The Counterfeit Count

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “He has already eaten.” The housekeeper started along the hall. Once begun, her prattle did not slow. “The viscount keeps no regular hours, you should know. Says he had to live with too much regimentation in the army, so he comes and goes as he pleases. Not that there’s anyone to worry about him if he is late for dinner. I thought he would settle down with a fine lady when he returned from the Continent, but he was too hurt by—” With a gulp, she glanced guiltily at Natalya and added only, “This way, my lord.”

  Her curiosity piqued, Natalya asked, “Hurt by what? A ball? A knife? Cannon?”

  “This way, my lord,” the housekeeper repeated, staring at the floor.

  Natalya’s eyes widened. Mrs. Winchell’s reticence spoke more than any answer. ’Twas not a wound of the flesh the viscount suffered, but one of the heart. She wanted to find out more about the enigmatic man who was her host, but she recognized the dismay on the housekeeper’s face. She would get nothing from Mrs. Winchell now. It would be better to wait and ask a probing question later.

  Not later! She must not stay in this house a second longer than it took to get General Miloradovich’s permission to leave. What did she care about Lord Ashcroft and his apparently broken heart? Any woman would be prudent to turn down his offer of marriage, for he was as wily as a snake and might be less trustworthy.

  The breakfast-parlor would be welcoming on a sunny day, but the sky was little lighter than Natalya’s dank spirits. The wallcovering of a rich violet silk vanished into shadows near the friezes edging the ceiling. A brass lantern hung over the cherry table, but its light could not sweep aside the lackluster aura of the room.

  Mrs. Winchell fluttered about like an emaciated songbird, twittering and never alighting anywhere for long, as she made sure Natalya had a seat with a view of the rain-soaked garden. The housekeeper had chocolate and eggs and muffins and fresh butter brought. Only Natalya’s insistence that she did not want fish or jam or sugar kept the housekeeper from sending servants for them.

  When the housekeeper apologized that Lord Ashcroft had taken the newspaper, she added in a small voice, “You do read, don’t you, my lord?”

  “Russian and English, Mrs. Winchell,” she answered as quietly.

  “Oh, my! Isn’t that wondrous?”

  Natalya was spared from having to answer the curious question when the housekeeper was called away. Grateful for the silence, she ate quickly. She would have liked to have read the morning’s newspaper, but that could wait. For now, her only duty was speaking to General Miloradovich.

  Going back through the passage to the foyer, Natalya was aware of curious gazes cutting in her back. She saw no one, but she guessed Lord Ashcroft’s servants were peering from the doorways. She could not fault them for being interested in the strangers in their midst. Wanting to tell them they need not worry about her and Petr intruding on their quiet existence much longer, she pulled her riding gloves from her sash.

  A footman waited in the foyer. He bowed toward her, but his eyes were large in his face as he stared at her. “Good morning, Lord Dem—”

  Hoping she would not have to repeat the same conversation with everyone in the house, she said, “I would like the horse Lord Ashcroft has made available brought about.”

  “Yes—”

  “My lord,” she supplied quietly.

  “Yes, my lord.” Relief lit his face as he hurried to convey her orders to the stable.

  Natalya went to look out the window by the door. The rain had faded to dreary drops diving into the puddles in the street. A few carts were on the far side of the square, but no one stood near this door. As her fingers lingered near her knife, she scanned the shadows beneath the trees in the heart of the square.

  “I doubt you shall be ambushed in the foyer of my house.”

  She whirled. Lord Ashcroft’s laugh came down the stairs before him. Stiffening, she slowly released her grip on her knife. “I know that.”

  “Then why are you acting as if you are reconnoitering the enemy’s position?”

  “I was merely looking at the square.”

  “Is that so?”

  As he stepped off the bottom riser, she fought not to throw back a sharp retort. She should have as little to do with Lord Ashcroft as possible. Last night, she had let him seduce sense from her head with his thrilling touch. Today, she must be resilient to him. Still, she could not help admiring how his light-brown pantaloons accented the lithe strength of his body. He moved with the grace of a dancer, each step measured until she was sure her very breath matched the pace. The coat he wore over a blue silk waistcoat matched the dark color of his mysterious eyes, which pierced her as his lips tightened into a straight line.

