The Counterfeit Count (28 page)

“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 from 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?”

“Fighting those among our own countrymen who would be traitors to Russia.” He sighed through taut lips. “I had no idea she had assumed my name and life until a few days ago. My lord, I must speak with Natalya immediately.”

“As I told you, she is not here.”

“Where is she?”

He hated to own to the truth, but there was no other way. “I haven't seen her since she raced out of the masquerade ball this evening.”

“Alone?”

Barclay stepped forward. “No one was brave enough to go after her when she shot at the chandelier in the ballroom, save for me.”

“And you are?”

“Barclay Lawson.” He grinned and fell back onto the settee.

Dmitrieff turned back to Creighton. “That man is completely intoxicated.”

“A normal state for him, I fear.”

“Can he be believed? Did Natalya fire off a gun in the middle of a ballroom?”

Creighton leaned his sword against the mantel. “A gun was fired, reportedly by a woman. I assume it was her.”

“Who else?” Dmitrieff rubbed a scar along his left cheek. “Do you have any idea why?”

“She was being chased,” crowed Barclay.

“Chased?” asked Creighton at the same time as Natalya's brother. “By whom? Why didn't you say something about this before?”

“You never asked.” He closed his eyes and folded his hands over his forehead. “I don't feel so good.”

Creighton pulled him up to sit. “Who was chasing her?”

“Two men.”

“What did they look like?”

“Couldn't see too well.”

Dmitrieff muttered, “That is understandable.”

“Barclay,” snarled Creighton, “what
did
you see?”

“Not much.”

Creighton sighed and released him. Looking at Dmitrieff, he said, “We can ride for my colonel's house and check the list of guests.”

“That could take hours to chase down every man.”

“Won't take long,” murmured Barclay.

“Why?” Creighton put his hand on the back of the settee. Had he been this lost in drink before he left for the war? Never caring about anything but his own pleasure and a way to escape his aching head the next day, so he could join in another game of cards?

“Weren't that many there.”

“The room was full.”

“Not of Russians.”

Dmitrieff gasped, then asked, “Russians? Are you certain?”

“One wore a uniform just like Natalya prances around Town in.” He laughed and slapped his leg. “She looks much better in it, though.”

Dmitrieff snarled something. Creighton could not understand the words, but Dmitrieff's tone instantly identified them as curses.

“What is wrong?” Creighton asked.

“Natalya is in great danger.”

“How—?”

“I have no time to explain. I must stop her.”

Creighton chased him down the stairs, catching Dmitrieff's arm before the man could rush out the door. “Explain while my horse is brought.”

“My lord, this is not your battle.”

“It is if Natalya's life is in danger.”

Dmitrieff's face creased in a swift smile that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “I am pleased Natalya has found a friend in you, my lord. She has been alone too long.”

“Save for Zass.”

“Petr is here?”

Creighton nodded. “In London. He has shadowed her nearly every moment of her stay.” He shoved aside the memory of the few times when he had delighted in her company without Zass lurking nearby.

“If he is with her now, she may have a chance of surviving.”

“Surviving what?”

“The assassination of the czar and his host, the Prince Regent.” He opened the door. “I will explain on our way. We must not delay, or the alliance and all of us may die, too.”

Twenty-three

The street in front of the theater was clogged with carriages and those who wanted to see the leaders in the Alliance against Napoleon. Creighton threaded his way ruthlessly through, using the butt of his hand whip to herd spectators out of the way. Curses were fired at him, but he paid them no mind. He had to get into the theater to warn the Prince Regent and the czar.

Tossing his reins to a footman by an ornate carriage, he leapt from his horse. “This way!” he shouted to Dmitrieff as he paid for two admissions.

They rushed into the foyer. They could hear laughter from the audience. The show was going on, uninterrupted.

“Where is she?” Dmitrieff asked.

“I don't know. She should have been here by now. She had a head start on us even if we had not stopped at—”

He cursed. “Unless she was halted.”

Creighton turned back toward the door. “We need to find her.”

“We need to stop what may happen here at any moment. We can't wait.” Dmitrieff glanced around the foyer. “Where do we go?”

