England's Assassin

by Samantha Saxon

  The old man’s bushy brows drew together and he looked at his patient as if only a monster would harm. “You have my word that no man shall enter this room without first going through me.”

  Evariste counted the physician’s three chins and thought that would take all of two minutes.

  “Very noble, Monsieur, but fortunately unnecessary.” He nodded his farewell. “Captain.”

  And then Major Rousseau was walking down the corridor, thinking only of Scorpion and the meeting he had anticipated for so very long.

  ***

  Daniel had been kneeling with his wrists hoisted behind his back for hours. His muscles strained to keep his sagging weight from pulling his shoulders from their sockets, but he was losing the battle, as was intended.

  He needed to adjust his weight and the only way of doing that was damn near impossible and most certainly would be excruciating. However, at this point Daniel did not much care. All he could think of was taking the strain from his neck and shoulders, no matter the cost.

  He rose to his feet and reached back to grasp the chains above the iron shackles with his hands. The medal mandibles cut into the skin at his wrists, a prelude to what was to come. Daniel gritted his teeth and told himself it was just like all the trees he had flipped down from as a child, only this time there were no limbs, save his own.

  Daniel tilted his head forward, his shoulders burning with the increased pressure and then with one determined kick, he was flipping over with his own restraints supporting him. He could feel his flesh ripping as his wrists spun in the shackles, but the moment his feet hit the cell floor Daniel knew the pain was warranted.

  His arms, which had been pulled backward for God knew how long, now hung in front of him and his body was grateful. He leaned back and stretched the knotted muscles between his shoulder blades as sweat poured down his temples and blood poured down his forearms.

  Comfortable now, his mind returned to the harrowing events of the day. Daniel had spent the ride back to town thinking that the lass did not want him, that she had wanted to be rid of him.

  But Daniel knew the moment he saw Nicole Beauvoire that he had been wrong.

  He had seen it in her beautiful, violet eyes the moment Daniel had entered Minister LeCoeur’s bedchamber. She had been terrified, not for herself but for him. Nicole had feared for his safety in the minister’s bedchamber and she had feared for his happiness when she had sent him home to England.

  But what the lass did not realize and never would comprehend was now that he had experience love there was no going back. He had wanted Sarah Duhearst for wife, had pouted like a child when she married another man. But Daniel now knew that whist he loved Sarah, his dear friend, he had never been in love with her.

  Sarah Duhearst would have made a wonderful wife and mother to his children. But love was not so reasonable, so thoughtful in her selection. No, he could not go back to London without Nicole Beauvoire for he would go back half a man. His heart and soul forever in Paris and Daniel knew he could not survive without her.

  Even if it meant dying.

  Nicole had to be protected and he was the only one able to do that at present. He would give the lass time to escape the city, taking the blame for her assassination and enduring the inevitable interrogation for as long as he could.

  He sighed, adjusting the shackles and reviewing the question he might be asked and the answers that would spare her from suspicion. Daniel had never meet the man in the hotel room and prayed that he would be able to spin a credible lie.

  Her swooning had been a brilliant touch of drama. No one would suspect such a delectate flower of having done such terrible deeds.

  What had Nicole said? She had killed nine men, at least one of them poisoned. LeCoeur would be his tenth assassination. Where had he been living? At the hotel by the docks where he had been staying when they meet. Andre Tuchelles had been his contact. The man had given his life to protect Nicole and could not now be refuted.

  Yes, Daniel could pass as Scorpion. He was the sort of man one would imagine to be an assassin. Not her.

  He closed his eyes and rehearsed his fictitious life of the past two years. Daniel sat for hours; his body relaxed as he waited for the unavoidable and then it came with the clanking of metal and the clicking of heals.

  “The prisoner is in the first cell, Major Rousseau.”

  Daniel heard the two men before he saw them. The smaller man from the hotel was holding a file as he walked, but when the dark man looked up he stilled.

  “Why is this prisoner not restrained as I ordered?”

