One

Hunter

5 November 1814

Bam! The tight-fisted blow to my cheekbone sent me reeling backward. I had expected a brutal strike, but from the way the man approached, I erroneously assumed it would be to my torso.

I swiped at the trickle of blood leaking from the fresh cut below my eye and repositioned myself.

"You Englishmen think you are most superior," Pierre provoked through his thick accent. "Well, let me dissuade you of that notion." The Frenchman bounced on the balls of his latchet shoes and wiggled his arms as if readying himself for a pirouette and not a round of fisticuffs.

I shifted weight and positioned myself for a spirited bout. It had been nearly two months since I engaged in such undignified behavior, but my vexation in searching for my mate came down to this or an arm twist, and I sprang at the occasion to release my pent-up frustration.

My rustiness in the sport leaked through with Pierre's first strike. His chums shouted their praise and raised their glasses brimming with red wine as if the man already claimed victory.

I steadied my focus.

While working in the Secretary at War Office, I gained a reputation for my ability to discern the enemy's most minute indicators. That, along with my skills in deduction, had given me a knack for exposing accomplished spies and successfully thwarting their plans.

The man prowled like a lanky predator. I studied his muscle twitches in the short time it took for us to tread a complete circle. This marked the baiting portion of the sport. I smiled cunningly, inciting Pierre to strike again, only this time I allowed him to make contact with my shoulder. The proximity brought his body right where I wanted him, and I landed a solid counterpunch to his ribs with my left fist, and one to his chest with my right. Then, while he reeled backward from the shock, I struck him squarely in the nose. Blood began to spurt uncivilly and trailed down his mouth and chin. Angered, he crudely brushed a hand across his face, turning the hand wrap on his knuckles a crimson red.

Now I had his attention.

Pierre swung desperately with his fists, punching the air as I spun, bobbed, and dodged. Frustration transpired into an aggressive counterattack, colliding with everything he touched. Pain radiated from my sides and down my legs. The man slithered around me like a weasel, slippery and flexible, throwing unscrupulous punches wherever he could.

Twisting around, I hooked a firm fist to his chin. Though it packed a punch, it only knocked him back for a brief second. Pierre replied with a low blow which I parried and, in return, struck him with a swift uppercut to his jaw, easily hard enough to rattle his teeth and form a bruise.

For the first time since we began, panic clouded his eyes. I couldn't help but grin and take full advantage of the fear that crept in. Bolstered with confidence, I launched a series of rapid strikes alternating between his stomach and chin, driving him into a corner of the brasserie. Kicking and fighting back, he defended himself long enough to slip to the ground and scramble on all fours behind me. I whipped around, sending drops of blood and sweat into the small group of spectators present. Mostly men, but the few women at hand seemed to tolerate such a spectacle.

Pierre wiped his brow and leapt to his feet. I took one step forward to taunt, and it rattled him. Lunging forward, he fell flat to the dirty floorboards when I sidestepped in perfect measure. The heckling roar of the assembly inflamed him. Hopping to his feet, he came at me, swinging with both his fists. I dodged and countered with a severe sequence of my own. The man may have been a few inches taller, but in the end, his height and reach failed compared to my abiding strength. With a final blow leveled to his chin, he soared backward and into those same friends whose drinks splattered all over their fine coats.

Within seconds, one of my opponent's boisterous mates confirmed the man still breathed, and while most patrons present at the L'auberge du Lion were of French descent, their proliferated esteem for me rose immeasurably.

"Well done, chap," Zachary called from his leisured position and raised a glass to my victory. Slumped deep into a chair, he stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles, showing not one ounce of concern for my welfare.

The ruddy stench of blood and sweat overpowered the aroma of meats wafting from the kitchen. Seizing several cleansing breaths, I reached for a tattered towel and wiped the sweat off my face. Most of my hair remained tied back with a leather strap, but a few strands came loose in the brawl and stuck to my moist skin. When I glanced down at the linen, red streaks marred the fabric from the cut beneath my eye.

"You might need a few sutures on that one," my friend chuckled, again with little to no compassion.

I threw the towel aside and strode over to Pierre. His mates had only awakened him after they poured a drink over his head. I reached for his forearm and yanked him to his feet, slapping him on the back. "Much obliged for the distraction, chap. Now tell me what you know."

He nodded. "I heard of an Englishman who matches your comrade's description living near Bray-sur-Seine."

"Prisoner from the war?"

"I don't believe so. Many British reside there willingly."

"English soldiers?" I asked.

" Oui , though it's merely speculation."

"How did you hear of this?"

"My sister lives in Bray."

"And you believe the man in question is as I described?"

"Oui ," he said with a nod.

Zachary Collins and I had been on the continent now for over seven months in search of our closest mate, Lord Jaxon Gray, second son of His Grace, the Duke of Camberley. We followed a trail of breadcrumbs from the Spanish peninsula where Jaxon's commander had last dispatched him to the Portugal coast, then to the port of Marseille. From there to Lyon, Geneva, Paris, and dozens of modest villages along the way.

Since Napoleon's banishment to the island of Elba in May of this year, travel within the boundaries of France proved easier, but not without its challenges. Comprehensive prison and death records of the British detainees were not forthcoming and prison camps still overflowed with captives. We crossed paths with all members of the Grande Armée—Poilu, Grenadier, Imperial Guard—unfortunately, when interviewed, the men could not substantiate the location of one Lieutenant Jaxon Gray, an agent of the notorious Alien Office , a British organization steeped in espionage and counterespionage.

It seemed our friend had simply vanished.

