A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  “See how the claw setting has been moved out of place?” she said. “And that stone bears several scratches on the top surface. Only another diamond is hard enough to scratch a diamond. Plus, it doesn’t sparkle like the other two. There’s no internal fire.”

  Skelton gave a noncommittal grunt. His long, yellowed fingernails, discolored by years of tobacco smoke, tapped the counter. “All right, so you know gemstones. But if you’re a forger, you should be able to tell me which one of these is fake.”

  He reached beneath the counter and withdrew a sheaf of assorted foreign banknotes. Half a dozen currencies were represented, from French francs to Spanish asignados.

  Sabine sorted through them. She bent to inspect a couple, then reached into the front of her bodice. Skelton’s lascivious gaze tracked the move with interest, but he sagged in disappointment when she merely withdrew her own gold-rimmed lorgnette. The circular magnifying lens was surmounted with a pendant fastening shaped like a lady’s hand. It was one of her most precious possessions, a gift from her father, and she rarely took it off.

  She slid a Russian note away from the rest of the pack. “This one is a very poor fake. Definitely not one of mine. The paper’s all wrong, for a start. It’s too blue. And they have printed the signatures.” Skelton inspected it through his own glass. “They should be signed by hand, by the clerk.”

  Skelton sniffed. “Humph.”

  “Also, they have misspelled the Russian word for state. Do you speak Russian?” she asked sweetly, already suspecting the answer. Skelton barely spoke English.

  “No,” Skelton grunted.

  “I taught myself the Cyrillic alphabet,” she said. “Quite a few Russian words are translatable if you know their alphabet. Theater, for example. Coffee. Restaurant.” She pointed to one of the longer Russian words on the note. “There, do you see the fifth symbol? The one that looks like an upside-down backward L?” She pulled over a genuine Russian note for comparison. “On this one it makes a complete loop, like a square.”

  Skelton nodded, his tone wondering. “I see it now. Yes. Very impressive.”

  Sabine resisted the urge to flash a triumphant grin at Richard, who was still hovering in the doorway. She lowered her eyes demurely instead and opened her reticule. “Thank you. Now, I’ve brought an example of one of my own counterfeits for you to inspect. To eliminate any doubt of either my identity or my skills.”

  Skelton placed the loupe in his eye again and examined the note she handed him carefully. He grunted. Tested the paper between his fingers. Sabine suppressed a shudder when he licked his thumb and tried to rub off the ink. His tongue, she noticed, was white with fur. She made a note to burn that particular note as soon as possible. He brought the paper up to his nose and sniffed, just as Richard had done.

  Why did people do that? Money generally smelled revolting, passed from one grubby hand to another. Unless it was newly printed money, of course. That smelled like fresh ink and victory.

  Sabine gave herself a mental shake. No. No more printing money. That was her old life. She was an honest woman now. At least, she was trying to be. She showed Skelton the initials hidden in the corner vignette.

  “All right,” Skelton sniffed finally. “I accept that you’re Philippe Lacorte. Now what do you want from me?”

  Sabine tried to quell her elation and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve heard that you are in touch with a group of people who might be—shall we say—sympathetic to the emperor’s cause?”

  Skelton gave an abrupt nod and leaned closer, as if afraid of being overheard by the longcase clock behind him. “Maybe I am.”

  “I would like to meet them. I have a business proposition.”

  “What kind of proposition?”

  She leaned even farther forward and Skelton mirrored her move. “Napoleon may have been exiled, but he still has his supporters,” she whispered. “Loyal friends who are working to rescue him from his island prison and return him to power.”

  Skelton gave a knowing nod.

  “They believe that Britain must be weakened, to eliminate the chance of another shameful defeat like that at Waterloo. You’ve heard of Savary?” she said. “The emperor’s chief of police?”

  Skelton nodded.

  “He entrusted me with this.” She reached into her pocket and withdrew the note she’d forged. She handed it to Skelton. His lips moved soundlessly as he read, shaping the words; clearly reading was a laborious process.