  The question was asked with a calmness that appeared to chill the young guard to the bone.

  “His arms were shackled behind his back, as order. I swear it, Major Rousseau.”

  The major looked through the bars and at Daniel’s bleeding wrists and then he met Daniel’s gaze, his black eyes illuminated by a glimmer of respect.

  “Did it not occur to you, Sergeant that a man of his obvious strength should have his legs restrained as well?”

  “I… No one has ever—“

  “He has.” Major Rousseau’s soft words averted the sergeant’s eyes. “Get me a chair and a small table on which to write.”

  The young sergeant disappeared into the small office which Daniel had passed through when he was taken to his cell

  “Good evening, Scorpion,” the major said, acknowledging Daniel for the first time. “I apologize for not being here sooner, but you left quite a mess in Minister LeCoeur’s bedchamber, vous comprenez?”

  Daniel said nothing, just continued to stare at the cold, stone walls. The sergeant returned with the chair and a small table which Major Rousseau placed between his thighs as he read the thick dossier he had been carrying.

  “We have eight murders for which you have been credited.” The major looked up, “Have we missed anyone?”

  Daniel shrugged as if he spoke not one word of French. “No vous parlez francais.”

  At this the man chuckled, revealing crooked teeth.

  “You wish me to believe that you have resided in Paris for two long years without learning a smattering of French? Are there more than eight?”

  “Do you count Minister LeCoeur?” Daniel asked in his most aristocratic French. “Or must the corpse be cold first?”

  His eyes flashed but the major showed no other signs of anger as he looked through Daniel, saying, “Oh, I prefer them warm.”

  “And defenseless?” Daniel rattled his chains.

  “A necessary component of my work. Eight?” the major asked again, giving the illusion of a patient man.

  “No,” Daniel shook his head with satisfaction… and pride.

  “More or less?”

  Daniel smirked, “This is a stupid question.”

  “How many more?”

  “Two,” Daniel said truthfully, knowing that all murders would have been investigated.

  “Who are these two?”

  Daniel smiled, having no idea what men Nicole had been sent to assassinate by order of the crown. “What kills have you documented in your derisory file?”

  Major Rousseau’s jaw clenched, but he otherwise ignored the insult.

  “You poisoned Marcel Martin and you shot General Capette. But why was it necessary to poison then shot Minister LeCoeur? This seems excessive.”

  Daniel anticipated this question and had his answer at the ready. “Poisons are unreliable. The woman survived, I made sure LeCoeur did not.”

  “Why not shot the girl?”

  Daniel’s brow furrowed. “The girl was not my target.”

  “Never fear, Scorpion, your poison might kill her yet.”

  “Pardon?” Daniel’s heart stopped, the vibrations of his shock ringing in his voice.

  The major’s mouth lifted at one corner. “An innocent death pricks your conscience? This is amusing… and useful.”

  Daniel set his features trying to hide the depth of his concern, but the man continued to assault him all
the while watching his reactions.

  “Yes, the woman drank a portion of the poison and is even now fighting for her life.”

  “Unfortunate.” Daniel shrugged, terrified. “We are, however, at war.”

  “Oui,” His capture nodded. “We are indeed at war, Monsieur Scorpion. Sergeant,” he shouted down the hall.

  “Oui, Major Rousseau?”

  The major look over Daniel’s naked torso, saying, “Bring my tools,” with a gleam in his black eyes.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Seamus McCurren stared into the fire with a brandy in one hand as he listened to the endless prattle trickling from the mouth of Christian St. John. Not, to be clear, that Seamus was unappreciative. Quite the contrary, Lord St. John could be very amusing at times and Seamus appreciated the man’s effort at keeping his mind occupied.

  Unfortunately, every day that went by without news of his brother seemed to drain his mind of the ability to concentrate on the world around him.

  “I could not believe the lady’s boldness. She just sat in my lap and propositioned me, knowing full well that the lady with whom I was sitting was my current mistress.”

