A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  Heloise stepped closer to Sabine so they stood shoulder to shoulder. “Look, we’re almost the same size. I can lend you a few gowns until you get some of your own made up. You’re a little shorter than me, but not enough to signify. Emma, my maid, can alter the hems. Unless you have any particular talent for sewing?”

  Sabine gave a bemused shake of the head. “I once tried to darn a pair of my own stockings and sewed the toe completely closed.”

  Heloise snorted. “I can tell we’re going to be great friends.”

  Sabine’s heart warmed at the women’s easy acceptance of her. What an extraordinary family! She hoped Richard Hampden appreciated what he had.

  Heloise patted her arm. “Having a new friend to show off at all the parties is going to make things so much more fun. I can tell you all about everyone in the ton. Who’s eligible, who’s not.”

  “She won’t be looking to catch a husband,” Hampden said brusquely.

  Sabine shot him an arch look. “And why not? Isn’t attracting a suitor the primary motivation for going out?”

  He returned her smile with a smug one of his own. “You won’t need to look for a suitor. You’ll already have one.”

  All three women turned to him in unison.

  “What do you mean by that?” Heloise asked, intrigued. “Who?”

  Hampden’s lips twitched. “Me.”

  Chapter 16

  Richard watched Sabine closely for a reaction. He needed to tread carefully, but the idea that had taken shape as he’d lain in bed last night seemed the perfect solution to his problems with women.

  Sabine blinked. “You’re going to be my suitor?”

  “Precisely. Not only are you going to assist me in a professional capacity, you’re going to help me with a little social dilemma, too. You, Miss de la Tour, are going to be my human shield.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I am going to court you, publicly, making it very clear that I have only the most honorable of intentions.”

  “Why on earth would you do that?” she asked, bewildered.

  “To be blunt, I’m what’s commonly referred to as ‘a matrimonial catch.’ I have only to look sideways at a debutante to have her parents mentally penning a notice to The Times and wondering what to serve at our wedding breakfast.”

  Sabine was regarding him with a look of speechless horror. His mother merely raised her eyebrows, while Heloise appeared thoroughly entertained.

  “We are going to fake our engagement. Or, at least, our imminent engagement. You’re going to keep the matchmaking harpies away for the next four weeks.”

  Heloise laughed. “A female chaperone? That’s not a bad idea, Richard.”

  Sabine sent Heloise a filthy look for agreeing so readily. “Surely such a move will make the girls try even harder to get him. One last, concerted effort before he’s lost to the shackles of matrimony.”

  Richard shot her a droll glance. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

  She raised her brows. “And when I leave, what then?”

  “I’ll tell everyone you’ve jilted me,” he said. “You’ll be long gone, and I’ll have had four sweet weeks of liberty.”

  Of course, after that he’d probably be inundated with women desperate to console him, but that was a problem for the future. He watched Sabine’s forehead furrow as she tried to think up objections.

  “No one will believe for one minute that you’d fall in love with me,” she said finally.

  “Not in that outfit,” he agreed sweetly. He watched her lips purse in annoyance and suppressed a smile. “Which is why you need their help,” he nodded at his mother and Heloise, “to turn you into someone capable of capturing the heart of one of society’s most determined bachelors.”

  “That would take a great deal more acting ability than even I possess,” she said waspishly.

  He took a step closer to her and enjoyed the way her eyes widened in awareness. “You do yourself a grave disservice.” He treated her to a mocking bow. “I’m certain someone as adept at deception as yourself can feign anything you put your mind to. Even an engagement to a scoundrel like myself.”

  He’d backed her into a corner, Richard thought smugly. It was only fair. She’d done the same to him. Quid pro quo.

  His mother gave an exasperated sigh. “The ton isn’t that bad, Richard. There are some very nice young ladies out there. You just never give any of them a chance.”

  Richard suppressed the desire to roll his eyes. His inability to settle down had been a constant refrain since he’d come into his majority at eighteen.

  His mother continued. “But of course I’d be more than happy for Miss de la Tour to accompany us for the time that she is here. It will be our pleasure.”

