The Counterfeit Count

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Before she could do more than gasp at the bolt of pleasure ripping through her at his touch, he pulled back his hands. She raised her arms to his shoulders. He moved aside, his face naked of expression.

  “I do not want you guarding me like a sentry, Natalya.” His voice was whetted with an anger that shocked her. “Keep yourself and your huge bear of a watch-dog away from me. Do your duty for Russia here and wherever else you go. I want no more of this.”

  Natalya stared after him as he grabbed his coat and charged out of the room. Moments ago, he had been joking with her. She stared down at her hands. Just the promise of her touch had sent him fleeing.

  Tears filled her throat. She should be grateful for his cold words. He was right. Her duty was not here. It was to her family, as it always had been. Letting herself become bedazzled by the caresses of an Englishman would betray her vow to get her vengeance on those who had slain her family and to see the latest Count Dmitrieff in the restored dacha amid burgeoning orchards and fields.

  “My lord?”

  She forced a smile for James. “Good morning.”

  “Here are the messages that have been delivered for you this morning, my lord.”

  Thanking him, Natalya read through the dozen notes as she walked toward her room. Count Dmitrieff would become quite the one to dine about amid the Polite World if she accepted even half of these invitations. She winced as she opened one with florid handwriting. It was to remind Count Dmitrieff to be certain to call during Maeve’s next at-home.

  The last one was addressed to both her and Creighton. She broke the sealing wax and unfolded it. With a smile, she read it. Colonel Carruthers was hosting a masquerade ball on Monday night next. Monday night next! The date of the threat in the note. Creighton would insist on attending, even though he could be the target of murderers.

  She must protect him from his own folly. But how? A slow smile spread across her face as she stared at the sunshine sweeping all the shadows from the stairs.

  A masquerade ball was perfect for what she needed. The assassins would be looking for Lord Ashcroft and Count Dmitrieff. If she went in disguise, no one would guess the truth of her identity, for her face could be concealed behind a full mask. A domino would be too dangerous.

  Yes, a mask would work. She could watch over Creighton without him knowing she was there. It would be perfect. All she needed was the right costume.

  Her smile broadened. She knew just the perfect one.

  Natalya spread the skirt across the bedcovers and smiled. Borrowing this gown from the laundry behind the kitchen had been easier than she had guessed. The heavier material of a servant’s dress would conceal her lack of proper smallclothes to wear with it. She frowned. What did a fine lady wear beneath those slender, sheer gowns?

  A deep gasp burst from behind her. She gathered up the gown and rolled it into a ball as she turned to see the astonishment on Petr’s face.

  “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” she cried.

  “Forgive me.” He fingered his beard as his eyes narrowed. “What is that?”

  “Nothing of import.”

  “A dress?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “For you?” He frowned. “Grazhdánka Natalya, you must be careful of which path you choose now.”

  Natalya stared at him, astounded. He had not called her “Miss Natalya” since the day they crawled from their hiding place to see the horror left by the French. That day, as they took a pledge to see their enemies pay for their crimes with their lives, she had become his captain.

  “Petr, you are worrying needlessly. It is nothing but a serving woman’s dress.”

  “For you?”

  “There is to be a masquerade ball.”

  “And you will go as a woman?” He shuddered. “I feared this would happen.”

  “What would happen? I do not understand.”

  His scowl etched lines deep into his tanned forehead. “The anglíski lord. He wants more than friendship from you.”

  “You are wrong. He let me know at breakfast that he wishes me out of his life with all speed.”

  “You believed him?”

  “Of course. He made his feelings quite clear. He does not believe the threatening note you found presents a peril to him, and he wishes to live his life as he alone sees fit.”

  His beard jutted toward her. “He lies.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I am a man. I know how a man thinks.”

  “Good.” She dropped the wrinkled dress on the bed. “Then enlighten me, for I cannot understand why he resists my offer of our help to protect his life and ours. It makes no sense.”

