England's Assassin (2 page)

Nicole stripped the chambermaid costume from her body and placed it in the small fire of the boarding house washroom. She watched as the flames flared, causing little tuffs of smoke to mingle with the steam already rising from her bath.

Once the garment had been consumed, she turned to the task of cleaning herself by sinking into the small copper tub. She winced at the intense heat of the water and tried to absorb the pain as she lifted a small square of coarse cloth. She scrubbed, as she always did, starting with the tips of her left fingers and continuing up her arm.

Her teeth clamped shut and she ignored the red streaks she was creating on her delicate white skin. She scrubbed harder, faster, avoiding the deep gash on her forearm made by a protruding piece of metal roofing when she had reached up to untie the pistol from the rope just before… before…

She swallowed her guilt and scrubbed. Nicole had no idea how long she had been cleansing herself, but the water was getting cold. She leaned over and pulled the worn silk cord hanging to the right of the narrow door.

The beleaguered maid entered the bathing room and her eyes narrowed in confusion when Nicole snapped, “I need more water,” for her already full tub.

But when the girl continued to stare, Nicole cursed herself for not having sat the opposite direction. She tensed, knowing that the maid was counting the scars on her back and knowing also that she had not had time to count them all.

“Are you finished?” The girl’s gray eyes grew wide in contrast to Nicole’s violet slits as she said, “Get… me… more… water,” annunciating each word as if the maid were a complete simpleton.

The girl bobbed a curtsy and fled the room and Nicole returned to her cleansing, starting by roughly swiping at eyes that seemed to never stop crying.

She scoured the back of her neck, telling herself, as she always did, that she was necessary, that these men would continue to commit violence against the innocent if they were not stopped. And who better to protect the innocent than a person as equally wicked and depraved as the men she killed.

Nicole stared at the water, its calming reflection calling to her. Her eyelids drifting closed as she slid down until her back lay flat against the bottom of the tub. Black hair swirled around her and she brushed it aside. Her eyes stung as she opened them to stare through the water at the contorted features of the small room. The glow of the fire as it danced on the ceiling, the ancient wooden beams of the ramshackle boarding house.

Her lungs were burning now and she told herself that if she had the courage, the will to hold herself down it would all be over. She would not have to kill again and it would all be over for her. She breathed beneath the surface.

But not for the next man
. It would all begin for the next man sent to carry out the assassinations.

Nicole bolted up right, sucking in a breath that mingled with the water that she had taken into her lungs. She coughed violently, hanging her head over the rounded metal sides of the battered tub.

She smoothed long hair away from her face, knowing that she was already condemned and thinking her last act of contrition would be to save another from being sent into this perpetual hell.

She rose, rivers of water streaming down her body as she reached for a white bath sheet. Nicole ignored them, wrapping herself in the numbness of indifference as the maid entered the room and poured steaming water into the vacated tub.

“
Merci
,” she said with utmost sincerity.

The girl left and Nicole crossed the hall to the small bedchamber that had been her home for the last two months. She sat on the edge of her uncomfortable mattress and stared at the missive her English contact had given her three days earlier.

Andre Tuchelles’ distinctive seal was still intact as Nicole could not bring herself to read the name of the next man she was to kill before completing her previous assignment. But General Capette was dead and soon the man beneath the blue paraffin would be too.

Both by her hands
.

She ran a finger beneath the wax, creating light blue flakes that fell to the dusty vermillion carpet. Her heart was racing and she paused not wanting to read the name, knowing that the man would be safe if she did not.

Her right hand was trembling when she summoned the courage to lift the top third of parchment and then the bottom. She took a calming breath then focused her eyes on Andre’s bold handwriting. Nicole stared, her heart seizing as she read the name and location of her next assassination.

“He can’t be serious,” she mumbled.

Dazed, Nicole hid the missive and dropped her bath sheet to the floor. She climbed, nude, into the minuscule bed and stared out the window, praying that God would grant his nightly reprieve.

But knowing also, that the wicked never rest and the condemned… the condemned never sleep.

Paris, France

Ministry of Police

October 17, 1811

The Minister of Police sat at his enormous desk, as he always did, with his back to the brick wall while facing the solitary door to his illustrious office. These were, perhaps, extreme safeguards, but Joseph LeCoeur had learned early on in his career that a careless man was a dead man.

And he was not a careless man.

He stared at the proof of his precaution in the form of a black wax seal that he had not seen in a very long time. Three years to be precise. Trepidation rolled in his stomach as he broke the wax arrows and read the brief communiqué.

