The Counterfeit Count (4 page)

“Go to bed.” Rage was altering to exasperation and curiosity on Lord Ashcroft's face, but she continued in Russian, “This man will not betray us.”

“He knows.”

“He will tell no one.”

Petr spat, “If he does, I shall break his neck with my bare hands.”

“Go to bed,” she repeated.

With a ruthless scowl at Lord Ashcroft, he bid her a good night. She knew Petr would not sleep until he heard Lord Ashcroft seek his own bed. For that, she was grateful. What English hospitality might demand under these circumstances was something she did not know, but she would find a way to convince Lord Ashcroft of the wisdom of keeping her secret.

“You have him well trained.”

Natalya spun to face Lord Ashcroft, expecting to see a contemptuous smile on his lips. Instead, he was sitting on the thick sill of the window by the bed, a puzzled expression on his face.

Quietly, she said, “Sergeant Zass is a good soldier.”

“Does he speak English?”

“He understands some of what is said, but I do not think he speaks any himself.”

“So he cannot corroborate your tale to me?”

“I am unaccustomed to having to prove the truth, my lord.”

With a smile, he stood. “You have both the arrogance of a Russian count and General Miloradovich's narrow-mindedness. I could almost believe you are a Russian soldier.”

“You should believe it, because 'tis the truth.”

“I am beginning to believe that, although I suspect I am dicked in the nob to entertain the idea that you could be a decorated hero.”

Natalya did not trust his charming smile. Her gaze met his dark eyes, and she knew she had been wise. They remained as cold as before.

When she said nothing, Lord Ashcroft asked in a purely conversational tone, “Will Zass kill at your command?”

“He has.” She drew the coverlet more tightly to her chin because his gaze continued to sweep along her, constantly reminding her how vulnerable she was without her uniform. “My lord, once more I would ask your leave to retire. It has been an uncommonly long day.”

“And an uncommonly long night?”

“I do not understand,” she said as she had before.

“Then let me show you.” When he seized her again by the shoulders, he pulled her closer. She tried to raise her fists, but they were caught in the bulky blanket. His finger beneath her chin thrust her face up so she could not look away. A satisfied smile was hard on his face.

“Lord Ashcroft—” The coarse caress of his fingertip against her cheek stole every thought from her head. An odd tingle burst outward from his touch. It flowed through her, settling over her rapidly beating heart.

His fingers combed upward through her hair, tilting her mouth beneath his. Each touch threatened to weaken her more. When his face lowered toward hers, she freed one hand and put her hand up to halt him. She touched the bare skin of his chest and jerked her hand back, for it burned as if a flame had arched from him to her. This was absurd. She did not so much as like this man. He could destroy everything that mattered to her. Yet his touch enticed her into thoughts of forbidden pleasure.

“You are, without question, the most beautiful cavalry captain I have ever seen,” he murmured, his breath flavored by the brandy he had served her. “Is every man in Russia blind that he cannot see the truth?”

“I have learned that illusion is self-fulfilling.” She wanted to shout the words at him, but her voice rose no louder than a whisper. “I presented myself as Count Dmitrieff. You accepted me as the count. No one in Russia questioned my identity either, especially once I proved my aim was true.”

“And your wit sharp.” His hand curved along her cheek, the tip of his finger grazing her ear.

Fear coursed through her along with the undeniable delight. She was an idiot to allow him to touch her like this. Lowering her eyes, she turned away. Running from any battle was odious, but letting him lure her into insanity with nothing more than this caress was worse.

“My lord,” she said, her back to him, “you must tell no one what you know.”

“You cannot intend to continue this masquerade in England.”

“I must.” She took a deep breath, then, sitting on the red velvet chair, realized the complete truth might be the only way to convince him of how precious her deception was. “As Count Dmitrieff, I can, upon my return to Russia, claim the lands that belonged to my father. In addition, to thank me for my loyalty and my heroism, the czar will give me a rich reward. That will be enough to resurrect my father's home which the French left in ruins. I have done all I have done for that moment, Lord Ashcroft, and now I need your word you will acknowledge me publicly as Count Dmitrieff.”