  “It is not my place to say anything.”

  She fisted her hands on her waist. “Be honest with me, Petr. Give me some insight into why Creighton is acting as he is.”

  “I know only what I have seen, and, if you wish me to be honest, I shall say I am not sure if your father would be pleased to see his daughter share the bed of an anglíski lord.”

  Her eyes widened. She had not been mistaken. The door had opened to her bedchamber the night Creighton offered her comfort from her memories. Petr must have come to check on her. He would have seen … She must not think of that now, for even the memory of Creighton’s arms around her urged her to rush to him so he might enclose her in those strong arms again. She had as lief to think how stubborn he was, and how she must save his life, whether he wished her to or not.

  Rubbing her hands together, she said, “You need not worry about my father’s dismay, for Creighton has no interest in marrying anyone. He wishes to be as free of hindrances in his life as his inimitable friend Barclay Lawson.”

  Rage lowered his brows. “He would dishonor you and—”

  “Lord Ashcroft has done nothing to dishonor me.” She looked away so she did not have to hide her pain as she spoke the truth, “He sees me as a comrade-in-arms, as you and the other men do.”

  “In his arms?”

  “Petr!”

  He picked up the dress and snapped wrinkles from the fabric as he held it in front of her. Handing it to her, he said, “I am glad, for I have no wish to stay in this pale country. I long for the fresh air and beauty of our homeland. Will we return there soon?”

  “I pray so.” She smiled grimly. “Once I am certain we all have survived Monday next.”

  The modiste’s shop was empty when Natalya opened the door. The heavy aroma of roses nearly drove her back to the street. She took a deep breath of the pungent air off the walkway, then plunged inside.

  The modiste peeked out from the back of the shop. She was not wearing the generous smile she had when Creighton had entered the shop.

  Natalya brushed her hands against the simple material of her gown. It announced her place in society as surely as if she wore a sign. Mayhap she should have gone to another shop, mayhap serving lasses did not come here, but she was unsure where she might find another couturière.

  “Are you Madame Barbeau?” she asked, thickening her accent to mock Tatiana’s.

  “Yes.” She edged out of the back. “Are you one of the Russians?”

  “Yes, I am Grazhdánka Butovshyj. Miss Butovshyj.” Smiling, she turned slowly to look at the bolts of fabric displayed on the wall. “I have heard you are one who can work miracles. I need a gown for a masquerade.”

  “What do you seek?”

  “Silk.” The word popped out before she could halt it.

  “Excellent choice, mademoiselle.”

  Natalya smothered her wince at the French phrase. The modiste had also lost much because of that Corsican beast, so it would behoove Natalya to ignore how being addressed in French sickened her.

  “Do you have an idea of a color?” continued Madame Barbeau. “With your golden hair, you would look very classic in white, but you can wear nearly any shade to a masquerade.”

  She touched a mother-of-pearl silk set on the lowest rack. “How about this?”

  “That is très cher.
” She eyed Natalya, clearly trying to appraise the number of coins in her purse by the quality of her clothes. “Very expensive.”

  “The occasion is special. All of the lady’s household should look their best.” She lowered her voice. “The Regent himself may be in attendance.”

  “If you wish.” She jotted some numbers on a sheet of paper and offered it to Natalya. “The matching mask would be a few guineas more, depending on how much lace or gems you wish on it.”

  Natalya hoped her gulp did not reach the seamstress’s ears. She had been with her father when he negotiated for a pair of fine horses. Their price had been less than what this dress would cost. “I will agree if you can have the dress ready for me to wear Monday next.”

  “Monday next? Impossible.”

  “But, Madame Barbeau—”

  “Impossible!” She muttered something else in French under her breath.

  “I shall pay half in advance.”

  The modiste’s eyes narrowed as a sly smile tipped her lips. “All in advance.”

  “But if the dress is not finished—”

  “It shall be finished.” She held out her hand. “However, I must delay not a second more.”