“
Merdre
,” he muttered, his fist clenched. “Rousseau!”

His handsome, young assistant entered his office and stood before him ready to be of service. And while the man was excellent at keeping schedules and making appointments, few knew his true value.

“I have a job for you.” Major Rousseau stared at him with eyes so dark no man could glean his thoughts. “One of our agents has been captured.” Joseph cursed again, bemoaning the capture of an informant that had, for a price, been able to identify British agents working throughout France. “Lord Cunningham is being held at the Foreign Office in London.”

“When do I leave?” The austere man did not even blink before accepting the assassination of the informant that he himself had trained when the Englishman turned traitor.

“Have you finished the other business?”

“I call on him tonight.”

“
Bon
, after that matter has been resolved you will leave for London.” Joseph reached into a drawer and pulled out a stack of English pounds, handing it to the smaller man. “You know where to go for assistance,” he continued, holding up the fractured seal.

“
Oui
,” Major Rousseau said, his lips twitching ever so slightly at the corner in what was as close to a smile as his associate had ever come.

“But remember, I need you here in two weeks' time.”

They stared at one another and the younger man nodded, saying, “Nothing would keep me from making my introduction to Scorpion.”

The minister laughed, thinking Major Rousseau the only man in all of Paris that hated defeat more than he. This British assassin, Scorpion, had not only eluded them, but was becoming a blemish to Minister LeCoeur’s impressive career. He had paid the English traitor, Cunningham, handsomely for setting a trap for their illusive adversary and had even used himself as bait.

“No, I don’t imagine that anything would keep you from Empress Bonaparte’s Feast, but do remember that I want Scorpion kept alive.”

Joseph relished the thought of staring into the eyes of Scorpion as Major Rousseau introduced the English assassin to his darker talents. The minister vowed to himself that Scorpion would not die until he begged for the pain to stop, until the assassin begged for his own death.

“You would be amazed at what a man can survive.” The major’s shoulders lifted and a noise escaped his lips in what Joseph assumed was laughter. “Just ask our friend being held in London.”

“
Oui
, Lord Cunningham endured several months of your company, if I recall.” He stared at the man, remembering the meticulous medical attention Major Rousseau had given Lord Cunningham after inflicting equally meticulous torture. “But this time I want Cunningham killed and quickly. A proven traitor has no allegiance to anyone. He will sell any secrets the British are willing to buy.”

His assistant pointed to the black seal. “Does he know about--?”

“No. I never spoke of Enigma.”

“I shall report to you when I return.” The agile man walked toward the door and then stopped, turning. “Did you require anything from my journey?”

“Oui, merci,” Joseph said, appreciative of the major’s thoughtfulness. “I want his tongue.”

Major Rousseau smiled fully this time, revealing crooked teeth. “May I do it before I kill him?”

Joseph LeCoeur raised his left brow and stared at the cold, dark eyes of his most accomplished assassin. “I would prefer it.”

The man bowed then left the room as the minister returned to weaving the net that would snare Major Rousseau’s talented English counterpart, Scorpion.

A soft tapping at her bedchamber door pulled Nicole from peaceful oblivion back into the depths of her despair. Irritated, she ordered her heavy limbs to function as she lit a candle and stared at the clock sitting atop her armoire. The gold hands glistened, reading three forty eight and she knew only one person who would venture out to a ladies boarding house so early in the morning.

Her British contact, Andre Tuchelles.

Trepidation engulfed her, bringing her fully awake. She grabbed the damp bathing cloth and wrapped it around her body, tucking the corner between her full breasts. Improper, she knew, but Andre had seen her in far more revealing brothel costumes and she needed to get him inside her bedchamber before he was seen.

Bare footed, she strode across the carpet, her left hand holding a candle while her right opened the simple wooden door.

“What…” But her words dissolved when she saw that it was not Andre that stood at her threshold.

The hair at the base of her neck bristled and her breath was extracted by the force standing before her in the deceptive form of a man; a very handsome man with auburn hair and impossibly wide shoulders covered by an ill-fitting russet jacket. His square jaw was set in a determined line and she made the mistake of looking up to meet his penetrating gaze.

“My apologies, Mademoiselle?” he whispered in French, his expressive brow drawing together in confusion as he glanced about the bedchamber and found that she was alone. “I was told that an acquaintance of mine was in residence at this location.”

“I…” She blinked, lost in the sky blue of his eyes. “Am afraid that your information was incorrect, Monsieur. I have been living at this location for well over two months.”

