The Assassin’s Guide to Falling in Love (The Ladies League #1)

Chapter Four

S ome days, Lou’s job left much to be desired. To be sure, she had flexible working hours, privacy, excellent pay, and a level of job security that most people would kill for. But there were certainly days that being an assassin didn’t live up to all the hullabaloo.

Today was certainly turning out to be one of those days.

Her quarry had proved elusive for the latter half of the day, so she had reluctantly resorted to tracking him to his home after losing him on St. James’s Street. She mentally winced. One might think a killer would find the victim’s home convenient. But Lou knew better than to fall into that trap under normal circumstances. Killing a mark in their home? It humanized them. It took them from being the enemy she had been sent to eliminate to being a person. Someone who had family and people who depended on him or her. Someone who enjoyed a good book, or galloped about with children on their backs.

A victim.

All around her, the scent of jasmine wafted in the air. The scent teased her with bits and pieces of memories of her mother. Nothing whole, just the impression of a smile, the tinkle of her laughter, and of course, the comforting smell of the jasmine perfume her mother had always worn. Lou pushed the normally welcomed memories aside. Emotions were a liability when conducting business.

And this was business.

Still shrouded in the shadows of the garden, Lou drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly to still her wandering thoughts. Focus . Her assignment was simple: kill Lord John Griffin, the Earl of Melton. He was an enemy of The Crown and needed to be eliminated. For Queen and Country.

To move her one step closer to her eventual retirement. A cottage by the sea.

The problem was, despite following her normal routine, Lord Melton had somehow become human, not just a mark. She’d somehow broken rule number three. He was a man who attended a midnight session of Parliament, visited his mother, laughed with a friend at his club, and had ultimately settled in his library with a book and what she imagined was a very fine scotch.

With a shake of her head, Lou studied the man through the window, trying to sort out what it was that seemed to prick her conscience. Was it the warm, homey setting of the room? Perhaps it was his thick blond hair? Or his stormy blue-gray eyes? Frustrated, she pushed the distracting ideas away and focused on her target. The enemy .

Easing deeper into the darkness, Lou reached up and pulled herself over the balustrade. On the terrace, she crept forward toward the open doors, using the drapes billowing in the evening breeze as cover. Each step brought her closer until she loomed over the now dozing man. Her Kukri knife slid silently from its sheath, perfectly balanced in her palm to become an extension of her arm. The room seemed to settle into simple lines and sharp colors as she reached around the man to slit his throat and end the threat he posed. Doubt assailed her once more, caused her to hesitate as an image of the Dowager Countess of Melton’s face from that afternoon flashed in her mind. In vivid detail. The pain. The horror at the notion of her son dying.

And then her target no longer slept.

A strong, masculine hand gripped her wrist and stopped her progress toward his exposed jugular. Lord Melton squeezed, his fingers tightening around her limb as though he could snap it like a dry twig.

But Lou was made of sterner stuff. A product of her childhood full of long days spent training, toughening her up, making her faster, stronger, able to endure more pain than any girl should need to suffer through. Of course, none of it hurt as bad as the lance to her heart the night her parents had been killed. That was a pain she had never recovered from.

It was that pain that had driven her into the business of killing. For revenge .

With a grunt, Lou jerked against her target’s hold—but despite appearances, he was no soft peer of the realm. This was a man who worked with his hands. A man who had known labor and had the strength to prove it. Not many of those about, in her experience. More often than not, she found the pompous peacocks of the Ton were packed into girdles and other aids to help them wear the leanly cut waistcoats and trousers their rank demanded.

Then she was flipping through the air over her target’s shoulder only to slam down on a spindle legged coffee table that shattered, letting her crash to the floor. Her lungs scrabbled for air even as she rolled over and came up in a crouch to guard against a fresh attack. She glanced around, looking for her lost weapon, when the man interrupted her search.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” The very large, very furious male growled as he stalked toward her.

It was better to remain silent, and admittedly necessary as she tried to recover her breath. But Lou had no time to lose; with all the noise someone would have heard and would likely come soon.

