A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

Sabine tilted her head. “Oh, I don’t know. External appearances can be deceptive. For example, no one would imagine that beneath your brother’s lordly exterior lies a man whose sole delight is tormenting Frenchwomen.”

  Richard gave a snort of laughter. “I wouldn’t say it’s my sole delight, but yes, tormenting Frenchwomen—especially traitorous, criminal Frenchwomen—is a particular hobby of mine.”

  Heloise rolled her eyes.

  Hampden let his gaze skim over Sabine’s cleavage. The expression on his face made her blood slow and heat, like molten lava.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she snapped.

  “I’m making my interest in you perfectly clear.” He sent her a wide, openly admiring smile. “For all those women who seem to find me irresistible.”

  “It’s inexplicable,” she said witheringly.

  He raised an amused brow. “You wound me. I can be irresistible when I choose.”

  “I’m assuming now is not one of those times.”

  He laughed, impervious to her needling. “Those sapphires look magnificent on you, by the way. Don’t tell me they’re fakes. They were eye-wateringly expensive.”

  Sabine gave a nonchalant shrug. “They’ll do.”

  She reminded herself that this was fake. His flirting was all for show, to deceive the casual observer into thinking there was something between them. She gazed out over the crowd so she wouldn’t keep staring at Hampden’s jawline and wondering what his lips would feel like against her own.

  —

  Richard chuckled. Sabine’s irreverence lightened his mood. In fact, he was enjoying the evening far more than he’d enjoyed a ton function in years. She put every other woman in the shade, like a real diamond compared to a paste stone. She was sparkling, vibrant, breathtaking. Beautiful enough to rouse envy in man and woman alike.

  He shook his head. She was an astonishing woman, by turns worldly wise and innocent. Every so often he glimpsed a haunted, lost look in her eyes and a certain wry cynicism that made his chest ache. She’d been hurt, disappointed, bullied, and yet she’d still managed to keep her sense of humor and unbroken spirit. She reminded him of a quote from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream: “And though she be but little, she is fierce.”

  He studied her as she took a sip of his drink. She wasn’t a young girl in the first flush of youth, not one for maidenly blushes or stammering. He liked that—her slightly sarcastic control. She was brave, resourceful, and stubborn, all traits he admired immensely. And her mind was as sharp as a razor.

  His first impression had been to liken her to a pixie, but that wasn’t right. She was more sly than that, more dangerous—like a harpy, with sharp little talons, or a siren, luring men to their doom against the rocks. He certainly wasn’t immune. He needed to strap himself to the mast so he didn’t jump overboard and drown.

  She shifted, and the scent of her drifted to his nose, acerbic and tart. That combination of lemons, ink, and skin that was uniquely her, all mixed together with the sole purpose of driving him mad.

  Several women were sending him come-hither glances, or giving him suggestive peeks from behind their fans. None of them appealed. And even if they had, he couldn’t very well go off and engage a new mistress while he was busy keeping Sabine under surveillance.

  He was wound tighter than a spring because of her distracting presence. It was her fault he was in this highly charged state, with no way of expending his energies. The only sensible solution would be to take her as his mistress.

  Richard paused, mentally cataloguing all the reasons that was a good idea. It would be a mutually beneficial decision between two consenting adults. She was already living under his roof, so it resolved his problem with the least amount of effort on either behalf. She would have no unrealistic expectation of him falling in love with her. And it was very unlikely that she would fall in love with him. She seemed to hate his guts most of the time. That was no bar to a satisfying sexual encounter, however. She might not like him, but she certainly wanted him. A little animosity just made things all the more interesting.

  There could be no question of an inadequate performance from himself. He wanted her with bloodcurdling intensity that was downright terrifying, if he cared to examine it closely. Which he didn’t. More worrying, though, was the suspicion that his desire for her was as intellectual as it was physical. He loved her sneaky, conniving brain as much as he lusted after her body.

  Richard smiled. It was an excellent plan. Time to make himself irresistible.

  Chapter 34

  Sabine held her breath as Hampden leaned closer and stole all the air in the vicinity.

