Unaccustomed to being spoken to in such a manner by anyone, much less a woman, Daniel swallowed his pride and nodded, looking down at the elegant scrawl.
“Oh, you can’t be serious,” he groaned, reading the list.
“Deadly,” she sang, her lips curving to betray her amusement.
A thought struck and Daniel straightened, saying with his most charming of smiles, “As you wish, Mademoiselle Beauvoire. I shall happily retrieve the items on your list and await you at the apartment.” Her brows drew together with suspicion but when he lifted her hands to his lips and kissed, whispering, “Au revoir.” She out and out scowled.
Daniel turned and walked down the wide boulevard, feeling her eyes on his back every step of the way. He slowed his pace enjoying every moment of her discomfiture, knowing that she was wondering, speculating as to his new found amicability.
But the lady had no notion of how amiable he intended to get.
He had come to Paris to forget, to be distracted from his hurt, but his pain had followed him and all he wanted to do now was go home to Scotland, to drink himself into a peaceful stupor and forget about the ethical quagmire in which he was now sinking.
Assist in Joseph LeCoeur’s execution or abandon the woman that intended to kill him?
Both alternatives were grim, but he knew himself to well. Minister LeCoeur damn well deserved the wrath of the British government but he could not leave Nicole Beauvoire to perform the task alone, knowing she was in danger. He had considered it, prodded by her humiliating barbs and supported by the knowledge that she was indeed choosing to remain in Paris.
The question remained as to why?
What had happened to this lovely woman to turn her heart so cold, to make her capable of such a thing? Was she equally deserving of her punishment should she be captured by the French? Daniel was not sure that he wanted to know.
He was much more inclined to avoid the situation altogether. Seduce the woman; lure her to Honfleur before he had the killing of Joseph LeCoeur forever on his conscience and a black mark against his soul.
Chapter Fourteen
London, England
October 21, 1811
Lady Juliet Pervill walked toward the Duchess of Glenbroke’s town home on Governor’s square bemoaning the fact that they were indeed walking.
“Why in heaven’s name did we stroll today?”
Her cousin, Lady Felicity Appleton, closed her fawn colored eyes and lifted her perfectly sculpted face toward the sun.
“Mmm. How can we not walk on such a glorious day?” Her lids fluttered open and she searched the blue expanse. “There’s not a single cloud in the sky.”
Truth be told, Juliet was pleased to see her cousin take such pleasure in their afternoon outing. It was the first time since the murder of her dear friend, Lord Elkin that Felicity had truly enjoyed herself.
But at present her cheerfulness was damned annoying.
“Yes, yes, beautiful, beautiful.” Juliet winced. “Nevertheless, these new boots are making mincemeat of my feet.”
Felicity stopped and she sighed, thankful to her considerate cousin for giving her a moment to rest.
“We can’t dally too long, dearest. Sarah was quite aDamont that we arrive punctually.”
This time.
Felicity had not said the words but she knew her cousin was thinking them. Juliet blushed, remembering the kisses she had exchanged with Robert Barksdale that had led her to utterly forget the hour the last time she was invited to tea by the Duchess of Glenbroke.
Juliet resumed walking, relegating the delicious Lord Barksdale to the back of her mind. “Yes, Sarah was quite insistent in her invitation. I gathered that she wanted to speak with us about a matter in particular.”
“Yes, I felt similarly when I spoke with her at Hyde Park.” Juliet stared at the enormous façade of the Duchess of Glenbroke’s home, trying to decide what might be going on in Sarah’s pretty little head. “Do you think she is increasing?”
“Oh,” Felicity gasped as she always did when discussing babies. “Wouldn’t that be delightful?”
Juliet gave a mental shrug, not particularly liking infants. Children she adored, but the moment she took a babe in her arms the child never failed to spit up their breakfast all over her favorite gown.
“Yes,” she muttered, but her eyes narrowed as a man came out of Sarah’s front door. “That would be lovely.”
