A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  The servant drew himself up, his impassive countenance belied by the amused twinkle in his eye. “It’s not for me to say, sir. I wouldn’t dare to be so bold as to venture an opinion. Suffice to say that she is unaccompanied.”

  A smile twitched Richard’s lips. “Hodges, you are the model of diplomacy. Castlereagh could have done with you at the Congress of Vienna. Say no more. No lady would visit a gentleman’s house alone—which makes it all the more interesting.”

  His best friend, William Ravenwood, Marquis of Ormonde, frowned. “If you’re expecting a woman, Richard, I’m off.”

  “I’m not expecting anyone.” Richard took a sip of his excellent brandy. “I ended things with Caro Williams a fortnight ago. And even if I hadn’t, I never entertain my mistresses here.”

  Hodges was still loitering by the door. He cleared his throat and offered forth a folded missive. “She seemed confident that you would see her. She asked me to give you this.”

  Richard set down his glass and took the paper just as Hodges spoke again. “And though she speaks English, my lord, her accent is decidedly French.”

  Raven raised his brows at the butler’s disapproving tones. “French, eh?” He leaned forward and tried to read over Richard’s shoulder. “What does it say? Is it a love letter?”

  Richard opened the paper and froze.

  “What is it?” Raven asked.

  Richard gave a disbelieving chuckle. “It’s an invitation. To call here tonight, at eleven o’clock. From myself, apparently.”

  He turned the paper around so Raven could inspect the perfect copy of Richard’s own signature at the bottom of the page.

  Raven grinned. “How enterprising. I’ll say this, Richard, the lengths to which women will go to get your attention are extraordinary.”

  Richard half laughed, half groaned. The subject of his popularity with the fair sex was one he found alternately amusing and distasteful.

  “I suppose word got out about you giving Caro her congé.” Raven chuckled with all the smug satisfaction of a happily married man blissfully unpursued by a monstrous regiment of women.

  Richard scowled at him. “I had to—you know my rules. Three months, no longer. No virgins. No wives. No exceptions.”

  As a system it had worked exceptionally well for the past few years. None of the women with whom he consorted harbored any false expectation of marriage. Both sides entered into the dalliance knowing it was based on mutual exclusivity and enjoyment, and when it was over they parted ways as friends. He’d never met a woman he couldn’t walk away from.

  The only problem was, whenever he finished with one woman there was a mad, undignified scramble to be the next in line. It had become even worse since his father inherited the earldom. Richard had been elevated to Viscount Lovell, heir to the Earl of Lindsey, and the women had become even more attentive. The lack of a decent challenge was downright depressing. And despite his very publicly expressed preferences, every last one of them seemed convinced she’d be the exception he’d marry.

  He glanced over at Raven. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

  Raven held up his hands. “It’s nothing to do with me, I swear. I’ve no idea who she is.”

  Richard studied the handwriting closely. If he didn’t know better he’d have sworn it really was his own signature. Who on earth would have the audacity to present him with what was quite obviously a forged note? And where the hell had they managed to get a copy of his signature in the first place?

  His pulse accelerated in anticipation. Nothing like a new challenge to liven things up.

  Hodges was still hovering, awaiting instruction.

  “Did she say anything else?” Richard asked.

  “She did not, sir.”

  Richard rose to his feet with a smile. He’d been so bored recently. Perhaps his mystery guest could cure his current state of ennui. “Well, then. We’d better see what she wants.”

  Chapter 3

  The disapproving servant took Sabine’s cloak with every evidence of distaste, as if its shabbiness were offensive. Or contagious. He tried to relieve her of her traveling bag, too, but she retained a firm grip on the handle and scowled at him. He obviously decided a struggle for possession was beneath his dignity and let her keep it.

  The door to her right clicked open. Two men stood in the doorway, both equally handsome, but she dismissed the black-haired one almost at once. It was the second face that commanded her attention. The face that had haunted her dreams for weeks.