She needed to kill him and get it done or flee and try again later.

She feinted right and moved left, hoping to catch him off guard. Lord Melton did not fall for her tactic, but instead spun to face her and lunged.

She whipped out of his way, but he cut off her best avenue of escape.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his eyes cold and steely in the dim light.

With a grunt, Lou palmed another blade, a long and thin stiletto, and shifted left—only to sweep right when he followed. Slashing her knife down in a deadly arc, she aimed for the vulnerable spot between neck and shoulder but he blocked her thrust and wrapped his meaty fist around her forearm, jerking her forward into his body, causing her arm to move up and away from her target. Her breasts pressed against the muscled wall of his chest and her breath hitched. The very masculine scent of sandalwood and engine oil teased her nostrils. Beneath her touch Lord Melton hardened—everywhere—and then he inhaled sharply, as though his mind figured out what his body instinctively understood. Spotting the moment of distraction, Lou jerked her knee straight up, but only struck his thigh.

“Damn you,” she snarled as anger surged through her frustration. This man was no normal mark. He was trained in hand-to-hand combat, something that had been inconveniently left out of his dossier. What the steaming hells was Holt doing with this job? Sleeping?

Thwarted, she pushed off of him and turned to break away.

Instead, Lord Melton reached out and grabbed the trailing end of her rope of hair. He reeled her in like a fish on a line. As he pulled her back to his chest, Lou knew she was in trouble.

“Who are you and why are you trying to kill me?” His question was really more of a demand, but again she held her tongue. “Answer me, damn you!”

Knife still in hand, Lou jammed it back into his thigh with a quick, shallow thrust. His grip on her hair loosened as he reached instinctively for his injured leg. With a growl, she broke free and dived toward the balcony and escape—but once more, she found herself prostrate with the exception that this time damn near fourteen stones of a man landed on top of her. Despite the blade protruding from his thigh, he rolled her over and pinned her hands to the floor while he straddled her hips.

“It’s you!” Lord Melton’s eyes grew wide with surprise. “The lady in the phaeton.”

She refused to answer him. Surely he was guessing . But his revelation gave her pause.

“The one in the navy dress.” He continued, relentlessly.

Damn and blast. He spotted me! Lou wanted to howl in frustration. She had been certain that as busy as St. James’s was, he would not remark a woman out for a drive. Who the steaming hell was John Griffin, the Earl of Melton?

“Why are you trying to kill me? Did the Voltacrats send you?” He squeezed her wrists tighter as he grew more agitated.

Odd. Why would he think I work for that sad lot of fools?

“This is clearly about the vote last night. Who sent you to kill me?”

Lou wouldn’t say, really couldn’t—and she normally liked it that way. If she didn’t know, she couldn’t reveal anything…but this time the whole situation made her sixth sense itch, and that was a warning sign she failed to heed at her own peril. That had to be why she said, “I don’t know.”

Surprise had the man’s eyes flashing wide as incredulity had his mouth hanging agape. “You’ve come to kill a man and you have no idea who sent you?”

She eyed Lord Melton warily then stared at her wrists where his hands had her locked in place.

“Oh no. I’m not letting you go until I have some answers,” he all but snarled.

Interestingly, she found his animalistic response exciting, along with his ability to go toe to toe with her. Where had he learned to fight close in with such effectiveness? That wasn’t a skill the average peer of the realm possessed.

“Do you even know why I am supposed to die?” A bleak weariness etched his words and caused a pang to grow in her chest right where her heart had once beat.

Steaming hell, he’s getting to me . Had become a damn victim instead of her target. “You’re an enemy of The Crown.” Lou pushed the truth she told herself past clenched teeth.

“Damnation.” Lord Melton relaxed his grip a bit, but then tensed again. “If I let you up, will you try to kill me again?”

Lou considered the situation and knew with a sinking feeling that she wasn’t capable of killing him. Not now. Not only had he ceased to be a target, but now she found herself attracted to the blasted man. How could she consider killing him?

