One Night with an Earl (10 page)

USA Today
bestselling author Jennifer Haymore is the author of sweet and sexy contemporary and historical romance.

You can find Jennifer in Southern California trying to talk her husband into yet another trip to England, helping her three children with homework while brainstorming a new five-minute dinner menu, or crouching in a corner of the local bookstore writing her next novel.

You can learn more at:

JenniferHaymore.com

Twitter @JenniferHaymore

Facebook.com/JenniferHaymore.Author

Please turn the page for a preview of the next book in Jennifer Haymore's sinfully sexy regency House of Trent series,

Available May 2014

S
amson Hawkins eyed the chamber of his pistol, then lowered it to his lap, glancing at the lad sitting beside him in the unmoving carriage. Laurent stared straight ahead, his forehead creased with worry and his eyes shining with some emotion Sam couldn't name. The boy was young—only fifteen—and new to being in the field.

Sam's lips firmed, and he looked away, thrusting aside the impulse to mutter something comforting. Laurent had chosen this life for himself. It wasn't a life for the weak but for the hard and pitiless. Sam never forgot that, and neither should Laurent, if he wished to survive.

Sam looked out the carriage window, scanning up the back wall of the opulent Mayfair town house until his gaze snagged on the second-story window. The window appeared innocuous enough, with the glow of the lamps inside the room casting golden light through the indigo silk curtains.

The Viscount Dunthorpe was in that room right now, by himself. Perhaps reading, perhaps drinking. Perhaps engaged in more nefarious pursuits, such as treachery and treason. Waiting for Sam—or, more correctly, for Sam's alias.

Waiting for death, though he didn't know it yet.

Sam drew in a long breath, and his fingers tightened around the grip of his pistol.

“Watch for my signal,” he told Laurent in a low voice. “It should come after the first shot. I'll be down thirty seconds after I give it. As soon as I am inside, double-check the streets and ensure everything's clear.” He tucked his pistol into an inner pocket of his coat.

“Aye.”

He met Laurent's gaze evenly. “When all's said and done, it shouldn't take more than five minutes. If a quarter of an hour passes and I haven't returned, you and Carter know what to do.”

“I understand.”

Sam's fingers curled over the door handle, but Laurent grabbed his forearm. “Hawk?”

He glanced back at the boy, arching his brows expectantly.

“Good luck.”

Sam pressed his lips together and gave the boy a tight nod.

“We must do this. We must keep the Regent safe.”

Laurent was trying to convince himself they were doing the right thing. “Yes, lad,” Sam said quietly. It was true—this was the right thing to do. Dunthorpe required elimination. The man had brought about too much death and misery already, and if he remained alive, he would be the cause of much, much more.

Sam slipped out of the carriage. In measured, unhurried strides, he walked around the corner to the front of the town house. It was late, and the streets weren't as busy as at midday, but this was London—a city that never completely slept. He took thorough stock of the people who passed him—a woman flanked by two small children, the three of them huddled against the chill. A man hurrying down the street. A rubbish wagon, a closed carriage, and a handful of men on horseback. None of them paid him any heed.

He walked up the four stairs and stepped onto the town house's landing. Then, as if he were here on civilized business, he knocked on the door.

A manservant answered. The butler, Sam knew. Name was Richards.

“May I help you?”

“Denis Martin,” Sam said, layering on a thick French accent. He'd learned the language as a child and had spent so many years on the Continent that he could speak the language fluently and as flawlessly as a native. “His lordship expects me.”

“Of course, sir.” Richards's expression didn't change, but there was a slight flicker of something in his eyes. The French weren't the most popular of people in England right now, and this man didn't particularly approve of a frog-eater visiting his master.

The butler stepped aside to allow Sam into the entry hall. Sam kept his hat low over his brow, his face turned away and in shadows.

“May I take your hat and coat, sir?”

“
Non.
It is not necessary. My message is a quick one.” With a flick of his wrist, he gestured toward the interior of the house, then toward the front door. “I shall be in and out in a matter of moments.”

“Very well. Right this way.”

Sam followed the servant up a narrow set of stairs, then down a corridor lit sparsely with two gilded wall sconces set widely apart. They stopped at the elegant door at its end, and Richards knocked before opening the door to the gruff, “Yes?” from its other side.

