A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  “Hmm.”

  He shot her a calculating glance. “You must mean a great deal to Lacorte if he trusts you to act as his ambassador.”

  She regarded him warily. “Perhaps.”

  “So what’s to stop me from detaining you?” he asked softly. “Then he’d be forced to come himself.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “You mean apart from my little pistol?”

  “Apart from that.”

  She seemed annoyingly unperturbed by his implied threat. Her storm-dark eyes held his without fear, even with a hint of challenge. “You can hold me hostage if you wish, my lord, but I assure you, if you detain me Lacorte will never come.”

  “Doesn’t he care for you?” he goaded. “What are you to him? His wife? A lover?”

  She gave an elegant little snort. “I am no man’s wife, monsieur, nor any man’s lover. But you could certainly say that Monsieur Lacorte and I are intimately acquainted.”

  Richard quelled a growl at her deliberately obtuse answer. Had she been Lacorte’s lover in the past, then? He ignored the little lift in his mood at the thought that she might be available now. Stupid groin. He had to—

  “I am Philippe Lacorte.”

  Richard blinked. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  She pursed her lips. “I said, I am the one you’ve been looking for. I am Philippe Lacorte.”

  —

  The arrogant devil raised his brows in patent disbelief. Those tiger eyes bored into hers.

  “You?” he drawled. “Philippe Lacorte? Really?”

  He drew the last word out to its full extent and Sabine suppressed a frustrated huff.

  “Such an attitude is precisely the reason I chose to work under an assumed name. Why is it that men cannot conceive of a mere woman being sufficiently skilled?”

  She resisted the impulse to roll her eyes. She’d faced such idiocy for years, proved herself time and again in Paris.

  Hampden settled himself more comfortably against the desk, as if preparing to listen to an entertaining fiction. “Forgive my skepticism, but you must admit it seems unlikely. In the entire history of counterfeiting I can’t think of a single female of note.”

  She took a breath to control her simmering temper. Condescending idiot. “Of course you can’t,” she said sweetly. “You’ve only ever heard of the failures, the ones who were prosecuted. The men. The women were too good to get caught.” She fixed him with a rebellious glare, just daring him to contradict her.

  He inclined his head, vastly amused. “All right, I’ll play. Let us suppose, just for a second, that you are Lacorte. Explain this.” He lifted the forged invitation and waved it at her. “If you’re responsible for this, where did you get my signature to copy?”

  “Three months ago you left a message for Lacorte in Paris, at a print shop in Rue du Pélican. You signed it.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Was that you? That night? In the back room?”

  Heat bloomed under her skin but she lifted her chin. “It might have been.”

  He muttered something that sounded like a curse. “Well, much as it pains me to contradict a lady,” the tone of his voice betrayed that falsehood, “I don’t believe you.” He recrossed his long legs and she tried to ignore the distraction of the play of muscles under his tight breeches. “You say you’re Lacorte. I say prove it.”

  Chapter 5

  Sabine inclined her head. “I assumed you would require proof, of course.”

  She hesitated. She needed to loosen her grip on the pistol in her pocket if they were to proceed, but she was wary of relinquishing her advantage. Hampden’s relaxed stance against the desk did little to diminish his intimidating physical presence. But what other option did she have? She forced her fingers to release the stock and let the weapon drop to the bottom of the pocket she’d sewn into her skirts. Its slight weight tugged on the fabric, and she had no doubt that Hampden would have noticed. He’d notice everything.

  She withdrew the two banknotes she’d prepared.

  Hampden uncrossed his arms and stood. Sabine tensed, but he merely stepped aside to give her room to use the desk. She approached him warily, unfolded the notes, and placed them side by side on the dark green leather top, acutely aware of his big body and hard shoulder right next to hers as he turned around.

  She caught the scent of him, something masculine and subtle, a mossy base note overlaid with leather and grass and heat. Her knees turned to water. She took little sips of air in through her mouth, when what she really wanted to do was bury her nose into the fabric of his coat and fill her lungs with the delicious smell.

