The Scoundrel's Seduction

Book 3: House of Trent

by Jennifer Haymore

Genres: Historical Romance; Erotic & Steamy Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

Temptation knows no bounds . . .

Undercover agent Sam Hawkins has devoted his life to protecting king and country. So when he receives orders to assassinate a ruthless traitor, he doesn't question his mission. But Sam didn't know his deed had a witness - the beautiful and mysterious betrayer's wife. Now he has no choice but to take her as his prisoner - one he can neither trust . . . nor resist.

Élise, Lady Dunthorpe, will do anything to escape her powerful captor - including seducing him senseless. She didn't know of her miserable husband's crimes, but she has secrets of her own, secrets that threaten everything she holds dear. With his piercing dark eyes and gentle touch, Sam inflames Élise's deepest desires. But how could she ever trust a man who won't let her go? Caught between the crown he's sworn to serve and the woman he's come to love, Sam will risk his heart - and his very life - to keep her safe.

Release date: May 27, 2014

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 416

Sample

Chapter One

Samson 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 out 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 beating 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.

But Sam had drawn solid lines between those acts he would and would not commit. He would steal, lie, torture, and assassinate in the interests of king and country. He would not commit cold-blooded murder of an innocent British citizen, even to save his own hide. He would not perform any act that would put a member of his family in danger. And he would not kill a woman.

Those lines were all he had left—all he had to use as the threads by which he grasped on to the unraveling spool of his humanity.

Killing her was out of the question.

He could leave her here.

But she knew too much. Just from the short conversation he’d had with Dunthorpe, she would have learned enough to put everything at risk.

That left the only other option, one that was almost as unpalatable as the other two. He had to bring her with him.

“Get up,” he repeated. His voice sounded harsh even to his own ears.

“I…don’t…Please, I…” She moaned, appearing to make a valiant effort to follow his command but failing, her limbs trembling too violently to support her.

He jammed his pistol back into his coat pocket and crouched down beside her, aware that his time was already up. They needed to leave this place. Now.


“I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her, and he prayed that it was true. “But I need you to come with me.”

She made a little moaning sound of despair. With a sigh, Sam scooped her into his arms and rose. God, she was a little thing. Light as a feather. But she was stiff in his arms.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said again. Although he didn’t blame her for not believing him. How could he? She’d just witnessed him kill her husband in cold blood.

He turned to the door, to the only escape from this room, and froze, tucking Lady Dunthorpe’s rigid, shaking body tightly against him.

Running footsteps resounded on the wooden floor of the outside corridor, and then the door flew open.

Damn it. He’d run out of time.

*  *  *

The enormous man’s hands, firm and unyielding, held Élise pressed against his body. No man had ever carried her before. She wouldn’t have considered it unpleasant had it not been for the circumstances.

This man was dangerous. A killer. He’d killed Dunthorpe.

Dunthorpe. Her husband. She no longer had a husband. Dunthorpe was dead. She was…She was…a widow…


Her body folded in on itself, her arms tucked tightly into her chest. As if by making herself smaller, she could disappear right out of this terrible moment. Her breaths came in harsh pants, small whimpers erupting from her throat.

The man stopped short, and the strong arms around her squeezed her more tightly against him. She smelled fresh grasses underlying the pervading sharp tang of gunpowder.

The door burst open. Richards stood at the threshold, half dressed, pointing a pistol at the man who held her.

“What…? Lady…Lady Dunthorpe?” Richards blurted out.

The man holding her didn’t move. “The lady is injured,” he said calmly. “I must take her to safety.”

Élise started to protest, but the man squeezed her tighter—a clear warning that made her freeze.

She needed to do something—to get away. But she didn’t know what…or how. If she said anything, or tried to shimmy out of his grip, he would certainly hurt her. He might even kill her, like he’d killed Dunthorpe.

There was no escape from this man.