  “Savary ordered me to seek out men like yourself who might help bring the emperor’s plan to fruition. I know there are Englishmen who wish to see this country undermined quite as much as my own countrymen.”

  Skelton narrowed his eyes. “You truly have this fake fortune?” His eyes raked her body as if he somehow expected her to have it secreted about her person.

  “I do. Half a million pounds’ worth of fake British banknotes, right here in London.” She paused for a beat to let that penetrate his thick skull. “What I propose is a deal, Mr. Skelton. I have the banknotes. You and your friends have the means of dispersing them. I suggest we work together to ensure a favorable outcome for both sides.”

  Skelton nodded. “All right. Get yourself to the White Lion, Haymarket on Friday evening, nine o’clock. I’ll see to it the people you want are there.”

  It took a concerted effort not to look over at Hampden in triumph. She could gloat later. Sabine stepped back from Skelton’s overwhelming presence and tapped the fake ten-pound note he’d inspected instead. “Thank you, Mr. Skelton. I’ll leave you this, as an example of my work.” She certainly didn’t want to touch it again. “You can show it to your friends. Along with that letter.”

  Skelton’s expression turned sly. “One more thing. To prove you ain’t lyin’ about the money, you can bring five hundred pounds’ worth of it to the meeting.”

  Sabine cursed inwardly, but nodded her head. “Of course. If you wish.” She edged out from behind the counter and sauntered toward Richard. “Nice doing business with you, Mr. Skelton. Until Friday. Come along, Jacob. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 22

  Sabine took a gulp of fresh air as she stepped outside, relieved to be away from Skelton’s nauseating presence. His demand for an extra five hundred pounds was a complication she hadn’t anticipated, but at least she’d managed to set up a meeting with the other plotters.

  She glanced upward. Ominous clouds had gathered while they’d been in the shop; a rumble of thunder overhead confirmed an approaching storm.

  Hampden heard it too. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Come on!”

  He grabbed her hand and set off, pulling her along in his wake, but they were still streets away from the carriage when the heavens opened. Sabine screeched in dismay as fat raindrops began to patter down.

  The thoroughfare emptied. Vendors threw covers over their wares and wheeled their barrows to shelter while children ducked under the overhanging eaves and huddled in doorways to avoid the deluge.

  Hampden shrugged off his rough overcoat and threw it around her shoulders as they raced along, dodging newly forming puddles. The coat was still warm from his body. The heat wrapped around her like an embrace and tightened her insides.

  The carriage finally came into view. Sabine threw herself up the steps and slumped back on the velvet squabs with a sigh of relief as Hampden clambered in after her. She gave a laugh of sheer elation, buoyed up by their success.

  He took the seat opposite her and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “Congratulations. You passed the first test.”

  Raindrops still trickled down her face. Sabine tugged the lace fichu from her neckline and used it to blot her face and neck. Her wet hair stuck to her cheeks; she pushed it back and sent Hampden a teasing, laughing glance.

  “Oh dear! When was the last time the high-and-mighty Lord Lovell got caught in the rain?”

  “I can’t remember.” He smiled ruefully. “And it’s hard to be lordly when you’re soaked to the sk
in.”

  He plucked his soaking shirt to peel it away from his chest—which drew her attention to the fact that the thin cotton had become almost transparent. It molded to the hard planes of his chest and abdomen like a second skin, allowing a tantalizing glimpse of tawny flesh and intriguing ridges beneath.

  Her mouth went dry. His hair was rumpled in artless disorder, falling wildly over his forehead. He looked even more devastating than he had when he was perfectly attired. Disheveled suited him to perfection, damn him.

  He sprawled negligently in his seat, taking up far too much space. Sabine tucked her legs together to avoid touching him.

  He knocked twice on the carriage roof to signal the driver to move, and shot her a lazy grin. “So, you admire my big hands and broad shoulders, do you?”

  She couldn’t help it: she looked at his hands. And imagined them on her. Her stomach twisted into knots, but she managed a creditable shrug. “You’re deaf. I never said any such thing.”

  He opened his mouth to argue.