Juliet watched, eliminating their acquaintances as the man walked toward them; too broad to be Aidan Duhearst, too dark to be either Daniel McCurren or Christian St. John. She focused all of her attention on the man’s face while trying to appear as though she were not.
She could see his features now. High cheek bones, full lips for a man, a square jaw that was echoed by closely trimmed sideburns. He was ten paces away and her forehead creased as she out and out stared, trying desperately to understand why the man seemed so familiar.
The gentleman tipped his hat as he passed them and Juliet all but gasped when she met his gaze. His severe eyes burrowed into her as though he understood every thought that she ever had or ever would have.
Her head snapped round as they continued walking and she stared at his back and then his backside in open, appreciative assessment. He must have felt her carnal evaluation because he too looked back, meeting her eye just before his dark brows furrowed in what appeared to be confusion. Thinking he too felt some familiarity, she was enlightened as to his bewilderment the moment she walked headlong into a lamppost.
“Oh, dear, Juliet! Are you alright?” Felicity fussed.
Mortified, Juliet rubbed her forehead and glanced at the man from beneath her hand, praying that he had not noticed her inelegance. But he had, and she knew it with the slight quirking of his lips as the handsome gentleman turned around and continued on his way.
“I’m fine,” she said, irritably. “But who was that man? He seemed so familiar.”
Felicity shrugged her lovely shoulders. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“He came out of Sarah’s house.”
“Really?”
Juliet rolled her eyes amazed at Felicity’s lack of observation. “We shall inquire with Sarah? Come on,” she prodded, her aching feet completely forgotten.
***
Lord Seamus McCurren had just stopped laughing at the silly chit whom had so flatteringly crashed into the lamppost while giving him a second, infinitely more thorough look, when his mind returned to the task at hand.
He continued down the road with disquiet echoing each step that took him that much closer to his parent’s town home.
Oh, his commission was simple enough. Inform his parent’s that his brother had been found, that Daniel’s never ending state of drunkenness had, no doubt, been instrumental in his offering his service to the crown… in Paris.
“Bugger me,” he muttered, already picturing his father’s reaction, his wrath and he could throttle Daniel for making him be the one to feel it.
Seamus had gone to his brother’s town home to confront Daniel about his drinking, but rather than finding his impulsive brother, he had found only a white calling card. The gentleman on the card had been surprisingly difficult to trace. Their issuing conversation combined with the additional information just provided by the Duke of Glenbroke would be enough to convey to his parents the events of Daniel’s departure with some semblance of accuracy.
That would not, however, explain why.
His parents would demand to know why the heir apparent to the Earldom of DunDonell would do something so stupid, so careless as to run off to war.
But he himself was not sure, or rather, unsure if he wished to divulge his suspicions.
Daniel had been shocked, as everyone had, by Sarah Duhearst’s sudden marriage to the Duke of Glenbroke. But Seamus was beginning to believe that Daniel’s shock had been more in the line of desolation.
His brother’s decline had begun shortly after Lady Duhearst’s unexpected nuptials and as
they had been lifelong friends without even the hint of interest on Daniel’s part, no one had connected the two events.
But Seamus knew his brother, knew that the things closest to his boisterous brother’s heart were held that much tighter to Daniel’s chest. Seamus knew that what Daniel needed to get over the girl was to face Sarah herself, to see the content duchess in her home with Glenbroke at her side. But he could not do that while in Paris, which is, no doubt, why he had volunteered for this little excursion.
“Bloody idiot,” Seamus muttered, not looking forward to witnessing his mother’s fear.
He took a deep breath then blew out his tension with on quick puff as he banged twice against the black lacquered door.
The door to the Earl of DunDonell’s townhouse was opened by his parent’s diminutive butler and Seamus stepped inside. “Afternoon Hopkins. Are my parent’s available?”