Each time we received some sort of clue to his whereabouts, we followed it until we reached an impasse. Fortunately, new hints were discovered and, mere days ago, reports of a British soldier matching Jaxon's description led us here to the outskirts of Sézanne and to the Tainted Lion Inn. The precise location where Pierre Trudeau, a former commandant of Napoleon's army, not only claimed to possess information about the English officer but also shouldered an innate desire to avenge his country's loss to the British.

So, in exchange for a round of fisticuffs, he vowed to share what he knew.

Zachary finished his pint and set his glass on the table. Waving a finger toward the barmaid, he hollered, " Un de plus!" As we traveled through France these last few months, he no longer kept his missing two fingers on his left hand hidden in a pocket or within a glove.

I arched an eyebrow at his request for another drink. "That will be your third, Collins."

He shot me a scowl. "I thought you were too distracted to count."

I retrieved my pocket watch from my discarded coat and muttered, "We've been here all of three quarters of an hour."

He ignored me. It might not have been considerate of me to point out the man's vices, but this particular habit had grown in spades since we left England, and I suspected it had everything to do with a certain woman.

Zachary and I, and our two other closest mates, Lucas Walsh and Jaxon Gray, endured Eton and Oxford together and thus as the natural order of things for younger sons of the peerage, we collectively joined His Majesty's Armed Forces. Intent on playing our part, we accepted the purchased commissions from our respective titled fathers and engaged in the ongoing conflict with France.

Occupational obligations aside, we understood very little of our undertaking when we agreed to fight Napoleon's troops. Born and raised as aristocratic gentlemen, we were not prepared to witness the horrors of battle and bloodshed. With my assigned duty in the Secretary at War Office, I did not fight on the front lines like my brothers-in-arms; nonetheless, I found myself heavily entrenched within the enemy's subterfuge.

The circumstances of our mate's disappearance were vague. Tasked as a scout, Jaxon engaged in risky assignments, meeting with dubious characters in questionable circumstances. His last dispatch was dated mere days before Napoleon's surrender and somehow the operation got entangled in the chaos signifying the end of the war. His commanding officer never received his final account.

Some less honorable men abandoned their duties for wealth or women and remained in France and, though some inferred this may have been Jaxon's scheme, the three of us knew him and believed him incapable of such deception.

Lucas Walsh, unquestionably the best of us with his strong character and compassionate heart, could not join our search due to familial obligations in London. With his father's recent death and his brother's duty as the new earl, his three younger sisters required his attention. In a letter we received in Geneva, two months past, we learned of his marriage to the lovely Lady Helena Webster, an incomparable with trials of her own. The missive arrived after the ceremony took place and, though we would have stood up with our mate at his nuptials, he would have insisted we remain in search of Jaxon. We hastily sent our felicitations for his good fortune.

This brings me to Zachary Collins. The sort of chap that can drive a fellow mad, but one you could not live without. A charismatic master who spent much of his social engagements either in the arms of a woman or behind a hand of cards. Yet, despite his rakish reputation, the man embodied fierce loyalty and never hesitated to join me when I announced my intentions of returning to the continent to search for Jaxon.

Zachary battled his own demons upon his return from war, one of which was his missing fingers, amongst other lesser-known scars. Then to learn of his dear friend Eveline's marriage in his absence. Though he never fully divulged why it affected him so, his bearing suffered. Thus, the disproportionate drinking. night, deep in his cups, he admitted that the blame fell entirely upon his shoulders, but he divulged nothing else.

When the barmaid returned with Zachary's beer, she eyed me hungrily. " Que veux-tu, beau?"

I chuckled at her flirtatious question. "Nothing more." I winked, and she turned away with an extra sway in her hips. Reaching for my full glass, I took a hefty swallow to quench the dryness of my throat and replaced my shirtsleeves, looping my cravat loosely around my neck.

We only arrived in Sézanne this afternoon, having spent the last week in Paris, and made no small noise in our efforts to locate Jax. I spoke to everyone and anyone who would listen, determined to locate our mate. We always left our forward direction in case somebody, somewhere, recalled even the smallest of clues and we vowed not to leave France until we found Jaxon… dead or alive.

I took my seat beside Zach when a commotion stirred at the bar. A man in a worn coat and dusty trousers entered breathlessly and approached the innkeeper. Words were exchanged as all eyes followed the innkeeper's pointed finger in my direction. "Oui, that's him!"

I slapped Zachary's shoulder and brought his attention to the approaching man. Perhaps the messenger conveyed gratifying news. Over the last several months, this had become a regular occurrence as new leads and hints were shared about Jaxon's possible whereabouts.

"Lord Hunter Matthews?" He held a missive in his hands. I cringed. I rarely used my title. Nobody here in France knew I bore a lord's title.

"Yes." I reached for the parchment. The man seemed quite relieved. From the state of his dress and the weariness in the lines of his face, he might've been traveling for many days in search of the letter's intended recipient. I turned to Zachary. "Got any blunt?"

He lifted a brow at another approaching man. A properly dressed Frenchman with a wicked scowl dropped a small coin purse onto the table. Zach chuckled, "I do now." He opened it to retrieve several francs and tossed them at the messenger, who departed swiftly.

"I'm pleased to see you wagered on the right man." I chuckled.

As Zach's liquor settled in, he wiped a layer of sweat off his brow. "I would never bet against you, mate." He tucked the pouch into his buckskins and sat up, eager to see the contents of the missive.

I unfolded the parchment and felt the breath physically vacate my body.

"It's from my father," I mumbled.

The words all blurred together, but even as I read it a second and third time, the news remained unchanged. My twin brother, Josiah, was dead.

I tossed the letter aside and motioned for Zach to read it. Heat thrummed through my veins as I tore my cravat off once more and unbuttoned my shirt. Turning around, I hollered, "Who's next?"