A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  He’d admired Lacorte’s skill for years. The forger’s elusiveness had been a challenge, drawing him on, an insult he couldn’t seem to let go. He’d relished their little game of cat and mouse. And if anyone had told him that Philippe Lacorte would simply walk into his study and announce himself, he would have laughed in their face.

  And now he was a she.

  He should probably be disappointed that she’d surrendered, but Richard didn’t feel a sense of anticlimax. On the contrary. His heartbeat quickened in anticipation. This wasn’t the end of the chase; it was the beginning of a whole new game. Sabine de la Tour was a fascinating enigma. Her coming to him had been incredibly risky; she was either very brave or very stupid, and he was certain it wasn’t the latter.

  He didn’t trust her an inch. She’d walked into the camp of the enemy, but with what aim? Her professions of moral purity were highly suspect. She could be trying to wheedle her way in to his life to steal information, but for whom? Both of France’s great spymasters, Fouché and Savary, had been ousted since Napoleon’s defeat.

  Still, it was hard not to applaud her audacity, the bravado it must have taken to face him down in his own study and blackmail him. Richard took another slow sip of brandy. Crafty little devil. He would probably have done the same thing, under the circumstances. It was a little disconcerting to find someone as good as himself, as his fellow agents, Raven, Nic, and Kit.

  He’d known gorgeous women and clever women, but never one with so much of both attributes at the same time. The combination spelled trouble, especially considering his physical reaction to her.

  Richard narrowed his eyes. He’d underestimated her tonight. He would not make the same mistake again.

  Chapter 9

  There was no sign of her blue dress when Sabine awoke. Instead, a lilac morning dress lay over the back of a chair by the door, along with a petticoat, silk stockings, a matching spencer jacket, and a pair of leather gloves.

  The sight irritated her, despite the fact that she’d requested new clothes. Donning them, bowing to Hampden’s will, would be a small but significant capitulation, but she could hardly walk around all day in her shift.

  She snatched up the dress, determined to throw it over her head and have done with it, but the softness of the fabric beguiled her. She gentled her movements with an appreciative sigh. She hadn’t worn material this fine since before her father died. It would be churlish to rip it in irritation.

  As she fastened the last buttons snugly over her bosom, she reflected that Richard Hampden was clearly a man well versed in sizing up the female form. The beast had gauged her dimensions with uncanny accuracy. The skirt was a fraction too long, but not enough to signify, and the color suited her pale skin and dark hair to perfection. She wondered if he’d specified the hue.

  There was nowhere to stash her pistol, so she hid it under the mattress. She took a brutal delight in donning her serviceable black lace-up ankle boots beneath the exquisite dress, although the petty rebellion was foiled by the overlong hem, which hid them from view.

  With a resigned sigh, Sabine picked up the butter-soft leather gloves and headed for the door, but a noise from outside stymied her exit. A female servant entered with a tray.

  “Good morning, madame. I’m Jocelyn. Josie, for short. His lordship thought you might like to take breakfast in your rooms.” The girl set the tray down on a side table and bobbed a curtsey. “He requests that you attend him in the library at your earliest convenience.”

  Requests, ha! Demands, more like.

  Sabine smiled serenely. “Thank you, Josie.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The girl bobbed another curtsey and left.

  Amazing smells wafted from beneath the domed silver covers. Sabine lifted them with a flourish, like a magician, and gave a deep sigh of contentment. Poached eggs balanced on a thick slice of ham and a strange circular sort of bread. Sabine poked it with a fork. This must be what her mother had once described as an English muffin. She’d never tried one, but it smelled divine. Toast, butter, and pots of both marmalade and jam completed the feast.

  She gave a huff of disappointment when she discovered the steaming pot of liquid was tea, and not the strong black coffee she preferred, then laughed at herself for complaining. She was like poor Marie-Antoinette, agonizing over which delicious cake to nibble first while the rest of Paris starved. She attacked the meal with gusto.