She sighed in defeat. “I won’t kill you.”

Lord Melton hesitated, staring with his blue-grey eyes that so easily mesmerized. “Why won’t you try again? What’s changed?”

Exhaustion pulled at her. She wouldn’t admit to being at her physical limit for the moment. “Something about this whole situation is off, and I don’t kill innocents.”

“Very well.” Lord Melton leaned back, releasing her wrists, but he seemed to wait a moment longer than necessary to crawl off her hips. “And you truly don’t know who hired you?”

“I work for the government.” Lou sat up and rubbed her forehead as she tried to catch her breath. How much should I tell him? What if she were wrong about him? Was she letting a handsome face cloud her judgment? “But the packet I received with all your information wasn’t delivered by my usual contact.”

“Well, this just gets better and better.” Lord Melton got to his feet and offered her a hand up.

“Thanks, but I can get to my feet just fine on my own.” Lou climbed to her full height, which left her still nearly half a foot shorter than him.

“May I offer you a drink?” Lord Melton walked over to the decanter of scotch. A noticeable limp reminding her he still had her knife jammed in his thigh.

Lou nodded, still panting slightly. Fighting with him had been…challenging. Her body ached from the wasted effort. Possibly more than her pride at being thwarted. Not that she really wanted to kill the man—oh, that was an unexpected realization. “I’d say a stiff drink is in order, under the circumstances.”

“Indeed.” Lord Melton poured her a finger of scotch then freshened up his own forgotten drink. “I daresay I can’t remember ever having had a drink with the person sent to kill me. Then again, I don’t believe I’ve ever had anyone try to assassinate me before.” He lifted his glass in salute and then tipped the contents back.

Lou stood there holding her own drink aloft as she watched the muscles of his throat work in a sensual undulation, a movement which had her thinking of the man undulating in a very different manner with significantly less clothing involved.

Griff caught the unexpectedly arousing killer in his study staring at him, as though she had a rather radical change of heart. He moved to pour another glass for himself, a distraction and some much needed fortification when his thigh twanged and commenced throbbing, almost as though a knife were lodged in it.

He glanced down at his leg and saw the hilt sticking out.

Ah. Double damn . In the heat of the moment, he’d clearly ignored the wound, but he could no longer deny the sharp throb pulsing in his thigh. He stumbled, and the vixen lurched toward him, only this time she slipped under his arm to brace him.

“Sorry about that.” She glanced at the wound.

“Well, if that’s the least of my injuries for the night I shall count myself lucky. After all, if you had succeeded, I wouldn’t be standing let alone discussing the matter.”

The minx helped him over to the chair he’d originally been sitting in. “Is there someone I can fetch for you?”

“On my desk, you can hit the button on the box. Ask Higgins to come with my emergency kit.” He’d prefer to call the doctor, but under the circumstances he assumed she would bolt if he tried and frankly, the fewer people who knew he had been injured, the better.

She followed his directions, and after speaking with his butler, turned to face him. “That is quite an ingenious voice amplifier you have there.”

“Despite what some of my fellow Lords think, I see the value in expanding steam technology.” He watched her for a moment. “What with all the commotion tonight, I failed to get your name.”

The woman laughed. A full belly laugh. “I didn’t offer it to you. Tell me, where did you learn to fight like that?”

“The Royal Hussars, though I am surprised you are not aware of this.” Griff eyed her warily, still unsure if he trusted their truce.

Higgins bustled in with the black medical bag. “My lord—” he pulled up short when he spotted their guest. Their previously unannounced guest. “I retrieved the items requested—” he looked at the woman again, obviously nonplussed “—by your guest.”

Despite the relentless pain radiating up and down his leg, Griff took in the mysterious woman’s appearance as Higgins must be seeing it. She wore black leather trousers designed to hug every curve of her thighs and derriere, a black shirt, and knee-high black boots with buckles all along the side. The ensemble was completed by a black leather harness strapped across her chest, holding a myriad of knives.

