The Counterfeit Count (29 page)

“Radishchev!” she whispered as he began to close the door. One of her fellow officers was planning to murder the czar?

She struck his head with her pistol. He fell to the floor with a crash. She held her breath, but no one came running. Pushing the door open with her hip, she checked what was beyond. Stairs! This was not going to be easy.

Sweat was dripping down her back by the time Natalya got the unconscious man propped on the top step so he would not tumble down and alert whoever was below. She had nothing to bind him with, save for her belt. It was clumsy, but she hoped it would hold him long enough for her to discover what was happening.

Drawing the door nearly closed, for she was unsure if she could open it from this side once it was shut, she tiptoed down the stairs. Voices struck her. Russian voices! How could that be?

When Natalya reached the bottom of the stairs and saw the glow of lanterns, she was certain she must be in the midst of a nightmare even more horrible than the one that had routed Creighton. Barrels were stacked next to a wooden column. A man was opening one of the lanterns and reaching under his coat for a piece of tinder. A coat just like hers!

“Hurry, you fool!”

She moaned as she recognized the voice, now that it was no longer distorted by the stairwell.

General Miloradovich!

She inched closer. Her foot struck something soft. Stretching down with her left hand, she touched a damp stickiness. Blood! Was the man dead?

A lantern shifted, splashing light across the prone man's face. Creighton! What was he doing here? She knew she had no time to get an answer, even if he could give her one. Something glittered on the ground beside him. Another pistol! She grabbed it and rose.

“Light it,” ordered the general. “Hurry, so we can get out of here.”

The man held the burning tinder to the fuse. It caught and flared.

“No!” Natalya shouted. She jumped from the shadows, firing her pistol.

One man reeled back, clutching his chest. Shouts filled the cellar. She raised the other gun. She screamed as flame pierced her arm. The gun fell to the floor. Blood flowed down her arm.

Miloradovich kicked her pistol away and laughed. He pulled out his own gun, then lowered it, laughing. “Stay here and die, Dmitrieff. I knew I could not trust you, the great hero of Mother Russia. You fool. You naïve fool! You could have joined us and gotten the rewards we can get only from battle.”

“Battle? What do you know of battle?” She fought to keep her voice strong. “You know we will stop you.”

He frowned. “How? Who?”

She took a steadying breath. He must believe she had alerted someone who could halt him. She must be careful what she said. “As we stopped your other assassination attempt on us.”

He sneered. “'Tis a shame that failed, for your death would have caused enough commotion to give us cover for our work.” He gave a deep belly laugh. “Not that it matters. We shall succeed, and you shall die.”

“You shall not succeed. I—”

He struck her wounded arm with the gun. With an agonized scream, she collapsed to the floor, fighting for her senses while pain raced up her arm. As if from a deep hole, she heard his laughter as someone called for everyone to flee while there was time.

Their footsteps vanished up the stairs. She heard the sizzle of the fire in the silence broken only by her struggle to breathe. Wet coursed along her arm. Pushing herself to her feet, she fell back to her knees. The fuse! She had to cut the fuse.

She crawled to where it was burning rapidly. She tried to pull her knife. Her fingers refused to close on it. Something crashed overhead. Gunshots? Impossible. It must be applause. Those fools! They had no idea they were sitting on death.

Her knife. She had to get her knife.

Broad fingers closed over hers. She moaned and tried to pull away, crying out when she bumped her wounded arm against a barrel.

“Let me help, Natalya.”

“Creighton!”

She watched, struggling to hold on to her wits, as he pulled her knife and tried to slice through the tar-soaked rope. With a curse, he moved to a length closer to the barrels. He shouted in triumph when he cut it. Kicking away the burning rope, he stamped it beneath his boot.

Another crash came from above. It was a gunshot!

She forced herself to her feet.

“Natalya, wait!”

“No time to talk now!”

“I had no plans for talking,” Creighton said roughly as he whirled Natalya into his arms. “You calf-headed, want-witted …” His words became a low moan as he captured her lips.

