A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  Sabine’s temper snapped. She cursed him roundly in French, using every insult, every gutter word she could think of to disparage him. “You are an idiot!” she spat. “Un bête.” Stupid, a beast. “Tu me rends fou!” You make me crazy.

  “Et tu as la colère de diable,” he snapped back. And you have the devil’s own temper.

  Her heart thudded to a stop. Hearing him speak in her native tongue was a shock.

  He noted her surprise and raised his brows, mocking her. “I have a French mother. Je le parle aussi même que toi, ma chère.” I speak it as well as you, my sweet.

  He had a melting liquid accent, utterly beguiling. Sabine’s heart contracted. It was the aristocratic French of her parents. She’d forgotten how different it was from the rough Parisian dialect she’d grown accustomed to with Anton and his father.

  And then another thought struck her. Oh, God, had he heard what she’d said to Anton? She’d practically admitted that she loved him. How utterly humiliating!

  With one final, frustrated glare, Richard sat back and resumed brooding, and Sabine breathed a sigh of relief. When they reached the house she braced herself for the interrogation that was sure to follow, but they were intercepted in the hallway by Hodges.

  “Ah, Miss de la Tour,” he said, clearly relieved. “You are home. You have a visitor. The same foreign gentleman who called on you before. He has been insistent on seeing you for several days now.”

  Richard’s brows lowered in confusion, but Sabine’s stomach dropped to the floor. Oh, merde. She’d forgotten about Malet.

  “I have put him in the drawing room.” Hodges smiled serenely.

  Sabine stifled a groan. Could the day get any worse?

  Any hope of meeting with Malet alone was quashed as Richard trailed her into the drawing room. Sabine found herself torn between resenting his presence and being glad for his silent protection. Her knees were quaking.

  Malet wasted no time on preliminaries. He leaped up and jabbed a stubby finger in her direction.

  “Where is my money?” he boomed. “My patience has run out, madame. Where is Philippe Lacorte?”

  Sabine steadied herself with a hand on the back of a chair. “Gone,” she said simply. “He left on a ship for Boston this morning.”

  Feigning a coolness she certainly did not feel, she glanced over at Richard. “We saw him off ourselves, is that not so, Lord Lovell?”

  Richard’s face was inscrutable and for a moment she wondered if he would play along with her charade, but he answered politely enough. “It is indeed.”

  Malet’s mustache bristled in fury. “And my money?”

  “Lacorte burned it,” she said.

  Malet’s face turned a mottled, unbecoming red. “What?”

  “He burned it,” Sabine repeated triumphantly. “Three weeks ago. On a bonfire in the Bois de Vincennes. I helped him do it.”

  From the corner of her eye she saw Richard’s eyebrows rise, but Malet leaped forward. “I don’t believe you! Tell me where it is!” he bellowed.

  Richard caught him by the collar before he could touch Sabine. “I do hope you weren’t thinking of assaulting my fiancée, General.” His voice was smooth, but Malet didn’t miss the edge of steel in it.

  “Fiancée?” he spluttered.

  Richard’s smile was pure triumph. “Why yes, you’re one of the first to know, actually.” He shot Sabine an adoring look. “Miss de la Tour has accepted my suit.” He patted Malet’s lapels as he released him and stepped back. “Be a good man and keep it to yourself for a few days, won’t you? We haven’t told the family yet.”

  Malet appeared nonplussed. He opened and closed his mouth a few times like a landed fish. “I wish you happiness,” he said finally.

  “And I do hope,” Richard said softly, moving to stand beside Sabine and threading his fingers through hers in an outward show of solidarity, “I do hope that you will cease tormenting Miss de la Tour with your foolish accusations. Sabine has no knowledge of Philippe Lacorte. Or your money. You will not disturb her peace again.”

  Malet’s face was almost purple now, but he clearly realized he’d been thwarted. “As you say,” he muttered. “I apologize for taking up your time, Miss de la Tour.”

  He bowed stiffly and made his exit.

