Seducing the Ruthless Rogue by Tammy Jo Burns The Rogue Agents #2
Publication Date: October 19, 2014
Also in this series: Taming the Wicked Wulfe
Genres: Historical, Romance
As Director of The War Office, Stuart McKenzie, has proven himself capable of making difficult decisions in times of crisis and keeping government secrets safe. When he walks in on someone ransacking his study he quickly moves to apprehend them, only to be tossed on his back as the burglar escapes into the night. Cassie’s father has become a pawn in the fight against Napoleon. When the enemy kidnaps him, she will do anything it takes to get him back – including stealing government secrets from Stuart McKenzie, the Director of the War Office. When Cassie is caught, she reluctantly agrees to Mack’s assistance as there is something far more sinister going on. As Mack embarks on his mission, he will find that enemies are often closer than one would think and that sometimes your ally will come in the least likely form. When passion erupts between Mack and Cassie, they find their lives forever altered. But just as they believe their lives to be free of danger, a new threat is lurking about, promising to rip their happiness away from them. Will they be able to trust each other enough to defeat this new threat, or will they be torn apart for all eternity?
CHAPTER 1
May 11, 1812
Stuart McKenzie straightened the cuffs of
his superfine and his cravat before he entered
the lobby of the House of Commons. He
received a note from Prime Minister Percevel to meet
him here. Very rarely did he have direct
contact with the prime minister, so he was intrigued as
to why he was being asked to meet here of
all places. Usually he would be summoned to the
man’s office.
He
entered the lobby of the building to find men milling about. There would be
meetings
and hearings on different matters being
held today. Mack moved to a shadowed corner where he
could watch the proceedings. He did not
like having his back to people. It was not wise for one
in his position. Not after having had
several assassination attempts on his life, the most recent
having been last year. He had been left
bloody and beaten, almost unrecognizable. His
convalescence had taken much too long in
his humble opinion, and he had been fighting to return
to his position much sooner than anyone
wanted him to.
The
doors opened at the other end of the lobby as Percevel entered with his
entourage of
people. They crossed the lobby and people
could be heard hailing greetings to him. A man
dressed in common work clothes and
appearing disheveled entered, looking about nervously.
Mack perked up and began to cross the
lobby. Something about the man seemed off. He did not
look as if he belonged with all these men.
All of a sudden, the atmosphere seemed charged with
energy.
“Prime
Minister,” the man called. Percevel turned, a smile on his face from something
one of the other men was telling him,
perhaps a joke. A loud pop echoed in the lobby, and Mack
had only seconds to react. He jumped
towards the man, not even getting out a warning, and then
just as quickly fell to the floor. Another
pop sounded, and then a flurry of activity broke out.
Mack wheezed and tried to stand, but seemed
unable to catch his breath. He lifted his
head and watched Percevel’s eyes glass over
as blood spread across the man’s chest. Men
swarmed Prime Minister Percevel, dragging
his inert body out of the lobby. His assassin stood by the door, unmoving, guns
still in hand. Two burly security guards moved and quickly
grabbed him, keeping him from escaping.
Mack’s side ached fiercely. He placed a hand against
it and attempted a deep breath. Instead he
ended up coughing uncontrollably. He lifted his hand
and saw blood smeared on it.
“Help,”
he tried to yell, but it came out more of a weak whisper. Mack lifted his head,
but the men were blurring. He tried to push
himself up, but dizziness washed over him. He
squinted his eyes and thought he saw a
familiar face. “Gabe!” he called twice before the man in
question looked over.
“Mack?”
Mack
let his head fall back on the marble floor and waited for oblivion to overcome
him.
“Mack!”
The voice sounded a long way off, and something pushed firmly against his
side, making him wince. “I need help over
here!”
“Don’t
let Grandmother see me like this.”
“Grandmother
is the least of your worries, old man.”
Mack
smirked followed by a grimace of pain, then the darkness blessedly rolled in on
him.
Four Weeks
Later
“What
is it?” Stuart McKenzie barked at the sound of a tepid knock on his office
door.
“Pardon
the interruption, sir, but the young woman is here.”
“Tell
her the same thing as always.”
“But
sir, it has been almost a year. Can’t you just…”
“No,
I can’t, Mr. Preston.” Mack’s silvery eyes met the younger man’s without
blinking.
“Yes,
sir.” The timid man backed out of the director’s office. He turned to the
beautiful
blonde that patiently sat in a chair near
his desk. She sat in the same chair, one day a week,
every week, for the last year, wanting to
speak to Director McKenzie. Every time she left,
disgruntled because he could not be
bothered to speak to her. “Miss Graham.”
“Let
me guess, Mr. Preston. Director McKenzie is too busy, once again, to speak to
me in regards to my missing father. I shall see you next week, and please give
the Director my
regards.”
Mr.
