“No, for I have vowed Count Dmitrieff will rebuild my father’s dacha. I cannot break a blood vow.”
He brushed her cheek with his lips. “Will you stay with me tonight, Natalya? If we cannot have more than this one night, will you deny us this?”
“I … I don’t know.” She yearned to throw herself into his arms and tell him the truth within her heart.
“Will you think on this and give me an answer while I get you a glass of something to put the color back into your face?”
She raised her hands to her icy cheeks. “Yes.”
He put his hand over hers. “I hope your answer when I return is the same.”
Natalya leaned on the railing as Creighton walked into the ballroom. Was she mad? Even to consider sleeping by his side and then leaving, never to see him again, was insane. Yet this might be her last chance to know the real love she could share with a man. She touched her abdomen. This might be her only chance to give her father’s name an heir and herself a part of Creighton to take with her. How could she hold his child in her arms and not weep for the love she had relinquished in order to do as she vowed? She hid her face in her hands and fought not to cry.
Deep voices jarred on her ears, yanking her from her misery. Two men strode along the balcony. She tried to ignore them. What did she care what problems they had when—She stiffened. The men were speaking Russian!
Clinging to the shadows, she strained to hear what they were saying in such desperate whispers. She clenched her reticule as she heard, “… and, with Alexander dead, everything shall fall into place.”
“They are at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden at this very moment.” A rumbled laugh reached her ears, teasing her with its familiarity. She did not take time to try to identify it as she heard, “The czar shall not live to see the end of the merriment on the stage. Dead, just as we planned.”
Natalya pressed her hands over her mouth. Dear God! Creighton had been right. The threat had not been for them. It was for the czar and the Prince Regent. She had to get to the Theatre Royal and warn them.
Creighton!
No, she could not waste a moment. Not even to find him.
The two men continued along the balcony. She followed the railing in the other direction, then hurried toward a door into the ballroom.
She heard a shout. She spun. The two men were running toward her. Gathering up her dress, she raced into the ballroom.
“Ostanovítes!” came the bellow from behind her.
She had no intention of stopping. She ran back through the ballroom. Looking back, she saw the men gaining on her. Dash these silk slippers! She kicked them off and pulled open her reticule.
A hand grabbed her arm. She shook it off and raised the pistol. The sound was deafening as she fired. The ball struck a chandelier, sending crystal flying. Women screamed. Men shrieked.
She ran down the stairs and out onto the walkway. Pulling the reins from the hand of a startled groom, she mounted and raced down the street.
She had been a fool. The war was not over. She must warn the czar and keep the battle from flaring to life again. For if Alexander were slain on English soil, the fragile truce might fall apart … and she might have to face Creighton across a battlefield.
Twenty-two
Closing the fur collar of her uniform around her throat, Natalya strode toward the front stairs. Her sword slapped her leg comfortingly, and, at her waist, her pistol drew down the sash. She hoped she would need neither of them. The theater would be filled with those eager to see the Regent and his guests. Hints that the Regent’s wife might appear would add to the number crowding the floor and filling the boxes.
Even if she succeeded in stopping the assassination attempt, the ensuing uproar would reverberate through the rest of the czar’s stay in England. Alexander might order all his delegation immediately to Vienna. She would have to leave Creighton. She did not want this too-short, sweet interlude ending so soon.
But if she failed, this diplomatic visit between England and Russia could end in war. Both she and Creighton would be called to fight. How could she ride into the blinding smoke of cannon fire and slice into the enemy when he might be at the other end of her sword?
She could not fail. War had claimed too many of those she loved. She would not let its horror steal Creighton’s life as well. If she could save his life, she would do anything, even sacrifice her own.
“Petr!” she called up the back stairs. Where was he? She had thought he would be pacing the hall, ready to demand how she had skulked out of the house without him knowing.
No answer.
She started up the stairs, then paused as the front door crashed open. Natalya halted as she heard, “Is she—Where is—What the blazes is her name? Where is Natalya?”
