A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  She straightened in offended dignity. “What’s legal and what is right are sometimes not the same thing. I may be a criminal, but I think of myself as a highly moral person.”

  “Now there’s female logic at its finest.”

  She gave him a hard stare. “I am aware of the contradiction. Nevertheless, it is true.”

  He seemed disinclined to argue the point. “So, what do you need to fake a letter from Napoleon?”

  “Apart from paper and ink, several authentic examples of his handwriting to copy.”

  He nodded and opened a second folder. “I’d anticipated that.” He slid it across the desk, and Sabine caught a faint whiff of lemon verbena and the clean-starch smell of his cravat. Her stomach fluttered traitorously.

  “This is some of his correspondence that we intercepted. As you can see, there’s all sorts. Dispatches. Personal papers. Even several letters he wrote to Josephine from Egypt. The contents of those were published in our national newspapers at the time to humiliate him. While he was writing breathy love letters, the empress was having an affair with a cavalry lieutenant called Hippolyte Charles.”

  Sabine studied the first document and frowned down at the scrawled lines. “There are two different people’s handwriting here. This section was written by his private secretary.” She drew her finger downward. “This is Napoleon’s own hand. He’s shortsighted, and writes very quickly. It affects his penmanship.”

  Hampden shook his head. “Such intricacies.”

  She nodded absently. “Learning to copy something is like learning a language. You need to repeat it over and over again until you are fluent enough to converse at a decent level.”

  “Do you need any special type of paper?”

  “Not really. The emperor never used parchment or vellum. It just needs to be high quality.” She arched a brow, unable to resist a sly jibe. “Exactly the sort of paper a pampered aristo would have lying around in his desk, I would imagine.”

  He opened a drawer and slid several pristine sheets of undoubtedly expensive paper across the desk. Sabine lifted one to the light and nodded at the evidence of the faint translucent lines that showed the paper had been dried on a wire rack.

  She pulled the ink pot and fountain pen toward her across the desk. “As to which ink to use, this will do. Unlike drawing ink, which discolors with age because it contains iron, writing ink is still made to the ancient Greek formula, which consists of a carbon, like soot, plus gum arabic and water. It doesn’t fade.”

  Hampden tapped one long finger over his lips. “It occurs to me that a counterfeiter must be many things. A chemist, to understand the composition of inks, as well as an artist and a draughtsman.”

  “Indeed,” she murmured, warmed by the compliment and the fact that he seemed to appreciate her depth of knowledge. “So, what do you want this letter to say?”

  “Use this one as a basis.” He flicked through the folder and passed her a handwritten page. It was a letter from Napoleon with instructions on setting up the Vincennes counterfeiting operation.

  Sabine hid her shock. So that’s how he’d known about it. How long had the British had this information?

  “That letter is dated 1809, but make yours later, from early last year.”

  Sabine dutifully wrote January 1815 at the top of the page.

  The letter read:

  To Count Fouché, Minister of Police, Schonbrunn, 23rd September 1809.

  Maret is sending you what you ask for. I repeat that, whether in peace or war, I attach the greatest importance to having one or two hundred million’s worth of notes. This is a political operation. Once the house of Austria is shorn of its paper currency, it will not be able to make war against me. You can set up the workshops where you please—in the Castle of Vincennes, for instance, from which the troops would be withdrawn and which no one would be allowed to enter. The stringent rule would be accounted for by the presence of state prisoners. Or you can put them in any other place you choose. But it is urgent and important that your closest attention should be given to this matter. If I had destroyed that paper money, I should not have had this war.

  Napoleon.

  Hampden glanced at her. “I want your letter to be similar, except instead of talking about crushing Austria, I want it to discuss crippling England.” He tilted his head. “Can you do it?”

  Sabine sat up straighter. “Of course. If something has been made by human hand, it can be reproduced. And if one has talent and patience—which I do—it can be made so that no one suspects the difference.”

  She wrote a rough draft of the letter, conscious of his regard the whole time, and held it out for his inspection. “Will this suffice?”

