The Counterfeit Count (12 page)

Ten

“This is all that is left for old soldiers, I fear,” General Miloradovich grumbled beneath the blithe music. When Natalya plucked a glass of champagne from a tray and handed it to him, he added, “Nothing but to stand by the side of a ballroom and watch the young fools flirt with the women.”

“A respite from the war is welcome,” Natalya answered in the Russian he spoke, although Colonel Carruthers still stood beside him. “You have said so yourself, sir.”

He focused his frown on her. “But for the rest of our days? I forget. You are as eager to put your military days behind you as your host Marshall. You are determined to return to that patch of ground the French destroyed.”

“It is my duty.”

“As mine is to protect our country, and I may never have another chance.” Folding his arms atop his broad belly, he stamped away.

Colonel Carruthers gasped, “Is something amiss with General Miloradovich? If there is something he wishes which has not been provided, he needs only to request it.”

Natalya smiled and switched to English. “'Tis nothing. The general always growls like a leashed dog when he grows tired of his latest mistress. It appears his newest conquest has already begun to bore him, even though he must have met her less than two days ago.”

“Women!” the colonel muttered with a sigh.

“Now there is an uncommonly interesting topic.”

At Creighton's wry tone, Natalya glanced over her shoulder. She was surprised he had returned without Miss Suvorov in tow. “It seems, Creighton, your fortune has turned as sour as the general's.”

“He did seem distressed when he halted me from asking Miss Suvorov for a second dance.”

“Did he?” She turned to look across the room, although she cared less about finding the general than avoiding Creighton's gaze. A second dance! She had thought Creighton would be eager to rid himself of Miss Suvorov's company with all due speed. Brushing her hands against her gray pantaloons, she kept her voice light as she said, “I believe he might have matters other than this evening's entertainment on his mind.”

“She
is
his niece, isn't she?” asked Colonel Carruthers.

Natalya smiled at the colonel, who wore a most discomfited frown. “Yes, she is, and I doubt if she often gets a second thought from him.”

“Mayhap he thinks of the czar's impending arrival,” the colonel offered.

“That should be soon,” Creighton said, drawing Natalya's eyes back to him. “Then all of London will be agog with excitement.” He smiled and gestured toward the opposite wall. “Colonel, if you will excuse us, I have a friend who needs rescuing from his own folly. Demi?”

Natalya walked with him across the ballroom. She affixed a smile on her lips as she paused again and again as she was greeted by the many young women filling the room. A quick glance at Creighton warned her he was amused by the attention paid to her.

His hand on her shoulder steered her away from one miss who was more persistent than the others. “You have an odd effect on the ladies, Demi.”

“I doubt if any of them have met a Russian cavalry officer before tonight. They think of me as unique.”

“Or, mayhap, they think of you as a kindred spirit.”

“Creighton, be careful what—”

He chuckled. “I am most careful. 'Tis you who reads more into my words than they contain. I spoke only of these ladies who are looking for exotic adventure and think they have found it in you who epitomize the daring rake who has set his nation's welfare above his own.”

“A description that fits you as well.”

“Does it?” He did not give her a chance to answer as he stopped in front of Mr. Lawson. The balding man was sitting, his arms folded in front of his chest, his toe tapping impatiently against the floor. “I thought to find you gone and looking for trouble by now, Barclay.”

Mr. Lawson scowled at her, then squinted at Creighton. “And miss the entertaining tableau of you dancing with a fair Russian bauble? You have garnered quite the eye for Russian ladies, Creighton.”

“Have you met many others?” Natalya asked, keeping her voice even.

“No.” Creighton's mouth worked, and she hoped he would not betray her with a laugh.

She sighed with relief when Mr. Lawson came to his feet and swayed. He slapped Creighton soundly on the arm. “What do you say to us gentlemen retiring somewhere to where we might enjoy the cloud of a funker?”

“A what?” She was beginning to think these Englishmen never spoke the language she had struggled to learn.

