England's Assassin (6 page)

London, England

October 20, 1811

Evariste Rousseau sat, staring at the English dandies in disgust as they groped the whores at
Madame Florentine’s
with all the finesse of a pig given a bucket of slop.

God, how he hated the English.

He hated their filthy city, their ugly women, their condescending arrogance that made them think themselves superior to the liberated people of France. Made them believe that their blue blood was somehow more precious than his own.

Evariste smiled to himself as he looked about the room remembering all of the Englishmen he had shown the true color of their aristocratic blood as it flowed from their bodies, remembering the look of surprise on their idiotic faces when they realized that they were not, in fact, invincible and were going to die.

Wincing as he wrapped his hand around a glass of ale, Major Rousseau begrudgingly remembered that there were… the occasional exceptions.

He glanced down, flexing his knuckles that were still raw from the beating he had given Andre Tuchelles.

He had been different
.

Monsieur Tuchelles had looked at him with understanding in his eyes, comprehending not only that he was going to die, but that he would die slowly, painfully.

Evariste had enjoyed, as he always did, beating the man. But then his hands were as swollen as the Englishman’s face and with each finger he took his time in breaking, Andre Tuchelles eyes had shown only resolve. Had reflected his knowledge of Scorpion’s identity and a mocking silence that had held until shock had comforted Tuchelles’ body. Leaving Evariste with the threat of death as his only means of coercion, his only hope of extracting the name his so desperately desired.

He had allowed Tuchelles a moment to contemplate, to decide if Scorpion was worth dying for. He asked him one last time for the name and location of the allusive English assassin and then with a respect he had never felt for any man, Evariste had stabbed Andre Tuchelles in the heart.

No, Monsieur Tuchelles had been different.

Not like these men. These men were concerned only with their cloths and their cocks, their estates and standing with in Britain’s haute ton while people starved on the dirty streets of London.

They deserved what Napoleon was planning to do and he could not wait to witness the destruction of the British Empire.

“You look absolutely murderous and I suggest you alter your continence before you get us both killed.” His companion’s voice was light, jovial but Major Rousseau could hear the familiar steal that cut beneath it.

Evariste laughed, his dark eyes turning to meet the steady gray eyes of Enigma. “I hardly think—“

“And that would be your first mistake. You are not paid to think. When in London, you will do as I bid, when I bid you. Is that clear?”

Hackles raised, Evariste forced himself to bow his head indicating submission, knowing that Enigma was the one French collaborator with the power, the intelligence to sweep him aside before he knew danger was approaching.

“What would you have me do?”

Enigma chuckled, enjoying his subjection. ”Lord Cunningham is being transported in two days' time from the Foreign Office at Whitehall to Newgate. He will be guarded by five men, two in the carriage, two at rear and a coachman.”

“Five men?”

Enigma lifted a brow. “Is the task too much for you? I could hire a few of these whores, if you are not up for the job.”

“I meant only to verify the information.” Their eyes held until Major Rousseau looked down, saying, “Forgive the interruption.”

“He will be transported at night, so you will have no difficulty in making your way to the docks where you will board
The Siren
bound for Scotland. Before reaching shore, however, you will be rowed to a second vessel anchored in the harbor which leaves for France the following morning. Do you have any questions?”

“And if something goes awry, and I miss
The Siren
. Is there an alternative plan in place?”

“Yes.” Enigma stared and Evariste’s could feel his pulse steadily increase. He heard the scraping of metal and looked down to see a small dagger that lay on the wooden bench between them. “Cut your own throat or I will find you and do it for you.”

Evariste pushed the dagger back and said with all the arrogance he was known for. “Five men is of no consequence and I expect to have bathed, imbibed, and fornicated before the English even know that Lord Cunningham has been killed.”

“Excellent.” Enigma said, sounding unimpressed.

“And as for fornicating, does Chloe still entertain here.”

“Ah, Chloe! She is quite accomplished with the whip, is she not?”

They both smiled, knowing that Chloe had mastered many more sensual torments than just the whip.

“Very.” Evariste felt his blood begin to stir, felt the need to walk the thin line between pain and pleasure.

“Then I shall leave you to your amusements or rather Chloe’s.” His superior rose, and then with a friendly smile said, “Do not contact me again,” before blending into the crush of London’s most exclusive brothel.

Paris, France

October 21, 1811

“What have you done with my keys?” Nicole demanded, throwing open the door of the bedchamber she had given the Scot.

But when he did not immediately respond, a flicker of unease replaced her irritation only to return when she saw the near empty decanter of brandy.

“Damont!”

His head jerked off the crushed pillows, his auburn hair streaked with gold as he ran his fingers through the thick waves with one eye completely closed and the other blinking against the morning light.

“Christ almighty!” He licked his parched lips. “What time is it?”

Nicole glanced at the silver watch she had pinned to the bodice of her morning gown.

“Half past…” But her words trailed off and she bit her bottom lip when she saw the Scot sitting up in bed. “Seven.”

The silk sheet was sliding down an abdomen so muscled that she wondered if he had an ounce of fat on his exquisite body. His shoulders were square, padded with hard muscles which were balanced by thoroughly male curves. His chest was thick, solid, the heavy weight of muscle evident just below the dark disks of his nipples.

He was breathtakingly, mouthwateringly male and she had to grab hold of her muslin skirts or risk walking to his bed and running her hands up and down him as if he were made entirely of mink.

“The sun is scarcely up!” The Scot planted his hands on the mattress and pushed himself upright. However, it was not his flexing arms that made her jaw fall open but the glimpse of bare thigh that made her know unequivocally that he was nude beneath the golden silk. “What is so damn urgent that necessitates waking me at this ungodly hour?”

