England's Assassin

by Samantha Saxon

  A man so brave he endangered his life to deliver a warning to an English assassin operating deep within enemy territory, a man so captivatingly handsome he was undoubtedly a rake and a rogue who would try to seduce her at every opportunity.

  The thought was not unappealing.

  Hell’s teeth!

  This was not the time to be distracted by a pretty man. Lord knows, he could have come to her apartment to kill her and all she could do was stand there gawking at how magnificently constructed he was like some addle brained schoolgirl attending her first ball.

  Nicole lengthened her strides as she traveled toward Andre’s apartment, her irritation punctuating every step. No, this was the time to weigh her options, to decide if she was going to board Les Helios and face her fate in England.

  Andre Tuchelles was the only person in France who knew her true identity, the only person who knew what she risked by going home. As she approached his apartment building, Nicole prayed that he had the opportunity to leave a communiqué advising her of the threat the French posed. Andre would know if this recalling of British agents was merely precautionary or if there was indeed a credible danger.

  A danger strong enough to risk going home.

  Glancing up, Nicole saw that Andre had left a candle burning in the loft of his fifth floor apartment. A smile pulled at her heart when she thought of her dear, sweet Andre.

  He was the son of an English vicar, who, unlike her, had enlisted in this war from his deep, moral conviction that it was his duty as a Christian to fight the tyranny which the French government inflicted upon the people of Europe. It was his conviction that standing by and watching the atrocities take place, yet doing nothing, was a mortal sin, an affront to God and to all of humanity.

  Andre Tuchelles was light and knew nothing of the darkness of man. He assumed that, given the choice, man would choose to do good, would choose light over darkness.

  She knew better.

  Nicole scanned the third floor corridor of Andre’s building and then slipped, unseen, into his apartment. She leaned her back against the door, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light that fell from the bedchamber loft.

  She walked to the first step leading to the modest room and bent down, hoping that he had affixed a note beneath it, some small goodbye so that she did not feel so completely alone.

  However, when her fingers caressed the bottom of the step she felt nothing but a sinking disappointment. Her eyes swept over the empty room and she wondered if she would ever see her dear friend again. The candle light flickered in Andre’s loft, beckoning her up the wooden stairs.

  Nicole smiled, wondering if he had left a farewell note atop his desk. She envisioned what he would say, wondered if he would confess, in parting, his tendre she knew he felt for her but had never had the courage to express.

  She climbed the steps not expecting to find anything because Andre Tuchelles was the sort of man to take his heart’s desire to his grave. Never voicing them, never daring to presume that a lady would return his all too worthy affections.

  She looked down, lifting her skirts as she neared the top of the steep staircase. The heel of her black ankle boots sounding on the wooden floor and she raised her head then gasped at the sight of Andre Tuchelles asleep at his desk.

  He has missed his ship. She told herself.

  “Andre,” Nicole whispered, glancing at the trunk to the right of his tidy bed. “Andre.”

  But he did not move.

  Her breath became short and she was feeling lightheaded, causing the room to dim and then brighten beyond bearing.

  “Andre?”

  She crept over and placed her gloved hand on his right shoulder, shaking him. But rather then awaken, he fell limp to the floor.

  It was then that she saw his face. The bruising, the broken nose, his eyes swollen shut… the blood oozing from the left side of his olive colored jacket.

  “No!” Nicole dropped to the carpet, stripping her gloves so she could caress his cheek with the back of her bare hand. She took care to move gently over his horrifying injuries. “Not Andre.”

  Her anguished sobs turned to whispered tears as Nicole searched in vain for a portion of his face that she recognized. She looked down and suppressed a surge of nausea the moment she saw that his beautiful, long fingers had all been broken.

  “Not Andre,” she breathed, knowing it was her fault, knowing that Andre Tuchelles had been tortured to get to her.

  To get to Scorpion.

  She glanced at his desk and saw his brass seal then remembered the hasty scrawl of his communiqué. ‘Trust no one. Tell Scorpion that the French are closing. Tell him.’

  Her mind leapt to the enormous Scot, a man perfectly capable of overpowering Andre, of torturing him until he wrote the short missive.

  Just before…

  She closed her eyes, praying that his death had been swift, but knowing that it had not. Even in death Andre had protected her. The Scot had come to her apartment thinking Scorpion a man. It was undoubtedly the reason that she was still alive. He needed her, needed her to deliver Scorpion to the French before ‘he’ was able to perform ‘his’ next assignment.

  She rose and stared at the man that had given his life so that she could perform that commission. And she would, killing Joseph LeCoeur at the Empress’ Toussaint feast in three weeks' time.

  And then… she would kill the Scot.

  Chapter Six

  “I am sorry, Monsieur Damont, but we must depart.”

  Daniel glanced up at the captain of Les Helios, saying, “I’m grateful to you for delaying your journey as long as you have and offer my most sincere apologies for the tardiness of my companions.”

  “These things are often out of one’s control.” The older man gave a sympathy shrug before dismissing the matter and boarding his frenzied vessel.

  “Bloody hell,” Daniel muttered as he watched the mooring being cast toward the ancient Parisian docks.

