The Counterfeit Count (2 page)

Determined not to give away any of his other thoughts, Creighton said formally, “Welcome to London, Count Dmitrieff. I am your host, Creighton Marshall, Captain.”

“You are Lord Ashcroft as well, I believe,” he replied in nearly perfect English. His tenor voice suggested he was a lad as lief a well-tried warrior.

“I prefer informality in my household.”

“Then Marshall it shall be.”

He thought he heard a hint of humor in the count's voice, but the shorter man's face remained somber. Noting that the man wore his riding gloves, he said, “I would be glad to escort you to Berkeley Square at your leisure.”

“Then let us take our leave. I have suffered enough of these stilted proprieties for today. I trust my comments bring you no insult.”

“None. I learned many months ago that I would be wise to leave politics and its intricacies to those who delight in them. I have brandy and cigars waiting at my home. Let us enjoy them instead.”

The count turned, and a man, who was even taller than Creighton, appeared out of the shadows. This man matched Creighton's image of a Russian count. He wore a full brush of beard, and he was as muscular as a bear. His uniform was a quiet version of the count's.

“My aide, Sergeant Zass,” the count said. “He, of course, travels everywhere with me.”

“Of course.”

Creighton motioned for the count to lead the way to the door but glanced at Colonel Carruthers, who flashed him a grin. The colonel had been right. The count and he had something in common already, for they both looked upon functions such as this with distaste. Colonel Carruthers was going to be even more insufferable now as he crowed about how correct he had been.

With an ease that bespoke his reputation as a cavalryman, Count Dmitrieff mounted the extra horse Creighton had brought. “An excellent animal,” he said, patting the chestnut's neck.

“He is yours to use as you wish during your stay.”

“I am even more in your debt.”

Creighton thought he saw a twinkle of delight in the count's eyes, but the shorter man's face remained impassive. Behind them, Sergeant Zass swung onto a black horse brought to him by a stableboy. The large man, whose face was nearly hidden in that untrimmed hedge of beard, had said nothing. Creighton wondered if he understood English.

Although he waited for Dmitrieff to speak again, the ride back to Berkeley Square passed in silence. The street was far from quiet with the rattle of wagon wheels and all the hubbub of Picadilly Street. Even when they turned onto Berkeley Street and rode around the square to the west side, the count said nothing.

The silence began to vex Creighton as he escorted his guest through the wide foyer of his townhouse and up the stairs. Zass followed like a malevolent shadow. Creighton saw the household turn to watch the two strangers with disquiet straining their polite smiles.

Creighton led the way into his book-room. The mahogany furniture was covered with heavy, dark-green fabric that was intended to invite his guests to relax and enjoy some cordial conversation. He waited for the shorter man to select a chair. Creighton kept his smile in place, but annoyance pinched him when Count Dmitrieff took Creighton's favorite chair as Zass went to sit in a corner. Shadows seemed to be his preferred milieu.

Selecting a seat opposite the count's chair, Creighton stretched out his feet on a stool. He shifted irritably. This was definitely not as cozy a chair as his own. When Mrs. Winchell bustled in with a tray holding glasses and a bottle of Creighton's best brandy, he saw the housekeeper was trying not to stare at his guests. He thanked her and waited until she backed hastily out of the room, clearly intimidated by the odd quiet.

Pouring two glasses, Creighton held out one to the count. The man turned to pass it to his sergeant. Creighton hid his surprise. He had heard tales of how cruelly Russian officers treated their men, but Dmitrieff must not fit that mold. Offering the other glass to the count, he rose to get a third glass from the sideboard by the hearth.

“So what do you think of London?” he asked, determined to put an end to the silence.

“I have seen little of it,” the count replied, “but it seems a fine city. I must express my thanks to you, as a representative of England, for hosting us.”

“Your czar will be a guest of my Regent.” He added a bit more brandy to the glass he had poured for himself. He suspected he would need it to get himself through this conversation. Taking a deep drink, he said, “It is time to celebrate the war being over.” He splashed more brandy into the goblet and raised it. “To peace.”