  When she’d finished, she tidied herself as best she could using the silver-backed comb and matching hand mirror that had been laid out on the dressing table. Sabine grimaced at her reflection in the glass. Her hair was wild, her eyes too wide set. Father had often teased her about her elfin looks—he’d called her his little pixie.

  The memory reminded her. She crossed to the bed, opened the valise, and pulled out the two small oil portraits of her parents. She placed them carefully on the mantelpiece.

  There was no sign of her doggy companion. She would have appreciated his stalwart support. A stone-faced servant directed her to the same room as before. Hampden was seated at the desk, the image of relaxed masculinity. He rose as she entered.

  He was dressed as formally as he had been the previous evening, in a pristine white shirt, buff breeches, and a dark green jacket. No doubt the ensemble had cost a small fortune. The morning light caught the angle of his jaw and those amazing sleepy-tiger eyes, and Sabine cursed the way her stomach gave a nervous little flip as she met his eyes. His gaze traveled the length of her, and she felt her cheeks heat with a combination of anger and embarrassment.

  “Ah, the dress fits. I sent a maid to purchase it ready-made from one of the modistes on Bond Street and I had to guess at your dimensions.” His eyes roved over her in a manner that made her skin prickle. “It will suffice until we can get you properly measured up.” He indicated the seat opposite him, as if he were about to interview her for a position, and retook his seat. “I trust you slept well?”

  Sabine sat. “Yes, thank you.”

  “The untroubled slumber of the guiltless, no doubt.” His voice was pleasant, well modulated, with the merest hint of a laugh beneath the lazy, mocking tone.

  She raised one eyebrow. “What is that proverb? Ah, yes. ‘People in glass houses should not throw stones.’ Can you honestly say you’ve never blurred the line between what is legal and what is necessary in the service of your country, Lord Hampden?”

  He inclined his head in wry acknowledgment. “Perhaps.”

  “The only difference between us is that your illegal activities are currently sanctioned by your government,” she sniffed. “Mine were, too, until recently. It is very difficult to be on the losing side.”

  His lips curled. “You have my sincere condolences.” He regarded her with an uncomfortable intensity. “You are a puzzle, Miss de la Tour. A counterfeiter who does not want to be a criminal.”

  “There is nothing puzzling about it,” she said. “I did what circumstances dictated I had to do to survive. Believe me, if not for the war, I would have happily become a portrait painter like my grandfather, or a museum curator like my father.”

  Hampden pushed a blank sheet of paper and the inkwell toward her, apparently uninterested in her genealogy. “First things first. Write to your friends and tell them you are safe.”

  Sabine shot him a scornful glance. “You think I’m so stupid that I will give you their names and addresses so you can send someone to arrest them? I think not. At ten o’clock I will walk to the end of the street, toward the park. My friend will be watching to see that I am unharmed. You will not see him,” she warned quickly, “so do not think to send your men to intercept him. He is extremely good at staying out of sight.”

  She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. It was ten past nine.

  Hampden leaned back in his chair and extended his long legs. “Fair enough. That leaves us a little time to chat.”

  Her stomach clenched. How delightful. A polite interrogation.

  “How old are you?”
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  “Twenty-four,” she said coolly. “How old are you?”

  He seemed amused by her direct attack. He steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, but she caught the telltale twitch of his lips. “Thirty-two. Tell me what you did in Paris. You must have worked at Vincennes.”

  So, he knew about Napoleon’s counterfeiting operation. He seemed to know a lot of things he shouldn’t. The British intelligence service was well informed. She lifted her shoulder. “Amongst other places.”

  “What did you counterfeit?”

  She glanced pointedly at the clock again and raised her brows. “You require a full history?”

  He nodded.

  “Very well. My first job there was forging Austrian banknotes. My colleagues and I made over a hundred million francs’ worth, which were introduced into circulation to weaken the economy.”

  Hampden raised his brows.