  “We need to dance.”

  Sabine opened her mouth to argue, then froze as she glanced over his shoulder and recognized a horribly familiar face heading toward them with Lady Carstairs. All the blood drained from her cheeks.

  Hampden turned to see what had captured her interest. “Someone you know?” he asked, an edge to his voice.

  Sabine forced herself to speak through numb lips as the couple drew nearer. “Uh, yes. I mean, I’ve seen that man before. In Paris. His name is General Jean Malet.”

  She pressed closer to Hampden’s side, assailed by the feeling of impending doom. What was Malet doing here? Had he followed them to England? How? Oh, God, was he going to arrest her?

  Malet was wearing a new uniform; he must have been promoted. He’d probably slipped a dagger in the back of his predecessor, Sabine thought wildly. She glanced around for an escape route. Malet drew level with them, and for a brief minute she dared hope he would pass them by, but then his gaze alighted on her face and he stopped mid-stride.

  “Lord Lovell,” Lady Carstairs said breathlessly, addressing Hampden. “So glad you could make it to our little soirée. We are honored. May I introduce General Jean Malet, one of the key architects of that monster Napoleon’s downfall.”

  Sabine barely suppressed a snort of derision. Politically, Malet was as inconstant as the English weather, always swapping sides to save his own skin.

  Hampden bowed and Malet did the same, although more stiffly. His florid cheeks spoke of a fondness for claret. His eyes roamed Sabine’s face as he straightened.

  “I do not believe I have had the honor,” he said, in highly accented English.

  Hampden tugged her forward by the arm. “My cousin, Mademoiselle de la Tour.”

  Malet bowed again. “A pleasure to meet a fellow Frenchwoman.” He narrowed his beady eyes and studied her with a puzzled air. “Have we met before, my dear? You look familiar.”

  Sabine pinned a bright smile on her face while her pulse beat against her throat. “I don’t think that’s possible, monsieur.”

  “Of course not,” he agreed readily. He bowed low over her hand and took the opportunity to ogle her cleavage. His mustache quivered as he gave her a jovial grin. “I would have remembered such a pretty face.”

  Sabine relaxed as the threat of exposure passed and she suppressed an impish desire to tell him everything. Oh, we’ve met, Monsieur Malet. I’m the assistant you barely noticed at Carnaud’s gallery in Rue du Pélican. I’m the girl who sold you Giorgione’s study of a nude twice. I’m the forger who’s been working for you for the past eight years. The thief who beat you to all that lovely money at Vincennes.

  She treated him to her best curtsey as he and Lady Carstairs drifted away, but her heart was still hammering at the close call. She glanced up at Hampden, suddenly in need of a moment alone. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to visit the powder room.”

  Hampden inclined his head. “Go ahead. I need a word with Lord Simms, anyway. I’ll meet you back here in five minutes.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “For that dance.”

  —

  Sabine didn’t go to the ladies’ room. She stood near the open French doors instead and took several calming breaths while her pulse resumed its normal rhythm. A thrill of elation warmed her insides. What a close shave!

  She scanned the blurr
y swirl of dancers, then the guests at the edge of the room, but couldn’t see Hampden anywhere. Perhaps he and his friend had withdrawn to the card room. With a little squinting she located Raven and Heloise, chatting at the center of a lively group. Raven watched Heloise as she talked, his hard features softening as they rested on her face. Heloise glanced up and caught him looking, and they shared a secret smile.

  A pang of wistful longing balled in Sabine’s chest at the way they seemed able to communicate with only their eyes. She wanted that. That closeness of souls, the ability to hold a whole conversation without ever moving her lips. Her heart cracked a little; her parents had been the same. It was hardly surprising that she’d crave it too.

  With a sigh, she turned to find a liveried servant hovering at her elbow. “Miss de la Tour?”

  She frowned. “Yes?”

  “There is a gentleman requesting your presence in the gardens.” His face was completely impassive, and he bowed and withdrew before she could ask any more.