Not yet, anyhow. She hadn’t endured so many years of hell by being a simpering fool. She’d wait for an opening and she’d take it. In the meantime, she could wallow in the very honest and real terror that washed unchecked through her body.

Richards’s gaze moved frantically across the room, coming to a stop when it landed on Dunthorpe. She didn’t look—she didn’t want to lay eyes on his lifeless body again. She’d seen enough death to last multiple lifetimes already.

Allowing the fear to pulverize her, she squeezed her eyes shut.

“You killed him,” Richards gasped. “You killed my master! You bitch!”

If it was possible, Élise’s muscles tightened even more. Richards thought she had killed Dunthorpe. That she and this man were in league…No…Dieu, no. Bone-deep shudders racked her body.


“Non,” the man said blandly. He bewildered her. First his accent was French, then English, now French again. “It was not the lady. It was a sharpshooter. The shot came through the window.” An urgency edged into his tone with the next words. “We must leave this place. He might shoot into this room again.”


“I don’t see any broken glass.” Richards’s voice brimmed with doubt.

“Alors. Do you not understand when I tell you that we are in danger if we remain here?” The man pushed out an arm, and Élise opened her eyes in time to see him thrust Richards aside with no regard to the gun. Élise froze, expecting the butler to shoot, but he went stumbling back into the corridor and the shot never came. “Now. There is no hope for your master, but your mistress is in requirement of a doctor. You must fetch one. Immédiatement.”


“I…B-b-but…” Richards stuttered.

“Go now!” the man exclaimed, sounding exasperated. “Fetch the doctor. And give me that gun. If I see the shooter, I shall kill him myself.” He wrenched the pistol from Richards’s grip.

“Allez!” the man roared.


Richards stumbled down the corridor before them. The man held Élise tightly as he negotiated the stairs. At the bottom, he drew to a halt and watched Richards burst out the front door. It slammed behind him.

“Damn,” the man muttered, sounding very English once again.

He just stood there, staring at the closed door, holding Élise against him. Seconds passed.

Élise peeked up at the man. He had a strong, solid face. Darkly handsome, with a square jaw and piercing dark eyes. He was staring down at her.

“I’m going to set you on your feet,” he murmured. “Can you walk?”

“Oui…” She blinked, surprised by the French word emerging from her mouth. It had been a long time since she’d forgotten to speak English. “Yes.”


Slowly, carefully, he slid her down his body until she wobbled on shaky legs. His fingers closed over her forearm, preventing her from running, as did the gun he still held in one hand. “Remain close to me. Do not say a word.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

She followed his order not to speak as he tugged her out onto the landing and down the steps that led to the street. Beyond the resident fear, a thousand questions simmered in her mind.

Why had he killed Dunthorpe? Why hadn’t he killed her, too? Was he kidnapping her for a reason? For ransom? But if that were the case, how could he have known she was at home today? No one knew she was in London…

A black-lacquered, unmarked coach awaited them at the curb. The man glanced up at the driver, who tipped his cap low over his forehead and then looked away before Élise could discern any of his features. All she could tell was that he was an older man, with gray-streaked brown hair.

The man who’d shot Dunthorpe opened the door, lifted her by the waist, and thrust her inside the coach as if she were a slab of meat he’d just purchased from the butcher.

She stumbled in, her eyes unaccustomed to the darkness. Another figure sat inside the coach, shadowy in the darkness.

“For God’s sake!” the shadowy figure exclaimed when she fell half on him. He took her shoulders and pushed her off him. Dieu, it was another of them. Maybe she had been unwise not to attempt escape earlier, when it was just one big, frightening man she’d had to deal with. Though this one, admittedly, was somewhat smaller.


“What’s this, Hawk?” the shadowy man asked.

“Lady Dunthorpe.” The big man’s voice was completely flat as he said her name. He came up behind her and arranged her into the forward-facing seat opposite the smaller man. Then he sat beside her, his enormous body a threatening mass of muscle.