  Sabine chuckled. “That created quite an awkward situation for the emperor a few years later, when he married the Austrian princess Marie-Louise. He was forced to issue a public ban on printing fake notes, but by then it was far too late.”

  “You mention colleagues,” Hampden said smoothly. “Who else was in your merry little band of counterfeiters?”

  Sabine bit her lip. The team had disbanded months ago, all gone their separate ways when Napoleon’s defeat had become clear, but she had no wish to bring trouble to their doors. She shrugged. “Oh, a whole bunch of interesting characters. Artists, engravers, jewelers, satirical cartoonists.”

  “And who’s the friend awaiting you in the park?” Hampden prompted gently. “The one who will release your fake banknotes if you fail to make an appearance this morning?”

  Sabine’s pulse quickened. “You do not need to know his name.”

  He didn’t push her, as she’d expected. He seemed content to watch and wait for her to slip up, like a spider in his web. Patient. Implacable. Sabine fidgeted in her seat.

  Hampden stood. “It’s almost time to go.”

  She glanced up. “There’s no need for you to accompany me.”

  “You’re in no position to argue.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “If I must have an escort, I will walk with one of the servants.”

  “No. You will walk with me. It will be my pleasure.”

  Chapter 10

  Sabine muttered under her breath but followed him out into the checkerboard hallway. He gave a shrill whistle, a summons that was answered immediately by the scrabble of claws. Her scruffy companion from last night burst from below stairs.

  Hampden bent to greet the animal’s enthusiastic welcome, apparently unconcerned for his immaculate breeches as it leaped up and placed its huge front paws on his muscular thighs. Not that she was noticing his thighs, of course.

  “What kind of dog is that?”

  His one-sided dimple made an appearance and her insides liquefied in response.

  “I’m not entirely sure. He was a gift from one of my tenant farmers. He claimed the pup was greyhound crossed with a Bedlington terrier, but there’s lurcher somewhere in there too.” He ruffled the animal’s fur fondly.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Argos.”

  The dog eyed his master with tongue-lolling, tail-thumping adoration. Sabine couldn’t seem to look away from the way Hampden’s long fingers threaded through its fur. Argos left his master and pressed against her legs. She stroked his scruffy head absently.

  Hampden raised a brow. “He likes you. And he’s usually such a good judge of character.”

  She narrowed her eyes, but there was no malice in his teasing. “Maybe I bribed him with some breakfast ham,” she said lightly.

  His expression hardened. “It wouldn’t surprise me. Blackmail’s your preferred mode of business, is it not?”

  Her pleasure faded at his barb, but he didn’t give her a chance to reply. “Come on, time for that walk.”

  Argos knew that word. His ears pricked up. He bounded to the door and back with an excited yelp. Hampden retrieved a leather collar and leash from a hook by the door and fastened it on the dog. Then he took a firm grip of her elbow.

  To anyone else, it would appear as if he were politely escorting her down the front steps. Only she could feel the strength in his fingers, the implicit warning in his grip.

  They turned right, toward Hyde Park, and Sabine took a deep breath. The morning air was cool and brisk. Little clouds were blocking the sun, but a few patches of blue peeked through. London smelled better than Paris—fresher, less smoky. Or perhaps that was just in the rarefied environs of Mayfair.

  The streets were wider, too, the pale stone of the houses a glistening white. Hampden nodded politely to the maid brushing the steps of the house next door, and acknowledged the boy on the corner who was sweeping the crossing with a twig broom.

  “Don’t even think of trying to run,” he said casually. “I’ll have no trouble at all catching you.”

  They walked on in silence until they reached the corner of Park Lane. Sabine couldn’t help but notice the admiring, sidelong looks he received from the women they passed, the deferential hat-doffs from the men.

  “There, you have reached the end of the street.”

  Sabine squinted to catch a glimpse of Anton across the way, but she couldn’t see him amongst the dense trees of Hyde Park. Was that a flash of clothing by the railings? In one of the thicker areas of greenery?