Wanting to stay in his embrace, she pulled away. “Wake your friend. We have to keep them from getting away.”

“My friend? Natalya, don't you—”

“We have to stop them!” She was trying to reload her gun even as she ran to the stairs. Her fingers fumbled as pain swelled through her arm.

“Natalya, wait!”

Creighton's voice echoed up the stairs, but she did not pause. If she stopped, she was not sure she could get her feet moving again. She burst out of the door and heard shouts from the street. Holding her gun at ready, she ran outside.

Dozens of men were milling about. They wore uniforms, but ones she did not recognize. She blinked. Yes, she did. They matched the one Colonel Carruthers had worn at the masquerade ball.

A hand on her arm slowly lowered her gun. She looked back to see Creighton's face that was etched with blood from a wound on his temple.

“It is over.” He pointed to where a score of soldiers surrounded Miloradovich and his men. The Russians were being herded into a cart.

“How—?”

“On our way here, we stopped to alert the colonel of trouble.” He brushed her hair back from her face and whispered, “I'm sorry I pooh-poohed your threat. You were right.”

“Not completely.”

“Close enough. If—” He shoved her behind him and pulled his knife as a huge man lurched toward the cart, then turned to them.

“Petr?” she gasped. “No!”

An English soldier stepped in front of him. Petr swept him aside with a growl. He lumbered toward Natalya. Shouts filled the night.

Natalya saw guns being raised. She pushed past Creighton and rushed to Petr. They could not shoot him! As she grasped his arm, she heard the order to hold fire.

Looking up at him, she whispered, “Tell me it isn't true. You can't be with them!”

Creighton caught her uninjured arm and pulled her back from Petr. As if he understood Russian, he said, “He was with your friend Miloradovich below.”

“Petr, how can that be?”

Again he did not give the bearded man a chance to answer. “Touch her, Zass, and you will be missing a hand.”

“
Nyet,
” he said.

“
Da,
” Creighton snarled back with a tight smile.

Natalya stretched out her fingers to Petr. “Why were you with them?” she whispered.

“To protect you,
Grazhdánka
Natalya.”

“Protect me?”

He nodded. “I heard rumblings of what they had planned, and I knew you would not be a part of it, for you have too much honor. But I feared they would turn on you like the rabid beasts they are. So I joined them to try to halt them, and—” When he teetered and collapsed to one knee, she rushed to put her hands under his arm. The weight nearly drove her onto the ground, but she eased his way to sit back against one of the columns at the front of the theater. More dampness ran along her sleeve.

“He is hurt!” she gasped, then repeated the words in English. “Creighton, help us.”

“What is wrong with him?” he asked, clearly not willing to waste sympathy on Petr.

“
U menyá bolít golová,
” the big man mumbled.

“What did he say?”

“He has a headache,” answered a deep voice before she could.

Looking over her shoulder, Natalya stared up at a face out of her memories. Slowly she rose and put out a tentative hand. Would the phantom vanish if she touched it? Her forehead furrowed as she whispered, not believing her own eyes, “Demi?”

“
Kóshka
!” He held out his arms.

She threw her arms around him, then winced as pain erupted up her arm. “They told me—”

“I know what you were told.” He brushed her hair back from her face. “I am sorry,
Kóshka
.”

“
Kóshka?
” Creighton asked.

“Cat,” Demi said with a chuckle. “A nickname she gained the first time she followed me up a tree too tall for her and then could not find her way back down. I see, little sister, you have, like a cat, continued to land on your feet.”

“Where have you been?” She touched his face, wanting to be sure
this
was no dream.

“Fighting to halt insurrection from within our army.” He glanced at Miloradovich and his men. “This was not the first attempt to put an end to Alexander's life. There are many who do not like the czar's vision for Russia's future.”

Shouts from the theater silenced every voice in the street. Natalya stared at the people emerging from the theater. She could not mistake a single one. The first, a man who seemed nearly as round as he was tall, was beyond doubt the Prince Regent. He was followed by a handsome man who offered his arm to a woman almost his height.