She gripped the railing. The garbled words were unquestionably in Barclay Lawson’s voice. Frowning, she vowed to repay him for his drunken idiocy in delaying her. She had no time to make up some lie to keep him from rushing back to Creighton with the truth.
The footman answered, “Natalya, Mr. Lawson? There is no one of that name here.”
“Dmitri—By Jove, why can’t those blasted Russians have decent names that a man can pronounce?”
“Count Dmitrieff?” James supplied. “I do not know where the count is, Mr. Lawson. I can have a knock placed on his door. He might still be within because he did not go with Lord Ashcroft to—”
“Not he! Her! Natalya Dmitrieff!”
“Mr. Lawson, mayhap you should sit down. I fear you are befuddled.”
Natalya smiled and bit her lower lip to keep her laugh from swirling down the stairs.
“Where is she?”
“Mr. Lawson, please.” She heard amusement in James’s voice, although he remained gracious. “Please sit, and I shall do what I can.”
“Find her! Blast these Russians! They have manners better suited to a pigsty.”
Natalya shook her head, smiling. Barclay was always the same when he was in his cups. The whole world was beneath him, and it tried to draw him down to its ignoble level. Her urge to smile vanished when Barclay shouted after James, who was walking toward the back of the house.
“Find her! Creighton sent me to find her posthaste. ’Tis time to introduce her—really introduce her this time—to Maeve Wilton. Thinks it’s about time the two came face-to-face. Time to make Maeve sorry she spurned him. Bother, man! Go and find the chit!”
“No,” she whispered as she edged away from the steps. Creighton could not plan to break his pledge of silence. Even if he thought she would deny him his request to stay with him tonight, he should not be turning immediately to Maeve! He could not, not if he were the man she believed him to be.
Squaring her shoulders, she ran to the back stairs. Nothing must stop her from warning the czar. Not even her own broken heart.
Creighton stepped out of his carriage. A hand seized his in a death grip. Gently, he peeled away the fingers to free himself. “You will be fine, Maeve.”
“Oh, Creighton, please let me stay here with you.” She pressed her hand to her bodice, offering him a good view of the cleavage above it. “I am so deeply unsettled. To have someone firing a gun at a ball—I fear I will swoon.”
“I believe if you were going to, you would have done so by now.” He closed the door. When she peered out the window, he said, loudly enough so the coachee could hear, “I shall have the carriage take the smoothest streets to your house.”
“Dear Creighton, don’t leave me like this.”
“You shall be fine.”
Her plea became a pout. “It is that Russian woman, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said, slapping the side of the carriage. He did not have time to disabuse Maeve of her misapprehensions, even if he had wished to. Let her think he wished to hurry to Tatiana’s side when, in truth, the only woman on his mind was Natalya.
She must have fired the gun in the ballroom. No other woman would be there with a pistol. The few witnesses, wh
o were not so hysterical they could not be believed, had agreed a woman had shot the gun. It had to have been Natalya, but whom had she been shooting at and why? Where was she now?
He rushed up the steps as the carriage went around the square. Pushing past James as the door opened, he shouted, “Where is the count?”
“Just what I wanted to know,” grumbled Barclay. “Where is she?”
Creighton seized his friend by the lapels and demanded, “What in perdition are you doing here?”
“Came to find Natalya.”
Looking over his shoulder, Creighton snapped, “Close the door and your mouth, James. Not a word to anyone, do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” he replied, although his baffled expression contradicted his assertion. He scurried away.
Barclay eased out of Creighton’s grip and hiccuped loudly. “Where is she? She should be here. I saw her riding neck-or-nothing from Carruthers’ house.”
“So you followed her?” Creighton wondered if any jury would convict him if he strangled Barclay right here and now. It would be, in his estimation, justifiable homicide.
“Wanted to bring her back and let Maeve see her real competition.” He dropped to sit on the first step.
