The sky remained a brilliant blue even as the setting sun sent golden beams dancing across the countryside, but John ignored the surrounding beauty. Instead, he concentrated on the dirt pit below him where two young men knelt, bloodied, beaten, and shaking with terror, as they awaited execution for passing on secrets to the British government.

He had decided their fate. He held the power of life and death. After years as the powerless younger son, and then holder of a pathetic and rather poor Claremont earldom, his now-lofty position was so stimulating he would shortly be needing at least several women to fuck. Perhaps a few men, too. Virtuous sons and daughters of minor country gentry were his favorite treat; when they were lured from safety, repeatedly violated in front of an audience, and paid like whores, it broke their minds as well as their bodies.

Ah, such lovely sport.

“My lord. How do you fare this fine evening?”

John turned and inclined his head at Phillipe, a Frenchman he both admired and feared. Phillipe was a master of intrigue, without a single moral, and more cold-blooded than a frozen snake. Unfortunately his latest ladybird, a pretty but irritating Londoner named Mabel, was with him. “Rather well. It is always pleasant to discover an information leak and bring them to justice. Those two in the pit have been assisting the Home Office, and actually mentioned my name. So they’ll be arriving at Whitehall in a few days. In pieces.”

Phillipe laughed. “Excellent. I hope the clerks have strong stomachs. May I add to your enjoyment?”

“By all means, take a seat. I’d offer wine, but this is English swill, not a decent drop of champagne or burgundy. You have news?”

“I do. Fresh off the boat. His Imperial Majesty sends his regards, and wishes you to know he greatly appreciates your efforts, both in assisting with his release from Elba and sending information regarding English plans. He has sent you a token of his friendship—Mabel, the bag, s’il vous plait.”

“Here you are, lovie,” said the blonde woman, handing John a small drawstring bag with a come hither smile. Ugh. Mabel was just like Eva. Phillipe could do so much better for himself.

Suppressing his distaste, John opened the bag and peered inside, and a genuine smile curved his lips. His favorite currency: uncut diamonds, along with some emeralds, sapphires, and rubies for color. Napoleon was nothing if not practical, always thinking ahead. “Please pass on my gratitude.”

“I will. His Imperial Majesty was especially pleased at your delightful tidbit regarding the Marquess of Standish and Colonel Lord Langley. Both have been a thorn in his side for some time, and the party has finally been located.”

He smiled. “That is good news. I was terribly disappointed to learn that Langley survived that initial attack, but perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. This way we can present Paris with the heads of Langley and Standish. Something amusing for the artists to capture. When?”

“Very soon,” said Phillipe, stroking his short beard. “I was not impressed that the Englishmen made it to Calais unscathed. But they were disguised as French farmers. Standish spoke for the group each time, and fooled everyone with his accents. I am personally going to remove his tongue for that insult. And then they will all die by the kiss of Madame Guillotine.”

John shuddered as his cock strained against his trousers. How he would love to watch that particular massacre. Although if it were up to him, he wouldn’t permit a mercifully quick killing for Standish. Instead it would be slow and torturous until the mighty marquess begged for execution.

“Speaking of pending deaths, now that Langley and Standish are as good as in the ground, what about Samantha? Playing papa is so very tiresome.”

“Ha!” said Mabel, winking at him. “Aren’t you a cold one, my lord.”

Oh, my dear, you don’t know the half of it. If it weren’t for your lover, I would hurl your grating whorish self into the execution pit right now.

Phillipe cleared his throat. “I know it is tiresome. But the girl has powerful friends, not least your sister and nephew, and they are all close to Standish and Langley. So let her be, for now. Patience, mon ami.”

He folded his arms. Jane, his milk-mouthed bitch of an older sister, could burn in hell for all he cared, as could Stephen, the bookish fool. He’d always loathed them, but more so since the deaths of Andrew and Gregory hadn’t broken them, but made them stronger. Yet Phillipe was right—too many connected deaths would cause suspicion. And patience was a virtue when it came to murder; he and Phillipe wouldn’t have been nearly as successful in their long-standing partnership otherwise. Besides. Even the bumbling fools at Whitehall, much like a broken clock, could be right occasionally.

“As you wish.”