“The earl and countess are taking tea in the small drawing room, my lord.”
Damn.
“Thank you, Hopkins. I’ll announce myself."
“Very good, my lord.”
Seamus walked silently to the small drawing room, all the while reviewing his stratagem for dealing with his parents. He knocked on the door and heard his father’s deep voice.
“Come.”
Seamus walked into the room and glanced from his father to his mother. The countess placed her embroidery on the small mahogany table in front of her and smiled brilliantly, saying, “Seamus!” with such enthusiasm that he felt a right bastard for not having visited more often.
“Mother,” Seamus said, kissing her on the cheek and trying to avoid his father’s disapproving stare as the earl folded his newspaper and placed it on his lap.
“Father.” Seamus bowed, his mother’s hand still on his shoulder as they turned to look at the enormous man as he rose from his chair.
“Father, is it?” The earl’s bushy brown brows arched and Seamus felt his spine go rigid. “Tara, is this one of our offspring? Fer I do not recognize the lad?”
“Malcolm, do stop teasin’ him.” His mother indicated a chair, her strawberry blonde hair and pale blue eyes shining as she offered, “Have a seat, Seamus, dear.”
Seamus met his father’s amber eyes and knew that the man was far from jesting.
“Yes,” his father resumed his seat. “Tell us what you have been up to fer the past nine months.”
Seamus gave a polite smile, not about to tell his father that he had been living with his mistress, that he had been happily researching ancient manuscripts in the quieter corners of the west end. He hated the obligations of polite society and as the second son had been allowed to pursue his interests unencumbered by the responsibilities of position.
But if something were to happen to Daniel, he would have to endure the responsibilities… and the pain.
“I’ve discovered Daniel’s location.” His parent’s stared at him expectantly, far too practical to waste words on questions they knew would be answered. “He’s in Paris.”
His mother sat back, her subtle intake of breath more devastating a reaction than another lady’s fainting dead away.
“He has volunteered for a mission that I am assured will take no more than two weeks.”
“Mission?” His father spoke for both his parents.
“Daniel is merely delivering a message and will return on the next available ship.”
“Bloody hell!” his father roared as he shot out of his seat. “Has the lad no sense? ‘Tis not enough that he gallivants around town two sheets to the wind. No,” his father’s bulky arm thrust forward. “That is not entertainin’ enough for the boy.”
“Calm down, Malcolm.”
“Now,” his father bellowed with a snort. “The lad, my heir,” he thumbed his burly chest twice with the palm of his large hand. “Runs off to Paris where he might very well get himself killed!”
His mother raised a handkerchief to cover her mouth and then walked toward the fireplace. His father looked in her direction and blinked away his remorse for upsetting her as he said in a more subdued tone, “You’ve let your brother run wild, Seamus.”
“This is not his fault, Malcolm.”
“Aye, it is, in part.” His father nodded then pointed his thick finger at him. “You’ve been in London for so long, Seamus that you’ve no notion what yer brothers are about.” Seamus lifted his chin, straining against the weight of his guilt. “And you damn sure were in town when Daniel started to imbibe.”
“God, yer an ass at times, Malcom!” His mother’s pretty forehead pulled together in an all too familiar and totally uncontrollable anger. “Daniel has always done what he damn well pleased, and I’ll not have you blamin’ the other lads for it.”
But Seamus did not need his father’s censure, he already blamed himself.
Daniel had never been one to drink in excess and the moment Seamus heard the rumors of his brother’s drunken escapades, he should have been there to ascertain their cause.
But he hadn’t been there for Daniel and realized that he had not been there for his family for quite some time. He was the black sheep of his enormous family, totally opposite from his brothers in appearance and demeanor.
“He’ll be home in two weeks' time, mother.”
And if he was not… Seamus would be forced to go and get him.
Chapter Fifteen
Nicole returned to the apartment at seven o’clock that evening after having endured her final fitting with her modiste and consulted with the apothecary.