  He read it through. “Yes.”

  “How should I sign it? Napoleon uses several different methods.” She indicated the documents he’d fanned out across the desk. “On this one he’s just signed N.” She prodded another. “Here he’s used the shortened form, Nap.” She tapped the letter she was copying. “And here he signs in full.”

  “Write Napoleon for clarity,” Hampden said. “I want the plotters to have no doubt.”

  Sabine practiced a few more sentences on a blank piece of paper, trying to emulate the French leader’s erratic style. The first three letters of his signature ran together so the Nap looked more like the letters Nq. She would take care to copy that.

  She glanced up and met Hampden’s gaze. “Don’t you have something else to do? I work best in solitude.”

  He relaxed back in his chair, legs crossed in front of him. “Oh, no. I’m savoring this opportunity to see a master at work.”

  She scowled and proceeded to ignore him as best she could. Twenty minutes—and three unsuccessful attempts—later, she’d managed to create a letter she was proud of. She let out a sigh and leaned back in her chair.

  “Now for the final touches. We must take into consideration where this is supposed to have been. How many people would have handled it? Too-perfect condition will arouse suspicion. It must look as if it’s been opened and read a few times. Will you ring for tea?”

  Hampden blinked at the apparent non sequitur. “I’m sorry?”

  She shot him a serene smile. “Tea. If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “If you wish.” He rose and tugged the bell pull by the door. A maid appeared and, to Sabine’s delight, he ordered not only tea, but sandwiches and cake, too. How wonderful to be able to demand such luxuries!

  “Did you not eat the breakfast I sent up for you?” he asked.

  “I did. It was delicious. But I wouldn’t refuse a cup of tea now. And in any case, staining the paper with cold tea is an excellent way to add age to documents.”

  Chapter 14

  What an extraordinary girl, Richard thought.

  Watching her work had been a revelation. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been so impressed. Or so enthralled.

  She rolled her shoulders in a delicate motion—which naturally drew his attention to the curve of her breasts beneath the taut fabric of her dress. His blood throbbed. Hodges’s timely arrival with the tea tray provided a much-needed distraction.

  Richard cleared his throat. “Here on the desk, please, Hodges.”

  Argos ambled in after the servant and with a brief, dismissive glance at Richard, trotted over and collapsed in a tangle of long limbs at Sabine’s feet. The traitor.

  Sabine, however, pounced on the sandwiches as soon as they were set down. She demolished one, barely taking time to breathe, and Richard experienced a sudden pang of guilt. She was so thin. Had she gone hungry in Paris? The idea made him feel sick.

  She took one of the little cakes. Cook had sent up his favorites, little almondy things topped with icing. Sabine bit into one, stopped chewing mid-mouthful, and gave a groan of pleasure he found ridiculously erotic.

  He dragged his eyes away from a crumb that trembled at the corner of her top lip and concentrated on pouring the tea like a normal person. Like a person who didn’t have a vis
ion of pulling her over the desk and licking off that crumb. She finished the cake and took another.

  “You’ll be sick if you eat so quickly,” he chided.

  She gave a guilty start, caught with an entire cake crammed in her mouth. He suppressed the desire to laugh. Clearly realizing she couldn’t take it out with any degree of dignity, she started to chew, watching him with a faint blush staining her cheeks. She shot him a defiant glare and swallowed. He handed her a cup of steaming tea.

  “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen anyone try to inhale one of those,” he said mildly.

  She took a hurried sip of tea—and cursed under her breath when she scalded her tongue. “I never ate many cakes in Paris.”

  “Nor drank much tea,” he teased. “One does not cradle the teacup between the palms of both hands as if it is a bird we are trying to keep warm. I’m reliably informed that a lady holds the handle delicately with just two fingers and thumb. Just so.” He picked up his own cup and demonstrated.

  She narrowed her eyes, as if she were considering smashing the teapot over his head. “I never claimed to be a lady.”

