She shook her head. No. Nobody was falling in love with anybody. It was just the thrill of the chase that had her emotions on edge.
She brushed past him and stepped up into the nondescript carriage waiting outside. Hampden joined her, placing a leather satchel on the seat beside him and patting it indulgently. “Five hundred pounds of fake money.”
Sabine wished she had the ability to conjure up that kind of cash with only a few hours notice.
He shot her an intense, faintly questioning glance. “Nervous?”
She shrugged. “A little. I would be a fool not to be wary of these men.” She gazed out of the window, mainly to avoid looking at his chest in that thin, almost transparent shirt. “I wish there were some way to counterfeit courage, but people either seem to have it or they don’t.”
She jumped as he leaned over and gave her arm a light, reassuring squeeze.
“You have it,” he said softly.
It was a relatively short ride to the Haymarket. Sabine’s eyes widened as they traveled along the broad street and she saw the crowds milling around outside the various theaters, coffeehouses, taverns, and hotels.
Posters advertised the skeleton of O’Brien, the Irish Giant, plus assorted waxwork figures and Weeks’s Museum, containing “figures exhibiting the astonishing power of mechanism.”
They passed the Haymarket Theater, with its pillared portico extending from the front of the building, lit with lanterns. It seemed to be offering The Tragedy of Coriolanus, with the celebrated Mr. Kemble as the title character.
Hampden knocked on the carriage roof and when the vehicle stopped, he helped her down onto the crowded pavement. He glanced around, presumably to locate the men he’d ordered to be on hand when his signal came. Sabine craned her neck, but the crowd made it impossible to see with whom he was communicating. It was a tumult of noise and accents, and all she could see was a scruffy-looking gingerbread vendor and a trio of overdressed tarts hanging around on the corner.
Hampden handed her the satchel full of money, caught her free hand in his, and steered her toward a building whose swinging sign proclaimed it the White Lion coffeehouse.
The interior was extremely crowded. Sabine wrinkled her nose at the strong blast of warm bodies and weak ale that assaulted her nostrils. Sawdust had been strewn onto the floor to absorb spilled beer—and probably blood and spit, too—but her shoes still stuck to the sticky boards. A pall of tobacco smoke hung like a gray fog between the exposed wooden beams, and the air was filled with the clatter of dice shaken in tin cups and raucous, drunken laughter.
It was a predominantly male domain. Only a couple of other women were visible: a slatternly barmaid with lank hair serving the customers and a red-haired doxy perched on a man’s lap, her breasts spilling out of her low top. Sabine pressed closer to Hampden’s back.
“Over here.”
Skelton loomed into view and Sabine sucked in a breath. His collar was damp with sweat, and beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead and nose. He barged past Hampden and grabbed her arm.
“Come on,” he said, tugging her forward. “We’ve a room upstairs.”
Hampden stepped between them, breaking Skelton’s grip, and the man stepped back with a grunt of apology.
“Thank you, Jacob,” Sabine said sweetly. She turned to Skelton. “He doesn’t like to see me manhandled. Lead the way, Mr. Skelton.”
Skelton pushed his way through the crowd and up a rickety flight of stairs at the back of the taproom. The wood creaked with his every step. At the top, he opened a door off the landing and ushered them both inside.
Two men sat at a rough oak gateleg table. Neither rose as Sabine entered the room, but both regarded her with an air of wary suspicion. She gave them her warmest smile.
“This is ’er,” Skelton said, by way of introduction. “The forger.”
He nodded dismissively at Richard. “Yer man can wait over there.”
Sabine nodded and made a shooing motion with her hands toward the window. Hampden took his cue. He crossed the room and stationed himself in the bay, blending unobtrusively into the shadows.
“Yes, please ignore my bodyguard,” she said mildly. “I keep him around because I hear there are dishonest men around these parts.”
Skelton snorted in cynical amusement and introduced his two companions, George Levy and John Maynard. Hampden had been correct. The men nodded, their expressions closed.