“A cigar.” Creighton smiled. “Lead on, Barclay. Coming, Demi?”

She was about to say no when Lawson clamped his arm around her shoulders. The odor of rum billowed from him, and she wondered where he had obtained a bottle. Lady Eltonville was serving only champagne.

“Of course the count is going to come with us,” he announced. “No man in his right mind would stay here when he could enjoy raising a cloud while we arrange our duel. Correct?”

Natalya nodded, although she had hoped the night would come to an end now. She was too tired to play out another charade. Sleep had been elusive last night, and today had been long and tense as she struggled to deal with these English who were nothing as she had expected and sensations she had never guessed existed. Sensations that rushed through her whenever she was close to Creighton.

Following Creighton, who was half-supporting Mr. Lawson, into a small room across the hall, she was surprised to discover it was empty. A trio of lamps burned brightly, glowing on the white satin covering the pair of settees and the chairs flanking them. Paintings of horses and dogs filled the walls, which were sheathed in light-blue silk. A window might hide behind the massive navy drapes, but not even a hint of starlight could get through the thick fabric.

Mr. Lawson reeled to a table behind a settee. He opened a box and withdrew a cigar. Fumbling, he lit it and held it out to Natalya. When she shook her head, he took a puff himself before saying, “Creighton, it is time to talk about the duel.”

“Yes, it is.” He motioned surreptitiously to Natalya.

She squared her shoulders. Just the thought of lying was bitter on her tongue, but she had to admire Creighton's loyalty to a friend who was so obnoxious. “Mr. Lawson, I have accepted your challenge to a duel, but I request we follow the procedures that we follow in Russia.”

“‘When in Rome …'” Mr. Lawson slapped his leg, laughing uproarishly.

“Barclay, heed the count.”

Swaying, he dropped into a chair. “Speak on, my good man.”

Natalya nodded. “Very well. In Russia, it is customary to allow a week—”

“Or two,” interjected Creighton.

“Yes,” she said, as his compelling gaze held hers. “A week or two, usually a fortnight, is traditional.”

“Why?” asked Barclay.

“Why?” she repeated. Mayhap the fool was not as intoxicated as she had believed. She did not dare to falter at this point. “To be honest, Mr. Lawson, I do not know. You know how traditions are. They get started, and people follow them, even if they don't know why.”

“Absurd!”

“Mayhap so, but that is the way things are done in my homeland.” She regarded him coolly. “Do you agree to these terms?”

“Only if your traditions allow the challenger to have the choice of weapons.”

Creighton scowled. “Now see here, Barclay. You are asking too much of her—” He gulped as Natalya gasped. Flashing her an apologetic smile, he hurried to add, “Sorry.
Herr
is Prussian, not Russian. You are asking too much of the count.”

Natalya bit her lip, fearing Mr. Lawson might take too much notice of Creighton's near slip. She realized she had no need for worry when he came to his feet and grinned.

“Very well. I withdraw my request,” the bald man said. “However, I will accede to your request for a delay of two weeks. It will give me time to enjoy imagining how I shall make you rue the day you nearly ran me down.”

“I regret that already,” she said, but quietly. She did not want to infuriate him more. It might bring unwanted attention to her.

Again she discovered she did not need to fret, for Mr. Lawson continued, “Creighton, you always have the good fortune to find the most beautiful and willing woman among a crowd. Who was that dark-haired Russian angel I saw you dancing with?”

“Tatiana Suvorov, and I would say she found me.”

Natalya sat on a wing chair and clasped her hands around her knee as she balanced one polished boot on the other knee. Glad at the turn of the conversation, she chuckled. “More accurately, she has
selected
you to entertain her while she is in London.”

Lawson laughed. “What better?”

“As she selected a duke in Prussia and a
comte
in France, I should add.”

“I thought she did not know you.” Creighton opened a bottle and poured three glasses of brandy.

“The general's niece and her activities have long entertained the men under his command.” She took the glass he held out to her, being careful his fingers did not brush hers. Raising it, she said, “
Za váshe zdoróv 'ye
!”