  She bit the inside of her mouth. Concentrate on the notes, idiot! She had to make him accept that she was Lacorte.

  “At first glance these two banknotes look identical, do they not?” she managed.

  Hampden glanced down and she stole the opportunity to study his profile. Straight nose. Intriguing little white line of a scar just beneath his left ear. The fine, clean grain of his skin. He leaned forward, resting his weight on his hands. Strong hands, large and capable looking. They would encircle her waist if he were to— No. She would not become distracted.

  He took his time, studying both notes with intense scrutiny. “They do look the same,” he conceded.

  “Except one of them is real and one is fake.”

  Sabine watched with rising amusement as he picked both notes up and made another thorough inspection. He tested the paper, then rubbed the printed design to see if any ink came off on his hands. He held both of them up to the light to check the watermark in the paper. He sniffed them, although quite what he expected to determine by that, she had no idea, unless he was trying to detect the scent of fresh ink.

  Sabine suppressed a sigh. Did he really think her such an amateur? She’d deliberately included one note that was more creased than the other. Would he be swayed by that factor?

  After a full two minutes he stepped back and turned to her. “They still look identical to me,” he finally admitted. “Can you tell the difference?”

  She gave a snort of amusement. “Of course! That’s like asking a mother if she can recognize her own children in a crowd.” She pulled the right-hand note toward her and tapped it with her finger. “This one is the fake.”

  He raised a condescending brow, picked it up, and studied it again. “How can you be sure?”

  “Admit it,” she said confidently, “there is nothing that would alert you, is there?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “How do I know they’re not both real?”

  She smiled at his suspicion. No agent of the British government would be a fool. “So cynical,” she chided. “They’re not. I made the fake one myself. Do you have a magnifying glass?”

  “Yes.”

  He circled the desk and she breathed a sigh of relief as he put a little distance between them. He opened a drawer, took out a small brass-handled lens, and handed it to her. She took care not to touch his fingers as she took it.

  “So now I will let you in on a secret. This note contains a mistake. A deliberate one, I might add. When I engraved the printing plates, I added one detail that would differentiate my fakes from real notes.” She smiled. “Cartographers do the same thing to protect their work. They insert a completely imagined road—sometimes a little alleyway, sometimes an entire town—into their map as a safeguard to prove when they have been copied. ‘Paper towns,’ they’re called.”

  He rounded the desk again and she tried to ignore the breathless sensation that standing so close to him engendered.

  “And you have done the same thing on a banknote?”

  She pointed to the small vignette that made up one corner of the inked design. “There, by the base of that tree. Do you see the initials? Hidden in the roots. P.L., for Philippe Lacorte.”

  He leaned down and looked through the magnifier, then pulled the second note over to check the corresponding corner.

  “You will not find initials on that one,” she said confidently.

>   He lowered the glass and straightened. The look on his face was hard to define and her stomach clenched in dread. Was he surprised? Outraged? About to clap her in irons?

  “That is perhaps the most arrogant thing I’ve ever seen,” he stated coolly.

  Her spirits plummeted.

  And then the corners of his lips tilted upward. One cheek creased into a disarmingly boyish dimple that made her heart beat heavy in her chest. “I’m impressed.”

  Sabine inclined her head as relief rushed over her in a heady wave. “Unless you know to look for those letters, there is no way to tell my notes from the real thing.”

  He turned to face her fully and she had to tilt her head to look into his face again. His chest was only inches from hers, but she didn’t dare step back. To do so would hint at weakness.

  “This still doesn’t prove that you’re Lacorte,” he said. “It just shows you know what to look for in one of his counterfeits. You could be a fence, an intermediary who got hold of a fake note and discovered how to spot the difference.” His gaze focused on her face and she found it hard to breathe. “I don’t believe in taking things at face value.” His eyes narrowed accusingly. “However enchanting that face might be.”