  “I see nothing has changed,” he continued when she did not answer.

  Let him be discomforted by her appearance! This was her life. And, whispered the small voice in her head, if he is angry, he will not touch you.

  “Did you expect it to?” she replied. “I bid you a good morning, Lord Ashcroft.”

  His brows lowered in a scowl worthy of Petr. “Why? You cannot be planning to go out alone.”

  “No?” She rested her hands on the hips of her gray pantaloons and tapped the toe of her boot against a bench by the door. “As you can see, my lord, I am dressed appropriately for a ride.”

  “For a man. But you are—”

  “Say no more!” She cursed under her breath in Russian, then demanded, “Is your pledge of such slight value to you that you break it without thought?”

  His face hardened into a mask of stone, and his voice contained no emotion. “I recall what I promised, Captain Dmitrieff, but my orders are to see to your comfort while you are a guest of my nation. I suspect you would find it most uncomfortable to be set upon by conveyancers.”

  “Conveyancers?”

  “Thieves.” His smile became ironic. “Surely you have their like in your homeland.”

  “Do not fear for me, my lord. A thief would be foolish to risk my ire.” Pulling on her riding gloves, she forced a smile. No other man discountenanced her as Lord Ashcroft did. She must put a swift end to this conversation before he discovered the truth. Even more vehemently than she was fighting him, she had to fight her own yearning to touch him.

  “But think of the fair prize they could steal from you.”

  “My lord, say nothing—”

  “Of the gold braid on your shoulder?” He ran a single finger along it and chuckled coldly when she stepped back before he could follow it along the front of her breast. Grasping the sash at her waist, he said, “This is, I believe, silk, which would bring a fair prize in the lowest shops.”

  She did not move as he tugged on the fabric. She gripped the sash and said, “Release me, my lord.”

  “Or?”

  She faltered. With another laugh, he wound the sash around his hand as he edged closer to her. She reached up to push him away, then drew back her hands before she could touch him.

  “Or what, Natalya?” he whispered. “What will you do?”

  “Do not ask of what you do not wish to know.”

  “Such as why I still breathe this morning?” He smiled icily. “Imagine my shock at waking this morning when I had half expected you to set your man upon me while I slept.”

  “You were able to sleep while that was in your mind?” She frowned, unable to imagine letting slumber overcome her while she awaited an attack.

  His eyes glittered a warning, but she could not look away before he murmured, “You should heed your own advice and not ask of what you do not wish to know. Or do you truly wish to know of what was in my mind while I slept, Natalya?” He grinned. “Or who?”

  “No!”

  “But, if I wish to tell you—” He cursed as she pulled her knife.

  Sharply, she cut through the sash, then slid the knife back in its sheath. “But, my lord, I do not wish to hear of it.” Without a pause, she added, “I trust I did not overstep myself by having a horse brought about to the front. You said it
was available to me at all times during my visit.”

  “I do not renege on offers of hospitality.” He threw the piece of sash onto the banister.

  “I am pleased to hear that you hold that pledge dear, my lord.”

  “I hold all my pledges dear, my dear count.” His frigid words failed to cover the fury sparking his eyes to dusky fire. With his hands clasped behind his back and his chin jutted in her direction, she guessed he was about ready to explode. She girded herself for the detonation.

  When he added only, “Good morning, Captain,” she was left to stare after him as he strode down the hall toward the breakfast-parlor. He did not look back, dismissing her as completely as she had him the night before.

  Baffled by his bizarre ways, but glad to have the encounter at an end, Natalya hurried out to where the horse was waiting. She swung easily into the saddle. Mounted, she was ready for any battle, but the feel of the leather against her legs offered sparse comfort. She had defeated stronger enemies than Lord Ashcroft, although, she had to own, none stranger. He should be her ally, but she could not trust him. Even though he had tried to hide the fact from the outset, she knew he wanted nothing to do with a Russian houseguest. To him, that she was a woman was just another bothersome detail. He wanted her gone as much as she wished to be elsewhere.