Sam waited in a shadow between the sconces, his gaze lowered.

“Mr. Martin is here, sir.”

There was a pause, long enough to make the hairs on the back of Sam's neck crawl.

“Enter, Martin.”

Richards opened the door wider, moving aside to allow Sam to pass. Sam stepped into the drawing room.

Once inside, he raised his head. As always, he scanned his surroundings. He'd been in this room before, conducting preliminary information gathering. Nothing had changed—the furniture crowding the place bordered on ostentatious, with much carved oak and gilt and silk and velvet upholstering. The many-paned window hung on the opposite wall, large and square and covered by that indigo curtain. He pictured Laurent down there, anxiously awaiting him.

Laurent wouldn't need to wait long. In minutes, Sam would be back in the carriage and they'd be fading into the night.

His gaze moved to his target. Viscount Dunthorpe was in his late forties, with a full head of gray hair and dark, penetrating eyes that let nothing slip past. He was well-known for his biting cynicism and cold wit and as one of the most brilliant debaters in parliament.

He was also a traitor.

“Lord Dunthorpe.” Keeping his French accent firmly in place, Sam held out his hand. “It is an honor to finally make your acquaintance.”

His face impassive, the viscount took Sam's hand. The handshake was terse and businesslike. Dunthorpe turned to his servant. “That will be all, Richards. You may retire for the evening.”

After the butler left, Dunthorpe gazed at Sam, his expression cold and calculating. Sam schooled his own features to absolute flatness. He needed to delay for approximately sixty seconds. That would give Richards sufficient time to walk to his quarters in the attic.

“Do you have the schedule?” Dunthorpe asked.

“
Oui
, I do,” Sam said gruffly.

Dunthorpe held out his hand, palm open. “Give it over,” he commanded. He spoke as a man accustomed to authority.

Sam glanced meaningfully at the tea service he'd seen placed on a round table in the corner. “Will you invite me to tea, milord?”

Dunthorpe crossed his arms over his chest and gave Sam an arch look. “Indeed, I hadn't intended to do any such thing.”

Sam rubbed his frigid hands together. He hadn't worn gloves for a reason. “It is very cold outside. Brandy, then?”

Dunthorpe narrowed his eyes. “
French
brandy? What do you take me for, a common smuggler?”

No, this man dealt in much more serious crimes. Sam shook his head. “
Mais non
,” he said gravely. “Of course not, milord.”

Dunthorpe sneered. “You haven't even removed your hat. You don't look at all like a man interested in settling down for a nice cup of tea or a nip of brandy. You look like a man prepared to do your duty and then scuttle away in the event I should decide you know too much.”

Well, then. Already hurling threats. Sam supposed that one had been meant to infuse some kind of fear into him, but it hadn't worked. He had dealt with men of Dunthorpe's ilk too often.

He'd given Richards enough time. By now the man was entering his chamber, and in another few seconds, he would be donning his nightcap and preparing for bed.

“
Alors.
In that case, I shall hand over the plans, monsieur.” Sam reached into his coat. His fingers slid against the cold metal barrel of his pistol before he clasped the edge of the folded pages. He drew them from his pocket and held them out to Dunthorpe.

The man snatched the pages and opened them greedily. Sam's lip would have curled in disgust if he'd allowed it. The bastard held such enthusiasm for destroying everything the British held dear.

In truth, these papers contained a plethora of false statements that made Sam grind his teeth. The powers that be had decided it would be “too traumatic” should the populace hear the truth about their national hero, who'd served as an officer of the British Navy for eighteen years. In fact, the only man Dunthorpe had ever served was himself. He cared only about his own gain. He'd been selling secrets to the French since he was a youth, and now he had organized this conspiracy, all for personal political and economic gain.

Deceiving the populace was something that ranked low on Sam's list of preferred activities, but his superiors wanted to show Dunthorpe, this traitor, as a hero of the people. These documents would serve as “proof” that he had died defending the Regent, not embroiled in a profitable scheme to murder him.

It wasn't Sam's place to question his superiors. He never had, and he probably never would. He was here to follow orders, and he would do so, like he always did. This was his life, spent defending the greater good…despite the concessions that needed to be made in order to do so.