“Ridiculous!”

“Would you allow your birthright to be taken from you by an accident of birth?”

He sat on the windowsill again and laughed. “You call your feminine sex ‘an accident of birth'?”

“I am the only one left. I must be allowed to claim my father's lands.”

“Very well.”

“Very well?” she repeated, baffled.

“I, too, would do what I could to hold what is mine. I shall acknowledge you publicly as Count Dmitrieff.”

“And tell no one the truth?”

“Who would believe me?” he fired back.

“Good, for I shall continue to be Dmitri Dmitrieff. You must do nothing to halt me.” She tilted her chin and smiled. With a lightning-quick motion she had learned from Petr, she leapt to her feet and grabbed the knife. She pulled it from its sheath. The steel caught the light in a blinding glint as she held it before Lord Ashcroft's astonished eyes. “I can assure you that you will be sorry if you reveal the truth.”

Three

Natalya closed the last button on the front of her uniform jacket and settled the gold braid in place around her shoulder. She brushed her hair back from her face. A quick glance into the cheval glass told her that she once again looked like the courageous Kapitán Dmitrieff. How she wished she could turn back time! If she could go back to last night, she would not have readied herself for bed until she had been sure Lord Ashcroft had found his.

She snarled a curse at her reflection and the pink warmth dusting on her cheeks. If solely his name in her thoughts brought about this feminine color, everything she had fought to hold on to could be swept away. The czar might be more progressive than his predecessors in his determination to make Russia like the western nations of Europe, but she doubted if he would be pleased to learn that one of his decorated soldiers was living a deception that could embarrass her homeland.

With a sigh, she turned away from the glass. She should have stayed in Russia, but had wanted to do nothing that might bring any less of the czar's favor on her. When Alexander had decided to display some of his heroes to the British, the invitation offered to her was one she could not refuse.

Fool that she was, she had dared to believe she could come here and go back to Russia without anyone being the wiser to the truth. Now Lord Ashcroft knew.

Her eyes squeezed shut, but she could not close out the memory of the handsome viscount standing so near, his hands setting her skin aflame with sensations she had vowed never to feel. His fingers had been amazingly gentle, but the passions they roused were more dangerous than a French assault. When she had touched his naked chest, she had sensed the galloping pace of his heartbeat, but hers had been pounding more swiftly. If she had let him kiss her …

She dared not savor such thoughts, delightful though they might be. She had no time for a dalliance, especially with an English lord whose smile was as cold as a Siberian winter. Yet, if that were so, why did fire sear her each time he looked in her direction? Coming to this house had been wrong. Staying would be the most foolhardy thing she could do. She had to leave before she did more to destroy all she, as Count Dmitrieff, had struggled to win.

Even though Lord Ashcroft had vowed to keep her secret and not expose her deception, she could not keep from wondering if his word had any value. So little she knew of the English. They had proven worthy allies in the war, but their ways were alien. With a sigh, she knew she had no choice but to trust Lord Ashcroft.

“For as long as he proves trustworthy,” she whispered as she adjusted the wide sash at her waist. Her hand grazed the haft of the knife tucked into it. She had hoped the war was over, but Lord Ashcroft's knowledge of the truth jeopardized everything.

Her fingers clenched as she stared at the door from her bedchamber. If he spoke the truth to a single person, she would have no choice save to slay both of them. She shuddered as she imagined driving her knife into the chest that had pressed against her last night. A scowl strained her lips. She had killed other men to obtain the glory she needed to regain her family's home.

But they were faceless enemies
.

“Enough!” she murmured as she took a deep breath. “You must do what you must do.”

Natalya was not surprised when she opened the door to find Petr asleep against it. Knowing better than to touch him—for she had seen him, while still half-asleep, drive his knife into a Frenchman who had managed to sneak up on their camp in the middle of the night—she whispered his name.

“Kapitán, are we leaving?” he asked, jumping to his feet.