  Richard Hampden’s quizzical gaze met hers, and she muttered a phrase more suited to the gutters of Paris than a fashionable London townhouse. Her pulse hammered in her throat, and for the first time she understood what Anton had meant when he’d said that Lord Lovell had “wolf eyes.” The unusual amber-brown color was breathtaking. And extremely unnerving.

  On the journey from France she’d convinced herself that she’d exaggerated his physical magnetism. He couldn’t possibly be as handsome and as intimidating as she recalled. She’d built him up in her mind as some unparalleled demigod and expected the reality would prove utterly disappointing.

  She hadn’t exaggerated a thing. If anything, she’d forgotten the full effect of that long, lean body, that automatic air of command. Her whole body prickled with alarm.

  The dark-haired man sized her up in one long, speculative glance and executed a graceful bow. “Madame.” He moved past her and accepted his coat from the insolent servant with a murmur of thanks. “I’ll bid you good night, Richard. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  His voice held laughter, but Sabine barely heard him. She was rooted to the spot, unable to look away from the tall man framed in the doorway.

  The front door closed with a click. Somewhere, a clock chimed eleven.

  Richard Hampden’s dark eyebrows lifted. He studied her with a lazy smile and held up the invitation she’d provided between two long fingers.

  “Congratulations, madame. You have my undivided attention.” He leaned back against the doorjamb and indicated for her to precede him into the room with a sweep of his arm. “Do come in.”

  Sabine’s pulse hammered in her chest, but she squeezed her hands into fists and stepped forward. She was Philippe Lacorte. She thrived on danger. This was nothing.

  He didn’t move aside as she approached. She brushed past him, determined not to falter, and her right arm made a brief, tingling contact with his own. She ignored the unnerving sensation and strode purposefully into the center of the room. A brief glance at her surroundings—a library, with tall bookshelves and assorted chairs and tables scattered about—was all she managed to note before the door clicked closed.

  She turned to face her target, and immediately stepped back. She hadn’t heard him move, but he was suddenly right in front of her; his broad chest and shoulders blocked her exit. She had to tilt her head back to see his face. Her stomach fluttered, a queer panicked lightness, and she took another step back, then stopped herself. Retreat was bad. Men like this one, like Savary and Malet, had ruled her life for far too long. She was here to take control of her destiny.

  —

  The girl—no, woman, Richard amended; she was closer to twenty-five than sixteen—looked up and met his gaze and for one brief, unpleasant moment his brain completely ceased to function.

  Thankfully, the sensation only lasted a moment. A sharp stab of familiarity replaced it, like a punch to the gut, and his body heated in pure, visceral recognition. He knew her. And yet he’d never seen her before in his life. He’d never have forgotten that face.

  Her features were delicate, gamine. Black brows stood out against the paleness of her skin and sooty lashes made her eyes seem almost navy. Her hair was secured at the nape, but a few strands glistened with a silvery sheen of mist from outside. Her lips made him think of hot, sweaty sheets. Maybe she looked familiar because he’d conjured her in his most erotic fantasies?

  Catch her. Keep her. Mine.

  Richard suppressed a frow
n. His instincts had saved him from more hair-raising situations than he cared to count, but in this instance something had gone seriously awry.

  He experienced a sharp pang of disappointment. She had to be a tart, coming here alone at this hour. How long had she been in the trade? Not long, he’d guess. She didn’t have the weary look that characterized most of the whores he knew. Either that or she was a damn fine actress. Maybe that was her talent: to make every man think he was the first to touch that flawless skin, to taste that soft pink mouth.

  He never engaged in liaisons with the demimonde. Never needed to. London’s merriest widows and most accomplished courtesans flocked to him—whether he wanted them to or not. Still, he was bloody tempted by this one. She was beautiful, but not in the common way. There was something elfin about her appearance, almost fey, and he had the sudden, bizarre thought that if he moved too quickly she would simply vanish into thin air.