“Walking.” Fortunately, he was still half foxed and oblivious of her lustful perusal. “I want to take a stroll around the square.”

“Why?” he asked, lifting his bulky arm to rub the back of his tousled head.

“Why what?” Nicole had totally lost the thread of conversation, wanting nothing more than to take over the task for him.

The man clicked his tongue, apparently frustrated by something, but she had no idea what.

“Why would ya want to go strollin’ so early in the mornin’?”

“Oh, damn!” She remembered why. “Just give me the keys!”

“They're atop the canopy. If you would just step outside—“

But Nicole was already dragging a wing backed chair from the corner of the room to the side of his unkempt bed. She lifted her skirts and stood atop the vermillion chair cushion, feeling around the canopy for the heavy key ring.

“They're not up here!”

“Yes, they are.” Nicole stretched her arm out as far as she could reach and found them, curling her middle finger inside the brass ring. “If you would just let me get my clothes on--”

At that moment, her precarious position and the unstable cushion on which she stood combined to overset her weight. She began to fall but caught herself on the velvet canopy only to have the chair slide backward, leaving her sprawl across the Scot’s muscular abdomen. His breath gave with a whoosh, but fortunately she had managed to retain hold of the brass ring.

“Sorry,” she said, scrambling off of him and then running down the corridor, the delicious heat of his body still clinging to her breasts.

Nicole unlocked the front door and flew down the stairs only to immerge into the square just in time to see Joseph LeCoeur’s carriage rambling out of sight.

Damn!

Nicole’s heavy breathing had slowed to a silent pant by the time she returned the fourth floor apartment. She opened the door and was greeted by Daniel Damont standing in the hall with the silk sheet rapped about his trim waist.

Lord, he was handsome
.

“Oh, well. I’m glad to see that your elbows broke your fall.” Monsieur Damont chided as she walked toward the back of the apartment and unfortunately, him. “I, for one, was delighted that my stomach could be of service to ya.”
Nicole stopped and looked up, knowing that she should have been intimidated by a man that stood at least a foot above her. But when she was angry, the size of a man made no difference to her.

She lifted her index finger and poked him in his massive chest, saying, “Do not interfere with my work again. Joseph LeCoeur was walking in the square this morning and now I shall have to wait, along with half of the ladies in Paris, to make my introduction at the masquerade ball host by the Marquis de La Roche.”

“You hope to introduce yourself to Minister LeCoeur before you kill him?”

Nicole shook her head with the patience of Job. “No, Monsieur Damont, I want to seduce the minister before I kill him.”

“Why?”

“Well, I am sure that the idea is quite foreign to you, but a man is often alone with a woman when he beds her thus giving me the opportunity to kill him.”

The Scot nodded, acquiescing to her experience, his expressive brows drawing together over those luminous eyes.

“What did he do?”

That stopped her cold, forcing Nicole to slow her breathing so that she could think. “Minister LeCoeur?”

“Aye. What did Minister LeCoeur do to deserve such censure?”

“Uhmm,” Nicole shrugged then looked down to avoid meeting his eye as her mind cataloged Minister LeCoeur’s many sins. “He has murdered three men to reach the position of Minister of Police. He has imprisoned countless others; men, women, and their children who oppose the French government’s policies. He has ordered the suppression of protests within Paris and even aided in the capture of Andreas Hofer following the Tyrolian Insurrection.”

“Forgive me, Mademoiselle Beauvoire, but what business is it of yours if Minister LeCoeur kills his own people.”

“Surely, you jest.” Nicole sputtered, unable to comprehend such thinking. “The man had murdered, lord knows how many innocent people and you say this is none of Britain’s affair? Would you object to Minister LeCoeur’s methods if he turned his eyes on England?”

“The minister will not turn his eyes on England.” The arrogant man smiled, the sight muddling her brain further.

“And how, pray tell do you know that he will not?” she asked, trying to concentrate.

“Because you’re going to kill him before the bastard gets the chance.”

“Then you approve of the assassination?”

“Aye.” Daniel Damont nodded as if he were the most reasonable man in all of France. “He sounds a right bastard who deserves to be killed.”

“Your support astounds me, Monsieur Damont.”

The Scot held up one hand, his bright eyes going wide as he laughed.

“Not that I could do it, mind ya. I would need a man lookin’ me in the eye when I killed him.” He turned and walked into his bedchamber. “But it sounds as though you’ve plenty of justification for killin’ the minister.”

Nicole followed, feeling the need to argue even though Monsieur Damont had just agreed with her. “The British government has justified this assassination, not I.” She stared at him while he sat on the edge of his bed, pulling on brown pantaloons beneath the silk bed sheet.

“Perhaps, but it’ll be you who answers for your sins, not the Foreign Office.”

The Scot tossed the sheet on the rumbled bed then stamped on his frilly shoes, distaste curling his upper lip.

“He’s a murderer!”

“As are you, nine times over if I recall.”

Nicole felt the back of her throat constrict, the back of her eyes sting.

“Assassination is not murder. I kill to protect the innocent and helpless people of this country; people that have no one to champion them, people that are beaten, raped and robbed every day that this war continues. How can I, how can anyone watch men like Joseph LeCoeur abuse their power and just walk away?”

Nicole lifted her chin, staring at Monsieur Damont while she braced herself against his condemnation.

“You haven’t walked away.” He smiled, not with amusement, but not quite admiration.

No, she had not. She had not walked away at Newgate. She had not walked away at Honfleur, nor Versailles, nor the fifth floor suite of the Palace Royal. She had not walked away and it had cost her dearly and was costing her still.

Unable to endure another moment of his penetrating gaze, Nicole spun saying over her shoulder. “Get dressed.”

“Where are we goin’?” the man asked with his enchanting brogue.

“Shopping.”