  Her heart began to pound again. Had Malet somehow discovered who she was and laid a trap for her? She glanced around—and found him talking animatedly with the Russian ambassador. She bit her lip. If not Malet, could it be one of her previous dance partners, trying to lure her into the gardens for a kiss? The idea was rather flattering, even if he was doubtless only doing it because he thought she was an heiress worth pursuing thanks to Heloise’s ridiculous meddling.

  Curious, but wary, she slipped out into the gardens. There were plenty of people on the terrace, escaping the crush and heat inside. A few tables and chairs lit by lanterns had been artfully arranged to encourage conversation down on the lawn, and she descended the shallow stone steps toward a garland-swagged gazebo.

  The shadows darkened as she slunk deeper into the gardens; there were several invitingly dark corners for the amorously inclined. Sabine spied the edge of a lady’s dress disappearing behind a large willow tree and heard a giggle, hastily hushed.

  She skirted the tall mass of a yew-tree hedge, trying to blend into the shadows. At least her dress was dark.

  “Psst!”

  An arm snaked out and clasped her around the waist. A hand covered her mouth. Sabine gave a muffled cry, but before she could even struggle she was hauled behind the hedge and pulled up tight against a broad chest.

  “Shh! It’s only me.”

  She sagged in relief at that dear, familiar voice. As the pressure on her mouth eased, she whirled around and threw herself against her best friend’s chest.

  “Anton!” she gasped. “You almost frightened me to death! It’s so good to see you. How have you been? I’ve been so worried about you! Where are you staying?”

  Anton removed her arms from around his waist with a muffled groan. Sabine stepped back just as he shifted position, and the faint light from one of the lanterns picked out his misshapen features. She gasped in horror.

  “My God! What happened?” She lifted her hand to touch the swollen side of his cheek, then thought better of it when he flinched back. “Look at your eye!” she wailed. “Who did this to you?”

  Chapter 35

  Anton had been beaten black and blue; his handsome face was almost unrecognizable. His left eye was ringed with a livid bruise and so puffed up his eyelid could barely open. His ear was lumpy and misshapen, like a hideous flesh-colored cauliflower. He looked like a boxer who’d gone twenty rounds and lost.

  Sabine’s eyes hardened in fury. “Who beat you?”

  Anton shrugged, then clutched his ribs as though even that movement pained him. Sabine winced in sympathy.

  “Five lads. They heard my accent. Ex-army, they were, just roiling for a fight with a Frenchie to avenge all their friends killed in the war. They followed me back to the lodgings I’d found and set upon me.”

  “Oh no.”

  “That’s not the worst of it,” Anton sighed, giving her a sidelong glance from his one good eye. “The bastards ransacked my room. They took all my savings, and found my half of our emergency money.”

  Sabine sagged back against the hedge and swallowed a few choice curses. “Oh Anton!”

  Anton gave an angry shake of his head, clearly frustrated with himself. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. But I couldn’t fight them off.”

  Sabine sighed. “Well, what’s done is done. And at least you weren’t killed. Besides, we still have my half of the money.” Anton nodded and she let out a sigh. “I hate to say ‘I told you so,’ but this is precisely why I said we should split it up. In case of unforeseen mishaps such as this.”

  “Where’s your half?” Anton asked.

  “I hid it in a locker at the British Museum.”

  “You sure it’s safe?”

  “Safer than at Richard Hampden’s residence, I can tell you that,” Sabine said grimly. “I’m sure he’s already searched my rooms.”

  “I’m going to need some of it,” Anton said. “I can’t live on nothing.”

  Sabine scowled. She hated the idea of introducing the fake money into circulation, but what other choice did they have? “Very well. I’ll go back to the museum and get it.”

  “Can’t I go?”

  “No. It’s in the coat check, and you need a little numbered ivory disk to release it. It’s back in my room.”

  “Can you leave it somewhere for me to find?”

  Sabine shook her head. “Not really. I don’t want to risk you being caught. It will have to be me.” She peered at him through the darkness. “Have you found any ships sailing to America yet?”

  Anton shook his head. “We just missed one that sailed last week. There’s another company I’m trying tomorrow, down by the Thames docks, that sounds promising, though.”