  “And if I did,” she said quickly, “then it was only to convince Skelton you were a useless lump.”

  What a lie. The rhythmic hiss and patter of rain on the roof and the close confines of the carriage enclosed them in their own little world. Sabine was acutely aware of his body—and it was categorically not useless. It was strong and big and horribly tempting. She shivered.

  The carriage rocked forward and she tried to concentrate on the sounds outside—the splash of the wheels through the puddles, the cries of the pedestrians—instead of the sudden tension that had thickened the air inside.

  She took a steadying breath. She could not lose sight of her goal. Now was the perfect time to take advantage of his good mood. “I think I deserve a reward for convincing Skelton.”

  It wasn’t her imagination: his eyes slid to her lips for a heartbeat before he looked up and met her eyes.

  “You do, do you?” he said slowly. “What did you have in mind?”

  There was no mistaking the predatory look in his eyes. He was watching her with an intensity that made her pulse flutter in her throat. All sorts of scandalous suggestions crowded her brain.

  He leaned forward and she mirrored the action unthinkingly, drawn toward him as if by some invisible string. Desire thrummed in her blood. They were only a foot apart. If she just leaned forward—No. She did not feel this response to him. It was primitive and entirely unwelcome.

  —

  Richard cursed under his breath. His damn carriage was far too small. All he could smell was warm, wet woman. All he could hear was Sabine’s panting breaths in the semidarkness.

  Her wet eyelashes looked like spiky starfish against her pale skin. A droplet of water slid from between her eyebrows, down the side of her nose, and collected in the tiny indent at the corner of her lips. His body reminded him how long it had been since he’d had a warm, willing woman in his arms.

  His lungs seized up. Desire shot straight to his groin. He imagined closing the space between them and pushing her back down onto the seat. Imagined licking that drop away, following it inside her mouth. She’d taste of cool rain and red-hot desire. His heart pounded heavily in his chest.

  Sabine stared at him, unblinking. The tip of her tongue slid out and collected the droplet, and he almost groaned aloud. He’d just tensed the muscles in his stomach, ready to move across to her, when the wheel of the carriage hit a rut in the road. He grasped the leather strap on the wall to stop himself from falling right into her lap.

  Sanity returned. He slumped back in his seat, focused his gaze resolutely out of the window, and forced his expression into one of bland interest.

  “What did you have in mind?” he repeated gruffly.

  She cleared her throat and sat back herself. “I wish to go out.”

  “Where?”

  “The British Museum.”

  He turned and studied her for a tense moment, trying to sense a catch. His immediate response was to refuse, but he shouldn’t be churlish. She’d played her part with Skelton beautifully, and now he had what he’d been after for months—a legitimate lead to the group of British plotters. It was another four days until they were due to meet. He couldn’t keep her locked away in his study for the entire time, however much the idea appealed.

  He nodded. “All right. I suppose you deserve a little leeway since the first stage of our plan met with success. You may go tomorrow. But only if you take a servant.”

  She inclined her head, as if she were the one bestowing a favor. “I will. And thank you, my lord.”

  Chapter 23

  The British Museum was housed in a handsome building that had once been Montagu House, a late-seventeenth-century mansion in Great Russell Street. Its foundation had been the collections of the English scientist Sir Hans Sloane, but subsequent acquisitions of manuscripts, sculpture, and art had made it a rival for the Louvre. Her father had always expressed an interest in visiting it.

  Sabine suppressed a wistful pang and strode away from the bored-looking footman who’d been assigned to accompany her. She withdrew a small, ivory cloakroom token from her pocket and handed it to the attendant on duty.

  In addition to stowing visitors’ hats and cloaks, the museum had several cupboards and shelves for storing guests’ bags. When the clerk located hers and deposited it on the counter, she let out a faint sigh of relief.

  “Ah! Thank you. My sketching materials,” she said brightly.

  She was a firm believer in the old adage “hide in plain sight.” In her experience, slapping a padlock on something was an invitation to have that very thing stolen immediately. One might as well post a flyer on the side saying “this contains something worth stealing.”

