England's Assassin

by Samantha Saxon

  “I’m not sure…” Nicole had to concentrate on her words, not him. “That you should take it back. You caused quite a stir amongst the ladies at the ball and I had no less than three women ask if I could give them your direction.”

  Daniel Damont bent down, his boyish grin holding the tiniest hint of embarrassment as he lifted the breast plate off the settee then set it carefully against the outer wall.

  “And what did ya tell them?” he asked, standing before her with his crystal glass still in hand.

  “I…” She hesitated and he raised a brow. “I told them ‘that I’d no idea of your direction and that my tastes ran more toward men of ‘subtle refinement’.”

  “Aye, ‘subtle refinement’?” The man tossed back the remainder of his brandy then grinned and her heart bumped so markedly that it startled her. “Yes, I’ve never been described as man of ‘subtle refinement’, but I’d lay six to one at White’s that Joseph LeCoeur has.”

  White’s? He was a member of White’s?

  Nicole looked at her gloves, away from him, and tugged at the black fingertips. The tips elongated slightly, but the heat of the ballroom had caused the satin to adhere to her skin. The irony being, that she would have no difficulty removing her gloves if her hands were not encased in them.

  She sighed, taking firm hold of the index finger of her left hand and wiggling the tip of the glove to no avail. It was then that Nicole heard Monsieur Damont set down his glass. His beautiful legs coming into view as he stopped before her with his weight supported by the hardened muscles of his left leg.

  His right foot thrust forward, splitting the leather strips that hung about his hips to give her a tantalizing glimpse of the man’s power.

  “Here, let me help ya, lass.” The Scot grabbed her right wrist with his left hand, but rather than pull on the fingers as she expected him to do, he reached for her upper arm.

  Nicole watched helplessly as one long finger slipped beneath the diamond studded fabric, caressing her arm. Sensations from the previous night rekindled beneath her skin. She held her breath to contain the fire as his thumb and finger met before he flipped the satin over on itself. Monsieur Damont pulled downward and they both watched the satin siding ever so slowly down her arm.

  “Are ya determined to go through with this assassination?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, as the gloved peeled its way past her elbow.

  “Right,” he whispered, his mind split by two tasks. “Then I’ve made a decision.”

  “Yes?” she asked, but when he did not answer Nicole looked at his face.

  His striking eyes were staring at her arm the way that she stared at his, and when the glove finally gave, his breath caught. She could see his back tense as he fought with the need to touch her. But unlike other men she has known, Nicole knew that he would not unless invited to do so.

  An invitation her body begged her to make.

  “You’ve made a decision?” she repeated, helping him… and herself regain some semblance of self-control.

  The man cleared his throat and reached for her other arm, both of them pretending that she needed his continued assistance.

  “Aye, while I’ve hastened your association with Minister LeCoeur, my continued presence would do nothing but lead to speculation as to the true nature of our relationship.”

  “Yes,” she said, her left glove slowing its decent the closer it came to her wrist.

  “Therefore,” he continued as she watched his large hands slowly work the silk from her fingers. “Therefore, I think if you’ve any chance of survival, it would be best if I were to acquiesce to your demands.”

  “Yes,” she watched him toss the second glove on top of the first.

  “And return to England on the next available ship.”

  “Yes.” Nicole blinked, shaking her head. “No. What?” She looked up to meet his turquoise eyes.

  His forehead furrowed and he reached around her head, saying, “Take off that bloody mask so I can speak with ya.”

  Nicole closed her eyes, knowing that if she leaned forward a mere few inches she would be cradled by the temping muscles of his chest. His arms were surrounding her, he was surrounding her as Daniel Damont picked at the ties at the back of her head and all she wanted to do was reach up and hold on to his strength.

  “Damn,” he muttered and her heart warmed at his gentleness. The man had not so much as pulled a single strand of her hair. “I canna protect you, lass. It pains me to admit it, but I’ve never been one to view things as pretty pictures.”