“Levy was in the navy, till ’e was invalided out,” Skelton said. “Maynard’s a tout.”
Sabine nodded. “A pleasure, gentlemen.” She pulled herself a seat at the table and sat. Skelton lowered himself onto the fourth chair beside her; the wood groaned in protest.
“Let’s get down to business, shall we? I’m sure Mr. Skelton has mentioned my proposition, so I won’t beat around the bush. I hear that you have as much desire as myself to see England’s currency weakened and her government and monarchy embarrassed.”
Levy raised his brows, Maynard merely grunted, but neither of them outright denied it, which Sabine took as a good sign. She sat back and addressed Maynard. “Your horse races are the perfect place to distribute my fake fortune.”
“Aye,” he said slowly. “But first I want to see it. Skelton says you’re good, but I want to see for meself.”
“Of course,” Sabine said brightly. She opened the satchel on her lap. “I promised to bring a small amount to show you, did I not?” She slapped a fat wad of money on the table. “If you gentlemen would care to inspect it, you’ll see it passes every test with flying colors.”
Of course it will, she thought wryly. It’s real money.
Skelton pulled out his jeweler’s loupe and handed it to Maynard, who bent over to study one of the notes.
“Good, ain’t it?” Skelton said. “The only way you can tell them’s fake is because o’ the initials P.L. hidden in the corner. Look closely. In the roots.”
Sabine bit her lip in horror. She’d forgotten she’d told Skelton about that particular detail.
“I can’t see nuffink,” Maynard grumbled.
Sabine shot Richard a quick, panicked glance over Maynard’s bent head. How on earth was she going to explain the absence of her trademark?
And then, to her utter astonishment, Hampden sent her a cheeky wink and a smile.
Sabine blinked. Their deception was about to be exposed as a scam and here he was, winking at her? The man was mad.
“Ah, I see ’em now,” Maynard said triumphantly.
Sabine stilled. Surely he was simply pretending to see the initials to save face? There were no initials on real banknotes.
Suddenly suspicious, she tugged on the chain around her neck, withdrew her own looking glass, and bent over the nearest note. She stiffened. There, hidden in the tree roots, were the initials P.L.
Fury and disbelief coursed through her veins. This wasn’t real money. It was her money! That sneaky, treacherous, deceitful swine must have searched her bedroom and found her stash!
Sabine took a deep breath and cursed herself for being so stupid as to trust that cheating, lying son of a…She could not let her anger show. She smoothed her features into a bland smile and straightened. But her eyes flicked to Hampden with a look that promised retribution. Extremely painful retribution.
He sent her a taunting smile that made her blood boil. She was going to strangle the deceitful wretch—just as soon as they got out of here. First, she had to concentrate.
Maynard finished his perusal of the note and handed the glass to Levy. “Looks good, I’ll give you that.” He sat back in his chair, hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his breeches, and surveyed her with a belligerent air. “So the real question is, how much is this fortune going to cost us?”
Triumph surged through her. They’d gone for it!
“Well, the going rate for fake currency in Paris is around one-third of face value,” she said confidently. “So I should really be asking you for a hundred and sixty thousand pounds in
exchange for half a million in fakes.”
Skelton made an inarticulate spluttering sound. Maynard’s brows drew together and Levy opened his mouth to argue, but Sabine held up a hand and gave them her sweetest smile. “But of course I wouldn’t dream of extorting you gentlemen in such a manner. Not when your cause is so worthy.”
Maynard’s brow unknotted a little.
“All I ask is a small token of appreciation, for my time and undeniable craftsmanship.”
“How much?” Skelton growled. “Name your price, girl.”
Sabine tilted her head. “Let’s say twenty thousand pounds, shall we? Does that sound fair? You get the means to protest against your government most effectively, and I get the satisfaction of seeing Napoleon’s plan put into effect, plus a little compensation for my efforts. Do we have a deal?”
Maynard glanced at Skelton, then tilted his head at Levy. “Let us discuss it, for a moment.” All three rose from the table and went to confer in the corner of the room.