Preston watched the woman as she stood, turned, and regally left the office.
There
were times when he felt the man he worked
for was truly an arse, and this was one of those
times. He was a ruthless, Scottish brute,
and it came out most specifically when dealing with his
job as Director of the War Office. The
secretary shot a look at the closed door and then returned
to his desk. He was shuffling through the
mail when a courier entered the room, breathless.
“I have an urgent message for Director
McKenzie sent from Lord Bathurst.”
“I’ll
take it.”
“I’ve
been told to put it directly in his hands, no one else’s.”
“Director,
you have a missive.”
“Send
him in.”
“Mr.
Preston. How is his attitude today?” A strikingly handsome man, that favored
the
director quite a bit, entered the office.
“Good
morning, Your Grace,” Preston bowed low. Upon exiting the office, and hearing
he was in the presence of a duke, the
courier dropped a quick, respectful bow then left to
complete his duties. “As surly as ever,”
Mr. Preston answered his question.
“I
heard that,” a voice called from the inner-office. “You all speak of me as if I
can’t
hear a bloody word you say, but I can.”
“Preston,
can you get us some coffee?”
“Of
course, Your…” At that moment a string of curses and things being slammed and
thrown about could be heard coming from the
director’s office.
“Go
on, I’ll brave the bear.”
The
Duke of Hawkescliffe made his way into Director McKenzie’s office. Papers were
strewn everywhere and some were still
fluttering to the floor. Several heavy objects lay on the
floor, including a broken lamp.
“You
better have that cleaned up before someone sets fire to this building using
your
office.”
“Bugger
off, Gabe.” “Now, is that any way to address a duke?”
“Pardon
me. Bugger off, Your Grace.”
“That’s
better. Now, brother dear, what has you in such a tizzy this morning?”
“Where
shall I start? Let’s see, there is the fact that every Monday morning at the
same
exact time, Sir Graham’s daughter sits in
my secretary’s office demanding to see me. She does
this because she wants to know where her
father is. Does she not realize we are in the midst of
war? That we are trying to save the old man’s
life?”
“Have
you told her this?”
“I
shouldna have to! She should know this,” Mack growled, his Scottish brogue
becoming even more pronounced.
“Sometimes women…”
“Need
to stay out of matters they’ve no understanding of! And now the bloody
Americans have decided to declare war on
us.”
“What?”
“Yes,”
he flung the paper across the desk to his half-brother. “I am in charge of
fighting
not just one bloody war, but two! We have a
new Prime Minister, thanks to that idiot
Bellingham, who decided to assassinate
Percevel. And I have a new person to answer to since
Prinny put Liverpool in as Prime Minister.”
“And
let’s not forget the assassination attempts on your own life.”
“There
is that, but they are in the past,” Mack acknowledged and defended.
“You
have been very lucky, thus far. How much longer do you think your luck will
hold
out? This last time was a near thing.”
“Another
year or two?” Mack said jokingly. “Look, Gabe, I know you are here because
your wife and our Grandmother worries about
me, but there is no need.”
“No
need? How many assassination attempts have you avoided in the last two years?”
Silence greeted him. “That’s right. There
have been too many to count.”
“The
man responsible is dead.”
“Mack
you can’t keep avoiding the fact that people want you dead. Instead of cutting
off
the head of the snake and it dying, it
seems to sprout another head and then someone else wants to harm you.”
“I’m
not avoiding the fact that my life has been in danger ever since I took this
position.
I fully acknowledge it, but I will not go
into hiding like some coward. Do you understand? And
do you mean to tell me that if you’d been
close enough to try and save Percevel, you wouldn’t
have done the same damn thing?”
“That’s
not what I am saying and you know it. Now, sit down.”
“Why?”
“Liverpool
is the one that sent me here today, not Mikala nor Grandmother.”
“Liverpool?”
“Yes.
He and Bathurst believe you have pushed yourself too hard to return to work
after
Percevel’s assassination, and you should
take some additional time off.”
“I
don’t think I heard you correctly.”
“Yes,
brother, you did. You only took a week off after being shot. That’s not enough
time to heal. Is it?”
“Yes,”
he growled.
“Then
why is it when no one is looking, you are holding your side?”
“Habit.”
“You
are the most stubborn damn Scotsman I know. Can you even concentrate on your
job with the pain you’re in?”
“We
are in the middle of a war, two wars now. This isn’t a bloody tea party we’re
having. Everyone has to make sacrifices. I
have and will continue to work through the pain. It
will go away in time. Tell them it isn’t
going to happen.”
“I
don’t think you understand, Mack. You are not being given a choice. This is an
order.”
“You
agree with them, don’t you?”
“Mack,
I don’t want to lose my last brother. I want my children to grow up and know
their uncle. Besides, Grandmother has
threatened to come and sit with you.”