  She sighed, hating her faulty vision. If she’d been alone she would have pulled out the magnifying lens she wore on a chain around her neck, but the thought of rooting around in her cleavage with Richard Hampden so unnervingly close was not something she wanted to contemplate.

  She’d simply have to hope that Anton had seen them. He’d said he’d find a way to spring her from Hampden’s clutches if she appeared to be in distress, but she couldn’t imagine what he could do. Hampden was not a man one could easily escape. She pasted a smile on her face to reassure Anton if he was watching.

  “Now we will return home.”

  Hampden released her arm only to circle her, transfer Argos’s leash to his right hand, and retake her other elbow, automatically placing himself on the side nearest the traffic, shielding her from the splashes of mud and potentially dangerous wheels of the carriages.

  Sabine frowned. He probably wasn’t even aware he was doing it. She doubted he considered her a lady worthy of such gentlemanly attentions. Such things were doubtless ingrained in lords and viscounts, as natural as breathing. A traitorous curl of pleasure warmed her chest anyway. She sighed. Things would be so much simpler if he were a complete bastard.

  Chapter 11

  Richard kept a tight rein on his temper as he escorted the treacherous little Frenchwoman along the street. She held herself rigid, back straight, head high, avoiding bodily contact with him as much as possible. Her stubborn aloofness made him want to push her up against the side of the house and do something utterly uncivilized. Like kiss that haughty look right off that primly pursed mouth.

  He clenched his jaw. God, the woman had the most ridiculous effect on him. He breathed a sigh of relief when the Ravenwood carriage rounded the corner and drew up outside the house. Raven jumped down and raised one black eyebrow at the sight of him arm in arm with his visitor from last night. His gaze was amused, inquisitive, but he bowed politely to Sabine and they all ascended the steps together.

  “I need a word,” he murmured in Richard’s ear.

  Hodges opened the door, his timing immaculate as ever, and Richard turned to Sabine. “You will await me in the library.”

  She stiffened at his peremptory tone but didn’t argue. “As you wish.”

  Richard suppressed a smile. He wasn’t fooled by her sudden acquiescence. She hated taking orders from him, but she’d clearly accepted the need to appease him, at least for now. He watched her ramrod-straight back as Hodges escorted her into the library, then indicated for Raven to go through the opposite door, into his study.

 
; “What is it?” he asked, dropping into one of the dark leather armchairs by the fire.

  Raven’s lips twitched in amusement. “Oh, no. I’m not saying anything until you tell me what happened last night. And why I arrived here this morning to find your mysterious visitor still here, and wearing a completely different outfit.”

  Richard bit back a curse. Raven would notice that little detail. He was a perceptive bastard. Those emerald-green eyes missed nothing.

  Raven’s eyes glimmered with interest. “Who is she?”

  Richard filled him in.

  Raven let out a long whistle and leaned back in his chair. “Oh, this is priceless. The great Lord Lovell, bested by a French pixie.” He shook his head with a gleeful chuckle. “Do you know how long I’ve prayed for you to meet your match? Years, my friend. Years.”

  Richard briefly considered throwing his friend out of the window. Sadly, past experience told him that even defenestration wouldn’t be enough to divert Raven.

  “Who do you think she’s working for?” Raven asked.

  Richard shrugged. “I don’t know. Decazes succeeded Fouché as minister for police, but he’s got enough on his plate right now dealing with ultra-royalist insurrections. He hasn’t time to stir up trouble here. And why send one of France’s best assets over to us? It doesn’t make sense. He’d want to keep her in Paris working for him.” He frowned. “I think she saw the chance to get out with the money, and took it.”

  “Think she’s acting on her own?” Raven sounded skeptical.

  “No. She claims to have friends who will flood the market with the fake money if she’s harmed. I don’t think she’s bluffing.”

  “We have to find them, then.”

  Richard nodded. “I’ll have her followed.”

  Raven shot him a wicked grin. “Or maybe you can convince her to tell you where the money is. Put those famous good looks to use, for once.”