“Yes, she dropped by rather unexpectedly,” said Griff wryly. “And while she was visiting I had a bit of an accident and dropped my letter opener. It seems to have landed in the meat of my leg. I believe a few stitches will be required if you could sew me up as you normally do when I…injure myself.”

Higgins looked at the woman with a haughty suspicion that rolled off him in waves. While Griff appreciated his butler’s loyalty, he did not need further complications before he got a few more answers out of his guest.

“If you would, man?”

“Of course, my lord.” Higgins quickly set to work.

As Griff’s leg was bandaged up, he watched as the sensual dark-haired woman roamed about his library. She pulled random books from his shelves, perused the title and sometimes the first page or two before closing it and replacing it where she’d found it. She meandered around his desk and picked up a giant brass cog that sat there. It was a part he was going to have recast soon, but hadn’t visited the machinist yet to make the request.

What was she looking for? More information to aid her original goal…or something else? He hoped it was the latter and not the former. “Could you possibly sit down? You’re making me nervous as you roam about the room.” He knew he sounded snarly, but the throbbing in his leg was not improving as Higgins continued to work. Add to that, he was angry that this woman had just tried to kill him and he did not have a clue as to who had ordered it.

The assassin pulled up stiffly and stared at him for a long, drawn-out moment. Then she nodded. “Fine.” She went to the decanter and poured herself another drink—though she did top his glass up as well—and sat down.

Griff’s leg was finally bandaged and his trousers ruined beyond repair as the material of one leg hung in tatters around his wounded thigh. All, of course, to maintain everyone’s modesty, he mentally snorted. There was nothing modest about the woman who’d tried to kill him. Sadly, there was nothing modest about the thoughts he was having about her now the battle was over.

Some soldiers had struggled with battle-lust when he’d been in the military, but he had always grappled with the need to fuck after a battle, the need to reaffirm that he lived and functioned normally. Apparently not much had changed. That need mixed with his anger in a heady cocktail which had him needing to take a deep, calming breath.

With Higgins’ departure, Griff turned his focus on the woman who was meant to kill him. “I do hope you won’t mind answering a few more questions for me.”

Her dark brown eyes narrowed in speculation. “Perhaps. I suppose it depends on what you ask.”

“Fair enough.” Griff shrugged and took a swallow of amber liquor which burned almost as much as his leg. “You mentioned that your usual contact was not the drop off person. May I ask who your usual contact is?”

“You may ask. Though I’ll not answer.” She leaned back in her chair, legs akimbo as her arms draped over the arms of the chair, her glass dangling from the fingers of her right hand.

“I see. What about the person who did make the drop bothered you?”

She seemed to pause and consider his question. “They were cog-grinders. Real low-level types—lackeys, but they were dressed like dandies. My usual contact is much higher placed, more informed. Frankly, I was surprised these two could find the bloody drop off.”

Griff stood, the need to move like an itch that had to be scratched. He took a step and winced with the pain. The next step was less painful, as was the next until his body adjusted. “Was the dossier on me typical of what you receive?”

The woman’s answer was instant. “No. Far less detail and precision than normal. I was annoyed initially, but I also typically have more time to assess and make the kill.”

He hesitated at her casual mention of killing someone, particularly him. His anger surged and he bit out his next question. “Could someone have co-opted your services outside of the normal channels?”

“No, I wouldn’t think so.” The vixen sighed. “Someone in the usual chain seems to be involved. The signal for the meet came as normal, except the man who made contact was more…sinister. Typically the messenger is unaware of the true purpose of their visit to me.” She paused as if turning over information in her head. “If nobody in the normal chain is involved, then the process is compromised. I am compromised. That is a dangerous situation for myself and many others.”

“Who the bloody hell are you?” Griff snapped, his tenuous composure slipping.

“It’s better for you if you don’t know.” Her lush, full lips pressed together in an obvious refusal to say more.

Griff was certain she was hiding additional information behind her darkly sultry beauty, and resented the fact she refused to share more. “If you won’t tell me who you are, this won’t work. I have to trust you when you say you won’t try and kill me.”

