heart. “Tank you—“

  “Thank you.” His mother corrected the three year old.

  The boy swallowed, his chubby cheeks bouncing on his face. “Thank you, granpa.”

  “You’re very welcome, Jonathan.” Falcon patted the boy on the back and then the child ran to his mother, hugging her tightly. “I love you, mummy.”

  His daughter’s eye filled with tears and she blinked them away. “I love you too, darling. Have a wonderful riding lesson and mummy will see you at dinner.”

  The lad ran in stuttered steps toward Mister White who bowed to the baroness before taking Jonathan’s hand and leading the child from the room.

  They both stared at the closed door and after a moment Falcon said, “He is doing remarkably well, Rose. I am very proud of you and cannot tell you how grateful—“

  “Nonsense, father, it is I who should be thanking you.” She poured him a cup tea, handing it to him. “When I lost…” His daughter dabbed at her eyes, ripping at his heart in two. “When we lost Marcus, I thought I would shrivel up and die. And then you brought us Jonathan.” Rose smiled the same little smile that had warmed his soul since she was a girl of three. “It is I who am grateful.”

  Falcon sipped his tea as they sat amongst the greenery and solitude of the isolated conservatory. He so enjoyed their weekly visit, but it often left them with nothing to say.

  “Did she send the top?”

  “Yes,” Falcon said, tensing. “She is naturally concerned for the boy’s wellbeing.”

  “Naturally,” his daughter agreed, the brittle word softened by a sip of her tea.

  “Rose,” Falcon met his daughter’s wary eye. “If she returns to England, she will not interfere with your rearing of Jonathan.”

  “If?” Her brown brows drew together with compassionate distress. “You are concerned for her safety.”

  Falcon nodded. “Very.”

  “Why?”

  “There have been developments, but you know I am not at liberty to discuss them,” Falcon sighed the years of responsibility pressing down him and for one moment he longed to be nothing more than to be a child’s grandpa.

  “Oh, father,” Rose reached out and placed her hand on his. “How difficult your work must be for you.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” he said truly grateful for her concern. “But I have come here to lighten my load not add weight to it.”

  “Very well,” his daughter’s lips twitched with amusement. “What mundane aspects of country life shall we discuss?”

  “Anything but horseflesh,” Falcon chuckled. “That husband of yours will give me an earful about the topic over dinner.”

  “If only I had known of his fascination with horses when he asked me to marry him.”

  “You would have married him none the less.”

  “True,” Rose blushed, embarrassed. “I was a bit besotted with the man.”

  “A bit?” Falcon snorted. “Your mother, rest her soul, dissuaded me from posting a guard at your door so that you would not run off to Gretna Green.”

  “We never would have eloped, father! Alfred was too terrified of you to risk it.”

  “A bright young man, you Alfred,” Falcon mused, grateful for this time together. He stared at the wooden top still lying motionless on the floor and purposefully looked away, turning instead to his only daughter and thinking back to her beautiful wedding some twenty years before. “A very bright man.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Don’t do it, Nicole,” he whispered over her right shoulder a
s she packed. “You don’t have to carry out this assassination.” The viscount grasped her upper arm and spun her to face him. “Come back to London with me.”

  Nicole stared into his beautiful eyes and tears filled her own. “I can’t,” She looked down, the weight of her tears spilling them onto her satin slippers.

  “Sure you can, lass,” Daniel Damont persuaded, lifting her chin to look at him. “Do ya remember when you asked me why I had come to Paris?”

  Nicole nodded, tears now streaming down her face.

  “I came to France because of a woman.” The words stabbed at her heart and Nicole squeezed her eyes shut in hopes of stopping the pain. “I wanted desperately to marry the lady.”

  She covered her ears against his words, but the viscount continued to speak.

  “I had envisioned Lady Duhearst as my wife from the time we were children, but when Sarah came of age she married one of my dearest friends, the Duke of Glenbroke.”

  Nicole sat down on the edge of her bed but he followed, placing his hands on either side of her hips.

  “Can you imagine the pain, the guilt of not only losing the woman you had chosen to be your bride, but to envy your friend his happiness? The pain of being invited to their happy home? The guilt of seeing Duchess Glenbroke with her children and thinking they should have been yours?”

  “Stop it,” Nicole murmured.

  “Can you imagine the pain, lass?”

  “Stop it!” Nicole shouted meeting his eye, her devastation clear.

  “And then I met you,” he whispered, caressing her cheek. “I came to Paris to forget the woman I fancied myself in love with but then I met you and all my childhood feelings paled in comparison. I’m in love with you, lass, totally and utterly besotted.”

  Nicole was shaking her head wanting it to be true, but wanting more for him to find a woman worthy of his love.

  “I don’t know how it happened only that it did and I want, I need you to come home with me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I want to marry yo—“