  Her clothing was modest for a courtesan, though. There was nothing flamboyant about the dark blue dress, no frothy ruffles or frills. He couldn’t see if she wore any rings—one small hand clutched the handle of a valise, the other was hidden in the folds of her skirts—but she wore no necklace or earrings. No adornment of any kind, in fact.

  Richard frowned. She held herself too proudly to be a servant. There was no deference in the way she met his gaze, only a guarded watchfulness. His interest increased. An enigma.

  She still hadn’t said a word. Was she aware of the effect she had on him? Did she expect him to start stammering like an imbecile? He wouldn’t. He’d been fifteen the last time a woman’s beauty had reduced him to speechlessness.

  She faced him squarely and tilted her chin. “You are Richard Hampden? Lord Lovell?”

  Her accent was French, as Hodges had said. Her voice low and husky, with a slight musical inflection. A frisson ran down his spine at the way she said his name. Not the English pronunciation, with its precise, clipped syllables, but the French way. Smoother, more liquid; Ree-shard ’Amp-den. The way it rolled off her tongue was a caress in itself.

  It was high time he took charge of this situation. He lifted one brow in a manner his younger sister, Heloise, assured him was both irritating and highly condescending.

  “Indeed I am. But I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Miss…”

  She bent her knees and set the valise down on the floor. “De la Tour,” she said briskly. “Sabine de la Tour.”

  “Well, Miss de la Tour. Given your unaccompanied state and the lateness of the hour, I assume you’re here to proposition me.”

  He waited to see how she would react to that outrageous pronouncement.

  Her eyebrows rose and the corners of her lips tilted upward. “That’s quite the assumption.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been blessed with a combination of face, form, title, and fortune that seems irresistible. And I’m not sure what other conclusion I’m supposed to draw. Do you think it wise to visit a bachelor’s lodgings alone at this hour of the night?”

  She inclined her head, and he was momentarily distracted by the twinkle of amusement in her navy eyes. “Your concern for my welfare is touching. But I assure you, I’m perfectly capable of defending myself should the need arise. I have a pistol in my pocket, and I will not hesitate to use it if anything you do alarms me.”

  Richard glanced down. One of her small hands was indeed hidden in her skirts. Well, well. He felt a spurt of both anger and amusement. She was foolish to trust such a defense. He could disarm her long before she fired, if he wished. But he’d allow her to keep the fantasy of safety. For now.

  “I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey. I’m not in the market for a mistress. And even if I were, I prefer to do the chasing myself.”

  She smiled, as if at some private joke. “I don’t doubt it. You strike me as a man who is relentless in pursuit.”

  She raked him with a teasing, appraising glance, and for the first time he understood the acute discomfort young ladies at Almack’s must experience when men subjected them to a leisurely inspection through their quizzing glasses. Her almost-innocent gaze slid over his shoulders and chest and his body heated in response. Her eyes dropped lower. Far from shying away from the front of his breeches, she calmly took in the whole of him until she reached the mirror shine of his boots. A hot wave of chagrin crept up the back of his neck. Cheeky minx.

  She brought her gaze back to his, and there was mocking laughter in her voice. “I am tempted…but I’m here for an entirely different reason.”

  “And that is?”

  “You were partly correct in your assessment. I do want your money. But not in exchange for my body. I have something you want far more.”

  He doubted it. His stupid body couldn’t seem to think of anything it wanted more than hers wrapped around it, his hands on all that silky skin, his mouth on her—

  He swallowed to clear his dry throat. She was still talking.

  “I’m not a whore. Or at least, not in the conventional sense. I certainly have skills for which men will pay good money, but my particular talents only appeal to a very small minority.”

  The secretive little smile at the corner of her lips taunted him. He imagined putting his own mouth there, to wipe it off. What the hell kind of talents was she referring to?

  The smile deepened mischievously. “I would hazard to say that you, Lord Lovell, are perhaps one of only ten men in the whole of England who could truly appreciate my skills. And pay accordingly.”