“Leave off with those blasted Russian words! Who do you think can understand such sounds?” grumbled Lawson. “Why can't you just speak English?”

“To your health!” she said with a smile. It was shockingly easy to unsettle Barclay Lawson.

Creighton chuckled as he asked, “Do you offer me a warning about Miss Suvorov, my friend? Or simply do you wish to inform me that her tastes usually are for peers of higher rank than I?”

Natalya managed to mumble some answer. Not sure if Creighton heard it as Lawson continued to jest with him, she stared down into the brandy in her glass. He had not called her “my friend” before, and the term bothered her more than it should. She was not sure why, for as long as she was required to remain beneath his roof, it would be better to have an amicable relationship.

Looking at him, she could not keep from admiring the breadth of his shoulders and the cool confidence of his voice, which came from those lips she must not imagine on hers. Yes, she knew exactly why the term bothered her. When he had touched her, the sensations, sweet and irrefutably seductive, had been nothing she should feel for a man who called her friend. That she understood, but what she could not understand was why she was drowning in misery when he was offering her exactly what she wanted.

She did not understand at all.

“How can you maintain this pace?” Natalya yawned widely as she reached for the morning paper in the middle of the table in the breakfast-parlor. “For the past week, we have spent every night at some soirée until long past midnight. I am more exhausted than I was during the march on Paris. I have heard your Season here in London goes on for months. What do you do to keep from falling asleep in the middle of a hand of cards?”

Taking a sip of his coffee, Creighton said, “Few in the
ton
rise with the dawn as you choose to do, Natalya. They wisely prefer to view the sun only when it is reaching its zenith.”

“After so many years, rising early is a habit I cannot disabuse myself of.”

“My problem as well.” He smiled. “The solution to your other problem seems to be unfolding perfectly. Barclay is totally bamboozled by all the customs you keep inventing for a Russian duel.” He chuckled. “What is this I hear about the so-called Russian custom of having to dance a waltz the night before the duel?”

She smiled. “He was insistent for an explanation.”

“And that was the best you could do?”

“I fear I am running out of ideas. I spoke of the need to have the weapons sit in the light of a full moon and how the duelists must not sleep for two nights before the duel and …” She shook her head. “I don't remember what else. If he were not drunk every evening, he would soon see through my silly stories.”

“Be thankful he is foxed. Otherwise, you would have been obligated to meet him on the field of honor.”

“Honor?” She smiled her disagreement. “Only a carpet-knight's honor.”

“By Jove! Watch your tongue. 'Twas such talk that started all of this.” Standing, he said, “Bring that muffin and your coffee. It is too fine a morn to sit in this stuffy room.”

“Where are we going?”

“Come, and you shall see.”

Natalya smiled as she tucked the paper under her arm and picked up her plate and cup. He plucked the paper away and tossed it back on the table. “Creighton—”

“Let the Polite World go for a moment.”

“Gladly.”

“Come with me.”

Motioning with his head, he led the way from the breakfast-parlor to a closed door on the other side of the hall.

“Be careful,” she said, as he balanced his plate on top of his cup.

“Don't worry. I have done this hundreds of times.” He opened the door, then shouldered it aside. The muffin teetered.

With a laugh, she caught his muffin on her plate. “I would say you need a bit more practice.”

“I must be rusty after so many months away.” He laughed as she dropped his muffin back on his plate. “Follow me.”

Natalya did, then wondered why he hurried through the elegant room as if he could not wait to put it behind him. With the drapes drawn against the morning sun, the walls were in shadow. Still, she could see hints of portraits above the furniture that was covered with sheets. At the back, a case held finely carved guns. Although she wanted to go and admire them, she followed Creighton. She hoped he would explain why this room had been left closed like this while he was living in London.

The prick of despair was so strong her steps faltered. If someone had died within these walls, the room might be left like this as a memorial. There was no memorial for her family, save for a pile of scorched and decaying timbers. Tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them away.