While they engaged in a low-voiced discussion, Sabine stood and sidled over to Richard. “I am going to kill you, Richard Hampden,” she hissed. “How did you find my money?”
His beatific smile was beyond irritating. “I searched your room, of course.”
“That money is not yours!”
“It’s not yours, either,” he whispered.
“I need it.”
“No, you don’t.”
The plotters returned to the table then, so Sabine turned her back on Richard and joined them.
Maynard stuck out his hand. “We agree to your terms. How do you want to be paid?”
Sabine’s heart leaped, but she gave a wry smile. “Not in banknotes, I assure you. They’re far too easy to counterfeit.” She smiled at her own joke. “I’d like jewels. And be warned—I can spot a fake diamond as easily as I can spot a fake note. Your associate knows that to be true, don’t you, Mr. Skelton?”
Skelton grunted. “Yes.”
Sabine took Maynard’s outstretched hand. “In that case, we have a deal. When and where shall we make the exchange?”
Sabine couldn’t see Hampden from her position, but he had surely signaled his men to move in and make the arrests. She heard the door behind her open and tensed, expecting three or four armed men to burst in, weapons drawn, but instead a man she didn’t recognize entered the room. When Maynard greeted the newcomer with a nod of welcome, Sabine grew even more confused.
“Perfect timing, Toulin,” Maynard said easily. He turned back to her. “Allow me to introduce the last member of our merry band—a fellow Frenchman, in fact.”
Sabine’s stomach plummeted. The man did not appear English. His skin was olive, almost sallow, and he had a narrow, clever face, with thin lips beneath a pencil-thin mustache.
“This is Pierre Toulin. Mr. Toulin has had some experience disrupting things in your home country over the past few years, haven’t you, Toulin?”
A chord of recognition tugged at Sabine’s memory. The name Toulin sounded familiar, but she was sure she’d never met the man before.
The newcomer shrugged modestly. “A few protests and organized riots, that’s all…”
His dark gaze rested on Sabine’s face and she quelled an immediate feeling of discomfort. His eyes roamed over her, almost as if he were cataloguing every part of her for future dissection. He made a small bow and caught her hand in his. “I am delighted to meet the infamous Philippe Lacorte. You are a credit to our country, madame.”
His smile was disconcerting. It stretched his lips but didn’t reach his eyes. There was something almost reptilian about him; maybe it was the way he didn’t seem to blink. He retained Sabine’s fingers for a fraction longer than was necessary and she stepped back, uneasy. Her palm was sweaty but her fingers were cold.
“In fact,” Toulin said silkily, “I have Monsieur Lacorte to thank for my presence here tonight. You provided my travel documents, madame.”
Ah. Now she remembered. She’d made false papers for a Pierre Toulin a few years ago. Her stomach gave a guilty lurch. She’d been responsible for allowing this criminal into the country. Still, he’d be imprisoned very soon.
She wanted to leave. The thick, smoky atmosphere was making her feel ill. From the corner of her eye she could see that Richard had withdrawn into the shadows by the window and tilted his head down so his hat almost covered his face.
Sabine took a calming breath. He must have given his men the signal through the window by now. They would be here any minute. She cleared her throat and started to gather the notes from the table. Toulin watched her movements with interest.
“Where would you like to make the exchange, Mr. Maynard?” she repeated.
Why weren’t Hampden’s men storming in and arresting everyone? She glanced over and saw him give an almost imperceptible shake of his head. What did that mean?
“Here will do,” Maynard said. “Friday next, same time.”
Sabine nodded. “Excellent. I will bid you gentlemen good night.” She closed the leather satchel and made for the door. “Come along, Jacob.”
Toulin narrowed his eyes as Richard stirred from the corner, and Sabine noticed that Richard kept his head averted as he ushered her from the room. As soon as they were back in the corridor, he took the satchel from her and guided her down the stairs and through the crowded taproom. He pushed through the sweaty bodies, pulling her along in his wake.
“What’s the hurry?” Sabine panted.