  “What did you do?” Seamus asked not really interested in Christian’s never ending exploits.

  “What kind of cad to you take me for, Seamus?” His fair brows furrowed with indignation. “I thank her for the kind offer and told her that I was not interested. But I did keep her card,” Christian added with scoundrel’s grin.

  Seamus chuckled and sipped his brandy, saying, “Has it never occurred to you St. John that these events do not merely ‘happen’ as you so staunchly claim, but rather that you attract them like—“

  “Bees to honey?” Christian’s blue eyes sparkled.

  “I was going to say like flies to manure.”

  “Are you calling me a pile of dung?” Lord St. John left brow rose. “Wait, don’t answer that and no, I do not think I cause any of these things to –“

  Christian was interrupted by a knock at the parlor door. Their eyes meet and Seamus said, “Come,” trying not to feel the fluttering in his belly which turned to an absolute thunder when his butler announced.

  “The Duke of Glenbroke wishes an audience, my lord.”

  “Show him in.”

  Seamus set his glass down and placed both hands on the arm of his chair pushing himself to standing.

  He bowed as the powerful duke entered the room followed by an elderly man whom the majority of the ton consider to be of no account at all.

  “Good evening, gentlemen. I take it you have word of Viscount DunDonell or you would not have ventured out on such a miserable evening?”

  The duke’s continence was grim and Christian St. John cut the tension by offering, “I’ll just get some drinks, shall I?” reminding Seamus of his lack of hospitality.

  “Yes, thank you Lord St. John. Gentlemen,” Seamus indicated the settee facing the fire. “Do have a seat.”

  The enormous duke lowered himself onto the overstuffed chartreuse settee and crossed his legs before saying, “We believe we have received word of your brother. Thank you.” The duke looked up as Lord St. John handed him a snifter of brandy and the older Falcon picked up where the duke had left off.

  “An operative working in Paris has just sent a missive with information which we believe refers to your brother.” The old man held Seamus’ eye while waiting for Christian St. John to resume his seat.

  Seamus clenched his jaw and his stomach. “Go on.”

  “The viscount has been captured.” Falcon gave Seamus a moment to take the blow and then continue the barrage. “My mentions said that a man meeting your brother description was brought to Concergerie nearly three days ago.”

  “Has he been executed?” Seamus asked, swallowing the rather substantial lump in his throat.

  The Duke of Glenbroke lean forward, picking up the reins. “The missive was sent the moment this man was brought to the prison.” His silver eyes, sharpened. “We have no idea what has occurred over the last three days, nor can we confirm that this man is ever your brother.”

  Seamus nodded, staring at the floor. “Let us be honest gentleman. How many six foot two, wide as a barn door, handsome as the devil gentleman with auburn hair are residing in Paris, much more get themselves arrested at the same instant my brother is delivering a message for the crown?” Seamus took a large sip of brandy. “The odds are exceedingly low.”

  “Yes, they are.” Falcon said and Seamus could see in the brown depths of the old man’s eyes that this little visit was a way of preparing Seamus for the inevitable news that his brother had been executed. “Exceedingly low.”

  “Is there nothing to be done?” Seamus asked, dreading having to inform his parents of this miserable development.

  “No, I’m afraid not, my lord.” Falcon shook his head. “The viscount is not only in enemy territory but in the capital, being held behind the walls of France’s most impenetrable prison. Many of my agents have already returned to London and the few that remain are themselves in danger.” The old man sat back looking his age. “I am sorry.”

  The four men sat in silence and the duke eventually broke it, saying, “I am very sorry, Seamus.” He began to rise, saying, “Please let me know if there is anything–“

  “Let’s go and get him.”

  All three men turned to look at Christian St. John, but it was the elegant Duke of Glenbroke whom recovered first. “Pardon me, St. John?”

  Christian’s bright eyes met his. “Let’s go and get him.” He pointed to Seamus and then himself. “The two of us.”