  Sabine almost sagged with relief. She didn’t know if Malet had believed her about burning the money or not, but there was nothing he could do about it now. And at least Anton was safe from his wrath.

  Richard was still holding her hand. She tugged her fingers free and stepped away. Standing so close to him caused a physical ache.

  “I do wish you would stop telling all and sundry I am either your wife or your fiancée,” she said crossly. “It is ridiculous.”

  Richard’s face was granite. He gestured toward the door to the salon. “Into the library, Miss de la Tour. We still have some unfinished business.”

  Sabine bit her lip. It was time for the reckoning.

  She stalked across the hall and into the library and was reminded of their very first meeting. Had it really been only three weeks ago? She felt as though she’d lived a lifetime since then.

  Richard positioned himself behind his desk, every inch the powerful, autocratic Lord Lovell, and gestured for her to take the opposite seat. He picked up his fountain pen.

  Sabine’s stomach clenched in panic. Where was the passionate, teasing man who’d made love to her? She felt like a schoolgirl pulled in front of the headmaster for some expulsion-worthy infringement.

  Richard’s gaze caught hers and she couldn’t seem to look away.

  “Might I remind you of our bargain, Miss de la Tour?” he said softly. “You agreed to work for me for one whole month, in exchange for ten thousand pounds. And yet here we are, with ten days still to go, and you appear to be reneging on the deal.”

  His expression was polite, unreadable. He was a cold stranger. Sabine bit her lip and dropped her gaze.

  “I am sorry,” she said, relieved that her voice didn’t waver. “But I have decided to forfeit the money and end the agreement now. You have achieved your objective, which was to entrap the English plotters. If you will excuse me—” She started to rise, but his next words stopped her.

  “I will not excuse you,” he said curtly. “You agreed to disclose the location of your fake fortune before you left.”

  Sabine’s heart shriveled in her chest. So that was what he wanted. He didn’t care about her leaving. He only wanted to ensure she didn’t wreak havoc on the country with her counterfeits. His lack of faith in her made her chest ache. Surely he knew she would never do such a thing.

  She closed her eyes. There was nothing for it; it was time to be completely honest.

  Chapter 60

  “All right. I will tell you the absolute truth.”

  “That would make a refreshing change,” he said with searing sarcasm.

  That stung. She’d given him her body, her heart, her soul—but he still didn’t trust her. Not that she could blame him, of course. She’d done nothing but lie to him for weeks. She took a deep breath.

  “There is no counterfeit fortune. It isn’t hidden anywhere. What I told Malet was the truth. I really did burn it. The same day I stole it. Before I even came to England.”

  She braved a glance up at him. Those amber eyes burned into her like hot coals and she felt as though he were trying to read her soul.

  Sabine clutched her hands in her lap to still their shaking. She’d never felt so vulnerable, so exposed. With the truth out, she had no leverage against him. There were no threats or promises she could make to manipulate him. She could only trust that he wouldn’t harm her. Or imprison her.

  “It has all been a bluff,” she said. “There is no threat to Britain. The only fake money I brought from Paris was a thousand pounds. Five hundred was stolen from Anton. Of the remaining five hundred, I gave half to him, and you took the rest.”

  She glared across the desk, recalling that particular episode. Hampden
wasn’t entirely guiltless, either. “I kept one set of British printing plates, too—for the ten-pound note—which I gave to you to help catch Visconti.”

  Not that he’d appreciated the gesture. She raised her chin, refusing to be cowed. “I may not have stayed the entire month, Lord Lovell, but I have sacrificed more than enough on behalf of you and your country.”

  His expression showed neither surprise nor sympathy. Did he believe her about destroying the money? Or did he think she was lying yet again? She couldn’t tell, but she couldn’t seem to stop talking, now that she’d started.

  “I never really lied to you.” To her horror, she realized she was on the verge of tears. She curled her fists so her nails pressed into her palms. “I may have omitted certain pertinent facts, admittedly, but I have never outright lied.”