The count lifted his glass to his lips, then lowered it. “England is fortunate to have been spared the destruction that was left after we tossed the French out of Russia.”

“Winter did more to defeat Boney than the czar's army.” He opened a box of cigars and offered it to the count.

Dmitrieff took one and sniffed it. With a hint of a smile, he passed it to his sergeant.

Creighton forced his smile to remain in place. Blast this Russian count to perdition! These cigars were too costly to be wasted on the palate of a Russian bear who could hardly appreciate their fine leaf. When Dmitrieff waved aside the box, Creighton wondered if the count deemed the cigars beneath his touch.

He cursed silently as he stuck a twig in the fire and used it to light a cheroot. Puffing thick smoke, he tossed the kindling back onto the hearth. His irritation crept into his voice. “If summer had been upon Russia when Boney's men arrived, the ending might have been far different. Snow makes a hero of any man.”

The count motioned for Zass to light his own cigar before saying, “Odd, for there were no heroes among the French.”

“Touché, if I may use that Froggish term.” He smiled in spite of himself. “I withdraw my comment.”

“Do not.” The count hesitated, as if searching for the words he wanted in English. A hint of a smile brightened his serious face, but it was gone so swiftly Creighton wondered if he had seen it. “You are correct, Marshall. If it had not been for the blessing of Russia's fearsome winter, I fear we might, even now, be bowing our heads to a French emperor.”

“The Allies would not have allowed that.”

“The Allies were distant when the French marched across my homeland.”

Creighton had no quick answer. It was true. For most of the campaign, the Russian army had stood alone against the French scourge. The Allies had harried Boney's army's flank, but their efforts had been no more effective than a terrier teasing a maddened bull. “The war is over now,” he said, then wished he had not uttered the trite words.

“I find that unlikely.”

“Do you?”

Dmitrieff did not recoil from his sharp question. “Napoleon had ambitions to meld all of Europe into his empire. Do you think he will be happy with a mere island?”

“Your general does not share your convictions on this subject. He would as lief say that Napoleon has little choice.”

“There are always choices, Marshall, although we may wish to think otherwise.” He put his brandy down, unfinished. “I hope General Miloradovich is correct. Let the rest of our battles be fought by diplomats.”

Creighton considered asking the count if he found the brandy not to his taste, but refrained. “I think you shall find London has many entertainments planned in preparation for your czar's visit. For example, tomorrow evening there will be a gathering at Lady Eltonville's townhouse on Soho Square. Her hurricanes are always amusing, with music and conversation.”

“Dancing is a skill I have never mastered.”

For a moment, Creighton thought his guest was jesting, but no smile eased the stern lines of the count's face. He never had met such a controlled man. The only time the count's face became animated was when he spoke of the war. Creighton had thought he was done with zealots, but Dmitrieff was the worst he had met. The damned war was over! Let it be buried as the dead had been.

He downed his brandy, then said, “There are other choices of how to pass the evening. Cards, if you prefer a quieter entertainment.”

“Then you English are unlike us Russians. Gambling is not a ‘quiet' pastime for us. We roar when we win and roar when we lose.”

“Mayhap I should have said a less complicated entertainment, for there is no worry if you have complimented your lady companion or the need to speak with the dowagers.”

“I shall leave such obligations to my superiors.” The count smiled, astounding Creighton. “General Miloradovich is a fool. He thinks himself a great favorite with the ladies, but, in truth, he cannot see his own faults. That may be the reason he was such a dreadful presence during battle. He could know no fear when he never considered he might lose. So he is a hero.”

“As you are.”

“And you.” Dmitrieff leaned forward and asked, “What deeds did you do to win that title?”

Creighton put his glass on the sideboard. No matter what he said, the count turned the conversation back to the war. The Russian had avoided answering any direct question he had asked. Instead, Dmitrieff preferred speaking of battle and diplomacy—two topics Creighton wished to hear no more of.

His silence must have been colder than he had thought because the count set himself on his feet and said, “I believe it is time for me to retire.”