  Sabine inclined her head. “Thank you, madame. You are very kind.”

  His mother nodded. “Tell me, are you by any chance related to the artist Maurice de la Tour?”

  “He was my grandfather.”

  “Ah! I met him once, many years ago, when I was a young girl in Paris! He painted my portrait in pastels.”

  Sabine smiled. “I would like to see that, madame. He was an exceptional talent. Much like my father.”

  Therese patted her hand. “It’s hanging at our house in Dorset. Perhaps you’ll get to see it sometime.” She shot Richard a sly, questioning glance over Sabine’s head and he suppressed a groan. Mother was clearly hoping he’d turn this fake engagement into a real one. There was zero chance of that happening. Sabine de la Tour was the last woman he’d consider marrying, however physically attracted to her he might be. She was as trustworthy as a snake.

  His mother’s voice snapped him back to the present.

  “Sorry, what was that, Mother?”

  She frowned at him for his inattention, somehow managing to make him feel like a naughty ten-year-old instead of the thirty-two-year-old he was in truth.

  “I asked you which events you wanted Miss de la Tour to attend.”

  “Isn’t Lady Carstairs having a ball on Wednesday night?”

  His mother nodded. “She is. It promises to be a great crush. I’m sure I can inveigle an extra invitation if you wish.”

  “Do that.” Richard raked Sabine with a head-to-toe glance he knew would annoy her. He waved his hands in an airy gesture to encompass her slim figure and furrowed his brow doubtfully. “Do you think four days will be enough?”

  Sabine’s expression darkened.

  His mother shot him a reprimanding glance. “Of course it will!”

  “Then I’ll leave it up to you to arrange for a hairdresser, modiste, and whoever else she’ll need to make her presentable. Let me know when they will be here.” He turned to Sabine. “Come along, Miss de la Tour. We have work to do.”

  Hampden’s majordomo was hovering as they reentered his side of the house.

  “The boy is here to see you, my lord,” he announced. “I have put him in the study.”

  Hampden smiled. “Thank you, Hodges.” He gestured for Sabine to follow him.

  A small, scruffy boy, no older than twelve, was perched on the arm of one of the wing chairs, cap in hand, leg swinging. Sabine recognized him as the crossing-sweeper from outside.

  “Morning, William. Do you bring good news?”

  The boy shot Hampden a cheeky grin and bobbed his head at Sabine. “Indeed I does, yer lordship.”

  Sabine took in the lad’s grimy hands and ragged outfit. She knew his sort from Paris, boys who knew how to make themselves indispensable. Savary had used them often, scamps who could blend into the shadows and slip seamlessly through a crowd. He appeared quite innocent, as angelic as a choirboy, but Sabine gave a cynical snort. No doubt he was an accomplished liar. Just like herself.

  “Skelton’s agreed to the meeting. His shop, tomorrow, nine A.M.”

  “Well done, Will.” Hampden ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately, exactly as he did with his scruffy dog. “You getting enough to eat?”

  “You know me,
guv’nor. Never say no to a hot dinner.”

  Richard nodded. “Go and see Cook in the kitchens. She’ll feed you.”

  “Yes sir. Miss.” The boy slipped out the door as Hampden turned to her.

  “Who is Skelton?” she asked.

  “A pawnbroker in Holborn. One of the men we’ve been watching. Most of the plotters’ finances come from stolen goods that pass through his shop. He’s a fence. A money launderer.”

  “He sounds charming.”

  “He’s not. But he’s our way into the gang of traitors.”

  “Is your plan still to offer my counterfeit fortune to their cause?”

  “It is. Skelton’s going to be surprised to learn Lacorte’s a woman. You’ll have to work hard to convince him.” His gaze turned calculating. “Of course, the best way to do that would be to take some of your fake money to the meeting. That way, you could show it to him and gain his trust.”

  Sabine raised a brow. She knew what he was doing: trying to ferret out where she’d hidden the bulk of the money. Well, he’d have to do better than that.