He shook his head and tugged her out into the street. “I can’t explain now. You have to go. Immediately.” He gave a shrill whistle to summon a hackney cab and practically thrust her inside it.
“What?” she demanded in confusion as he slammed the door behind her. “Aren’t you coming too?”
Hampden’s face was grim. “Go home. I’ll see you later.”
He shouted the address up to the cabbie. Before Sabine could even protest at his high-handed behavior, the carriage moved off.
What on earth was going on? Hampden might not have expected that extra man Toulin, but that didn’t explain why he’d aborted the mission. The plotters had agreed to treason. Had he wanted to get her safely out of the way before his men stormed the place?
Sabine’s sense of gratitude quickly turned to anger as she realized he’d kept the satchel full of money.
It was her money, the thieving pig!
Chapter 43
Sabine waited for Richard in the study, but two hours passed without a sign. Her righteous fury increased by the minute as she imagined giving him a blistering lecture on stealing other people’s property. It was, admittedly, a bit like the pot calling the kettle black, as her mother would have said, but it was the principle of the thing. She didn’t steal. She counterfeited. It was an important distinction.
Declining Hodges’s offer of a cup of tea, she set about searching Hampden’s desk. She’d half a mind to simply forge herself a promissory note to cash in at his bank, but her nerves were so agitated she doubted she could draw a straight line, let alone forge his signature.
She kicked the side of the desk in fury and stubbed her toe, which made her even crosser.
She’d done exactly what he’d employed her to do: forced the English plotters to incriminate themselves. It wasn’t her fault he’d failed to seize the moment. And nothing excused him retaining possession of her forgeries. He owed her. Not just the ten thousand pounds he’d promised her, but the return of her fakes as well.
His desk yielded a collection of bills, including those for her purchases the previous day. Sabine riffled through them. He paid how much for his cravats? Good Lord. She could eat for a week on that in Paris.
At the back of the drawer she discovered a leather-bound book, apparently some kind of payments ledger. Lines of his haphazard writing filled the pre-lined vertical columns.
Sabine began to read. He really did deal with some astronomical sums. She’d assumed he must have a man of business to do all this for him, but appar
ently Hampden preferred to keep a hand on the financial reins himself. Probably didn’t trust anyone else.
He received rents and incomes from numerous properties—from tenants, livestock, investments, and bonds. He had shares in some unpronounceable Welsh railway, and part-ownership of a tin mine in Cornwall.
Sabine found an entry dated two weeks ago for Rundell, Bridge & Rundell, jewelers, and scowled. They’d made the sapphire and diamond necklace she’d worn to Lady Carstairs’s ball, but this entry was for “a fine diamond and pearl bracelet.” Presumably a parting gift for his previous mistress. The startling amount made her grind her teeth. He certainly was generous.
She flicked back a few pages, looking for further evidence of his spending on females. If Heloise was right about his “mistress rules,” there should be a similar payment approximately every three months. Sabine told herself the angry feeling in her breast wasn’t jealousy. Of course it wasn’t.
A French name caught her eye; there was a payment of one hundred pounds to a Madame Pensol, Paris. No further explanation appeared in the adjoining column. She flicked back a few pages and frowned. There it was again—same name, same amount. More pages, and her suspicion and sense of nausea grew. The book went back only eighteen months, but the payments had been going on regularly, once a month, for all that time.
Sabine sat back in the chair, her mind working furiously. Why was Richard paying this woman? Was she a former mistress? A feeling of disappointment crashed over her as the obvious answer presented itself. Hampden must have an illegitimate child. Why else would he pay this woman a monthly stipend?
Sabine felt a tight ball form in her chest. For all his talk of trust and honesty, she wasn’t the only one keeping secrets. A whole range of emotions churned through her. She felt betrayed, somehow. He’d manipulated her, taken her money, shattered her trust—and played merry havoc with her heart.
At that moment the front door opened and she heard the low rumble of his voice as he conferred with Hodges. The click of his boots approached the study and Sabine braced herself for confrontation.
A Counterfeit Heart Page 20