“What's this?”

Sam watched Dunthorpe skim the papers, his movements growing more frantic, his eyes widening at what he was reading—all the sordid details about the plot, with the slight twist eliminating Dunthorpe from the list of those at fault and instead pointing to him as the hero.

“You bastard. This isn't the schedule.” He flung the papers away. They fluttered to the floor as Dunthorpe lifted dark, furious eyes at him. “Who are you?” he growled.

Sam raised a brow. His heart wasn't even pounding hard. He might as well have been sitting in his desk chair reading the
Times
.

What did this say about him? If nothing else, it said that he was too far gone to ever feel truly human again.

He shrugged and said softly, using his own, English-accented voice, “I am a concerned citizen. For God, king, and country, my lord. We cannot let you destroy it.”

He reached into his coat again, this time drawing out his weapon, cocking it at the same time. But Dunthorpe was faster than his aging appearance made him out to be. The man scrambled backward, hands fumbling with the desk drawer behind him. He jerked it open and yanked out his own pistol as Sam advanced on him, aiming.

Sam possessed the advantage. He had plenty of time. His heartbeat had still not increased in tempo. He was perfectly calm.

He squeezed the trigger while Dunthorpe's gun was still pointed at the floor.

The resulting
boom
of gunfire echoed through Sam's skull, loud enough to rouse every Londoner in a half-mile radius. Dunthorpe lurched backward and slammed into the desk, his body flailing as if he were a rag doll before crumpling to the carpeted floor.

For the first time, Sam's heart kicked against his ribs.
Now
he needed to hurry. Needed to vanish before the authorities were summoned, before Richards showed his face in this room. Sam didn't want to hurt the butler—there was no evidence that he had been privy to any of Dunthorpe's traitorous deeds.

Sam glanced at Dunthorpe's fallen body, saw that the shot had been clean, straight through the man's heart. He quickly bent down to check for a pulse. The viscount was already dead.

Rising, Sam strode to the window and shook the curtains to signal Laurent that he was on his way down. Then he turned and made for the door.

A noise stopped him in his tracks. A tiny, feminine whimper. One he wouldn't have heard had every one of his senses not been on high alert.

He homed in on the source of the noise, turning to that little round table tucked into the corner. It was covered with a silk tablecloth whose edges brushed the carpeted floor.

In two long strides, he was at the table. He ripped the tablecloth away, sending the china tea service that had lain upon it crashing to the floor. Hot tea splashed against his boots, steaming when it made contact with the cold leather.

It smelled damn good—strong and brisk. He wished Dunthorpe had offered him some.

A woman cowered beneath the table.

A small, blond, frail-looking woman dressed in white and curled up into a tight ball, as if she might be able to make herself so tiny he wouldn't be able to see her.

Goddammit. A
woman
. Sam ground his teeth.

She glanced up at him, her midnight-blue eyes shining with terror. “Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

Her slight French accent clicked everything into place. He knew who she was, of course. It was the surprise of seeing her so out of her element—cowering under a table—that had shocked him into not recognizing her immediately. He'd laid eyes on her once before, when he'd been watching Dunthorpe's movements. A month ago, she'd been on Dunthorpe's arm as they'd strolled into the Royal Opera House.

It was Lady Dunthorpe, Dunthorpe's beautiful, elegant, cultured
French
wife. She'd emigrated from France during the Revolution, after her entire family had suffered the wrath of the guillotine. She'd been rescued, sent to relatives who had found sanctuary in England, and had married Dunthorpe ten or eleven years ago. It was then that Dunthorpe's ties to the French had grown much stronger.

Because, of course, she was in league with him. She must be.

She wasn't supposed to be here tonight. She'd been at her residence in Brighton and wasn't due back in London for another week. Men had been watching the house for days, and no one had reported her entering or exiting the building.

Bloody. Hell.

“Get up,” he told her brusquely.

Her eyes flicked toward Dunthorpe, who lay on the floor, blood seeping across his chest and turning his gray coat black. She drew in a terrified, stuttering breath. But she didn't get up.

Sam considered his options. Killing her with Dunthorpe's pistol was the first idea that came to mind. The odds were that she was as guilty as Dunthorpe was.