The Counterfeit Count (20 page)

“So what do you wish me to do?”

“If this were Moscow or St. Petersburg, I would know the law well. Here?” She shrugged. “The customs of the English in so many ways are not like ours.”

“We must do something.”

“Yes.” She tapped her chin. “I wonder why this date is given.”

“Will we be leaving by then?”

Hearing the hope in his voice, she shook her head. “Once the czar arrives, he shall wish to confer with the Prince Regent for at least a week.” She shivered. “That date is a week from yesterday. They may have been a week off.”

“Or they may have been overly eager, and others will be hired to do what they failed to accomplish.”

She tapped her chin and nodded. “True.”

“So what shall we do?”

“We shall do what we must to save Lord Ashcroft's life.”

“And yours.”

She smiled coldly. “And to make these fools sorry they ever conceived of this idea.”

“Lord Dmitrieff?” came a hesitant voice from the other side of the door.

Petr growled under his breath, but Natalya shook her head. She recognized James's voice. The footman sounded scared, yet it could not be because of the message she held. Unless … Creighton was going to his club this afternoon. If he had been attacked …

She pushed past Petr, threw aside the bolt, and flung the door open. The startled footman backpedaled a pair of steps. “What is it?” she cried.

James swallowed hard, then murmured, “A caller for you, my lord.” He faltered, and his voice creaked, “Is there a problem, my lord?”

“No—I mean—” She took a steadying breath. “Of course not. A caller for me?”

“He's waiting in the foyer, my lord.”

“Who is it?”

“He refused to give his name.” He rubbed his hands on his breeches. “He is Russian, my lord.”

“Thank you. Please let him know I am coming down.” Natalya motioned to Petr to follow her. Switching to Russian, she said, “Let me think about this. I shall ask Lord Ashcroft some questions about the proper procedures here in England.”

“He will wish to know why you want such information.”

“I can foist some tale off on him.” She slid her sword into its sheath and buckled it around her. “I would prefer not to lie, but I would prefer even more to leave this country alive.”

“So we are still leaving?”

“Petr, what sort of question is that?” She pulled open the door. “Of course. We are leaving as soon as we can.”

Natalya muttered a curse as she saw the disagreement on her sergeant's face. Her resolve must not lessen. She had come too far and suffered too much to let Creighton's enticing eyes and even more beguiling touch change her.

Petr's uncommon expression vanished from her mind when she came down the stairs and saw a familiar man standing in the foyer. She had not had to suffer Kapitán Radishchev's company since Paris, and she had begun to hope the general had left this pompous fool behind. She should have known better as soon as she saw General Miloradovich's new mistress the day she had tried to persuade the general to let her move out of Creighton's house. Radishchev had tried to usurp her place as the general's aide-de-camp but had succeeded in obtaining the position only of finding the general company when he was lonely.

A twinge cut through her. No, she must not let her disquiet betray her into making the situation worse. Radishchev could see no further than his own ambitions, so he would have no idea of the secret she hid.

“Welcome,” she said.

The captain cleared his throat as he looked around the foyer, dismissing it with a quick glance. “Where have you been, Dmitrieff?”

“Been? Here, of course, as General Miloradovich ordered.”

Radishchev's smile revealed missing teeth beneath his dark mustache. She knew they had been knocked out by an irate husband, not in the midst of battle. “So you choose to obey some orders rather than obeying all the general's orders?”

“I have obeyed every order the general has ever given me.”

“Save for the most recent.” He laughed coldly, then scowled as he looked past her.

Knowing Petr stood behind her, Natalya wanted to urge her sergeant not to react to this buffoon. Quietly, she said, “If you think to cause me trouble by—”

“I need cause you no trouble when you stand here when the rest of General Miloradovich's officers are gathered on St. James's to celebrate the czar's arrival in England.”

“The czar is here?”

He laughed. “What has so occupied your mind, Dmitrieff, that you have not heard the tidings of the grand welcome our czar and the Prussian king received yesterday?” He ran his finger beneath his mustache. “Or should I say ‘who'? The general has been much intrigued with your recent companion—the Englishwoman.”

Natalya squared her shoulders. She was not going to let this conversation plunge into meaningless gossip. “I received no orders to come there.”

“But you did receive this!” Radishchev picked up an ivory card from the silver plate by the door. Slapping it into her hand, he laughed again.

She resisted snarling back that he must not have delivered the message until now. That would gain her nothing, save more ridicule by this brainless dolt. Quickly she read it. Kapitán Dmitri Dmitrieff was requested—was ordered, she corrected automatically—by General Miloradovich to join his fellow Russians for cards and drinks at 37 St. James's Street before four this afternoon.

With a sniff, Radishchev glanced around the foyer again. “I'm not surprised you did not receive it. What can we expect from the peasants who live in disgusting hovels like this?”

Natalya clenched her hands at her sides. He was determined to infuriate her, as he was each time they had met. He had not succeeded yet. He would not today, although, from the first, she had thought Creighton's house was lovely. Many of her plans for the new dacha had been altered to include facets of this house. Instead, she said, “I shall leave immediately to meet the general.”

“Of course you will.” He threw open the door, wiping all color from the footman's face. “I trust you will refrain from embarrassing him so again.”

Natalya put up her hand as she heard Petr growl under his breath. When the door had closed behind Radishchev, she smiled. “Do not let his worthless words disturb you, Petr.”

“He is jealous because no English lady has given him more than a glance.” Wistfulness filled his voice as he added, “Maybe we can have the English thieves attack him.”

She laughed tightly and patted Petr's arm. As soon as she apologized to the general for being late for this gathering, she would find Creighton. He must be told about the threat, even though she was certain he would not take the news well. No matter how much he wished to avoid battle, it was on once more, and his life would be forfeit if he did not give credence to her warning.