  He leaned forward, and Nicole was overwhelmed by the heat of him, the masculine smell of the man as he peered over her head to view the obstinate knot. The ties gave and she felt the mask fall from her face, but the man surrounding her did not move.

  Their desire mingled and she watched his broad chest take several unsteady breaths before he whispered in her ear, “I’ll go down to the docks tomorrow and book my passage home.” Daniel Damont lifted his head and took a step back, staring down at her with the black lace mask dangling from his elegant fingers. “You’re free.”

  Nicole glanced at the mask not entirely sure she wanted her freedom, but heard herself say, “Thank you?”

  “Just answer me this, lass.”

  Nicole looked up, feeling flushed, heated. “Yes.”

  “What would you do if you knew you had but two weeks to live?”

  They stared at one another for the beat of one heart and then she wrapped her arms around his neck saying, “One week,” just before kissing him like a woman condemned.

  His tongue fit her mouth like a missing puzzle piece and she groaned, willingly succumbing to his sensual siege. He grabbed her backside. Lifting her with his right hand as she rose on her tiptoes, both of them mature enough in years to know what they wanted, what they needed.

  Monsieur Damont leaned her backward, but rather than kiss her breasts as men always did, he kissed her on the neck just behind the ear.

  “Yer so soft, so beautiful, lass. I’ve wanted to taste ya since the moment you opened that door in nothin’ more than a bath towel. Yer beautiful hair…”

  His light eyes followed the movement of his fingers as they combed out the pins holding her coiffure, causing her hair to fall into his hands, causing her to fall more deeply into his arms.

  ”Yer hair tumblin’ about yer shoulders as if you had just made love.” One long finger traced her left shoulder, taking her gown with it. “God, how I envied Scorpion.”

  Her right shoulder was next and he was lifting her, kissing her as he carried her to the burgundy settee. He tugged insistently and her bodice gave exposing her breasts to his gaze. Nicole inhaled sharply, aching to be touched. And he obliged her, lowering his head and taking her nipple in his mouth, suckling gently, rhythmically.

  The heat of his mouth continued up her neck and he persuaded her with his lips, whispering, “Make love to me Nicole,” his hand holding the back of her neck. “Make love to me, Nicole, and I shall gladly follow you to this assassination and die a happy man.”

  No, that was wrong.

  Her mind began to clear as his hand descended on her back. She did not want him to die at all. She was the one that would die. She was the one--His hand!

  “Stop!” Nicole shouted, lifting her elbow to knock his heavy arm away from the scars that he had been precariously close to feeling. Daniel Damont stared at his muscular arm as if he’d no idea how it had gotten there and then turned to meet her eye.

  Nicole stood, her right hand yanking up her left sleeve as she sought a reason for her outburst. “I don’t want your help with this assassination, Monsieur Damont.”

  If this were, and it most likely was, a trap set by the French, she could not bear to be the cause of another innocent death.

  Not again, not him.

  “Right then,” she could hear the frustration, the anger in his voice. “I shall return to Falcon and tell him that you have thing’s, well in—-“

  “Exc
ellent!” Nicole nodded vigorously. “Yes, you should go back to England.” Where you will be safe. “And tell Falcon that I have been warned of the danger and will plan accordingly.”

  “Right then.” He stared at her.

  “Right,” she stared at his chest.

  “I could seduce you.” Daniel bent his head so that he could look at her stunning features, feel her heat drifting up to him on a lavender tide.

  “I know,” she whispered.

  But he would not seduce her.

  The girl wanted him, he knew it, had tasted it in her mouth, on her skin. But he wanted her willing, wanted her to come to him, give herself to him so that he might give himself to her. Daniel knew all too well the pain of wanting, but not being wanted in return, and he was not about to feel the sting of it again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  London, England

  October 25, 1811

  “Would you like to guess how I have spent my morning, Lord Falcon?”