  “I told you, I can’t get access to it at present.” She shot him a thin, patently insincere smile. “Sorry.”

  He made a sound of disappointment through his teeth. “Tsk. Now that’s just not true, is it, my love? I’m beginning to understand the way your convoluted mind works. You always have a backup plan. So I can’t believe you wouldn’t keep a little money with you. A few thousand pounds, say? For emergencies.”

  Sabine quelled a flash of alarm. Damn him. He couldn’t possibly know about the stash she’d hidden for just such an eventuality. It was a lucky guess, no more. She shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve already had your staff search my belongings, so you must know I brought no money with me. Only the notes I showed you last night.”

  “You can take those, then.” That one-sided dimple made an appearance. “Don’t look so worried. You won’t be entering the lion’s den alone. I’ll be coming with you.”

  Sabine’s lips twisted in scorn. She flicked a glance at his immaculate cravat. “I’m sure you’ll blend right in.”

  “I’ll be in disguise.”

  She eyed him doubtfully. There was no way he could hide all that arrogant self-assurance. No humble merchant or servant held himself the way he did, as if he owned the world and everything in it.

  He strode to the door. “You may spend the rest of the afternoon at your leisure. Feel free to borrow some books from the library. I will see you for dinner at nine.”

  The thought of an intimate dinner made her pulse flutter. She shouldn’t spend more time with him than necessary. To be drawn to him, her enemy, could only lead to disaster.

  Chapter 17

  At precisely five to nine, Sabine left her room and found Hampden waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. When he took her arm, she feigned a sudden interest in their surroundings so she didn’t gaze at him like an imbecile.

  The dining table could have seated fourteen with ease. Two place settings had been arranged at one end. Hampden pulled out a chair and indicated for her to sit. At least they wouldn’t have to shout at one another down the mahogany expanse to converse, Sabine thought with a grim smile.

  Two servants hovered by the door. At Hampden’s signal, they began uncovering the domed silver dishes on the table to reveal a lavish array of food. “I requested service à la Française tonight in your honor.”

  Sabine nodded. The French style was to present all the courses at the same time, as opposed to the more recent fashion of service à la Russe, Russian-style, where courses were brought to the table sequentially.

  At a nod from Hampden, the servants disappeared.

  “Now eat.”

  Sabine was so hungry she could have consumed everything in front of her, but Hampden was watching her with an expression of pained expectation, as if he were just waiting for her to embarrass herself. Did he imagine she lacked the ability to use a knife and fork? A small perverse part of her debated grabbing a chicken leg with her bare hands and tearing into it like a savage, but she repressed the childish urge. She picked up her fork.

  The cutlery was heavy. She made a point of turning it over and inspecting it for hallmarks. Yes, there they were, the little stamped symbols that indicated the piece was solid silver. No rustic pewter for Lord Lovell.

  Candlelight flickered off the ludicrously ornate centerpiece in front of her. It was shaped like a palm tree surrounded by camels, with three toga-draped women holding a cut-glass bowl dripping with fruit. The luxury was intimidating, and Sabine felt a flash of anger at herself. She shouldn’t be feeling daunted or uncomfortable. She’d lived like this for the first seventeen years of her life.

  She forced herself to eat slowly so she could sample a little of everything. Soup, beef, turkey, ham, fried eggs, some asparagus. A pudding covered with an almond cream sauce. A custard tart topped with shining red currants. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a sumptuous meal.

  Hampden watched her. Even though she kept her gaze resolutely fixed on her plate, she was acutely aware of his regard. With a conscious effort she stilled the betraying tremor in her hand, reached for her wineglass, and took a deep drink. She dared a glance at her companion and her heart twisted in her chest. Why did he have to be so good-looking?

  “This is very good wine,” she managed.

  He inclined his head. “French, of course. It’s from my eldest brother, Nic. He owns a chateau and vineyard just outside Paris.” He studied her for a long moment. “I’ve a feeling you’d get on famously with my sister-in-law, Marianne. She used to be a criminal too.”