“The czar!” she breathed. She feared she would not be able to take another breath as Alexander turned to look at her, asking a question she could not hear the answer to. Her feet seemed melded to the stones as he and the Grand Duchess came toward her.

Czar Alexander looked to her right. “Kapitán Dmitrieff?” he asked, staring at Demi.

“No, I was—I am Lieutenant Dmitrieff.” He bowed and took a step back. Taking Natalya's unwounded arm, he pushed her forward. “This is Kapitán Dmitrieff. Natalya Dmitrieff.”

She tensed as she stood before the Czar of All The Russias. Never had she imagined this moment. Even in her grandest dreams, she had dared to hope for no more than a missive from the czar's ministers returning her father's lands to her. Now those lands would be Demi's, as they should be.

The czar's blue eyes widened. When his sister said something too soft for Natalya to hear past the rush of trepidation in her ears, he chuckled before saying, “You are an odd cavalry officer.”

She tried to speak, but it was impossible. Even when she swallowed deeply, she could manage little more than a whisper. “I wished to revenge my family's deaths by fighting the French. There was no one else once I believed the French had killed the rest of my family.”

“Come forward.” When she hesitated, he added, “Be brave as you always have been, Kapitán Dmitrieff.”

She obeyed and started to bow. Then, although she feared she looked absurd, she curtsied. Before the czar, she could not pretend to be what she was not. She must be honest as she had longed to be for so long.

Fingers under her chin tipped her face up. Looking into Alexander's round face, she saw compassion in his eyes. “I understand I may owe you my life as well as my sister's,” he said quietly.

“'Twas Lord Ashcroft who cut the fuse,” she replied.

“With his knife?”

“With mine.” She took a deep breath to try to steady her trembling voice. She had not been this frightened when she went into battle. “I am glad to be able to serve in whatever way I can.”

“That much is clear.” He glanced to where the wagon with Miloradovich was disappearing around a corner. “I have heard much of you and your exploits from a man I thought I could trust with my life. It appears his words about your bravery may have been more honest than his pledge to defend Russia. Is your pledge as failing as Miloradovich's, Kapitán?”

“It has never changed from the moment I took it. I hold it dear.”

“Yet you served the very man who would have brought the flames of war back to consume us all.”

Natalya scraped her tongue along her arid lips. She winced when she tasted her own blood, but kept her voice even. “General Miloradovich was afraid of peace. I wish it with all my heart.” Glancing to her left, she delighted in the warmth surging through her as Creighton smiled.

“So it would seem.” The czar motioned for her to rise. “You have saved me and my sister and our allies this night. Speak the reward you would wish, Kapitán.”

“I wish only to see my brother assume my father's lands and titles.”

“That is no reward, for both your father and your brother have served me loyally. I have no cause to deny Dmitri Dmitrieff what he rightly possesses.” He chuckled. “I offer you a reward. What do
you
wish?”

Taking a deep breath, she did not hesitate. “I wish to return to being myself. I would ask to be released from my service to the army.”

“You want nothing else?”

Again she looked at Creighton. His smile hinted at the delight of his arms enfolding her. Yes, she wanted so much more, but fulfilling her dreams was something Czar Alexander could not do. Only one man could make those dreams come true, only the man who had conquered her heart in spite of her efforts to keep him from claiming it.

When the czar chuckled and motioned for Creighton to step forward to stand beside her, Natalya did not dare move.

“You are?” Alexander asked.

“Captain Creighton Marshall, 10th Hussars.” He bowed his head to the czar.

Colonel Carruthers emerged from the crowd that had gathered. He cleared his throat. “As of next week, your grace, he will be known only as Creighton Marshall, 6th Viscount Ashcroft.”

“Does this man deserve such a title?”

“His father—”

“Not of viscount, for that is no more than an accident of birth. Does he deserve the title of captain?”

Colonel Carruthers smiled. “Tonight was not the first time he has proven himself to be a hero. A dozen men live this night because he rescued them from an enemy ambush, although he was shot himself.”