She was mentally tired and drained of all emotions, using all of her energy to spin a web that would end in yet another man’s death. Turning the key in the decorative lock, she opened the front door and was immediately engulfed by an array of appetizing aromas.
Nicole scanned the entry as she pulled her reticule from her wrist, setting it next to the keys atop the useful marble table. She walked to the dining room and stopped, trepidation filling her as she saw the polished mahogany table set for two.
The fine bone china was edged with gold and the hand-painted flowers were echoed by the enormous bouquet which sprang from a stunning Baroque vase sitting in the middle of the dining room table. Claret had been allowed to breath in an exquisitely cut crystal decanter which was matched in design by the glasses placed to the right of their gold spoons.
A noise from the kitchen drew her attention and Nicole continued on, stopping when she saw Daniel Damont busily preparing their dinner. He stood before the stove wearing neither jacket nor waistcoat, only buckskins and a thin linen shirt. The white shirt was un-tucked with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The voluminous fabric drawn to his narrow hips by the ties of an inadequate apron that she knew would swallow any woman.
She smiled at the sight of him and when he began to whistle Nicole almost forgot why he was here, picturing instead the boy that had been forced into a Scottish kitchen. A very large boy. She stared at his broad back, his firm backside as he faced the stove.
She really should make him aware of her presence.
Her lips parted with the best of intentions but no sound escaped them. He was so tall, so male that she was finding it difficult to look away, to give up the pure pleasure of watching him move.
He glanced to the right, reaching for a plate and Nicole blurted out, “What are you doing?” before he had a chance to catch her to staring.
Startled, he turned and looked directly at her. ”I’m cookin’ dinner. You dinna eat while you were out?”
“No,” Nicole admitted, her stomach responding to the enticing smells with a low growl.
“Good.” Daniel Damont smiled, open and friendly and she immediately became suspicious. “Have a seat. I’m just serving up our meal now. Oh,” he said, over his solid shoulder as she walked into the dining room, “I’ve left the parcels from the list atop your bed.”
“Thank you.” Nicole sat down on the cushioned chair, not entirely sure that she liked his entering her bedchamber. Or perhaps sh
e like the vision of Daniel Damont lying, nude, next to a brown paper package far too much. Her cheeks flushed as the focus of her fantasy walked into the room carrying three ceramic bowls.
“Here we are. Quail,” The man placed a bowl with braised quail topped with sautéed mushrooms on the table. “Sautéed potatoes and buttered carrots.” He set the remaining bowls in front of her and then took the seat at the head of the table that she had left vacant. “I apologize if ‘tis a bit rustic.”
“No, it…” She met his striking eyes. “It smells wonderful, thank you.”
He pulled his chair forward then reached for the decanter, pouring them both a glass of claret. Nicole reached for the [dish] of quail but he stopped her saying, “Allow me,” before serving her a delectable breast.
She watched, starving, as he served her the potatoes and carrots, but a niggling cautiousness caused her to pause before eating the marvelously prepared meal.
Monsieur Damont met her eye, confused by her hesitation. “Did you want me to pray before—“
“No.” The man continued to stare and she dropped her eyes the moment he groaned with understanding.
“My god, you really are an assassin.” His gold fork struck out, spearing a mushroom, a carrot, and a wedge of potato from her plate. “Poisoned a few people, have you?” he asked not needing an answer.
Nicole blushed, ashamed that he had interpreted her hesitancy correctly.
“One or two.” She admitted with painful honestly, banishing the faces of those men to the darkest recess of her memory.
Her cuisinier placed the food in his mouth, chewing as he reached for her claret, not his. Sipping the burgundy liquid, he smiled and then declared, “There, you’re safe.”
Nicole glanced at his handsome features, thinking she did not feel safe at all.
“Thank you. I appreciate your efforts and apologize--”
“No apologizes necessary.” He lifted his glass, inviting her to join him.
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