  Natalya reached into the bodice of her gown to draw out her leather purse. As she counted out the coins, Madame Barbeau sniffed and added that she would include a proper reticule for Natalya.

  “Thank you,” Natalya said, trying not to think how few coins remained in the bag. “When will I need to come in for fittings and—”

  The street door opened. Natalya turned and stifled a groan. How much more could go wrong today?

  “Bonjour, madame,” Maeve Wilton called out in a cheery voice. As she untied the ribbons on her wide-brimmed straw bonnet, she said, “I see you have another customer.”

  “One of the Russians visiting our country,” the modiste answered with so much pride that Natalya would have guessed the Frenchwoman had sought out Natalya for her business.

  “Russian?” Maeve raised a quizzing glass to her eye and asked, “Do I know you?”

  “I think not, grazhdánka,” she said, edging toward the door.

  “Odd, for I am almost certain we have met before.” Maeve slipped off her paisley shawl and smiled at the modiste. “Mayhap it was here.”

  “Mademoiselle Butovshyj is visiting my shop for the first time,” the seamstress said.

  “Do not hurry away,” Maeve urged. “Come and talk with me while Madame gets us some tea.”

  Natalya glanced at the modiste, whose lips were pursed at the idea of running errands for her patrons. “I believe she is busy.”

  “Nonsense. She always brings me tea.” Maeve smiled with arrogant self-assurance. “Don’t you, Madame?”

  “Certainly, Mademoiselle Wilton.” The seamstress went toward the back of the shop. “Once you have enjoyed your tea, I can take your measurements, Mademoiselle Butovshyj.”

  Maeve swept the pattern books from the table and sat in the closest chair. Motioning for Natalya to take the other, she said, “I know we may never have met, but I have had the good fortune to be introduced to several of your countrymen. Do you know Count Dmitrieff?”

  “The name is known to me, although I have not met the count in London.” As she sat, her feet pressed against the floor, eager to speed her out of the shop. “He is not within our household.”

  “He is staying with Lord Ashcroft. Do you know anything of the man?”

  “I have heard he is a war hero.”

  Maeve waved that aside as Madame Barbeau set a tea tray in front of them. Not even bothering to thank the modiste, she replied, “That matters nothing to me. Does the count have a wife?”

  “No.” She bit her lip to keep from laughing. This was all so absurd. Never had she imagined such a contretemps when she first had chosen to fulfill her brother’s obligation to the czar.

  “A fiancée?”

  “None that I have heard of.”

  Raising her quizzing glass, Maeve peered through it. “Are you sure we have not met before this?”

  “I am only recently arrived in London. We came with the czar’s party.” She pointed to the modiste, who was hastily gathering all she needed to make the dress for the masquerade. “I have had time only to come here in order to have a gown ready for the assembly in honor of the Russian delegation.”

  “Monday next,” muttered Madame Barbeau. “She gives me only until Monday next to make a gown fit for such an evening.”

  Natalya opened her mouth to reply, but Maeve interjected, “Pay her no mind. Madame mumbles like that every time I come in.”

  “Grazhdánka—”

  “Maeve. You must call me Maeve.” Her forehead furrowed. “What is your given name?”

  “Natalya.” She was unsure how many other names she could reply to without revealing the truth, so her own name might be best.

  “So you know nothing else of the count, Natalya?”

  Deciding to take the offense, she poured herself a cup of tea and said, “You seem obsessed with the count. Do you have affection for him?”

  “Not exactly, but I wish to know more of the man.” Maeve smiled secretively as she stirred more sugar into her tea. “I do not know how things are done in Russia, but here the way to a man’s heart is often through another man’s.”

  “So you wish to convince someone else that you have affection for him by pretending to be bemused by the count?” She smiled. She did not have to ask who was the target of Maeve’s campaign, which seemed as carefully thought out as an attack on the French. Creighton must still hold a place in Maeve’s heart, or, she corrected herself as she noted Maeve’s possessive smile, Maeve Wilton intended to ensnare his affections anew. “Your English ways are most confusing.”