  She set the horse to a gallop around the square. The odd sound of cobbles beneath its hoofs made her yearn for the noise of frozen earth or fresh mud. The scents of the chimney pots were stifling on the morning breeze, and she longed to smell the aromas of campfires and the fats the men used to clean their weapons. She had hated London from the moment she saw it. She liked no city, not even beautiful St. Petersburg or Kiev. All of her life, save for the past months, had been spent in the country.

  Wishing she now could ride across the fields of her father’s estate was futile. Soon she would be back there. Then she would not have to think about Lord Ashcroft and the dangerous power his touch had over her. She must be gone from his house before his bewitchment claimed every ounce of sense in her head.

  General Miloradovich put down a crumpled newspaper as Natalya was ushered into his grand bedchamber, which appeared twice the size of her generous room at Lord Ashcroft’s house. He dismissed the servant with a flick of his hand and motioned for Natalya to come closer. Ignoring the buxom woman who was brushing her hair at the dressing table beside the bed, which was as rumpled as the newspaper, Natalya obeyed. She wondered when the general had managed to find this woman, for he had left his collection of mistresses in Russia.

  She almost smiled, but kept her face emotionless. No doubt Kapitán Radishchev had found this woman for the general. That seemed the insipid coward’s primary job.

  “Who is this?” asked the woman, whose red hair was several shades lighter than Lord Ashcroft’s. Her gaze swept Natalya up and down, and she giggled. “Is this one of your heroes, Karl?”

  “Be silent,” Miloradovich answered, flashing Natalya a wry smile. “Go, my dear, and ring for more hot chocolate. I think you emptied this pot.”

  She rose and gave him a kiss on his left jowl. Her smile vanished as she gave Natalya a sneer. When Natalya did not react, the woman left, slamming the door behind her.

  Natalya arched a single brow at the general, and he chuckled.

  “Pay her no mind, Dmitrieff. Her head is as empty as the chocolate pot.” Scratching his bewhiskered chin, he lit his pipe and asked, “Why are you bothering me at this hour?”

  “General Miloradovich, I am sorry to intrude, but I wish to request a change of residence.”

  He shook his head, rearranging the heavy smoke around it. “Impossible.”

  “But, General—”

  “Do not pester me with worthless requests, Dmitrieff.” He regarded her intently. “It is not like you to whine like a vexing woman. What is amiss?”

  Wanting to tell him the truth, but knowing that she could not explain without revealing the whole, she sighed. “I had thought to be closer to the Russian delegation in order to serve our czar better.”

  He puffed on his pipe as he rose and paced. His dressing gown of a most outrageous emerald green rippled across his full body. “You serve me best where you are right now.” Miloradovich rounded to face her. “Begone, Kapitán Dmitrieff, and do what you were brought here to do.”

  “Which is?”

  A feral smile pulled his thin lips back over his teeth. “Get to know Angliya and its people and their ways, of course. The czar wishes us to be more like these western Europeans. Now, begone.”

  Natalya obeyed, knowing she had no other choice, but, as she walked along the long corridor and down the stairs to the street, she could not shake off the feeling that General Miloradovich’s words had a meaning she was not privy to.

  But what could that be? She hoped her disquiet was nothing more than knowing she must go back and tell Petr she had failed to do as she had promised. It was going to be a most troublesome day.

  Four

  Creighton climbed the steps to the front door of the club, not stopping to answer any of the questions fired at him. He had not come to White’s for the company of his tie-mates, especially when all they wanted to speak of was his blasted guest. With that hulking Zass popping up at odd places throughout his house, Creighton needed to find a place where no Russian would be welcomed. Here, he could think clearly.

  What a to-do! All he had wanted, in the aftermath of the war, was to enjoy the whirl of the Season with his friends and the rest of the Polite World. Now he was afflicted with this Russian woman and her ridiculous secret.