  Ergo, a battered brown leather bag in an unlocked pigeonhole in a barely guarded public cloakroom was the safest possible place for her fake money. If it looked as though nobody would care if it were stolen, no one would pay it the slightest heed.

  Her theory had proved correct. Sabine shot the footman an innocent smile as she withdrew a sketchpad and a small wooden box of drawing instruments from the top. She barely glanced at the cigar box full of fake money nestled at the bottom.

  A thousand pounds took up very little space. Sabine knew exactly what was in there: two hundred-pound bills, two fifties, forty tens, forty fives, and a hundred one-pound notes. One hundred and eighty-four small pieces of paper, barely an inch thick, that represented her safety net. Her alternative plan.

  She gave the cloakroom attendant a wide smile as she handed him back the bag. “I won’t be needing my oil paints today. Please keep them until I return.”

  “Of course, ma’am.” The servant returned the ivory token with a nod.

  Satisfied that her money was still safe, Sabine tucked the sketchbook under one arm and, conscious of the footman following her every move, strolled through a few rooms, idly studying the exhibits. She made her way up to the gallery, settled herself in front of a magnificent Tiepolo drawing, and proceeded to make a copy. She’d have to stay for a good few hours, at least. To arrive back at Brook Street too soon would arouse suspicion.

  Sometime later a dark shadow fell across her paper. Sabine, who had been lost in concentration, glanced up and suppressed a groan of annoyance when she saw Richard Hampden lounging in front of her.

  “My lord,” she managed. “What a pleasant surprise.” Her tone indicated it was anything but. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  His lips quirked as he gave a casual shrug. “Just thought I’d make sure you weren’t getting into mischief.”

  Sabine lifted her brows and made an impatient gesture at her paper and pencils as if to say “how, exactly?”

  He didn’t mistake her meaning. “Oh, I think you could get into trouble in an empty room, Miss de la Tour,” he chuckled.

  Sabine bit back a curse. She glanced around for her footman companion and found he’d disappeared. Dismissed, no doubt. Merde. Still, at least she’d checked her money. She’d never have dare
d to do so under Hampden’s eagle-eyed scrutiny.

  She sighed and went back to her drawing. Perhaps she could bore him into leaving her alone. “This place reminds me of the Louvre,” she said placidly. “I spent many happy hours there when I was a girl, waiting for my father to finish work. I’d sit around all day, sketching. For hours,” she repeated, hoping he’d take the hint. “It’s how I honed my drawing skills.”

  He glanced down at her sketch. “You’re exceedingly talented.”

  There was no trace of irony in his tone, only admiration. Sabine steeled herself against the tingle of warmth that spread through her at the compliment. “Thank you. I’m considering portraiture as a means of supporting myself now that the war is over.”

  “As opposed to blackmail?” he drawled sweetly.

  She ignored the urge to poke him in the eye with her pencil.

  “There are very few professions a woman can engage in without censure,” she scolded. “Thankfully, being a portrait painter is one of them. Look at Madame Vigée Le Brun or Angelica Kauffman. They’re recognized as among the best in their field. I’m going to return to Paris and set up a little gallery, somewhere near the Louvre.”

  “You can lead a life of spotless virtue,” Hampden agreed amiably. “After you’ve finished fleecing me out of ten thousand pounds, that is.”

  She narrowed her eyes and pressed slightly too hard with her pencil. The lead broke in a little gray puff, and she cursed under her breath.

  Hampden lifted the tails on his jacket and settled himself beside her on the marble bench as if he had all the time in the world. “Hodges mentioned there are two small portraits in your bedroom. Did you paint them?”

  She scooted away from him as surreptitiously as possible. He seemed to take up an inordinate amount of room. “Yes. They’re of my parents.”

  She expected him to make some further comment, but he gazed at the painting in front of them and for a moment they sat in a silence that was almost companionable.

  “It occurs to me that drawing is just another form of trickery,” he said presently. “It fools the eye into believing a two-dimensional object is three-dimensional.”