England's Assassin by Samantha Saxon Page A

a mission that I am assured will take no more than two weeks.”
    “Mission?” His father spoke for both his parents.
    “Daniel is merely delivering a message and will return on the next available ship.”
    “Bloody hell!” his father roared as he shot out of his seat. “Has the lad no sense? ‘Tis not enough that he gallivants around town two sheets to the wind. No,” his father’s bulky arm thrust forward. “That is not entertainin’ enough for the boy.”
    “Calm down, Malcolm.”
    “Now,” his father bellowed with a snort. “The lad, my heir,” he thumbed his burly chest twice with the palm of his large hand. “Runs off to Paris where he might very well get himself killed!”
    His mother raised a handkerchief to cover her mouth and then walked toward the fireplace. His father looked in her direction and blinked away his remorse for upsetting her as he said in a more subdued tone, “You’ve let your brother run wild, Seamus.”
    “This is not his fault, Malcolm.”
    “Aye, it is, in part.” His father nodded then pointed his thick finger at him. “You’ve been in London for so long, Seamus that you’ve no notion what yer brothers are about.” Seamus lifted his chin, straining against the weight of his guilt. “And you damn sure were in town when Daniel started to imbibe.”
    “God, yer an ass at times, Malcom!” His mother’s pretty forehead pulled together in an all too familiar and totally uncontrollable anger. “Daniel has always done what he damn well pleased, and I’ll not have you blamin’ the other lads for it.”
    But Seamus did not need his father’s censure, he already blamed himself.
    Daniel had never been one to drink in excess and the moment Seamus heard the rumors of his brother’s drunken escapades, he should have been there to ascertain their cause.
    But he hadn’t been there for Daniel and realized that he had not been there for his family for quite some time. He was the black sheep of his enormous family, totally opposite from his brothers in appearance and demeanor.
    “He’ll be home in two weeks' time, mother.”
    And if he was not… Seamus would be forced to go and get him.

Chapter Fifteen
     
    Nicole returned to the apartment at seven o’clock that evening after having endured her final fitting with her modiste and consulted with the apothecary.
    She was mentally tired and drained of all emotions, using all of her energy to spin a web that would end in yet another man’s death. Turning the key in the decorative lock, she opened the front door and was immediately engulfed by an array of appetizing aromas.
    Nicole scanned the entry as she pulled her reticule from her wrist, setting it next to the keys atop the useful marble table. She walked to the dining room and stopped, trepidation filling her as she saw the polished mahogany table set for two.
    The fine bone china was edged with gold and the hand-painted flowers were echoed by the enormous bouquet which sprang from a stunning Baroque vase sitting in the middle of the dining room table. Claret had been allowed to breath in an exquisitely cut crystal decanter which was matched in design by the glasses placed to the right of their gold spoons.
    A noise from the kitchen drew her attention and Nicole continued on, stopping when she saw Daniel Damont busily preparing their dinner. He stood before the stove wearing neither jacket nor waistcoat, only buckskins and a thin linen shirt. The white shirt was un-tucked with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The voluminous fabric drawn to his narrow hips by the ties of an inadequate apron that she knew would swallow any woman.
    She smiled at the sight of him and when he began to whistle Nicole almost forgot why he was here, picturing instead the boy that had been forced into a Scottish kitchen. A very large boy. She stared at his broad back, his firm backside as he faced the stove.
    She really should make him aware of her presence.
    Her lips parted with the best of