  Her lips parted in astonishment and she felt an unwelcome flush rise on her chest. “Goodness, is that a compliment?” She stepped back, widening the distance between them. Weakness be damned. She had to breathe. “What else can I do to prove my identity?”

  “Show me how you forged my signature.” He reached across the desk and drew the inkwell, fountain pen, and a sheet of cream writing paper toward her.

  “Fine.” She shot him a look that indicated her displeasure at his continued skepticism, and positioned the original note she’d sent him in front of her so she had something to copy.

  Acutely aware of him watching her every move, she picked up the fancy silver-barreled pen, dipped the nib into the ink, and wiped it on the side of the glass inkwell to remove the excess liquid.

  “Since I’m copying a signature that is already, in itself, a forgery, you will allow me a little leeway,” she said. “It is always best to counterfeit from a primary source. Unless you’d care to give me an example of your signature again?”

  He shook his head. “Copy that one and stop making excuses. Unless you can’t do it?”

  She bit her lip and suppressed a flash of irritation at his gently mocking challenge. She made sure to move the pen swiftly, but not too fast, imitating the strong, boldly sweeping style of the original. She wasn’t completely satisfied with the result, but considering the pressure she was under, it was passable.

  She glanced up and was gratified to see a look of consternation on his handsome face. There. That should give Doubting Thomas something to think about. Time to remind him of exactly how much power she wielded. She shot him an arch glance. “I cannot tell you, monsieur, how tempted you have been to write me a nice, fat bank draft.”

  He stilled. She batted her eyelashes.

  “I tell you this merely as a reminder of what I could have done with my skills, had I not been so honest. A gesture of goodwill, if you wish.”

  His expression turned sardonic. “I thank you for not defrauding me, madame,” he said dryly, but there was the bite of irritation in his voice.

  Good. He needed to take her seriously. “Yes. I have been excessively well behaved, I think.”

  He shifted. “All right. I accept that you are the counterfeiter Philippe Lacorte.”

  She inclined her head in regal acknowledgment. “Excellent. We progress.”

  His eyes ran over her, assessing her in a new, extremely distracting manner. “Well, well. I feel as though I’m meeting a creature of myth. A chimera. You have quite the reputation in the criminal underworld. One might almost call it legendary.”

  His eyes were bright with mockery. She feigned a careless shrug. “I apologize if I am a disappointment, monsieur. As you see, reality is far more prosaic.”

  That dimple flashed again and her insides curled.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t call you that.” His wolfish smile made her abruptly aware that they were alone. Blood rushed to her face as his gaze flicked from her eyes to her lips and back again. “Far from it. You, Miss de la Tour, have surpassed my every expectation.”

  —

  Richard kept his expression neutral, but his pulse raced as if he’d been boxing or fencing for hours. Bloody hell. Philippe Lacorte was a woman!

  France’s greatest forger, the scourge of the British secret service, was a confounded bloody woman. And not just any woman, either, but an irritatingly beautiful one. Fate really was a perverse bastard.

  Her ink-blue eyes twinkled with mischief and a faint smile played at the corners of her mouth. Richard felt a corresponding tug in his groin. What a tantalizing little baggage she was, standing there as cool as you please as she toyed with him. Enjoying it immensely, no doubt.

  He caught a waft of her scent as she moved, a fragrance very different from the heady, cloying florals used by most women of his acquaintance. The unusual combination of lemons and ink tickled his nose and tightened his stomach.

  He shook his head. Of all the times he’d imagined meeting the infamous forger—and he’d dreamed of the eventual capture many, many times—he’d never envisaged anything like this.

  He narrowed his eyes at her dainty figure. “So what do you want?”

  Chapter 6

  Sabine strolled over to a small side table and ran her fingers over the trinket box and a stack of books it held, trying to appear relaxed. “A deal, of mutual advantage.”

  He raised his brows in silent, autocratic question.

  “I require money,” she said.

  “What for?”