  Sabine frowned. “How did you know I’d be here, anyway? And how did you get in?”

  He started to smile, then hissed as the movement cracked his split lip. “I slipped in through the garden gate. And I knew you’d be here because I’ve been watching Lovell’s house from Hyde Park. I followed that fancy coach of his. Those crests on the side are pretty distinctive.”

  A peal of feminine laughter rippled from the terrace and Sabine jerked as another, terrifying thought struck her. “Oh, God. You can’t be seen here with me! Malet’s here, in this very house!”

  Anton frowned. “Malet’s here? Shit! Did he see you?”

  “We were introduced. He said I looked familiar, but he couldn’t place me.”

  Anton let out a relieved sigh. “I’m not surprised. I almost didn’t recognize you!” He took her hand and raised it so she was forced to give him a twirl. Sabine spread her skirts and made a deep, sarcastic curtsey. He winked at her with his good eye. “You look extraordinaire, ma belle. Who’d have thought there was a ravishing woman under all that printing ink?”

  Sabine laughed and shook her head. “You are a Frenchman through and through. Even beaten to a pulp you cannot help issuing outrageous compliments.”

  He meant nothing by them. Flirting came to him as easily as breathing. He’d flirt with a tree if there wasn’t a woman close by. Ironic how his most outrageous comments failed to arouse her, but the slightest hint of appreciation from Richard Hampden made her pulse flutter alarmingly.

  Anton gave one of his classic Gallic shrugs. “Bah. A man would have to be dead not to notice a beautiful woman.”

  The voices of a couple strolling their way interrupted his discourse. Sabine peered cautiously around the side of the hedge. The dense foliage of the yew made it the perfect screen, thick and impenetrable, but anyone could stumble across them.

  “You should go, before Hampden catches us.”

  Anton frowned. “He’s treating you well?”

  “As well as can be expected. But he doesn’t trust me an inch. He barely leaves me alone for a moment.”

  He nodded. “All right, I’ll go. When do you think you’ll be able to get the money?”

  “I’ll go tomorrow, first thing. I’ve already visited the museum once, so there’s no reason to think
that he won’t let me return. Let’s meet in Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon. The fashionable set don’t go there until at least half past four, and even then they usually just parade up and down Rotten Row in their carriages.” She saw Anton’s frown and clarified. “It’s the bridle path, next to the big lake. Anyway, I’ll meet you just inside the northeast corner, by Tyburn tree, where the gallows used to be. I’ll aim for around half past two.”

  “Will Hampden let you out without an escort?”

  Sabine’s eyes twinkled. “Probably not, but don’t worry, I’ll think of something. Richard Hampden needs to learn that I will not be contained.”

  Anton shook his head in mock commiseration. “I almost pity the man.”

  She plucked at his sleeve, half-turning him. “Go! If Hampden catches you he’ll…” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. She couldn’t imagine what he would do.

  Anton stepped close and gave her a quick hug, which she returned, careful not to crush his injured ribs.

  “Until tomorrow, ma chère.”

  —

  Richard stepped onto the terrace and swept an irritated glance around the shadowed gardens. Where the hell had Sabine gone? He’d seen her slip out of the French windows. Had she made an assignation with one of the wealthy fops like Eddie who’d been fawning over her? The idea of her with another man made his fingers clench into a fist. He strode down the steps to look for her, his mood black. Damnable woman. What was she up to now?

  Chapter 36

  Sabine brushed down her skirts and was about to step back onto the path when a tall shadow blocked the way. The moonlight briefly illuminated Hampden’s austere features and her heart gave a guilty start against her ribs. “Oh! It’s you.” She resisted the impulse to glance over her shoulder after Anton.

  Hampden joined her behind the yew screen. “Were you expecting someone else?” he asked tersely.

  She realized with a sudden plummeting dismay that he was furious. Oh, merde. Had he seen her with Anton? No. Surely if he’d seen them together he would have been rushing past her, trying to catch her accomplice. Sabine backed up until the prickly needles of the hedge stopped her escape. “Of course not,” she managed. “I just needed a little air.”