“She
wouldn’t dare.”
“We
both know she would. Yes, you are irreplaceable, but you need to heal,
completely,” the Duke of Hawkescliffe emphasized.
“No
one is pushing me out of my office.”
“It
has already been done. For the next month, you will be restricted from setting
foot on
the premises. Roger Presley, Earl of
Blackstock, will be stepping in for you during those weeks.
He is the same one who filled in for you
before. He knows what he’s doing. I suggest you take
the time to rest and let your body
strengthen and heal. Then, maybe you will be in a better frame
of mind and not so belligerent to everyone
who comes within ten feet of you.”
“Get
out,” Mack growled.
“Mack,
you will see it’s for the best.”
“I
said, get the bloody hell out of my office!” he roared, as he stood and braced
his hands
on the top of his desk.
“We’ll
talk once you’ve had time to calm down. Presley will be by later this afternoon
to
be debriefed.”
“He
can go get himself…”
“Now,
now,” Gabe cajoled. “Once you have had the opportunity to think further on
this,
you will see this is in your best
interest.” Gabe shut the door just as a heavy object crashed into
the wall. “Mr. Preston, I would not go in
there for the a few hours. It is going to take him some
time to recover from this.”
“Yes,
Your Grace.” Preston looked at the door to the director’s office and felt pity for
the
man. He was a proud man, and it was going
to be difficult for him to step down even
temporarily.
***
Cassiopeia
Graham stepped out of the hired hack and paid the driver. She had followed
the same protocol for the last year to no
avail. She entered the small house she had lived in with
her father for the last decade before his
disappearance. Her father needed to live in London so
that he would have easy access to the parts
he needed for his inventions. So, when her mother
died, there was nothing left to keep them
attached to the seaside village she had grown up in.
“Any
word on your papa, Missy Cassie?”
“No,
Chang,” she answered, dejection and just a hint of anger coloring her voice.
“There, there, Missy Cassie,” he patted her arm affectionately, “all will be
fine. I bring
you tea.”
“Thank
you, Chang.” She gave the old man a smile and tugged her gloves off. She laid
them and her reticule on the small table in
the hall and then hung up her pelisse. It was mid-June
and the weather was extremely warm. The
house was small and cozy. There were three
bedrooms, a parlor, a study, and a kitchen.
In the back was a detached building where her father
worked on his inventions when he was in
residence. Cassie strode to the study and sat down at
the desk.
She
crossed her arms on the desk and laid her head on them. Where could he be? Why
wouldn’t Director McKenzie at least let her
know that her father was well? She had haunted his
office for almost a year now. Surely he
could see how worried she was about her father? No, he
doesn’t know how worried she is because he
has refused her every single time she has been to
his office.
Cassie
had met Director McKenzie once at a dinner party given by Lady Greenwood.
The man was a tall, dark, handsome Scot
with silvery grey eyes. She had enjoyed verbally
sparring with him about the war and other
political matters. He had seemed surprised that
evening about how much she knew about the
political realm. Director McKenzie and the other
men had taken her father off to a corner and
began talking in earnest with him. Later, her father
had refused to answer any of her questions
about the oddity of the situation or what the men
wanted with him.
A
few days later, her father announced he had a meeting with McKenzie and had
never
returned home. The next morning, Cassie had
arisen, dressed and taken herself off to the War
Office to speak with Director McKenzie. It
had not been a pleasant confrontation.
“He
will not see me?” she asked Mr. Preston.
“No,
Miss Graham.”
“My
father is missing after leaving the house solely to speak with the man in that
office,
and he will not deign to speak with me?”
“I’m
afraid that is correct, Miss Graham.”
“Should
something happen to my father, I will make Pandora’s Box look like a plaything
for children. Do you hear me Director McKenzie?” She was shocked to actually
see him
standing at the door.
“If
you’re done with your threats, you can leave now,” he said. “I have no time to
deal
with hysterical women that refuse to stay
out of government affairs.”
“You
haven’t seen the last of me, Director.” She spun on her heal and left the room.
I
will make a nuisance of myself to the
director until he satisfactorily answers my questions, she
thought.
Cassiopeia,
or Cassie as she was known to her family, was raised to be independent and a
free thinker. Her father was known for his
inventions. Her mother had studied the sciences,
most especially astronomy. Thus how
Cassie’s name came to be. Cassie’s interest, however, lay
in the written word. She supplemented the meager
savings she and Chang lived off of by writing
political articles under the name C.E.
Jones. The name came from a combination of her name
Cassiopeia Elizabeth, and her mother’s
maiden surname, Jones. All correspondence between
herself and the owner of the paper was
through mail or the local newsboy, so her identity
remained anonymous.
When
she was not writing political pieces, she threw herself into writing what
really
interested her—stories about dangerous,
brooding heroes, and the women that fell in love with
them. She lifted her head and pulled her
manuscript close to her, reading back over the last few
pages she had written.