“Who knows you plan to do that?”
“Just told that witless footman of yours. Argued with me like a child, he did.”
James edged around the corner and whispered, “My lord?”
“Yes?”
The footman cringed at his sharp answer. “Thought you might want to know that Count Dmitrieff was seen just a few minutes ago in the kitchen. He—” He swallowed roughly. “The count took his horse and rode off.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Wearing?”
“Yes, man, answer me! What was he wearing?”
“His uniform, I suppose. One of the girls in the kitchen mentioned it was a hot night for all that wool and fur up under his chin.”
Creighton swore. “Was that after Barclay spouted off the truth?”
“The truth?” James’s eyes grew wide. “Then the count is a woman? He is a she?” He gulped as Creighton glowered at him. “Yes, my lord, it was after Mr. Lawson’s arrival and demand to see him—er, her.”
Creighton pounded his fist on the newel post. “She had to have heard you, Barclay. You must have been fed with a fire shovel as a lad! That dashed big mouth of yours!”
“I wanted to talk to her. I assumed she would come here. I was right. Where else would she go?”
Creighton did not think the question was worthy of an answer. Where else, indeed! Natalya had proven she could defeat any knight of the pad, and, by now, she might be anywhere in London or beyond. Something had sent her fleeing from the ball as if she were Cinderella. Something had changed her from this evening’s faerie princess back into a Russian cavalry captain.
But what?
Dismissing James again, Creighton said, “If you had kept your mouth shut, Barclay, and let me do what I know better than you how to do—”
“I know you are the brave and dashing war hero, Creighton, but the point of the matter was that you had your hands full with two women at the moment that shot went off.” He staggered to his feet. “I saw you encircled by them. That Russian woman was fawning over you, and Maeve was acting like the queen of the May. I couldn’t do anything about Tatiana, but I thought it would do Maeve good to see exactly whom she intended to use to make your nose swell with jealousy.”
“You moonling! Do you think I care what Maeve wants?”
“You always have. Far too much.” Barclay tried to square his shoulders but clutched the banister to keep himself on his feet. “Egad, Creighton! You have never appreciated a single thing I have done for you.”
“And what have you done for me other than endangering Natalya by spouting off the truth?”
He grinned broadly. “I persuaded Maeve you weren’t ready to settle down, so she took up with that chuckle-head—What was his name?”
“You did what?” He gripped his friend’s lapels again. He was about to shake him when Barclay’s face turned a threatening shade of greenish gray. Shoving Barclay aside, he demanded, “How could you interfere with my plans to marry Maeve?”
“You really didn’t want to marry her.” He collapsed back onto the riser and looked up at Creighton like a faithful pup. “Besides, we were having too much fun for you to buckle yourself to any woman.”
“So you decided that my not marrying her would make me happy?”
“I decided that you not marrying her would make me happy.” He belched, and the gray tint deepened. “And you, too, Creighton. We were enjoying our bachelor’s life too much to put an end to it so soon. Bleat all you want, but the truth is that you are glad you didn’t marry her.”
Creighton fought back his anger. “Yes, but not for the reason you interfered with our plans.”
“It’s because of her, isn’t it? You are befuddled by a woman who wants everyone to think she’s a man!” He laughed and slapped his thigh. The motion knocked him against the banister.
“Natalya! I have to find her!”
Squinting, Barclay peered at him. Creighton cursed and pushed past him. He took the stairs three at a time, shouting for Zass. If the man were still here, then Natalya could not have gone far.
Mrs. Winchell hurried toward him. “Thank God you are here, my lord. I believe we have had thieves in the house.”
“Thieves?” His stomach lurched. Could Natalya have been right about the stupid threat? If the assassins had come while she was here alone, it might not have been her the kitchen girls had seen but a man paid to kill her.
“This way.”