  The elderly lord glanced up from the stacks of correspondence on his desk, irritated that the Duke of Glenbroke had breached his discreet sanctuary at the Foreign Office.

  He did not welcome the interruption, not now.

  Not today.

  “I never ‘guess’, Your Grace,” he said, looking down. “And please refrain from calling me by that ridiculous title. You know I find it tiresome, not to mention unwise.”

  “Fearful a French collaborator might overhear us?” the duke asked, determined to get a rise from him.

  “That is not amusing, Your Grace, and frankly quite beneath you.”

  “It was not meant to be amusing, my lord,” Gilbert de Clare sat in the chair opposite his desk, his silver eyes aglow with anger. “As I have just received a tongue lashing from the gentleman we had both agreed to send to Paris, only to find out that you had sent his brother instead, that you had sent a gentleman whom, if you will recall, is a very dear friend of mine.”

  Falcon looked down at the paper in his hand, choosing to ignore the young duke’s impertinence. “I did not send Viscount DunDonell to Paris, Your Grace.”

  “You did not?”

  “No.” Falcon looked up, forced to deal with the situation before him. “He volunteered.”

  “Why?” It was a demand, backed by the authority of aristocratic position. “And don’t fob me off with heartwarming tales of patriotism. Viscount DunDonell has done more than his share for the war by securing ammunition and financial support from the northern gentry. So, you can understand why I am having a difficult time believing that the gentleman was not coerced.”

  Falcon sat back, hardly able to tell the duke that the viscount’s altruism was a direct result of his being in love with another man’s wife.

  His, to be precise.

  “Time was of the essence, Your Grace. We needed a new man to warn Scorpion of the danger, a man whom Cunningham, could not have identified as a British agent to the French. Seamus McCurren was ideally suited to the task and I simply called on his brother to ascertain his direction.

  Unfortunately, the viscount refused to divulge his brother’s location without explanation and when it was given, Viscount DunDonell promptly volunteered for the assignment.”

  “Are you saying, Lord Falcon, that you sent a viscount of the British Realm, a man as handsome as the devil and as subtle as a peacock, you sent this man behind enemy lines to issue your warning?” the duke expelled his disbelief in one airy grunt. “Have you any idea of what the French will do to the viscount if he is captured?”

  “Don’t be so bloody condescending, Gilbert. It is my job to know, but I had no choice in the matter. Scorpion’s value to the crown is immeasurable.”

  “Of course it is, my lord,” the duke said through clenched teeth. “You just declared it worth more than Daniel McCurren’s life.”

  They stared at one another, allowing tempers to cool.

  “And his.” Falcon broke the silence, leaning forward to hand the missive to Glenbroke, adding, “Andre Tuchelles is dead.”

  “The vicar?” the duke asked, resigned regret coloring his silver eyes.

  “Yes, and he… was a dear friend of mine, a young patriot who was mercilessly tortured by the French in order to capture the more troublesome Scorpion.”

  “Then Viscount DunDonell is in more danger than you anticipated.”

  Falcon picked up a bit of smooth wood, clutching it in his hand as he tried to remember a time when he did not expect the death of his agents. He prayed for the men under his command, prayed that they survive and prayed that if they did not their last moments were quickly delivery.

  Neither prayer had been answered in the case of Andre Tuchelles.

  “As is Scorpion.”

  They stared at one another, both practical men, both knowing nothing further could be done to save either agent.

  The duke looked down, his dark brows furrowing as he glanced at the colorful wooden toy. “What do you have there?”

  “A top, Your Grace.”

  “Scorpion sends you gifts?”

  “Scorpion sends my grandson gifts.”

  “Forgive me, my lord, but I was under the impression that your grandson died at Vimeiro.”

  “He did.” Falcon sat forward to dislodge the pain in his chest. “My daughter has since adopted a child, a foundling.”

  “Very noble of her,” the duke said with all sincerity.

  “More than you know, Your Grace.”