The man nodded as if he understood, but clearly he did not. “Well, thank you very much. I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” he said, bowing with a refined elegance that came only to a man with command of his body.

A beautiful body she could not stop herself from envisioning.

Flushed, Nicole lifted the towel, suddenly very aware that she was nude beneath the thin, white cloth. She smoothed down her black curls which had dried to a tangled mess about her shoulders.

“Do not concern yourself,” she said, smiling pleasantly and trying to ignore the disappointment she felt as he turned away from her.

She watched the immense man take two steps down the hall and then he stopped, removing something from the breast pocket of his jacket. Nicole tensed with a rush of anticipation when he walked back saying, more to himself than to her, “You spoke English.”

Damn!

“Pardon?” Nicole feigned ignorance, her eyes innocent and wide. Her mind, wary.

“When you opened the door a moment ago,” he stared, reassessing this new information… and her. “You said ‘
what
’ in English.”

Nicole swallowed then considered her options and found that she had none. She stood before him completely vulnerable, her only weapon, herself.

“Did I?” she asked in French.

His sensuous chuckle made her toes curl, but it was the accompanying smile that slay her. “
Oui
, you did.”

“I don’t think--” she began, still recovering.

“Oui,” he said, his voice dropping to baritone murmur as he stepped into her bedchamber, forcing her back as he closed the door behind him. “You did.”

Nicole listened to her heart pounding in her ear as her visitor lifted his right hand. She was about to pay for her sins but had no desire to see the instrument of her destruction. She willed herself to stare into the soul of the man that would exact her punishment.

However, when no punishment came, she glanced down, her brows drawing together when she saw not a weapon in his large hand, but a missive displaying Andre’s familiar seal.

“My friend wished for me to deliver this to…” He caught her eye. “Scorpion.”

Nicole’s jaw dropped.
Why had Andre not come himself?

But the enormous man confused her further by asking, “Where might I find him?”

Him?

Her head was spinning and she tried desperately to sort things out in her mind.

This man comes barring Andre Tuchelles’ seal. Yet, Andre did not identify her as Scorpion.
Why?

“Andre is well, I trust?” she asked, stalling.

Trust.

Andre was protecting her. He did not trust this man and was warning her to be cautious.

“Very well, when last I saw him.” Her visitor grinned, fully aware that she had avoided answering his question.

“Then why is he not delivering this message to Scorpion himself?”

“Andre Tuchelles is leaving Paris.”

“What?” Nicole gasped, feeling completely abandoned.

“I have been commissioned to warn Scorpion that British agents working in France have been compromised.

The Foreign Office sent me to deliver the warning as the French may already be watching Monsieur Tuchelles. Andre Tuchelles is at returning to London for his own protection and Scorpion has been ordered to do the same.”

Return to
England!

Nicole was having difficulty breathing, so she sat on the faded duvet and attempted to think. She could not go back to England. They would arrest her the moment she arrived.

Misinterpreting her distress, the large man sank to his haunches, saying, “I’m quite sure our government would welcome Scorpion’s… collaborators.”

Confused, Nicole looked up, meeting his eyes and as she stared at the clear, blue depths, realization dawned. He believed her to be Scorpion’s lover. Yes, that would be this man’s intrinsic conclusion and it could be used to her advantage.

“Let me read the missive.” She reached out to grasp the thick paper but the man rose, indecision etched in his masculine features.

“You will forgive me if I deny your request, Mademoiselle. This communiqué to be given to Scorpion and Scorpion alone.”

They seemed to have reached a stalemate and Nicole was losing her patience. She stood, looking up at the enormous messenger and vaguely wondering if she could retrieve her pistol before he could stop her.

“What did Andre Tuchelles say when he gave you the letter?”

The man lifted his left eyebrow in what she was discovering to be condescension. “How does that signify as you are not Scorpion?”

Nicole swallowed her sarcasm, choosing rather to become the flirt. “Yes, but I am Scorpion’s lover.”

The man’s gaze slowly descended, taking in every detail of her scantily clad figure and causing her to blush.

“Yes, I’m quite sure that you are,” the messenger said, his eyes returning to hers. “Therefore, you should have no difficulty in informing me of his direction.”

Discomfited, Nicole rolled her eyes in a manner she hoped conveyed frustration.

“I don’t know where Scorpion resides. He insisted I remain ignorant for my own protection.”

“And his,” the man added with a note of disapproval.