  Young sailors scurried to retrieve the heavy lines and he stared at the ship, knowing this was his last chance to board her, knowing that he had no other means of getting home.

  But he could not leave without Scorpion.

  Falcon’s instructions had been dead simple: warn Scorpion’s contact, Andre Tuchelles, that they were in danger and being called back to England. Then deliver Tuchelles’ missive verifying those orders and escort Scorpion back to London.

  ‘A simple errand’ Falcon had said.

  Daniel smirked. Simple. He had been standing on this bloody dock for the past three hours awaiting an English assassin and his lover. Had no idea where the lass went nor how to contact Scorpion, and he now had no transportation back to England even if he did.

  He should have gone with her, but something in those large, violet eyes had seemed so incapable of deception. To be fair to himself, there was no logical reason to doubt her word. Both Scorpion and Nicole Beauvoire were in danger and he was providing a means of escape. Why then would they not have met him at the appointed time? There was only one explanation.

  Something had delayed them.

  Daniel curled his lower lip over his bottom teeth and whistled to one of the dock workers who ran over, eager to earn a bit of extra blunt.

  “Keep an eye on these trunks,” he said, handing the man a generous amount of coin, adding, “I’ll double your fee when I return to claim my possessions” with a menacing tone that made clear the consequences of absconding.

  “Merci, Monsieur.” The man bowed, removing a black woolen cap.

  But Daniel did not hear him. He was already running in the direction of Mademoiselle Beauvoire apartment, hoping to find anything to indicate where she had gone. Apprehension turned his belly sour when he considered that if the French military was already watching Scorpion, he may very well have just pushed the unsuspecting girl into the enemy’s proverbial lap.

  He had to find her.

  Daniel glanced up at the lightening sky, an unwanted confirmation tha
t he would have very little time in which to conduct his search. He slipped into the boarding house through a back window then quietly made his way to Mademoiselle Beauvoire’s decrepit room.

  The bedchamber was just as he had left it, cold, dark and empty. He lit the single candle and held it up, illuminating the only items remaining in the room; a chair, a bed, the armoire and a small side table.

  Starting with the simplest objects, Daniel lifted the chair with his left hand and peered under it, studying the legs and seeing that they were indeed solid. He then moved on to the side table and bed, mattress and armoire.

  Nothing.

  He stared at the floor boards and knew that he would only have time for a cursory examination, determining that the best course of action would be to interview the other residents of the boarding house.

  A women’s boarding house, where a concerned brother…

  He paused, his thoughts returning to Scotland and his eccentric uncle William. Daniel stared at the armoire’s simple ornamentation, remembering that his uncle William had taken to hiding his jewels from the British in a hollowed out compartment beneath a decorative finial.

  This armoire had four.

  He tugged at the first two finials, thinking himself as mad as his uncle William then reached for the third and the finial gave, not much, but it moved none the less. Daniel stepped toward the wall and gently lifted up, careful not to pull too hard lest the dowel break, sealing the contents within the surreptitious compartment.

  His heart was pounding as the soft scrapping of wood continued until, with a sudden jerk, the finial was in his hand. He tossed it on the bed and stared at the floorboards as his fingers probed the small compartment, closing on a bit of curled parchment.

  He pulled and the document unwound like a paper spring, recoiling into its scrolled form the moment it broke the confines of its hiding place. Daniel grinned at his success and sat on the bed, reaching for the candle.

  He unfurled the parchment with his left hand and anchored it with the base of the wooden candleholder in his right. He stared down, wondering what secrets the lovely Mademoiselle Beauvoire held as the candle light danced across the blackened words. Words, he could see had been written by Andre Tuchelles’ hand.

  Words that irrefutably pronounced, he had just been played for a fool.

  Chapter Seven

  London, England

  October 17, 1811

  Falcon was seated in the study of his London town home enjoying a plate of kippers and parsnips when he felt a sudden breeze sweeping up his back.

  He lifted his glass and took a sip of seventy year old scotch before saying to his uninvited guest, “Good evening, Mr. McCurren was it?” without even looking toward the closing door.

  There was a pause and then a young man in his mid-twenties walked silently across his Aubusson carpet and took the seat opposite him and in front of the small fire.

  “That’s right. Seamus McCurren as my card has indicated for the past four days.”

  The young man was exceptionally handsome, as all the McCurren’s were. However, Seamus McCurren was darker than his brothers, less striking in his coloring but more ominous in his carriage.

  Falcon stared, intrigued.

  “Yes, Smith mentioned that you had been so kind as to drop by. I apologize for not having been available before this evening.” He smiled, the model of civility. “How may I assist you, Mr. McCurren?”

  The man leaned forward and handed Falcon his own card. “You can tell me where my brother has gone.”

  Falcon glanced at the card as if seeing it for the first time then raised his gray eyebrows along with his sloping shoulders. “I’m sorry, and your brother might be?”

  The young lord sneered. “Viscount DunDonell, Daniel McCurren. You see I believe you might know his whereabouts as I found that card…“ The gentleman pointed toward his hand. “In his home.”