The carriage lurched into motion, and the man across from her studied her, his head tilted in fascination. She caught glimpses of his features from the shifting light that filtered in through the slim gaps in the curtains covering the windows. He was quite young—just a boy, really—with angular, handsome features. He looked rather…French.

She took a shuddering breath, then closed her eyes.

Dunthorpe is dead. Dunthorpe is dead.


If she were a good wife, she’d be weeping. Crying out, grieving, keening, mourning her dead husband. Trying to kill these men who had caused his death. But she knew, better than anyone, that Dunthorpe was undeserving of her tears. Or anyone’s tears, for that matter, though no doubt his death would be considered a national tragedy.

The English could be such fools.

It was telling that, even though she was terrified to be a captive of these clearly dangerous men, this was less terrifying than being alone with Dunthorpe.

The big man—Hawk, the youth had called him—had promised not to hurt her. She looked at him now. Men would say anything to attain a woman’s capitulation—she knew that. She couldn’t trust him to hold to his word.


He met her eyes with his dark ones. His expression was flat—devoid of any emotion. That cool gaze sent shivers of trepidation skittering down her spine.

“Lady Dunthorpe,” the youth mused, surprise evident in his young voice. “She wasn’t supposed to be at home.”

“No,” Hawk said darkly, “she wasn’t.”

The youth drew in a breath. “Well, then. What do you intend to do with her?”

Élise glanced back and forth between the two as they talked about her as if she wasn’t present. Neither of them spoke with a French accent now, so she assumed that Hawk had faked the accent earlier. But why?

And then the truth of it struck her. It was because he wished to make it appear as though Dunthorpe’s assassin had been a Frenchman.

She understood completely. It was far easier to place blame for the murder of such a well-loved man on an enemy than on a compatriot.

Hawk shook his head, and she saw the slightest tightening of his lips at the edges. This man didn’t wear his emotions on his face. To read him, she’d have to watch him carefully, look out for the subtlest clues. If he didn’t kill her before she had the opportunity to try to understand him.

Now that her mind was working properly, she realized she already understood a few things about him, and she collected those facts in her mind as the carriage rattled down a quiet London street. He was extremely large and extremely strong. He was ice-cold and impenetrable, but with chinks in that surface. He was a competent killer. He was not French. He knew something of Dunthorpe’s nefarious deeds, and the latest scheme, whatever that might be, had been what had caused him to kill Dunthorpe.

And he probably thought she was in league with her husband.

She wrapped her arms over her chest and squeezed her body tight. She was cold—it was a chilly early-spring evening, and she had no coat.

Nevertheless, a kind of odd calmness flushed through her. She would accept her fate, whatever it might be. Dunthorpe was dead, and no matter what happened now, it would be all right. All that mattered was that he was dead.

A weight settled on her shoulders, and she glanced at the big man in surprise. He’d laid his own coat over her and now pulled at the front so she was tucked in tight, as if in a blanket.

A thoughtful kidnapper, this one.

“Keep her close,” Hawk muttered to his friend as he deemed her warm enough and turned away—a much-delayed and noncommittal answer to the youth’s question about what he planned to do with her.

“Ah.” The youth nodded, and then he glanced out the window. “We’re almost there.”

“Are we being followed?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Did you see the butler?”

“Oh, I saw him, all right. He burst through the door and then set off running down the street like wolves were nipping at his arse.” He cast Élise a guilty glance. “Beg pardon, my lady.”

She didn’t answer him, just stared at him blankly, and he raised a brow at his large friend. “I think you’ve gone and petrified her with fear, Hawk.”

Hawk glanced down at her. Then he shrugged. “Easier this way.”

She straightened her spine but tightened her arms around herself. As if her two spindly arms could protect her from men such as these. “Who are you?” she whispered. Her voice sounded rough—like she hadn’t used it in a week.

“No one,” Hawk said quietly. “Ghos. . .