At the same time, Sergeant Zass stood. Creighton had forgotten the man was sitting in the corner. “I shall have you shown to your rooms. Your sergeant is welcome to stay with my servants on the top floor.”

“Thank you,” the count replied.

Creighton dropped into his own chair as soon as Mrs. Winchell had led his guests out of the book-room. What a bumble-bath! This was going to be worse than intolerable. He had changed his mind. He had very little in common with that blasted count!

Silence threatened to suffocate him again. Usually he enjoyed the serenity of his house, but he could not when he should be acting a good host to his guest.

With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet. He stubbed out what remained of his cigar, then went into the hallway. Seeing Mrs. Winchell scurrying toward him, he asked, “Are they settled?”

“Yes, my lord.” When she added nothing else, he knew she was disturbed by their guests, too.

“You put the count in the blue room?”

“Yes, my lord. The other one is using James's room.”

He nodded. It was appropriate for the footman to give up his room for the servant of a guest. “Very good, Mrs. Winchell.”

“My lord?” she called as he turned to climb the stairs. “He's a strange one, isn't he?”

“Sergeant Zass?”

She shook her head and brushed her hands nervously against her dark gown. “No my lord. The other one. Not at all like I'd thought a Russian to be. Kind of puny and …” She paused, her mouth twisting before she added, “He is strange. Something is not right with him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean no disrespect,” she said, and he knew his tone had been too sharp.

“Of course not. Just say what you wish to say, Mrs. Winchell. You know I trust your judgment.”

“I don't know what I want to say.” She shrugged, and a sheepish smile brightened her thin face. “Just something peculiar about him.”

Creighton wanted to agree, but he should not be speaking about his guest like this. Bidding Mrs. Winchell a good evening, he went up the stairs. He strode along the Persian runner on the floor, which shone in the candlelight from sconces by each door.

Taking off his coat, he loosened his cravat. He stuffed it and his stiff collar into his pocket and undid the top buttons on his shirt. A good night's sleep should prepare him for another day of hosting these odd Russians.

As he passed the door to the blue guest room, he hesitated. A good host would be certain his guest was settled well for the night. With a sigh, as he hoped this would not turn into another conversation about the damned war, he rapped and swung the door open. “Dmitrieff, if—”

Creighton choked as he stared at the slim silhouette by the bed. The gentle curves belonged to no man or boy. He wanted to deny the truth, but it was impossible.

Count Dmitri Dmitrieff was a woman!

Two

“You are a woman?” Even as Creighton spoke the incredible words aloud, he could not believe them. Yet his eyes told him they were true.

The woman—for there was no doubt that those tempting curves beneath the linen nightshirt belonged to a woman—stared at him in horror. Her tilted blue eyes with their golden lashes were wide as all color drained from her cheeks. His gaze swept along her wine-red lips and past the firm angle of her chin to the expanse of skin visible above the deep vee of the shirt. It revealed no more than a stylish gown, but he was astonished how easily she hid the roundness of her breasts and her slim waist beneath her uniform. Her legs, which had been encased in boots and pantaloons, were displayed to entice him with their shapely length.

Mrs. Winchell's voice rang in his memory. Yes, there had been something particularly peculiar about this Russian count, and now he knew the truth.

“Is this Colonel Carruthers' idea of a hoax?” he demanded as he saw the count's uniform folded neatly on the bed.

She reached for the heavy shirt she must have been wearing under her coat, but he blocked her hand. When she tried again and he slapped her fingers aside, she glared at him.

“Answer me,” he snapped. “Did Colonel Carruthers arrange this?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Begone! I shall not be questioned in my own private chambers.”

“Your chambers? This is my home, and I wish an explanation.”

When he grasped her shoulders, her fist exploded in his gut. His breath burst from him. She tried to push past him. He seized her elbow. Instincts honed during battle sped his hand to halt hers as it aimed at his chin. He gripped her around the waist and squeezed. She struggled to escape. With a grim smile, he tightened his arm. She gasped, but did not beg him to halt. Instead, she tried to shove him away. Her fingers slid from his wrist as he compressed his arm into her waist again. A soft moan oozed from her lips as she sagged against him.