He followed the housekeeper into the front parlor. Ignoring the shrouded furniture, he ran to the back of the room. He stared at the empty gun case. Glass was littered on the floor and crunched beneath his boots as he walked closer. In the dim light from the hall, he saw a bloody cloth on the carpet. Someone must have wrapped it around a fist and driven it through the glass. The pistols and gunpowder were gone.
Bending, he picked up the cloth. Natalya? He could not believe that. She would be wiser than to risk herself like this. With a curse, he tossed it back onto the floor. Mayhap not Natalya, but Zass would shed this much blood and more to help her.
“Was anyone seen?” he asked as he pulled his sword from the ruined case.
Mrs. Winchell wrung her apron in her hands. “No one, my lord. You know none of us are supposed to be in this room.”
“Blast!” His own stupid order, which had done nothing but make him look like a gawney, had allowed Zass or someone else free access to the guns. Even as he had chided Natalya for not letting go of what had happened, he had kept this room as a memorial to his own stupidity. “Get someone in here to clean this up.”
“In here?”
“Yes, clean up the whole room. ’Tis time all of us put the past behind us.”
Her next question was halted by shouts from the lower hall.
Creighton rushed out of the room. He ignored Mrs. Winchell’s shriek when he passed her. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword as he ran down the stairs. Too many times tonight he had not been prepared. He would not be caught so again.
A man stood in the middle of the foyer. He wore a navy coat over dusty white pantaloons. Tawny hair twisted across his forehead and matched the thick mustache over his taut lips. As he shoved past James, his assertive steps slowed, and his gaze locked with Creighton’s.
“Are you Lord Ashcroft?” he asked, not waiting for the harried footman to announce him.
“Yes. Who are you?” He had no time to waste on pleasantries, not even with this man whose single question had been enough to label him as Russian.
“I wish to see Kapitán Dmitrieff.”
Creighton shook his head. “He is not here.”
The man’s stern face softened only slightly. “I wish to see Kapitán Natalya Dmitrieff.”
Hearing Barclay’s soft curse fr
om the bottom step, Creighton lowered his sword so the tip rested on the carpet on the stairs. It would be a reminder for the Russian not to do something he soon would regret. “Who are you?”
The man climbed partway up the stairs and reached beneath his coat.
“Take care, Creighton!” cried Barclay.
The Russian ignored Barclay as Creighton did. He drew out a card, and, bowing, handed it to Creighton as he said, “Lord Ashcroft, I need to speak with Kapitán Dmitrieff immediately. Would you please inform her of my arrival?”
“The captain is not here.” He risked a glance at the card and laughed shortly. “How do you expect me to read this? It is in Russian. Who in blazes are you?”
The man peered around the foyer. “Is there someplace where we can speak in private?”
“Don’t let him come any closer!” Barclay called, jumping to his feet. “You can’t trust him.”
“Ignore Barclay,” Creighton said with a sigh. “We can speak in my book-room.”
“We can speak there without anyone overhearing?”
“Yes, of course.” Looking past the Russian, he ordered, “Mrs. Winchell, let no one interrupt until I ring.”
“Yes, my lord,” she answered uneasily.
Creighton had hoped Barclay would have the good sense to go home, but his friend stumbled up the stairs after them and into the book-room. Praying Barclay would not be ill on the good rug, Creighton closed the door and turned to the man who still had not told them his name.
“No one shall overhear us now,” Creighton said, fingering the hilt of his sword. “I would appreciate the courtesy of your name, sir.”
“Dmitri Dmitrieff.”
“But you are dead!” choked Barclay.
Creighton was glad Barclay had uttered the jobbernowl words before they had burst from his own lips. He appraised the Russian anew. Although the man’s eyes were brown, they had the same tilt as Natalya’s. Even more revealing was the stubborn angle of his chin, which was a twin of Natalya’s when she was exasperated and determined to have her way.
Frowning, he asked, “If you are truly Count Dmitrieff, where have you been while your sister has been fighting the French in your stead?”
The Counterfeit Count Page 21