She cocked the hammer of her gun. Her pulse was racing, her heart beating a frightened tattoo against her ribs, but outwardly she could be calm. “I read a translated Chinese book on warfare once. It said ‘the supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.’ ”
He looked momentarily thrown by the change of subject. “I’ve read it. That’s a man called Sun Tzu.”
She nodded, unsurprised that he knew the source. “To use force is a very inelegant solution. And you, Lord Lovell, are an elegant man. I do not think you will torture me.”
But she wasn’t sure. He was watching her with a calculating look in his eyes that was both assessing and terrifying. He still toyed with the fountain pen, threading it between his long fingers in a way that was strangely mesmerizing.
“Have you read many books on warfare?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Amongst other things. The theater of war has been my milieu for the past few years. A little study seemed prudent.”
“Then perhaps you’ve read Machiavelli? He says ‘never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception.’ ”
“I agree,” she said sweetly. “You threaten me with violence. I counter with fraud.”
He put down the pen, tapped his fingers on his braced thighs, and smiled, apparently enjoying their verbal sparring. “I would expect nothing else from a forger like yourself.”
Sabine sighed, inexplicably saddened that it had come to this, but she refused to feel guilty. He was using her as much as she’d be using him.
“I hope you will remember that I gave you a chance to play—and pay—fairly. I did not wish to resort to such unpleasant measures, but you leave me no choice.”
He raised his brows mockingly, challenging her to do her worst.
“You are going to pay me ten thousand pounds,” she said evenly.
He laughed outright. “You think so? And what makes you so sure?”
“Because I have something you want even more than Philippe Lacorte. A million pounds in forged British banknotes.”
Chapter 7
Hampden stilled, which was a gratifying response, but he recovered quickly enough.
“And how did you come to be in possession of such a princely sum?”
Sabine spread her skirts and sat without waiting for an invitation. “For five years I have made counterfeit notes under direct instructions from Napoleon himself. He planned to use them to destabilize your economy.”
His amber gaze narrowed. “But now you’ve realized the error of your ways and have come to surrender this fortune to the British government out of the goodness of your heart?”
His tone was drier than the Sahara and she couldn’t prevent a wry smile. “Sadly for you, no. If you do not pay me what I ask, I will be forced to put the emperor’s plan into action.”
A muscle flickered in his jaw. “What you propose is blackmail.”
“No, it is business. Ten thousand pounds is a paltry sum for sparing your country from ruin.”
He studied her for a breathless moment. Outwardly she kept her face composed, but inside she was quaking. This was like a game of cards: give nothing away, not by the flicker of an eyelid. If she showed weakness he would swoop in for the kill.
“Where is this fake fortune now?” he asked mildly. “Here in London?”
“Somewhere safe. I have friends who will release it if they do not hear from me in less than twenty-four hours.”
He tilted his head. “Why don’t you simply spend it yourself?”
Sabine pressed her lips together. “I do not wish to punish thousands of innocent citizens.”
He shot her a disbelieving look. “A criminal with a code of honor?”
She shrugged and forced herself to hold his gaze to make sure he understood her determination. “I do not wish to ruin your economy, monsieur, but I will do so, if you force me.” She released her pistol and crossed her arms, mirroring his aggressive stance. “I will work for the money. But the amount is not negotiable. Those are my terms.”
He straightened from the desk. “It seems I have no option but to accept.”
Disbelief and elation buzzed her ears. “I have some additional requests,” she said quickly, before she lost her nerve.
“You mean demands.”
She ignored that little dig. “We need to set out some ground rules.”
He waved an airy hand. “Oh, I agree. I’m a firm believer in establishing the rules of combat very clearly. Whether in business or pleasure.”
The way he rolled his tongue around the word pleasure did funny things to her insides. She cleared her throat and tried to sound businesslike. “For how long were you hoping to engage Lacorte’s services?”
“Six months. Maybe longer.”
She shook her head. “Impossible. I had not planned to stay in London for more than a few weeks.”
“Three months, then.”
“Three weeks.”
He raised one eyebrow at her bartering. “Six weeks.”
“One month.”
A taut little silence ensued, a battle of wills. She refused to drop her gaze. A wave of relief prickled her when he finally inclined his head.
“One month then. Until the middle of May.”
She exhaled. “Very well. I will lend my considerable skills to helping you rout your network of spies. You will pay me ten thousand pounds. In addition, you will provide me with decent lodgings, food, and clothing.”
“Anything else?” he asked acerbically. “Perhaps you’d like chocolates and flowers delivered daily to your rooms? A white elephant? The crown jewels?”
Her lips twitched at his sarcasm. Oh, he was furious, under that cool exterior. No man liked to be manipulated. Especially not a man like this one, whose entire existence was based on tracking and cornering his prey.
She matched his dry tone. “That will not be necessary. My intent is not to bankrupt you, Lord Lovell. Although I imagine it would take more than a few cakes and baubles to do that. You hardly seem on the brink of penury.”
She shot another brief glance around the sumptuous room. It was littered with gilt, fine art, and books. It even smelled of money, paper and ink, generations of wealth and privilege.