  He sent her a condescending smile that was sure to irritate. “So it would seem.”

  She rearranged her hands and took another tiny sip of tea. “So, I have finished your letter. What now?”

  “I will make sure it gets into the hands of our traitors.”

  She brushed ineffectually at the crumbs in her lap. “Will that be all for today?”

  He smiled at the hint of desperation in her voice. She wanted to get away from him. Not a chance, Miss de la Tour. “No. I wish to discuss your sleeping arrangements.”

  A new blush crept up her throat. The hand that raised her teacup trembled, ever so slightly. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you cannot publicly stay in this house with me for the next month.”

  Her shoulders sagged in relief. She shot him an impish grin. “Afraid I’ll ruin your reputation, Lord Lovell?”

  “In a sense. If I install you here, you’ll be labeled my latest mistress, and neither of us wants that.”

  She stiffened in apparent affront, and he bit his lip to prevent himself from smiling. “To that end,” he continued smoothly, “you’re going to move next door.”

  She blinked in surprise.

  “My parents own number six. My father’s still at the family home in Dorset, but my mother’s currently in residence for the season. For the next four weeks you will be living there, with her. You can be a distant French cousin, visiting us now that the war is finally over.”

  “You seem to have it all worked out,” she said. “But your mother cannot possibly want a stranger forced upon her.”

  “You will not be forced upon her. Your residence will be in name only. The two properties share an interconnecting door. You will work and sleep here, but for appearance’s sake you will leave from my mother’s side of the house whenever you go out.”

  Sabine frowned. “If you’re so worried about appearances, why don’t you simply put me up in a hotel?”

  “Because I don’t trust you,” he said. “Not one little bit. Now come along.” He rose, expecting her to follow.

  He heard her sigh. “I can’t get up. Your dog is sitting on my skirts.”

  Richard glanced down. Sabine tried to extricate her feet, but Argos wasn’t cooperating in the slightest. He gave an enormous yawn and lowered his head back onto his crossed front paws.

  Richard gave a low whistle. “Move,” he scolded the dog. “Go and see if Cook has any more cakes.”

  That had the desired effect. If there was one word Argos knew better than walk it was cake. The dog shot him a disgusted look, as if to indicate his scorn for such blatant bribery, but hauled himself to his feet and trotted out.

  Richard led Sabine to the door in the hallway that connected to his mother’s house. Both sides had a key, but he was the only one who ever used it. His mother never locked her side, protesting he was always welcome.

  They stepped into a near-identical hall to his own, except that the walls were a powder blue instead of bottle green. Two animated female voices emanated from the front salon, and he headed in that direction. Perfect. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Sabine trying to straighten her skirts and smooth her hair into order, and hid a smile.

  This was going to be fun.

  Chapter 15

  Two women looked up as Sabine entered a sunny yellow drawing room, hot on Richard’s heels. Both wore polite, if surprised, expressions, but her stomach sank as she saw how beautifully dressed they were, even when they were just relaxing at home.

  “Ah, there you are,” Hampden said cheerfully. “Maman, Heloise, may I introduce to you Mademoiselle Sabine de la Tour.” He turned to her. “Sabine, my mother—Therese Hampden, Countess of Lindsey, and my sister, Heloise Ravenwood, Marchioness of Ormonde.”

  The two women each bobbed a curtsey. Sabine copied the gesture, dredging the half-forgotten knee bend and head nod from distant memory. She realized with a sudden pang that she hadn’t curtseyed since her mother died.

  Hampden continued speaking as they all straightened. “Miss de la Tour is one of our French counterparts. A colleague of mine. She will be assisting me, as my guest, for the next month.”

  He shot Sabine a bland look, just daring her to contradict him.

  A hot wave of embarrassment heated her cheeks. Oh, God, he may as well have introduced her as his mistress. What other conclusion could the women draw from such an outrageous arrangement? She opened her mouth to try to explain, then shut it. What could she say? That she was a counterfeiter? A criminal? A fugitive from her own country?