  “Oh, yes,” Falcon nodded, staring at the black and white card baring his own name and title. “Viscount DunDonell. I do recall visiting the viscount Monday last. Oh dear, has the viscount gone missing?”

  “Yes, my lord, the viscount has gone missing.” Falcon could see the man’s anger in the set of his jaw, but no were else. “And as you were the last man to see him, I thought you would be so kind as to point me in his direction.”

  Falcon shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I’ve no idea where the viscount has gone. Have you checked hospital?” The old man offered, helpfully. “Footpads are—“

  “Yes, my father, the Earl of DunDonell,” he pointedly reminded him. “Has made inquiries.” The gentleman leaned back and crossed his legs in one elegant motion that declared his intention of staying as surely as if he had drawn a pistol. “But I thought you a more likely source of information.”

  “Well, I am sorry to have disappointed.”

  “Oh, but you haven’t my lord.” The young lord shook his dark head. “You are everything I imagined you to be.”

  “Odd that you have imagined me at all.”

  “Is it?” The man held his eyes.

  “Yes,” the old man laughed. “Now, if you will forgive me, my dinner is getting cold.” Falcon picked up his sterling silver fork and looked at the young gentleman.

  “Then you will not object if I contact the newspapers?”

  Falcon was finding it very difficult not to flinch. “And why would you do that?”

  Seamus McCurren leaned forward an acute intelligence flared in his hazel eyes. “My brother has disappeared and if you have no idea of his whereabouts, I see no alternative than to alert the local authorities and newspapers of Viscount DunDonell’s disappearance in hopes of his safe return.”

  A smile spread across the old man’s features and he chuckled, saying, “The duke has underestimated you, my boy.”

  “Glenbroke?”

  “Yes, Glenbroke,” the old man mimicked the boy’s Scots brogue which had suddenly thickened. “You have out played me, just as your brother did.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Paris.”

  The gentleman paled. “Why?” he asked, simply.

  “I needed a courier we could trust to issue a warning to agents working in France. Glenbroke recommended you.” The young lord’s dark brows pulled together in surprise and Falcon continued. “I went to Viscount DunDonell’s home to inquire as to your direction and he volunteered for the assignment.”

  “Why would Daniel—“

  “A woman? That is the only reasonable explanation for a gentleman to deteriorate so markedly and so rapidly.” Seamus McCurren stared not giving a flicker of confirmation so Falcon continued their repartee. “Frankly, I believe the viscount does not care if he survives.”

  The man inhaled and the tension returned to his jaw. “And why would you say that?”

  “The viscount commented that he had six brothers to succeed him.”

  “Aye, but none willingly.”

  Falcon saw the distress in the young man’s eyes and he decided to ease his fears. “Your brother is simply delivering a message, Mr. McCurren and will return in one week’s time. It is really a very simple assignment.”

  “‘The best laid plans of mice and men…’” The gentleman’s complex eyes met his, neither needing him to finish the famous words of the Scots poet Robert Burns for they hung in the air like a black cloud.

  ‘Leaves us nought but grieve an’ pain’

  Chapter Eight

  Paris, France

  October 20, 1811

  Nicole walked through the expensive apartment in the most exclusive section of Paris with disappointment etched in her refined features. She adjusted her four carat diamond ear bobs and stared at the enormous canopy bed of the master suite as if it were a cot.

  “And this is all you have available at present?” she asked the young man responsible for leasing the ten room apartment.

  The fair-haired clerk not only groveled at her financial feet, but made it increasingly clear that he was desirous of h
er feminine favors as well.

  He seized her upper arm and laughed indulgently as he guided her toward the bedchamber window.

  “Oui, this is the only furnished apartment with five bedchambers, two saloons, a music room, a morning room, and a library available in all of Paris.” She turned her head and stared out at the magnificent square as he intended her to do. “So beautiful,” he whispered so close to her ear that she could feel the heat of him against her back.

  Fighting down a surge of panic, Nicole turned to face him. She looked into his grey eyes and gave a coquettish smile, saying, “You’re correct, it is a spectacular view.” Her delicately arched brows rose. “When can I have it?”

  The man blinked, still staring at her large breasts. “Pardon?”

  “The apartment,” she nodded, her black curls bouncing prettily. “When might I take possession of the apartment?”

  The man’s carnal thoughts deteriorated and he shook his head to dislodge his brain.

  “Uh, let me see,” the clerk said, breathing awkwardly as he walked across the room to reference his superfluous legal documents. “You may move in now if you wish, Mademoiselle Beauvoire.”

  Nicole turned to stare out the window again, but this time she was not looking at the stunning view of Place Vendome. Her eyes were firmly fixed on the enormous apartment across the square, owned by the man she had been ordered by Andre Tuchelles to kill.

  “Excellent, where do I sign?”

  ***

  Daniel waited until she had stepped away from the window before stepping out from beneath the canopy of trees. He had been searching for Nicole Beauvoire for three days and now that he had found her had no intention of alerting her to his presence.

  Striding across the square, he made for the apartment while straightening his quality, if a bit fussy, waistcoat. The damn tailor had added to his already exorbitant fee, claiming that his height and broad shoulders would require addition yards of brocade, blue silk.