“Here
you go, Missy Cassie,” the little China man said, as he laid the tray down on
her
desk. “What happens next in story? Is Lord
Bartleby bad man?”
“No,
Chang, Lord Bartleby can’t be bad. He is the hero.”
“But
he so mean.”
“He
has a past he is trying to work through.”
“The
women, they swoon when they read this.”
“Do
you think, Chang?”
“Yes.
Your mama be so proud.”
“Thank
you, Chang.”
“You
write for two hours, then I come get you for your lesson.” “Yes, Chang.” Cassie
poured herself a cup of tea, took a sip, and began furtively
working on her novel.
True
to his word, Chang arrived two hours later. She begged for more time, but he
remained firm. Cassie went to her room and
changed into the light oriental pant suit she wore
for their sparring sessions. Once she
changed clothes, she met Chang in the small garden.
Together they went through their stretches,
then they began sparring with one another using an
ancient oriental practice that had been
passed down through Chang’s forefathers to him. Chang
did not hold anything back because Cassie
was a woman. Both of Cassie’s parents had felt it
important that their daughter be taught how
to protect herself. Cassie shifted her hip and swept
her foot causing Chang to flip and land on
his back.
“Chang,
are you all right?”
“I
think I taught Missy Cassie too well,” the man laughed.
Cassie
laughed as well before sitting on the ground next to the older man. “Papa is
all
right, isn’t he, Chang?”
“Your
papa take care of himself. These not good times. Too much fighting. Sir Graham
smart man. Wanted by many people. He is
fine. Too valuable alive.”
“I
hope you’re right, Chang.”
“Of
course, I right,” he said and patted her leg. “Help old man up,” he teased her
until a
smile spread across her face.
***
Mack
entered his quiet little house late that evening. After spending hours training
Roger
Presley on all that he needed to know, Mack
reluctantly left the office. He gathered up several
stacks of papers and stuffed them in his
case. Unable to let go of the nervous energy he felt, he
stopped at Gentleman Jackson’s. Even that
did not go as planned. Demanding to see the nature
of the wound, Gentleman Jackson refused to
let him spar with anyone for at least another two
weeks. Mack cursed loudly when the man
admitted that Gabe had been there already, to warn
him that Mack might stop by.
Frustrated
with everyone, he ended up at White’s, sitting quietly in a dark corner as he
drank. The golden liquid helped abate his
anger somewhat. Had Liverpool lost faith in his ability to run the office? He
went back to work the week after Percevel’s assassination even though the
doctor insisted he was a fool to do so. As he thought back on the argument, a
roguish smile turned up the corners of his lips.
“I
have a bloody war to fight!”
“Someone
else can fight the war for you,” Dr. McGregor calmly replied.
“You
don’t understand…”
“No,
you don’t understand. If you do not take some days to heal, then you are not
going
to get better. You are lucky that rib
stopped the bullet. If it hadn’t you could very well be visiting
with St. Peter. As it is, you have a broken
rib and a damaged lung. I don’t know how else to say
it, but your body needs rest.”
“A
week is all I can give you.”
“Damn
stubborn Scot.”
That
conversation had happened roughly a month ago. In that time, they had buried a
prime minister, appointed another to take
his place, and the upstart colonists thought to wage war
against their mother country…again. And who
could forget the assassination attempt on Prinny
last year? Had it only been a year ago? he
mused introspectively. Time rushed past at an
alarming rate of speed, and he could do
nothing to slow it down. Forty loomed ever closer,
causing him to catch his breath at times.
Mack
sat in the comfortable leather chair in his study and lifted his booted legs
onto the
stool. He leaned his head back and closed
his eyes. He welcomed the silence as it soothed his
soul. He was glad that when he moved to
London all those years ago he had invested in this
house rather than taking rooms at the
Albany. He missed the Highlands of Scotland, but doubted
he could ever go back there. Laird McKenzie
would not welcome him, his mother was long
dead, and he wasn’t certain how welcome he
would be by his half-siblings.
“Sir,
I didn’t hear you come in. Would you like something to eat?” John Bartlett, his
man
servant, asked. John did everything for
Mack except clean the house. For that, a woman came in
once a week.
“I
slipped in a few minutes ago, John. It seems I will be underfoot for a while.”
“And
why’s that?” “I have been temporarily relieved of my position.”
“But
you are the Director of the War Office.”
“Not
anymore. It seems people are concerned about my health. I say I’m too ornery to
die.”
“Too
true, sir. Well, what do you plan to do?”
“Prove
to everyone I am as healthy as an ox and get back to work as soon as possible.”
“And
how do you plan to do that?”
“The
hell if I know, John,” Mack sighed, holding his aching, bandage-wrapped side.
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