And another she cared about would die in violence. She would not allow that to happen. Not again.

Natalya heard the men's voices resonating from the choke-full room at the top of the stairs. As she entered the room, a glass of wine was shoved into her hand. She was not sure who had given it to her. So many men filled the room, she could not take more than a step past the door.

Her arm was grasped.

“What are you doing
here?
”

She turned to see Barclay Lawson, already elevated by the wine in his glass. He had a bottle beneath his arm. “I could ask the same of you,” she said tautly.

“This is our club.”

“Your club?” Her eyes widened. “Is Creighton here? I must talk with him without delay.”

Barclay shook his head and wobbled. He must be more altogether than she had guessed. “Not a good idea. Not at all.”

“Barclay, this is important.”

“Not a good idea.” He leaned toward her, the fumes of wine on his breath washing over her. “He wants to be alone. Wouldn't even play a few hands with his best tie-mate.” He took another drink.

“What is amiss?” Mayhap Creighton had noticed something during the attack on the carriage that warned him of the danger they faced. Dismay filled her at the thought his eyes might have been keener in battle than hers, but she ignored it. He had to be more familiar with the methods of British thieves than she was, so he could have determined from the beginning that they were not ordinary highwaymen.
That
could explain his short temper in the aftermath.

Her hopes were dashed when Barclay laughed loudly enough to draw attention from those around them. Taking him by the arm, she steered him out of the room and to a corner by a window.

“'Tis no great secret,” Barclay crowed, slipping his arm around her shoulders. He shrugged and drained his glass. “He gets moody like this sometimes. Pay him no mind.”

“Do you know what is bothering him?”

He opened the bottle and refilled his glass. Taking another deep drink, he mumbled, “Not that you can blame the man. Not when you, of all people, sweep into London and monopolize the attention of the only woman he ever asked to leg-shackle herself to him.”

“Leg-shackle?”

“Marry!” Looking her up and down, he laughed humorlessly. “What do you think that does to Creighton when he sees someone like
you
catching Maeve's eye? Should have let me shoot you right in the beginning and put him out of his misery.”

She drew back from him. Leaning her hands on the railing at the top of the stairs, she said, “Creighton made it quite clear all feelings between them were dead.”

“As dead as Napoleon's dreams of an empire.” He hiccuped and swallowed another drink. “Lord above. Creighton won't even open the room where he proposed to Maeve. It's been left like a shrine—no, more like a mausoleum—” He scratched his nose. “Mayhap more like a—”

She gripped his arm, and he turned his drunken eyes toward her. “Are you speaking of the front parlor?”

“Yes. The one where the door is always closed.”

“I know which room you mean.” She thought of the morning she had taken breakfast with Creighton on the balcony overlooking the garden and how he had avoided answering her questions about why the room was shut up. Now she understood. “It is shrouded as if someone died within it.”

He squinted at her. “Do you mean that
you
have actually been in there?”

“Once.”

“Really?” When he tried to focus on her, he tipped toward the wall. She pushed him back upright. He muttered, “Thanks.”

“
Ne za chto
.” Leaving him to give his bottle a black eye, Natalya went back to the room where the gathering was growing even noisier. Or maybe it was just that her head ached with too many thoughts.

She scanned the room. It did no good to curse her height when many of the men were more than a head taller than she was. She did manage to greet General Miloradovich, but did not pause to listen to him expound again on how the Russians had defeated the French. The general was telling stories in Russian to his hosts, who could not understand a single word. Just as well, she decided, when she heard his opinions of the English command led by the man who had recently been raised to be Duke of Wellington.

Finding Creighton in the midst of this press might be impossible. Then, recalling what Barclay had said, she edged out of the room. Looking across the hall, she saw a door that was partly ajar. She opened it.

The room was deserted save for a single form hunched in a chair overlooking the street. Sorrow riveted her as she watched Creighton pick up his glass, then put it down untasted. His hand fisted on the arm of the chair, and she heard the low curse he muttered.

He looked up as she crossed the room. Irritation fled from his face to be replaced by amazement, then, just as quickly, the irritation returned. “What are you doing here?”

“Barclay just asked the same thing.” She pointed to the chair next to his. “May I sit?”

“No.”

She locked her fingers behind her back. “No?”

“Not until you explain what you are doing here.”

“General Miloradovich was invited here and wanted his fellow officers to attend.”

“Fellow officers, yes, but
you
shouldn't be here.”

“I am one of his fellow officers.”

His mouth twisted. “This is a gentlemen's club. No women are allowed within its walls.”

“I will make all efforts to duck if the roof comes crashing down.” Sitting, she said, “We must talk.”

“Not here.”

“Don't be as stubborn as a mule.” She clutched his navy sleeve. “This is important. Someone wants us dead. They want us dead by Monday next.”

He regarded her in silence, then stood. “Sorry, Kapitán. I have no interest in your next battle. I am done fighting.”

“Even when your own life is in danger?”

“I am still breathing.”

She came slowly to her feet. “Even if my life is in danger, too?”

His laugh struck her like a blow. “Who is better at self-defense than you, my dear Captain? You need no one to defend your virtue and your life. I leave you to plot your strategy against whatever enemy you have gained. Or enemies. I suspect you have managed to madden more than you have gladdened since your arrival.”

“Creighton!” She stepped in front of him. “You have to listen to me.”

“No, I don't. I have finished arrangements for my commission to be sold, and I never will have to suffer the orders of anyone else again.” He gripped her arms.

Her breath caught at the potent warmth of his touch. As his fingers splayed across her arms, she moved nearer to him. Her eyes closed as his mouth descended toward hers. She wanted his kiss; she wanted it with every fiber of her being.

With a strangled curse, he released her. He did not turn as she called to him. The door slammed in his wake.

Eighteen