He smiled, acknowledging the hit. “Go on.”
“I will be free to come and go without restraint.”
“This is London. It’s not safe for a woman to go anywhere unaccompanied.”
“I have managed perfectly well in Paris for years,” she said sweetly.
“You will have a maid or a servant accompany you.”
She nodded to concede the point. “I will not be mistreated or physically harmed.” She waited for him to nod. “And I want immunity from prosecution. I’m not having you arrest me as soon as our agreement is over. I want your word that I will be free to leave the country unmolested.”
“So suspicious,” he chided softly. “But all right. You have my word.”
She moistened her lips with her tongue. “It will be a working relationship. Purely professional.”
His eyes roved over her, an arrogant, dismissive sweep that discarded any other possibility. “If you say so.”
Sabine was conscious of a little sting of pique.
He leaned forward. “I have a few terms of my own.”
She raised her brows.
“The world of spying never sleeps. You will be at my disposal at any and all hours of the day and night. You will do whatever I ask of you, without question. For the next four weeks you will obey my rules. Is that understood?”
She swallowed a lump of fright at the steely menace in his tone.
He nodded, apparently satisfied. “And one last thing. Before you leave England you will surrender the counterfeit fortune to me.”
She sighed, but it was no more than she’d expected. “Agreed.”
“Good. Shall we put our agreement in writing?”
She glanced over at the forged letter on the desk with a wry smile. “I don’t put much
store in official documents.” She stood and extended her hand toward him instead. “We can shake on it, if you like. A gentleman’s agreement.”
He stepped closer, looming over her. “Shaking hands is so formal.” Her skin tingled as his fingers enveloped hers. “Let’s seal it in the traditional manner. With a kiss.”
Sabine jerked back, but he had a firm grip on her hand. Her gaze flew to his lips, and her heart thudded painfully. “I don’t think so,” she stammered.
His smile said he knew exactly the direction her thoughts had taken. He bent and executed a flawless, mocking bow, as if they were meeting in some elegant society ballroom. His warm lips grazed the back of her knuckles.
A jolt of awareness fizzed over her skin. She tugged her hand back and he released her with a lazy, knowing smile.
“Miss de la Tour, I’m looking forward to working with you immensely.”
—
Richard squashed his irritation at being manipulated by such a slip of a girl. She looked so damned innocent, with that slight flush on her cheeks, as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. He had to stop thinking about her mouth—she was a blackmailing little crook.
Of course, she could be lying about having a fortune stashed away, but the idea that Napoleon might have planned to flood Britain with fake currency was all too plausible. The despot had already used the tactic in both Russia and Austria before his abdication, and Richard’s colleagues in the Foreign Office had long been wary of him trying something similar in Britain.
His uninvited guest had summed up the political situation with uncanny accuracy. The economy was on its knees after a decade of warfare. Coupled with a few bad harvests, the king’s failing health, and the flagrant excesses of the prince regent, things were extremely volatile. Counterfeiting was taken so seriously by the government precisely because it was so dangerous. If all that money got loose it could lead to the downfall of the government. Or the monarchy itself.
The little baggage had backed him neatly into a corner, and she knew it. The satisfied quirk to her lips sent Richard’s blood pressure soaring, and he wasn’t sure if it was in desire, irritation, or reluctant admiration.
She wouldn’t have it all her own way, though. Oh, no. Now that she was here, in his realm, he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight. She’d have no chance to disappear until he’d uncovered all her secrets.
Richard strode to the wall and tugged the bell pull. Hard.
Hodges appeared so quickly he must have been loitering just outside the door. Richard shot him an amused, censorious glance. “Ah, Hodges. Let me introduce you to Miss Sabine de la Tour.”
The majordomo bowed formally.
“She’s going to be our guest. For the next month.”
He heard her faint gasp from behind him, and was pleased to ignore it. “Please have the green room readied for her.”
“Of course, sir.”
She rounded on him as soon as the door closed behind Hodges. “What are you saying? I cannot stay here!”
“And I can’t let you leave,” he countered smoothly. “Surely you understand that?”
She sank back down into the chair she’d just vacated as if all the strength had left her. “My friends—”
“You will send them a note in the morning to let them know that you’re safe,” he interrupted. “You are not leaving this house tonight.”
Her slim shoulders sagged, as if she realized she had no choice. “Very well.”
He enjoyed the way she swallowed nervously. Good. Let her comprehend how tight a noose she’d walked into. She was his now.
He glanced at the small valise she’d been reluctant to surrender to the footman. “We can have the rest of your things brought over in the morning.”
She tilted her chin in a defiant gesture he found oddly appealing. “I don’t have anything else.”
His astonishment was only partly feigned. “You have only one suitcase? One? I’ve never met a woman who could travel with anything less than two coaches, fifteen valises, hat boxes, band boxes, shoe boxes, and various household pets.”
She scowled at him.
Hodges saved him from a scold with a discreet tap on the door, and Richard stepped aside so she could leave. “Hodges will show you to your room.”
She stood and he bowed again, mocking her, as if she were indeed his honored guest instead of a semi-willing prisoner. Oh, this was going to be fun.