  “Do you expect my thanks?” he asked sardonically.

  She shook her head. “No. But I expect you to let me go. Our agreement is over. I wish to return to France.”

  The pen drummed on the desktop. “You didn’t like the necklace I bought for you?”

  She stilled. Merde. So he knew about that, did he? She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I did. It was very beautiful. But Anton needed the money more. It was the only way I could think of to raise some capital so he wouldn’t have to spend counterfeits.” She trailed off miserably.

  Hampden’s brows rose. “I suppose it never occurred to you to trust me? To simply ask me to help your friend?” His tone was light, as though he were merely curious about her answer.

  “You might have arrested Anton for treason. I couldn’t take the risk. He’s my oldest friend. He saved my life.”

  Richard nodded, but didn’t deny the charge. His long fingers turned the pen over and over. “I have an offer for you. A proposition, if you will.”

  She raised her brows.

  “Castlereagh wants you to stay. The Bank of England has launched an inquiry aimed at finding an ‘inimitable’ design for their banknotes and they want you to help them design it. Who better than a counterfeiter to dream up ways to stop counterfeiting? You know all the tricks, all the processes.”

  Sabine’s head swam in disbelief. Of all the things she’d expected, it hadn’t been this.

  Richard seemed to realize she couldn’t frame a response, because he continued. “It would be a crime to squander your extraordinary talents. They want to offer you the post of official engraver for the Bank of England. Based here in London.”

  A thousand possibilities flashed through her brain. Oh, she was so tempted to accept! To be able to use her skills without fear of arrest, to gain the security and stability she’d been craving her whole life, would be a dream come true. She could be part of a team again, doing something useful to bring criminals like Visconti to justice.

  But accepting the job would mean staying close to Richard, and that could only lead to heartbreak. She loved him. To be relegated to nothing more than a work colleague would be torture. And the idea of watching him take another mistress or marry some suitable society heiress in the future would be beyond awful.

  Richard was patiently awaiting her answer. She swallowed the hot tightness in her throat. “With regret, I must decline.”

  He shrugged, as if her refusal meant no more to him than Hodges telling him they were out of claret. “All right. I promised to make the offer,” he said lightly. “I didn’t think you’d take it.”

  Disappointment and misery twined together in her chest. Didn’t he care for her at all? She started to get up.

  “One more thing, Miss de la Tour,” he said casually. “Before you leave, I’d like your professional opinion on this—”

  He reached into his coat and pulled out the same special license he’d shown to the captain on the ship. He slid it across the desk and she took it automatically. “Does that look like a fake to you?”

  Sabine frowned and bent to study the parchment:

  Charles, by Divine Providence, Archbishop of Canterbury, Primate of all England and Metropolitan, by the Authority of Parliament lawfully authorized for the Purposes within written: To our well-beloved in Christ,

  Richard Frederick Montague Hampden of the Parish of Saint Andrew in the County of Dorset, Bachelor, 32, and Sabine de la Tour, of Paris, Spinster, 24,

  grace and health. WHEREAS it is alleged that ye have resolved to proceed to the Solemnization of true and lawful Matrimony…

  An indigo tax stamp for ten shillings adorned the top left corner and the archbishop’s impressed seal was enclosed in a paper fold at the bottom.

  She shook her head. “You have omitted my middle names.”

  “I don’t know them,” he said mildly.

  Her temper rose. “How can you even pretend to marry someone when you don’t even know their full name? They’re Marie Louise, if you must know.”

  His lips twitched. “I’ll bear that in mind the next time I’m attempting to forge your signature. Which I did,” he added, pointing to the back of the page. “Right there.”

  Sabine turned the paper over and her eyes widened in shock. Several examples of her own name adorned the reverse, next to his own confident scrawl.

  “Don’t you recall practicing to sign the marriage register, sweetheart?” he chided softly.

  His smile was calculating, predatory, and her heart pounded in sudden panic and confusion. What game was he playing now? She shot him an accusing glare. “That is not my signature.”