“General Miloradovich ordered us here. Until I have his approval, we cannot remove ourselves.” She smiled and patted his arm when he scowled through his thick beard.

“We must leave.” He cracked the knuckles of one hand against the other.

“I intend to speak to the general on that very topic before midday.”

“The
anglíski
lord—”

“Will say nothing for now.”

“You cannot trust him.”

His words echoed the small voice inside her. Lord Ashcroft might not be trustworthy, but the fact remained that she must comply with the general's orders. To disobey was incomprehensible.

“I do not trust him, Petr,” she said quietly.

He smiled as she knew he would when she used his given name as she had when they spent summers together at her family's dacha along the Dneiper. Wrinkles, left by the sun and the icy breath of winter winds, smoothed as he said, “You are wise.” His dark eyes twinkled. “If you change your mind, I would be honored to slit his throat.”

“That is not the way to treat our host.”

“But if he is no longer our host, how can you be certain he will not reveal the truth?”

Natalya shook her head. “I have tried to find an answer to that, but it eludes me.”

“He must die.”

“No, for that would draw attention to us that we cannot afford.”

Petr's long face drooped. “You are wise.”

“I am not so sure about that.” She forced a smile. “Let us hope the general is wise enough to allow us to go to other quarters.”

“Do you wish me to pack your things, Kapitán?”

She almost said yes, then answered, “Wait until I return.”

He nodded, and she knew he understood what she did not wish to say. General Miloradovich was as unpredictable off the battlefield as on it. Trying to guess what he might decide was as useless as attempting to catch the sunshine in her hands.

“Petr, find yourself something in the kitchen to eat. If fortune smiles on us, we shall sup somewhere else this evening.”

Natalya hurried down the stairs, knowing he would obey her orders. She always could depend on Petr Zass. Ties to the land where they had been born bound them together. No matter what happened here in England, he would be her ally.

She slowed as she admired the paintings on the wall along the gently curving stairwell. Several were landscapes with softly rolling hills that were nothing like the flat land she had called home. An elegant house could be seen in each of them, and she guessed it belonged to Lord Ashcroft's family. When she returned to Russia, she would build a house as fine on the blackened ruins of the estate the French had razed on their way to Moscow.

As she reached the ground floor, the thin housekeeper bustled over to her. “Good morning, my lord—I mean, Captain D—Dm—” Then she halted, an apprehensive expression stealing her smile.

“Dmitrieff,” Natalya supplied. “If it is easier for you, you may call me Demi. My mother often used the name.”

“Oh, no!” the gray-haired woman gasped, pressing her hand to her nearly flat bosom. “I could not do that, my lord. I'll just be calling you my lord, if that is agreeable with you.”

“Yes, that's agreeable,” she answered, wondering if the woman would have suffered an apoplectic fit if she had given any other answer. “And your name is?”

“Mrs. Winchell.” She dipped in a curtsy. “If you will come with me, my lord, I shall be right glad to show you where the breakfast-parlor is.” With a fearful look up the stairs, she asked, “Where is your man?”

“Sergeant Zass is on his way to the kitchen. I assume you can provide food for him there.”

For a moment, Natalya thought the gaunt woman would swoon, but Mrs. Winchell gathered herself together and nodded. “He's right welcome. This household prides itself on our hospitality to Lord Ashcroft's guests.”

“Is Lord Ashcroft in the breakfast-parlor?”

“He has already eaten.” The housekeeper started along the hall. Once begun, her prattle did not slow. “The viscount keeps no regular hours, you should know. Says he had to live with too much regimentation in the army, so he comes and goes as he pleases. Not that there's anyone to worry about him if he is late for dinner. I thought he would settle down with a fine lady when he returned from the Continent, but he was too hurt by—” With a gulp, she glanced guiltily at Natalya and added only, “This way, my lord.”

Her curiosity piqued, Natalya asked, “Hurt by what? A ball? A knife? Cannon?”

“This way, my lord,” the housekeeper repeated, staring at the floor.