“I don’t see how knowing my name will make me less likely to kill you. Besides, I could simply lie.” She snorted from her lazy sprawl on the chair by his desk.

Griff stopped and faced her, determination filtering through every fiber of his being. He would call her bluff if required. “Your name, or I call the authorities and this ends here.”

Her gaze locked with his. Dark undercurrents of annoyance and respect swirled through her chocolate eyes. “Why are men always so difficult? This is why I normally refuse to work with your gender.” She huffed and rose to her full height. “Mary Lamb, at your service.” She swept a gallant, if mocking, bow.

He choked on a half laugh and shook his head in disbelief. “Mary Lamb? As in Mary had a Little Lamb? Your name, your true name, or I shall ring the Yard.”

She glared. “Lou. You may call me Lou. But that is the last of it. I shall not be compelled to make myself more vulnerable than I have.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” He bowed to her, ignoring the pleasure of now having her name. Or maybe a name . Lou felt wrong to him when he looked at her. She was a beautiful woman, and he couldn’t help but expect she would have a name to match. “I believe you are aware of my name and title. Now we must sort through how to untangle this Gordian Knot in which we find ourselves.” He moved behind his desk and sat in the leather chair.

“Why would I work with you? I’ll just be on my way.” The sultry woman rose and moved toward the door.

Bloody hell! He needed her help to solve this. “Aren’t you the least bit curious to know who sent you to kill me?”

She stopped and turned to face him, dark eyes glittering with determination. “I don’t need you to discover that.”

“Perhaps not, though I should think it would be easier with my assistance.” Griff paused for a long moment, letting her take in his words. “Not to mention if your dossier on me is as incomplete as you seem to believe, it would be far faster to have me help fill in the gaps as opposed to you having to do all the research yourself.”

His heart thundered in his chest as he awaited her decision, watching the cogs and wheels whirl as she considered the truth of his statement. Could she figure everything out on her own? He had no doubt. But it would cost her time; time she may not have in this scenario.

Certainly time I do not have.

And then he saw it. The moment her decision was made. ‘Lou’ crossed her arms and took two steps toward him. He wanted to pump his fist in the air, much as he did when one of his inventions came to life.

“You’re right. It would be faster if I worked with you instead of separately…but that is not an insurmountable obstacle. Give me another reason I should work with you. Why should I trust you?”

“Why should you trust me? I’m the bloody victim here. Great Trevithick, woman!” Griff bit down the ream of curses he wanted to fire off into the air. “I was nearly killed by you tonight. I feel as though you owe it to me to help me figure out who sent you—to help me stop any further attempts on my life.” He stared at her for a moment. “Besides, assuming you are right and your order did not come from normal channels, will there not be…consequences, for your failure tonight?”

She stood there arms crossed and stared blankly.

Doubt assailed him. He’d thought he had her, but she turned the moment around on him quite neatly.

“Consequences? Perhaps.” Lou seemed disconnected, remote. Was she worried? Or was she merely trying to parse through everything? Her gaze refocused on him. “You say you are innocent of crimes against the Crown, that you don’t deserve to die. Why is it my job to keep you alive?”

Steaming hell! It wasn’t her job , but he was desperate. Someone had made a very earnest effort to kill him. He needed to know who it was, and why. “Because I need you. Because I…I can’t do this alone.” The words rasped free from him as though they were a painful extraction. Asking for help was not something he did often. In fact, he was quite bad at it most of the time.

Silence stretched. Griff nearly gave up, his shoulders slumping as he shifted to turn and let her go. He’d figure this out another way. It was foolish to think she might help him. She was a killer, not a soft-hearted woman.

“I’ll be in touch.” Her words were gritted out, harsh and clearly forced. Then she brushed past him and slipped out the door she’d entered and over the balustrade into the pink light of dawn.

Griff stood there, unsettled, and stared after the enigmatic woman he now knew simply as Lou.

Who was she? Where did a woman like that hide in society? And was she going to help him?