“Good night, Miss de la Tour. Sweet dreams.”
Chapter 8
Sweet dreams, indeed. Ha!
Sabine’s heart pounded as she followed the servant up the wide staircase and into a palatial bedroom.
Hampden had driven a hard bargain, but she’d been expecting worse. She couldn’t let her guard down now, though. Her adversary might be ridiculously handsome, but she had good reason to be suspicious of beautiful things. Her counterfeits were beautiful, but they were still lies. Nothing but thin air and promises.
Sabine shivered as she recalled the light of challenge that had kindled in those sleepy amber eyes. She’d won this first skirmish, but he looked worryingly confident that he could win the war.
She thrust her hand into her skirts and laid her pistol gently on the table by the bed. She’d bought it three years ago, after the brawny butcher’s boy from down the street had cornered her in the back alley. He’d ground his mouth onto hers, all wet and slobbery, like a horse, reeking of stale beer and dried blood. Sabine had struggled, but he’d held her pinned with obscene ease.
Just when she’d been certain she was going to be raped, Anton had come charging out of the back door of the shop like an enraged bull. He’d shoved Guillaume into the wall, punched him to the ground, then ushered her inside, shaken and utterly nauseated. The next day she’d gone to a gunsmith on Rue de Rivoli and bought herself the pistol.
With any luck she wouldn’t need to use it on the man downstairs.
Sabine leaned back and studied the room she’d been given. Such luxury! What a contrast to her room above the shop in Rue du Pélican. A scratching, snuffling sound at the door drew her attention and she stilled, afraid it was her host, but then came the click and scrabble of claws on wooden floorboards and an excited canine whine.
She crossed to the door and opened it just an inch. A wet black nose and a furry muzzle pushed its way through. She opened the door wider, stepped back, and allowed the animal to enter.
She didn’t know much about dogs. This one had a long, aristocratic face, a shaggy silvery-gray coat, slender legs, and soulful black eyes. Its funny tufted eyebrows gave it a comical appearance and its wiry hair stood out from its body in random tufts, as though it had been struck by lightning.
It seemed friendly enough. It bounded into the room, pranced in a circle, then butted itself up against her legs. She put out a tentative hand. The dog sniffed then licked her fingers.
Sabine laughed. “Well, what’s a scruffy mongrel like you doing in such an aristocratic household, hmm?”
The dog gave an “I have no idea” whimper.
“I’m sure your master would disapprove of you consorting with the enemy,” she murmured, stroking the hound’s lopsided ears.
The dog looked decidedly unimpressed.
She scratched beneath its chin and it closed its eyes with an expression that could only be described as doggy ecstasy. Its bony tail thumped painfully against her skirts.
“Have you been sent to guard me?”
His lordship would have given orders to prevent her leaving, she was sure. Doubtless there was a footman or porter downstairs with orders to remain vigilant all night. She could have told him not to bother. She wasn’t going anywhere.
The dog gave a sigh, turned itself in a tight circle, and slumped down on the floor in an ungainly heap. It didn’t seem to be going anywhere either, so Sabine washed her face with water from a pitcher on the washstand, stripped down to her cotton chemise, and crawled into the huge four-poster bed.
Her stomach rumbled. The
last thing she’d eaten had been a hot meat pie of dubious quality from a street vendor near the coaching inn this morning. Still, she’d been hungry in Paris, too. At least here the bed was so soft it was like falling into a vat of whipped cream.
She prayed Anton was equally comfortable. They’d agreed he would find some inexpensive lodgings not too far away, but she doubted he’d be able to afford anything half this luxurious. She let out a deep, contented sigh. Ah, the wages of sin.
No doubt she should be feeling more apprehensive about sleeping under her enemy’s roof, but she felt oddly protected from the world outside. At least within these stately walls the only thing she need be wary of was her host.
She pulled her valise up onto the bed and arranged it next to her, under the covers. She’d wake if anyone tried to remove it in the night.
Sabine closed her eyes. It had been surprisingly easy to slip back into speaking English, her mother’s native tongue. Her chest ached. She recalled her mother more as a scent and a general feeling of nurturing happiness than by her features now. The rose petal soap she’d favored, the way she’d stroked Sabine’s hair back from her face and hummed English lullabies as she drifted off to sleep.
One of her favorite English phrases flitted into her head. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire.” Sabine sent up a drowsy prayer that it wouldn’t be prophetic.
—
Richard poured himself another generous brandy and sank into his favorite leather armchair.
Why had he always imagined he’d been chasing a man? He was surrounded by brilliant women. Hell, his own family was full of them. His sister Heloise was a talented code-breaker, and his brother Nic’s wife, Marianne, had been an acrobat and spy. This was just the sort of thing he could imagine her doing. He ran a distracted hand through his hair and shook his head.
Philippe Lacorte was upstairs in his guest bedroom.
He became conscious of a fierce, savage elation. He’d been hunting the counterfeiter for the better part of eighteen months. Tracking him had been like the very best seduction: a long, taunting chase, by turns exciting, frustrating, tantalizing, and infuriating.
A Counterfeit Heart Page 4
