It was time for the Marquess of Standish to die.

Past time, actually. But everything ran on Phillipe’s say-so, and it would be a truly brainless man who contradicted his word.

Sighing, John slouched further in his favorite chair, his feet propped up on a padded stool. At least Phillipe understood the urgency of the situation. Especially after what had happened in the Westleigh library. The staid, upright, Lord Standish in disguise as David Underwood! That had been startling. And if he was honest, rather disconcerting. They had underestimated the younger man’s intelligence and daring, which was foolish. He had survived a very competent assassin in Calais, after all. And, he hadn’t taken a backward step when confronted.

Which made the marquess a worthy enemy. Indeed, someone it would be an honor to kill.

As it had been an honor to kill Standish’s father and mother on that gloriously bloody day back in 1799. Well, he hadn’t performed the executions. He’d only been a fledgling, still learning and finding his place in the fight against the hated British government and Hanoverian king. So he’d had the responsibility of dealing with the boy. Phillipe had murdered Richard and Sophia Hastings. And the Frenchman had enjoyed himself, too. What a shame that Sophia had thrown herself in the path of the first bullet, and robbed them of the opportunity to fuck her in front of Richard. With a love match, torturing the wife was a sure way to break the husband swiftly.

Excitement heated his blood. Indeed, breaking others was his very favorite pastime. And he always succeeded.

An intrusive knock at the door sounded, and when Penn peered around the sturdy frame, John scowled. “I hope you have an excellent reason for disturbing my peace.”

“Your pardon, my lord, but Lady Samantha has returned home.”

“Ah. Send her in.”

“At once, my lord.”

However, when Samantha entered the library, his every instinct sounded a warning. Her smile was forced, and there were faint, smudge-like shadows under her eyes, as though she hadn’t slept a wink. But far more telling was her caution, as though she walked past a pen of rabid dogs and wasn’t at all sure the lock would hold.

Something had changed. Something significant.

John smiled warmly. “Good morning, m’dear.”

“Good morning, Papa. You are up early.”

“Indeed. Come in, come in and have a seat. Did you enjoy your evening with Jane? Forgive me for saying so, but you look a little...ragged around the edges.”

Samantha perched awkwardly on the chair closest to the door, her reticule clenched in her hands. “I am a bit tired. I was going to take a nap and then attend to some letters. The Season has put me well behind on my correspondence.”

“My word, did your aunt keep you up all night with her chatter? I shall have to have a word with her, either that or send for a restorative tonic. What on earth is wrong?”

She stared at him with an unblinking gaze, so long he suppressed the urge to slap her. Rage would not achieve anything, nor would a show of violence. Calm, kind politeness would unlock whatever secret she held.

“Samantha?” he said, as gently as possible. “You are starting to worry me.”

“It’s nothing, Papa,” she replied, shrugging. “I’m just tired. And perhaps…yes, I think perhaps too many sweets.”

John stilled. Could she be lying to him? No. Impossible. The grotesque little bitch was so starved for love and attention, she had believed every word of his false fatherly concern in the past few months. Besides, no one as stupid as her could ever defeat a master strategist like him. And she did look a little green-tinged, much like her mother after a long evening out. Two peas in a pod, and equally repulsive. “All right, then. By the by, how was your visit with Lord Standish the other day?”

“Fine. Rather brief…his housekeeper Mrs. Kingsley was hovering so we didn’t stay long.”

“We?”

“I went with Southby.”

Inwardly, he danced a jig. It might indeed be time to take that particular matter further. In fact, as soon as the marquess was dead, the Earl of Claremont would be calling on his future son-in-law, the Duke of Southby. “Must say, m’dear, you are spending a lot of time with his grace. Are you now scheming to be a duchess rather than a marchioness?”

Samantha twirled the ribbon on her reticule around one finger. “I’ve spent a lot of time pondering the future. What’s best for me, and my family. Rest assured, Papa, I will fight hard for that. And not at all fairly.”

A genuine laugh escaped, and John got up, knelt beside her chair, and gave her a quick hug. That had sounded a bit like ruthlessness in her voice. Perhaps she had possibilities after all. “Well said. You know, I do believe Southby would be a better match. Far superior bloodline to Standish. Wealthier. Stronger in mind. You can rely on my full support should you wish to bring the duke up to scratch.”

“Thank you, Papa,” she said solemnly. “I know exactly how trustworthy you are.”

“Good, good. Now, run along and have a nice nap. I’ll see you at suppertime.”

Samantha got to her feet, bobbed a curtsy, and hurried from the room. Shutting the door behind her, John returned to his chair and sighed. Just as well he hadn’t lost his temper and killed her. The chit might be very useful in future.

Seconds later, a section of his bookshelf began to move, and Phillipe stepped out from behind the hidden entrance applauding slowly.

“Oh, bravo. You moved me. Especially the fatherly hug at the end.”

“Don’t remind me. I feel unclean about that.”

“Well, you won’t feel that way for much longer. Our time has come, mon ami. Napoleon’s Armée du Nord has over two hundred thousand men, and they are marching toward the United Kingdom of the Netherlands. Wellington’s green band of rabble and von Blucher’s Prussians might wait with greater numbers, but they are ill-equipped, disloyal, and cowardly. In perhaps a few weeks at most, our emperor will meet and destroy them.”

Elated, John reached for his brandy glass and lifted it in a toast. Soon, so soon, Standish would be dead, Samantha would be a duchess, and everything he’d worked for in the past twenty-one years would finally deliver the greatest reward. Absolute power.

“Salut.”