England's Assassin (11 page)

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 Joseph 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.”

He tried very hard not to smile upon hearing her frank declaration, but the corners of his mouth pulled up even as his full lips remained firmly shut.

“Then you have not ruled out the possibility?”

“Of course not,” she shrugged. “I’ve only been in Paris a sort amount of time. However, I suspect the more gentlemen I meet, the less likely your prospects.”

LeCoeur drew his brows together in a great show of concern. “Then you advise a hasty seduction?”

“I should think it your only chance.”

Nicole realized her mistake the moment he stood and she saw that the square was deserted with trees shielding them from view of the surrounding apartments.

Minister LeCoeur reached out with his right hand and grasped her upper arm, pulling her toward him. His left hand settled on her neck and jaw, and she had to stop herself from shivering with revulsion… and a touch of fear.

His lips pressed to hers and she fought an overwhelming wave of nausea. Nicole closed her eyes and told herself that she was playing the seductress, but her tension remained. Any moment the minister would sense her aversion and her interest would become suspect.

She would become suspect.

Nicole opened her mouth and her mind, letting him sweep in as she conjured the picture of Daniel Damont. She pictured that it was him kissing her, holding her as he did last night.

Nicole leaned into the kiss taking the lead, brushing her breast against his chest, giving Joseph LeCoeur a taste of her fabricated fervor. And just when she felt him becoming aroused, Nicole stepped back and slapped him, with very little conviction, across the left cheek.

He smiled, expecting her censure, saying, “Mmm, very good coffee,” whilst rubbing the side of his face.

Nicole turned in a seductive swish and lifted her white gloved hand, waving as she said, “Goodbye, Minister LeCoeur.”

“Would you care to attend the theater with me this evening, Mademoiselle Beauvoire,” the minister countered, full of amusement… and confidence.

Nicole stopped and turned to look at him over her left shoulder. “How close is your box?”

“How close do you want it?”

“Very,” she grinned.

“Eight.”

“The curtain rises at ten. What do you intend to do with me for two full hours, Minister LeCoeur?”

His eyes slid down her body and up again, in one slow, anticipatory assessment.

“Show you the city.”

“I’ve seen the city,” Mademoiselle Beauvoire said, lifting her shoulders in a regretful shrug. “Then I suppose you shall have to retrieve me at nine. Auvoir.”

Joseph LeCoeur chuckled and tilted his head to one side in appreciative observation of the lady’s swaying backside. He watched her walk all the way across the square and noted with keen interest which door she disappeared behind.

He looked up at the many windows of the south façade trying to deduce which was her bedchamber.

A rush of heat came to life as Joseph remembered the feel of those exquisite breasts, pressing against his chest. He wanted to feel them pressed naked against him, to grasp them in his hands, all the while knowing it would be too much for him, any man to hold.

Joseph was becoming visibly erect and he glanced about the square, before turning toward his home. The heavy door closed and he called to the guard on his right.

“Captain Turgeon.”

The man clicked his polished heels and saluted, saying, “Oui, Minister LeCoeur?”

“Mademoiselle Nicole Beauvoire. I want to know everything about her. From where she hails, how she acquired her fortune, ex-lovers.” The captain nodded his understanding. “Find something that I can weld over her. Political affiliations, indiscreet affairs, anything.”

“Oui, but it will take time.”

“How long?”

“Preliminary information…” The captain looked at the ceiling. “A day. A complete history of the woman… It could take as much as a month, dependent upon which province her family resides.”