  She gave him a chiding smile. “I don’t believe I’m under any obligation to answer that, Lord Lovell.” She stroked the edge of a leather-bound book. “But I believe our interests are very much aligned. You wish to employ Lacorte. I wish to be employed.”

  “Ah.” His lips quirked. “The British government is expected to pay for your enthusiastic cooperation. You had a figure in mind, perhaps?”

  She lifted her chin at his dry tone. “I do. Ten thousand pounds.”

  If he was shocked by the outrageous proposal, he hid it well.

  “That’s rather expensive.”

  His face remained impassive. She had no idea what he was thinking behind those unsettling amber eyes. She made a mental note never to play cards with him. “I like to think of myself as better value—and certainly more exclusive—than a courtesan.”

  His lips curved in a smile she instantly mistrusted. “What makes you think we were planning on paying Lacorte?”

  Her heart plummeted, but she managed a creditable snort. “You thought I’d work for free?”

  “No,” he said softly. “I never thought that.”

  His sudden predatory stillness sent a cold trickle of fear through her.

  “I’m not sure you appreciate the vulnerability of your current position, Miss de la Tour,” he said slowly. “Let me explain it to you. You have placed yourself entirely in my power.” His gaze lingered on her face and he smiled. His teeth were white and straight. “With one snap of my fingers I could have you imprisoned as a Napoleonic supporter and an enemy of England.”

  He gave her a stare that probably reduced grown men to quivering heaps. It was extremely effective. Her own legs turned to water.

  “You have no evidence.”

  He waved a hand. “A technicality. I’m sure I could come up with something. It’s amazing what people confess to. With a little persuasion.”

  A frisson of fear skittered down her spine. She studied the hard line of his jaw. This was not a man to have as an enemy. He would be implacable. Utterly without mercy.

  He inspected one perfectly clean fingernail. “According to English law, counterfeiting is one of the worst crimes a person can commit. A direct attack on the king’s person. It’s high treason, punishable by dea
th.” He picked up the fountain pen and turned it over and over in his fingers. “Lucky for you, burning at the stake was abolished a few years ago.”

  She felt the blood leave her face but managed a flippant tone. “We live in such enlightened and merciful times.”

  “You would merely be hanged, drawn, and then quartered,” he finished softly.

  She sighed. “And you call the French barbarous. At least the guillotine is quick.”

  His sleepy amber gaze lingered on her throat. “You have a pretty neck. Shame to see it stretched on the gallows.”

  Sabine pressed her palm to her chest and feigned insouciance. “Ah. Nothing makes a woman’s heart beat faster than a man detailing all the grisly ways he’d like to watch her die.”

  His dimple reappeared at her scorn. He shrugged, not even pretending to be apologetic. “You can hang for treason or work with me. Your choice.”

  “What a delightful set of options,” she cooed. “But it seems a little harsh. After all, counterfeiting is no worse than espionage. I’m no more guilty than you.”

  “That may be true, but you’re on the wrong side of the Channel for that argument. There’s no one to protect you here. Both Savary and Napoleon are in exile.”

  Sabine reached into her skirts for the reassuring presence of her little pistol. “Indeed, it is a sad state of affairs. Men once hailed as heroes are now unwelcome in their homeland.”

  He tilted his chin. “So tell me again, what’s to stop me from arresting you and hauling you off to the nearest dungeon to await trial?”

  He was so confident, so self-possessed. Sabine envied his sangfroid. She tried to match it. “I had considered that possibility, of course. I am not a fool. One thing you should know about me, Monsieur Hampden: I always have a plan.”

  “May I ask what it is? Because we both know I could overpower you in a heartbeat. Pistol or no pistol.”

  He barely moved. All he did was uncross his legs, one booted calf sliding negligently to the floor, and yet that somehow managed to convey an air of menace very effectively. That was all it took to focus all her awareness on the ripple of muscles beneath the pale breeches, the strength in his thighs. His lazy, relaxed pose only served to accentuate his power. No doubt about it, this was a dangerous man indeed.