  Gilbert de Clare quirked a brow, inviting further explanation, an explanation that Falcon was not, nor ever, would be willing to provide.

  ***

  Unaccustomed to rising at such an early hour, Mademoiselle Beauvoire yawned as she walked the pristine arcades of Place Vendome.

  She placed her kid gloved hand over her mouth and was just about to return to her apartment and declare the entire morning a failure when she heard, “Mademoiselle,” from a liveried footman racing across the square.

  Nicole turned her head with consternation in her eyes as if she did not approve of being hailed by a servant like a hired hackney. She looked him over from head to toe, examined every detail of his quality uniform from blue, silk waistcoat to the silver buckles of his shoes.

  “Yes,” she said, finding him minimally acceptable.

  “Pardon Mademoiselle, but my employer begs you stroll a moment longer.”

  Nicole turned to face the footman, making sure that Minister LeCoeur had an excellent view of the exchange from his apartment window.

  “Your employer?”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle,” the boy bowed. “Joseph LeCoeur, Minister…” Nicole rolled her eyes and let her head fall back with an exaggerated tisk of exasperation. “Of Police for the city of Paris resides in the apartments behind me.”

  Nicole’s attention shifted to the apartment in question, her left brow lifting as if she were reluctantly impressed. “That is very kind, however—“

  A second servant came barreling out of Joseph LeCoeur’s home holding a heavy mahogany tray on which lay on assortment of pastries and a pot of what she assumed to be coffee.

  “Minister LeCoeur offers his compliments and hopes that you will join him for morning refreshment.”

  Nicole laughed despite her best efforts. The whole scene was ridiculous and would have been romantic if she were ignorant of the deadly man with whom she was dealing.

  “You may tell your employer that he has five minutes in which to join me before I retire to my own apartment across the square.” She made sure to add.

  The first footman ran toward Minister LeCoeur’s front door, while the second servant led her toward a wooden bench beneath the canopy of trees, pouring her a cup of coffee before withdrawing to a discreet distance of twenty feet.

  Nicole prepared her coffee with cream and sugar and had just taken a sip when she heard, “I was not sure you would wait.”

  “I wasn’t going to until you bribed me with coffee.” She looked up and to her left as an amused Jo
seph LeCoeur rounded the bench and sat down beside her, waving the second footman inside.

  “I rather thought not.”

  “It’s very good coffee by the way.” Nicole took another appreciative sip and met his acute eyes, allowing hers to linger.

  “I must apologies. I was indisposed when first I saw you strolling the square.”

  “I’m quite sure that you were, Minister LeCoeur, but won’t she be angry that you’ve abandoned her?” she teased, knowing full well that Joseph LeCoeur’s paramour had spent the entire evening in his apartment.

  The minister chuckled, saying, “You’ve a sharp tongue, Mademoiselle.”

  “Yet, you have only felt the dull edge.”

  “Might I feel the other?”

  “If you are very good.” She grinned, lowering her chin and exposing the nape of her neck.

  His eye traveled the line of her neck and continued down her back only to meander up the front of her tight bodice. He paused at her breasts before once again meeting her confident eye.

  “For you, Mademoiselle, I vow my behavior would rival the saints.”

  “Let us not go overboard, Minister LeCoeur,” she quipped. “A saint is of no use to me.”

  Joseph LeCoeur through his head back and laughed at her audacity. “A devil then?”

  “Oui,” Nicole eyed him speculatively. “A handsome devil is far more accurate, I should think, and a much better match for Eris.”

  “And will the Goddess of Discord leave me unsatisfied or will Eris grace me with her worldly name.”

  “Nicole Beauvoire, and before you become overconfident,” she said rising and continuing to hold his gaze. “Keep in mind that I tell you this because even the Minister of Police could not overlook my walking across the square to my apartment.” His grey eyes flicked toward the stone building and then back to hers with a triumphant glint. “Furthermore, I have not decided if I even like you, much more whether I intend to bed you.”