  His hand clenched on the railing. How dare Natalya Dmitrieff wander about London in such a guise! If she had been honest—and he had no doubts that she had been—not even her superior officers knew of her sex. Was the male half of the world suddenly want-witted? Every motion she made betrayed she was a woman, from her slender hands emphasizing her words to the enticing sway of her hips as she had stormed out of his house.

  The small parlor was empty when he opened the door. That was good. He did not want even the hushed rumble of gambling to intrude on his thoughts. Going to a wing chair, he dropped into it and glowered at the unlit fire in the hearth.

  He had been a cabbage-head to agree to do nothing to expose Natalya Dmitrieff as the liar she was. His jaw clenched as he wondered if he could believe her, even now. Her story seemed a bit too pat. After she had spent years in service to Czar Alexander, it was unlikely no one knew the truth of her identity, save for Zass. Could everyone be blind?

  He had thought something was wrong from the moment he met Count Dmitrieff. Were all the Russians stupid that they had failed to take note of her unshaven cheeks and feminine features? No man had ever had such soft hair and inviting lips and her eyes … Those exotic eyes had burned into his brain last night and refused to be dislodged.

  Damme! Why had the chit been foisted off on him? Colonel Carruthers! Creighton’s brow furrowed with fury, then he warned himself that jumping to conclusions would prove he wanted for sense. Until he had a chance to question his colonel—obliquely, of course—he must assume that no one knew Natalya’s secret except for him and Zass.

  The sound of the latch lifting brought another curse to his lips, but it went unspoken as he recognized the man in the doorway. Barclay Lawson was as thin as an anatomy and had no more hair than a streetlamp. Wisely, in Creighton’s estimation, Barclay never had heard the summons to duty to protect England. Mayhap because he never had suffered the pain that had stalked Creighton during those last months before he sailed for the Continent. Barclay, the younger son of a baron who sat on a penniless bench, enjoyed the benevolence of his friends who were more plump in the pocket. His repartee and ability to drink all night and still play an intimidating game of cards endeared him to the ton.

  “Creighton! Enright told me he had seen you racing up the stairs as if all the dogs of hell were nipping at your heels.” He handed Creighton a glass of wine and sat in the chair across from him. �
�What is bothering you? I have seen a man on his way to die of a hempen fever with a more cheerful countenance.”

  Tapping the side of his glass, he took a reflective drink. “It is nothing of import.”

  “Nothing?” Barclay perched on the edge of his chair and clenched his fists on his knees. “Can this be the same man who announced to all who would listen that he was done with dreary thoughts of faithless Maeve Wilton and wished only to enjoy the pleasures of the Season?”

  “I did say that, but—”

  “No buts. How can you be so glum when we have been invited to Lady Eltonville’s hurricane tonight?” Putting his glass on the table next to his chair, he rubbed his hands together and laughed. “I have vowed to lighten John Hotz’s pocket of a few centuries before dawn. If you are to be my partner, Creighton, I need you to be in the proper state of mind.”

  Rising, Creighton walked to the window that overlooked St. James’s Street. Cheerless rain splattered at the window, but that did nothing to curtail the traffic below. Carriages rolled up to the door of the clubs, and men scurried through the downpour to pass the day with their comrades.

  With his hands locked behind him, he continued to stare out the window as he said, “I am obligated to play host to Count Dmitrieff.”

  “Who in the devil is that?”

  Creighton did not pretend to smile as he faced his friend. “Count Dmitrieff is my guest.”

  “Dmitrieff?” He nearly choked as he gasped, “But that name is—”

  “Russian.” He laughed without humor. “Colonel Carruthers took it into his idea-box to foist one of the officers in the Russian delegation into my house, so Dmitri Dmitrieff is my guest.”

  “You need to rid yourself of that commission with all due haste.”

  “True, but even if I were rid of the blasted thing today, I am obligated to play host to the count for the duration of his stay.”

  “You have too strong a sense of honor, Creighton. I thought I had broken you of such bad habits.” Barclay set himself on his feet. “I have heard the Russians can outdrink anyone. Mayhap we should get a few good bottles of brandy and see how long it takes to get this one altogethery.”