“One of the boxes, I'm sure, but which side? We may not have time to search them all.”

“Do you know which box the Prince Regent is using tonight?”

“The wrong one” came an answer from their left.

Creighton whirled, flinching as he recognized the Russian accent. “Who in perdition are you?”

A short man laughed as he pulled a pistol from beneath his coat. “We knew you would come. We have been waiting for you, my lord—Ashcroft, isn't it?”

“Dmitrieff, run!” He reached for his sword.

Another gun was pressed against his back. The man in front of him laughed again. “Dmitrieff? Can't you recognize your own guest?”

Creighton risked a glance over his shoulder. As he had feared, Dmitrieff was surrounded as well. He looked back at the short man. “Who are you?”

The man in front of him shoved him down a narrow corridor. He opened a door hidden in the shadows. “Someone who is going to give you a last, futile chance to be a hero, Ashcroft. They said you were with the woman who eavesdropped on us.”

“And who eluded you to sound the alarm.” He laughed tersely. Natalya must still be free if this man had not discovered the truth. “No doubt, by this time, she has gone to warn Count Dmitrieff.”

“You should have been sensible like the count and stayed away from here.”

Creighton did not answer as he was shoved into the darkness. He gripped a banister when his foot dropped onto what must be a step. Behind him, he heard Dmitrieff curse. The pistol prodded against his back, and he went compliantly down the steps. A dull glow appeared in front of him. As the floor smoothed in front of him, he tried to determine where they were. They were heading toward the stage, but near the outside wall. Boxes and painted boards were stacked haphazardly along the walls. This must be a corridor the stagehands used to store scenery. The boxes had to be right above their heads.

A familiar odor assaulted him. Gunpowder! Horror choked him. Were these blocks attempting to copy Guy Fawkes who had tried centuries before to blow up Parliament? An explosion from here would rock the whole theater. If there was a fire, it would rush up the stairs, cutting off the escape for everyone in the boxes on this side.

He heard a shout. In Russian! These men were planning to kill their own czar. Why? He did not understand.

Rounding a corner, Creighton cursed. A dozen men were slumped together in the cellar. One form was unmistakable among the barrels he knew must contain gunpowder. “Miloradovich!”

The general straightened. He snapped an order.

“Ashcroft!” shouted Dmitrieff. “Be—” A gurgle was followed by a thump.

Creighton whirled. He caught the raised hand with the pistol aimed at his skull. Knocking the gun to the floor, he struck the Russian in the gut. He raced to scoop up the pistol. A brawny arm snaked around his neck. He was shoved up against a wall. Pain crashed through his head as it struck the stone.

Miloradovich snarled again.

Creighton repeated the last word, “Zass?” He stared at the bearded man in the moment before agony exploded through his skull and all thought, even that Natalya might walk into the same trap at any moment, vanished.

Natalya jumped from her horse. Lost! She had gotten lost twice in the curving streets of London. Even getting directions had failed to help her. She could see none of the landmarks in the dark.

She ran to the door of the theater. She did not get far before two hands grabbed her. She was whirled to look at a burly man. He stuck his hand under her nose.

“I've no time for this,” she said. “I have to get inside.”

“Pay first.”

“Pay?” She patted her waist. Dash it! She had left her English coins in her reticule. “I don't have any money right now. If you will let me go inside—”

“Pay first,” he grumbled.

“Will this be enough to pay for it?” She pulled her sword.

He shrieked and released her, calling for the watch. She tossed the sword at him. He let it clatter to the stones at his feet, then stared at her in silence.

“Enough?” she asked again.

He nodded.

She did not wait to see if he said anything else. She ran into the theater. Hearing laughter, she did not know which way to go.

Her eyes narrowed as she saw someone in a military uniform slink around a corner. She could not discern what nation it belonged to. She followed and discovered a small door ajar. It broke the pattern of the wall. She peered into it. When she heard footsteps coming from within, she edged behind the door. She held her breath as fingers came around it. A low laugh rang in her ears. She knew that laugh! She heard it when the two men were talking in Russian on Colonel Carruthers' balcony and during the hunt and …