  “I know. But I think I made a rather good job of it, don’t you think?”

  “How did you do it?”

  He looked extremely pleased with himself. “You signed the drawing you made of me. I copied that.”

  She curled her lip. “This is terrible. I never make my s’s like that.”

  “I like to think your hand was shaking with excitement at the prospect of being joined in holy matrimony with myself.”

  She snorted, but her mind was spinning furiously. “It wouldn’t fool a blind man, that signature.” She turned the paper back over and pointed at the date. “Besides, this cannot be real. The third of May was five days ago. I was unconscious, in bed.”

  His eyes bored into hers. “It’s real. The archbishop of Canterbury is the father of an old school friend of mine. I went to see him.”

  “Why?”

  He tilted his head. “I’d have thought that was obvious.”

  “You wish to blackmail me into working for your government by claiming I am your wife?” she hazarded angrily. “It will not work. You cannot hold me here against my will.”

  That damnable dimple appeared. “Tsk. You have such a suspicious mind. No. I was thinking of something rather less Machiavellian.”

  “What?”

  He set down the fountain pen. “You are a remarkable woman, Sabine de la Tour. You are—”

  “A liar? A forger? A thief?” she finished scornfully. “I know.”

  His mouth curled up at the corners. “All of those things. But that wasn’t what I was going to say.”

  “What then?” she demanded, exasperated.

  He tilted his head, as if searching for the right word. “Indispensable,” he said finally. “You are indispensable. To England. And to me.”

  Sabine’s heart stuttered to a stop. “You are cruel to mock me,” she said stiffly.

  He raised his brows. “I’m not mocking you. It’s true. Five days ago—when you were unconscious in bed—I realized I wanted to marry you.”

  Chapter 61

  Sabine pushed away from the desk and started for the door. She’d had quite enough of his teasing. Richard rounded the desk in two long strides, caught her elbow, and spun her back around to face him. She tried to ward him off with one hand, but the back of her legs bumped against one of the armchairs and stymied her retreat.

  He took immediate advantage, stepping closer, trapping her with his body. “You told your friend you loved me,” he challenged belligerently. “On the ship.”

  Her face heated. “I did not
! I said you drove me insane. And that was a private conversation. You shouldn’t have been listening!”

  “He asked if you loved me and you didn’t deny it.”

  She couldn’t answer that without perjuring herself, so she tightened her lips together in a stubborn line.

  His fingers tightened on her arm and he took another step, deliberately crowding her so they were almost nose to nose. She could feel the heat of him across the scant inches that separated them and her pulse rocketed in response. She cursed the fact that her body tightened in awareness despite her anger.

  “You love me,” he accused softly.

  She glared at his perfectly tied cravat. “That has nothing to do with the situation in hand.”

  A slow smile spread across his face. “It has everything to do with it.” He caught her chin and lifted her face to his. “When I love you too.”

  Hope and desperation swirled inside her. She could barely breathe. “You don’t mean that. Really. I’m a terrible person. I’m like fake money. I can’t be trusted. Philippe Lacorte doesn’t even exist.”

  The warmth in his eyes made her stomach flutter. “I don’t care what your bloody name is. You’re the woman I love.”

  She gestured at the opulent splendor around them, tried to make him understand how impossible it was, this thing between them. “I don’t belong in this world. I’m your social inferior. And French.”

  “You’re half French, just like me,” he corrected calmly. “And you already have the approval of the prince regent. He was wholeheartedly in agreement when I told him I planned to make you my viscountess. And where he approves, the rest of society will follow. They can go hang if they don’t. Do you think I care what they say? I’ll marry whoever I see fit. And that’s you, Sabine Marie Louise de la Tour.” He gazed deep into her eyes. “You belong in my world,” he said roughly. “Just as I belong wherever you are. I’ll live wherever you want. Here in London, down in Devon. Hell, back in Paris. I don’t care, as long as I’m with you.”