  “Lord St. John,” Falcon felt it necessary to council the impulsive young man. “This is not a game. It is very likely that if you travel to Paris and attempt a rescue of the viscount, you will be killed.”

  “Damn it all,” Christian looked at the Falcon and then the duke. “I’m not a simpleton. I realize the risks. However, I am heir to nothing and will hardly be missed and Lord McCurren here has enough brother’s to form their own battalion. Besides,” Christian winked at Seamus. “I think we have rather a sporting chance.”

  Seamus stared at Christian St. John, at his handsome features and amiable smile. He was the sort of man everyone liked. Charismatic, friendly and very entertaining company, not to mention the gentleman had the ability to talk the skirts off of any lady he set his sight on.

  “Do you speak French?”

  “Fluently,” Christian grinned.

  “This is madness,” the duke gave an exhalation of disbelief. “I will not send two gentlemen to Paris to retrieve one. All three of you could be killed.”

  “Fortunately,” Christian St. John said rising, “it is not up to you, Glenbroke. Right, McCurren, I’ll secure our transportation. You search your musty old books for as much information on the prison… Conciergerie?” He turned to Falcon to confirm and the old man nodded. “Any underground pathways, drainage areas ect...”

  “Christian, your brother and father will never allow you to go.”

  “There again,” Christian’s Nordic eyes turned to blue ice in a rare show of temper and a unwavering stubbornness which many would never suspect the impulsive lord to possessed. “My personal affairs are not determined by the duke nor the marquis.”

  “Ian will not be pleased.” The young duke said of his closest friend and Christian’s older brother.

  “Tell the marquis to stay bloody well out of it, Your Grace.” And then the amiable Lord St. John returned, smiling like a child about to depart on some marvelous adventure. “Well, I had best go pack! I shall meet you here later this evening and we can discuss our findings?” he asked and Seamus nodded, still in shock from the news of his brother’s capture.

  “When do you think we can depart?” His mind was spinning with the work that needed to be done and Seamus was thankful to have his thoughts occupied will something other than Daniel’s impending execution.

  “Tonight?” Christian looked at Falcon.

 
The old man rose to his feet, sighing as he said, “I shall make the arrangements. However, this evening is impossible. Better you leave in the morning on a ship that will take you directly to Paris.”

  “Excellent,” Christian St. John said as he accompanied Falcon out the parlor door, leaving Seamus alone with the concerned Duke of Glenbroke.

  The door closed and Gilbert de Clare looked at him, holding his eye. “You will both be killed, Seamus.”

  “Most likely,” Seamus finished his brandy, setting the heavy crystal on a side table to the right of his chair.

  “Daniel would not want you to do this.”

  “I want to do this.”

  “And St. John? Is Christian to give his life attempting a rescue that will very likely end with all three of you dead?”

  “No.” Seamus shook his head. “That is why you will ask Falcon to give Christian the wrong departure time. I will arrange to meet Lord St. John at the docks, but my ship will already have sailed for France.”

  “Christian will be furious.”

  “Yes, but he will be alive.”

  “Will you inform your parents?”

  “No, I will pen a letter before I go. Would you be so kind, Your Grace, as to give it to them in the event that I do not return.”

  “It will be difficult for them to lose you both.”

  Seamus nodded, looking at his old friend.

  “You have no siblings, Your Grace, so perhaps this will be difficult for you to comprehend. I could not live with myself, knowing that I did not do everything in my power to save my brother.”

  The duke leaned forward, sympathy filling his steely eyes. “Daniel may already be dead, Seamus.”

  “But he may not,” Seamus said resolutely, as the duke stared into the fire. “I would like for you to be the one to inform my parents?”

  The duke cleared his throat and ran his finger through his dark hair, nodding. “Of course.”

  The enormous Duke of Glenbroke rose as they shook hands and in an unprecedented show of intimacy, Gilbert placed his left hand on Seamus’s right shoulder.

  “Be careful, Seamus.” The duke gave his farewell with his concerned eyes.