Nicole stared at the acerbic man, her tone turning sugary when she asked, “Perhaps if I read the missive I would be able to help you locate Scorpion. Andre Tuchelles undoubtedly sent you to me for a reason.”

The man blinked, his square jaw setting as he apparently concluded that he had no other option.

“Very well.” He lifted the missive over the expanse that separated them and Nicole was once again struck by how large a man he was. She pulled the communiqué from beneath long finger, but her progress was stopped as he tightened his hold on the folded parchment. “But I shall read it when you’ve finished.”

Nicole agreed, breaking the seal and praying that Andre’s art for ambiguity was displayed to full affect within the one page document.

Scorpion,

You are in grave danger and must abandon all previous orders. The French are closing on your location. Trust no one and return to England immediately. This man has been sent to arrange for your transportation.

                                                                                    Andre

Nicole stared at the untidy scrawl of Andre’s typically fluid hand.

“This was written in haste?” she asked, handing the innocuous missive to her formidable guest.

“Yes,” his forehead furrowed, a spark of intellectual admiration growing in his turquoise eyes. “Monsieur Tuchelles wrote the communiqué while packing his belonging in hopes of boarding a ship that was scheduled to set sail…” The handsome man pulled a gold watch from his shoddy waistcoat, causing Nicole to pause at the incongruity. “Not twenty minutes past.”

“And Scorpion’s ship?”

“
Les Helios
sails for Honfleur in three hours where we will board a Dutch merchant vessel willing to transport us back to England.”

Nicole let the information settle in her mind before choosing a course of action.

“Bon.” She walked to the armoire and removed a modest blue dress, tossing it on the bed. “If you would be so kind as to turn your back.” The man opened his mouth to protest, but as the cloth was already sliding down her nude body, he quickly turned with suspicion still lingering in his astute eyes. “I shall locate Scorpion while you pack my possessions and we will rendezvous at
Les Helios
in approximately one hour.”

The courier gave an incredulous grunt, saying over his left shoulder, “I thought you had no idea how to contact the man. ‘For your protection’, I believe were your exact words.”

She stared at his broad back, hoping for divine guidance in formulating a credibly lie. “I believe I said I had no idea ‘where Scorpion resides’. I do, however, know of an establishment he frequents.”

Nicole finished dressing then spun to face the armoire and retrieve her pistol from beneath a threadbare chemise. But before she could slip the weapon into her skirt pocket, she heard the unmistakable click of a firearm being cocked behind her head. She stilled, her mind reeling.

“What are your intentions with that pistol, Mademoiselle?” he whispered in her ear as he peered over her left shoulder, carefully watching any movement of her right hand.

Nicole licked her lips, suddenly very articulate. “The streets of Paris are very dangerous. I always carry a weapon when I venture out at night.”

There was a long pause and then she felt the enormous man step back.

“You don’t need a weapon.” Confused, she turned to look up at him. “I will be with you,” the courier added with such arrogance the she almost believed him.

“No.” She shook her head adamantly. “You will draw far too much attention. Scorpion is a very jealous man. One look at you and he will very likely shoot you before you have the opportunity to explain your commission.”

“Will he?” The man’s sensual gaze made her immediately regret voicing the backhanded compliment.

“Oui,” she mumbled, distracted and as she peered more closely at his striking features. A thought tickled the back of her mind, presenting itself in the form of a question. “You’re a Scot?”

He looked like a big, handsome altogether too tempting Scot.

“Aye,” he whispered, uttering the first English word she had heard in two years.
Well, almost English
. “But how did ya know? My French is perfect.”

Nicole raised a haughty brow and walked toward her bedchamber door. “Yes, it is. However, it was your Scottish bravado that gave you away.”

“A man is what he is, Mademoiselle,” the courier’s amused words caressed her back like a fire in winter and she could not help but feel the touch of heat.

Nicole turned as she reached the door, saying, “Until he is not, Monsieur,” dousing them both with a splash of cold reality. “I suggest we hurry as I fear you will not survive long in Paris.”

Her escort bowed gracefully, adding to her growing suspicion that he was gently breed. “I believe I shall manage for three hours.”

“Perhaps,” she mused, infusing the word with a considerable amount of doubt. “Scorpion will want to know your name.”

“A careful man, this Scorpion.” 

“Very.” She held his eyes.

“Daniel Damont at your service, Mademoiselle…?” He inclined his noble head toward her.

“Beauvoire, Nicole Beauvoire,” she offered, not hesitating to give the name she had assumed that terrible day two years ago.