  She tilted her head, and he tried to ignore the smooth line of her throat the movement exposed. He really needed to engage a new mistress soon. Tonight, preferably. A fortnight’s celibacy was turning him into an imbecile.

  He narrowed his eyes. “And what skills might those be?”

  She ignored the question. “I’m here because you have been seeking a certain Philippe Lacorte.”

  Chapter 4

  Richard stilled, jolted from his erotic perusal of her mouth. “How do you know that?”

  “Why do you want Lacorte?” she countered.

  He raised his brows at her demanding tone. “For the same reason I buy my boots from Hoby and my coats from Weston. I only employ the best.”

  His shirts were the finest linen. He paid the extortionate sum of ten guineas apiece for his cravats. And Philippe Lacorte was undoubtedly the best counterfeiter in Europe.

  “How nice for Monsieur Lacorte,” she said dryly. “I’m sure he should be flattered by your high opinion.”

  “I’d tell him to his face, but he’s a very elusive man.”

  She gave an elegant lift of the shoulder. “Perhaps he did not wish to be found. Especially by the British secret service.”

  Richard suppressed another jolt of shock. Only a select few were privy to the fact that he worked as an agent for the crown. How had she known? Was she a French agent? He’d never heard of a female operative matching her description, but that wasn’t to say it was impossible. What else did she know?

  “Lacorte’s the greatest forger in France. Or Europe, for that matter,” he said carefully. “He’s been a thorn in our side for years.”

  “Ah. Then perhaps you’re trying to find him in order to kill him?”

  He frowned. “No! We don’t want him harmed. Far from it. The man’s an artist. His skills are too valuable to waste by elimination. We want him to work for us.”

  Those dark brows lifted. “Indeed? And what makes you think he would work for you, monsieur? You are—or at least, you were until a few months ago—the enemy. Our countries have been at war, in case you hadn’t noticed, for the past ten years.”

  She waved the hand that wasn’t in her skirts to encompass the undeniable luxury of their surroundings. Her lip curled a little scornfully. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, living in such a place.”

  Richard felt his jaw tighten at her accusation. “I noticed. Believe me, madame, none of us have been unaffected by the war.”

  She shot him a disbelieving look, but
let it pass.

  He settled himself against the edge of his desk and tried to look nonthreatening. He wanted her to relax, to let down her guard. “Lacorte has no particular political allegiance, as far as I can tell. He provided as many forgeries for Napoleon as he did for émigrés fleeing the country. We know he created fake passports and travel documents.”

  “That is true. Monsieur Lacorte has worked for royalists and Bonapartists, Jacobins and Chouans. He does what he must to survive.”

  Richard crossed his arms over his chest. “So it seems to me that Monsieur Lacorte can be bought.”

  She smiled. “Indeed. Every man has his price. Or woman, for that matter.”

  Richard frowned at her soft insinuation. Was she a whore after all? The lower half of his anatomy urged him to pay whatever price she asked. His brain reminded him to ignore any suggestions made by his stupid crotch. “Why do you want to know about Lacorte? Did he send you?”

  “Let’s say I am in his confidence. Tell me more about the work you want him to do. And why? Does Britain not have her own perfectly competent counterfeiters?”

  “Two reasons. Firstly, if Lacorte’s working for us, then he’s not out there working for someone else.”

  Her smile was distracting. “Ah. The old ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’ tactic. You want to keep an eye on Monsieur Lacorte.”

  “Indeed we do. The second reason is that we know he’s already forged letters from Napoleon. I want him to do it again.”

  That surprised her. A slight crease formed between those dark brows. “Letters from the emperor? Why would you need them? He’s locked away on St. Helena now.”

  “But his supporters still litter Europe. The network of spies he put in place over here is still active, working with British traitors who wish to prompt a revolution of their own.” Richard shook his head. “I’ve been tracking a group of antimonarchists here in London. I want Lacorte’s forgeries to lure them out.”