  To her surprise, neither lady appeared either disgusted or scandalized. In fact, they both wore identical expressions of amused intrigue. The elder of the two had the same warm amber eyes as her son. She barely looked old enough to have a child of his age. Sabine addressed her first.

  “Forgive me, madame, for the intrusion. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  The woman smiled and extended her hands in greeting. “Welcome, my dear.”

  The girl, Heloise, stepped forward. A pale scar curved on one side of her forehead from hairline to temple but it in no way detracted from her beauty, which was enhanced by a pair of striking thunderstorm-gray eyes.

  “The disreputable fellow you met next door is William Ravenwood, Marquis of Ormonde,” Hampden said. “The poor bugger’s married to Heloise, here.”

  “Richard!” The girl rolled her eyes at her brother’s teasing. “We’ve just returned from our honeymoon in Egypt,” she confided with a smile at Sabine. “It was wonderful. Now we’re living at our London home, Avondale House. It’s just a short walk away, in Berkeley Square.”

  Sabine nodded. “Congratulations.”

  Hampden addressed his mother again. “Miss de la Tour is going to be extremely busy working for me during the day…” he shot Sabine a taunting smile, “…but in the evenings she will be attending various ton functions, as our guest.”

  Sabine frowned. “That’s not what we—”

  His smile remained in place, but his amber gaze sharpened in warning. “Nevertheless, that is what I require, Miss de la Tour.”

  Sabine frowned, furiously aware that she couldn’t tear him to pieces in front of his family. No doubt that was precisely why he’d mentioned it now, while they had an audience. She shot him a look that assured him they would continue the conversation later in private.

  Heloise indicated a yellow upholstered sofa. “Won’t you sit down, Miss de la Tour? I’m simply desperate to hear how you’ll be assisting my brother.”

  Hampden sent her an amused, chiding look for her unsubtle attempt to pry. “We’re not staying.” He glanced over at his mother. “If anyone asks, Sabine’s a distant Valette relative, come to visit now that the war’s over.”

  “Of course.” Therese nodded, accepting this as though she received such odd requests on a daily basis. Perhaps, being R
ichard Hampden’s mother, she did.

  His gaze returned to Sabine, and her skin warmed as he swept her from head to foot like a jockey eyeing up a racehorse.

  “She’s going to need something suitable to wear.” His gaze switched back to his family. “I need you two to make her look presentable.”

  Sabine’s eyes widened, but both women began nodding enthusiastically. Therese clapped her hands. “Of course we will help, Richard! I do so love a challenge.”

  Sabine stiffened, not sure whether to be insulted or not by such a frank assessment, but Therese seemed so genuinely delighted it was impossible to take offense. The older woman’s avid gaze narrowed on her disordered tresses and her brow puckered.

  “Her hair needs attention, of course, but that’s easy to fix. Monsieur Travers can come at once.” She clasped Sabine’s hands in hers, inspected them, and gave a delicate little shudder. “And are these ink stains? Good heavens!” She glanced up at Hampden. “No matter. We can hide them with a nice pair of gloves.”

  She stepped back, tilted her head, and subjected Sabine to a critical scrutiny not unlike that of her son. “The rest will be easy. Oh, my dear, you are just too beautiful. The ladies will be tearing their hair out when they see you, I promise. You shall be a success énorme!”

  Sabine was momentarily struck speechless. She was passably pretty, certainly, but no one had ever called her beautiful. Or even hinted that she might have the potential to be so.

  Heloise shot her a conspiratorial grin. “Good luck. I know that look. Mother’s spied her next victim and you’re it!”

  “Heloise!” Therese scolded gently.

  Heloise gave her mother an unrepentant grin. “Don’t try to deny it. My lack of interest in fashion has always been a sore disappointment for you. But now you have a new subject to torture.” She turned back to Sabine with a chuckle. “I can’t thank you enough for diverting her attention from me.”

  Sabine’s own lips curved in response to the teasing. Heloise’s smile was infectious.