  “Men are confusing.”

  On that, Natalya was ready to agree wholeheartedly. Somehow she had to determine why Creighton was acting the way he was before both of them ended up dead. She hoped this was the way, or Maeve Wilton might soon be weeping at the funerals of both Count Dmitrieff and Lord Ashcroft.

  Twenty-one

  When boot heels pounded into the room, Natalya did not look up from cleaning her own boots. She recognized the sound of Creighton’s furious steps with an ease that threatened to break her heart anew. During the past few days, he had said barely a score of words to her.

  Without the courtesy of a greeting, he demanded, “What do you mean by leaving me a note that you aren’t attending Colonel Carruthers’ masquerade tonight?”

  “I do not wish to go.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “Afraid?” She looked up at him, then quickly away before she found herself admiring the excellent cut of his coat and how his breeches accented the strong line of his legs. “Do not be absurd! I am not afraid of your anglíski thieves.” She bent to rub harder against the spot on her boot.

  He snatched it away.

  “Creighton!”

  Tossing it into the corner, he said, “I would appreciate your undivided attention, Natalya.”

  “Creighton, watch what you say!”

  His snort was as outraged as any she had heard from Barclay. “Why do you expect everyone else to heed me when you pay me less attention than the mud on your boots?”

  “When you act like this, you should not be surprised that your petulance is ignored.”

  He reached toward her, then clamped his arms across his chest. “Dammit, Natalya!” He cursed. “Don’t glare at me! I shall call you what I wish.”

  With a sigh, she drew off her other boot. She set it by the chair and stood. “I am tired of this endless round of parties where everyone talks and no one says anything. Please extend my apologies to Colonel Carruthers, but I doubt if anyone will miss me amidst the gaiety.”

  “So you are just going to hide here like a coward?”

  She clenched her hands in front of her. “I am no coward.”

  “I think you are.” He leaned on the back of the chair and smiled icily. “Are you g
oing to strike me with your fists?”

  “No.” She forced her fingers to uncurl. She did not want to hit him; she wanted to draw his arms around her as she melted to him. If he would lower his guard for even a moment, she might—No, she could not. She must not.

  “No? Afraid?”

  “I would not be silly enough to bruise my knuckles on your hard head when ’tis clear even such a blow would not be enough to knock sense into you. Today is June 13. Today is the day the Russian and his host may die.”

  Turning slowly with his arms outstretched, he said, “No holes in me yet.”

  “Only in your skull!” She tapped his forehead.

  He caught her wrist in a grip as strangling as a vise. Something flickered in his eyes when his fingers softened to stroke the inside of her wrist. Then he pushed her hand away, saying, “Enjoy your evening alone, Natalya. I hear General Miloradovich plans to leave for Vienna soon. Good riddance to both of you.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “From the good general himself.” His smile remained cold. “Mayhap you would hear the same if you didn’t cling to this house like a child afraid of its shadow.”

  Natalya gathered up her boots and left him to stew in his own misconceptions. Dash it! She was going to save his neck, if for no other reason than to prove that she was right. Then … She did not want to think of then or why General Miloradovich was planning to leave London so soon without telling her.

  Natalya turned slowly in front of the looking glass. The sensation of silk against her legs and curling around her shins was almost decadent. For more than two years, she had worn ponderous boots and the bulky wool uniform of a cavalryman. She turned again to look into the glass and gasped.

  Reflected back to her was her memory of Mama. Touching the white ribbon in her hair, which possessed the same gold aura as her mother’s, she swept her hands along the sides of her gown. Slowly, her fingers touched the bodice. As a child, she had rested her head against Mama’s breasts and been comforted in the wake of a nightmare.

  Just as Creighton had comforted her. Yet his embrace had been so unlike Mama’s, for Mama had offered solace and Creighton’s arms promised passion beyond even her most daring fantasies.