  She wouldn’t rise to the bait, no matter how provocative his statements. He was mocking her, but his opinion meant nothing. He was the means to an end: the way to get Anton safely away from Malet. That was all.

  Hampden raised his wineglass. “A toast. To a successful assignment.”

  She raised her own and took a sip. “To entente cordiale.”

  The food and soft candlelight was all designed to lull her, of course, but that was all right. For tonight she was quite content to be lulled. She hadn’t been lulled in a very long time.

  Hampden sat back in his seat and stretched his long legs out beneath the table. His foot brushed her ankle. She tucked her feet beneath her chair.

  “Why did you choose the name Philippe Lacorte?”

  She shot him a wry smile. “It was a joke. Inspired by your English story of Robin Hood. His friend was a giant named Little John, was he not?”

  Hampden nodded.

  “Well, it seemed a good idea to let everyone think that ‘Philip the short’ was a six-foot giant with a scraggly beard instead of a little, dark-haired French girl.”

  He looked her over, a brief, simmering appraisal that nevertheless managed to catalogue every salient point of interest from her crown to her waist. Her blood heated, but she schooled her expression to remain neutral.

  “And did you rob the rich to feed the poor?” he asked lightly.

  “I was the poor.”

  She glanced around the opulent room. So much to steal, if one were tempted. But she was not that kind of girl. Anton, however, would have had no such scruples. He would have slipped as many spoons and vesta cases into his pockets as possible.

  A twinge of guilt twisted her stomach. Here she was, dining in the lap of luxury, while poor Anton was navigating the crime-ridden stews of London. His English was terrible. She’d taught him a few simple phrases, but he was unlikely to find himself popular, as a Frenchman on English soil.

  She shook her head to banish the worrying thought. Anton could look after himself. He’d survived Savary and Malet in Paris. He would be all right.

  Chapter 18

  Lord, but she was tempting in that dress!

  Richard watched as his “guest” selected a cherry from the fruit bowl and bit into it. Her lips closed around the crimson orb and his brain went a little fuzzy.

  “Do people always do
what you tell them to do, my lord?” she asked pertly.

  Richard narrowed his eyes. Her use of his title was more insult than deference. “Generally speaking, yes. Which makes it all the more annoying when my orders are ignored.”

  The corners of her lips twitched. “Must be very vexing.”

  “Indeed,” he growled.

  She took another bite of cherry. The dark red juice stained her lips. He prayed for strength.

  “We mere mortals must ingratiate ourselves with our betters to survive.”

  Her mocking tone indicated how little she viewed him as her better, but he found her lack of subservience refreshing. “I’ve yet to see any evidence of you making an effort to ingratiate yourself,” he said.

  “Yes, well, you,” she raised an inky eyebrow, “are the exception. You’re stuck with me whether I’m subservient or not.”

  “Lucky me,” he drawled. “Obedience can get so tiresome.”

  She ignored his sarcasm. “I expect it does. That’s why you choose to work as a spy. For the challenge. To feel alive.”

  Richard hid his surprise at her perceptiveness.

  “I don’t expect someone like you to understand my position,” she continued. “What can you possibly know of hardship? Your idea of suffering is encountering a corked claret. Your mattress is probably stuffed with real hundred-pound notes.”

  He laughed. “War certainly creates some strange bedfellows, doesn’t it?”

  He raised his glass in a wordless salute and tried to ignore the mental image of her as his bedfellow, her naked body entwined in his sheets. “Your surname,” he said, to distract himself. “De la Tour. It literally means ‘of the tower.’ Like that princess in the fairy tale. The one with all the hair.”

  “You mean Rapunzel.”

  “That’s the one. Shut up in a turret, pining away for her prince.”

  She snorted. “I’m not pining away for anyone. I’d never sit around waiting for a prince to rescue me. I’d cut off my own hair and escape on my own.”

  He smiled at her spirit. “Of course. You’d forge an invitation to the prince’s ball, turn up uninvited, kill his best dragon, and run off with his crown.”