A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  Now she wondered what it would be like to have something other than her own, familiar fingers between her legs. His fingers, for example. His mouth? The very thought made her dizzy. Sabine punched her pillow.

  By midnight she’d decided to simply pretend the kiss had never happened. It was a moment of madness never to be repeated. She had Anton to think of. There was no time for messing around with Hampden. From now on she would concentrate on the job in hand.

  Mmm. Hands, her wicked mind whispered, wonderful, skillful, talented hands…

  Sabine scrunched her eyes closed and willed herself to sleep.

  Chapter 38

  When Sabine strolled into the breakfast room the following morning, she was greeted by a veritable florist’s shop of flowers. At least seven or eight bunches decorated the tables and mantelpiece, and the smell was almost overpowering.

  “Dieu! What is all this?”

  Hodges, who had trailed her from the foyer, gave her a congratulatory smile. “For you, madame. Her ladyship sent them over from next door. I have placed the relevant card with each one.”

  Sabine picked up the nearest and read it aloud: “Delighted to have made your acquaintance. Lord Hughes Ball Hughes.” She glanced up at Hodges, astonished. “Goodness.”

  “It appears you have a whole raft of admirers, madame,” Hodges beamed.

  She examined the next bouquet and let out a sound of irritation. “Someone has removed the thorns from these roses!”

  Hampden chose that moment to saunter into the salon, looking as effortlessly elegant as usual. “I sense disapproval. What’s making you so cross this morning?”

  Her heart leaped at seeing him, but she managed a frown. “A rose without any thorns isn’t really a rose.”

  Those perfect lips quirked. “Didn’t Shakespeare say that ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet’? What does it matter? They’re easier to handle that way.”

  “It matters because it has been changed from what it was meant to be,” Sabine said. “They’ve made it defenseless.” She flushed as she realized how stupid that sounded. She wasn’t even certain she was still talking about the rose. She was so out of sorts from last night’s kiss that she could barely look at him. Her whole body was a seething mass of confusion.

  He plucked a lilac stem from a nearby vase and sniffed it. “I see your point. Maybe the real reason we appreciate roses isn’t because they smell nice, but because they’re so bloody difficult to grab hold of? The sense of accomplishment when we tame them is all the greater.”

  His expression was bland, but she had the feeling he was laughing at her. Beast. She shrugged. “Cut flowers make me sad. They fade so soon. The man who truly loves me will plant me a garden, not give me a bouquet.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” he said. “I trust you can amuse yourself today. I have a meeting with Castlereagh to finalize the plan for capturing the plotters tomorrow.”

  She waved him away. “Of course. I thought I might go back to the museum.”

  He shook his head. “Not today.”

  Her brows—and her temper—rose. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not free to accompany you and keep you out of mischief.”

  Sabine scowled. “Fine. I’ll make use of the library here. Provided that’s permitted,” she added pointedly.

  He nodded. “That will be fine. I’ll see you later.”

  As soon as she heard the front door shut behind him, Sabine went into the library. Irritating man! Did he honestly think she would do as he ordered? A short search through the shelves produced what she was looking for: The London Directory and Register, “containing the names, residence and occupation of the citizens &c.” She flicked to the sections for Bond Street and St. James’s, withdrew a thick sheaf of writing paper from the desk, and started to write.

  A wicked smile hovered on her lips. Lord Lovell was about to make some spectacular purchases.

  She wrote fifteen letters in all and tied them up with a piece of ribbon. There was no point in trying to give them to the servants—Hampden had doubtless left orders to confiscate her correspondence—so she opened the sash window and whistled to one of the sweeper boys loitering about on the corner. Thankfully it was not Hampden’s little ally, Will Ambrose. The lad skulked nearer as she beckoned him forward, looking suspicious.

  “How would you like to earn a shilling?” she asked.

  The boy’s scrawny little face lit up in delight. “Yes, mum!”

  “All you have to do is deliver these letters. But it must be right away. Can you do that?”

  The lad nodded eagerly. “ ’Course, mum.”

  She tossed the bundle of letters down to him. “I’ll have payment waiting when you come back.”

  A gleeful laugh bubbled up inside her as he hurried off. The notes had been made to an assortment of different tradesmen, and while the items she’d requested varied greatly, all the letters had specified the same time for delivery. The esteemed Lord Lovell required them at precisely two o’clock that afternoon.

  Now all she had to do was wait.

  She’d just settled into reading a particularly fine copy of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales when Hodges appeared at the door.

  “You have a visitor, ma’am.”

  Sabine straightened.

  “A French gentleman,” Hodges added. “I have put him in the blue salon.”

  Her heart plummeted, but she pasted a serene smile on her face. “Thank you, Hodges—I’ll be there directly.”

  She was going to strangle Anton. Why on earth would he risk coming here now? Especially since they’d already agreed to meet later on in the park. Thank goodness Hampden had already left.

  Sabine strode into the salon quite prepared to give him a good scolding, but came to a sudden stop when she realized it was not Anton bending over one of her bouquets. It was General Jean Malet.

  Merde.

  Malet straightened and his expression was distinctly unpleasant. Sabine’s stomach turned to lead, but she affected an expression of polite inquiry. “Good morning, monsieur.” She dropped him a neat curtesy.

  Malet’s smile was chilling. “Let’s dispense with the niceties,” he said, in French. “I knew I recognized you last night, but I just couldn’t place you. And then it came to me: you’re the girl from Carnaud’s.”

  Sabine schooled her face to show faint surprise. “I don’t know what you mean, monsieur. I’m afraid you are mistaken.”

  The general’s brows lowered. “Don’t play games with me, girl. I don’t know how you’ve managed to wheedle your way into Lovell’s home, but I know who you are. You’re Anton Carnaud’s friend. Which means you’re Philippe Lacorte’s friend.” His eyes gleamed with triumph. “Oh, yes, I know Carnaud is Lacorte. He thought to hide it from me, but nobody fools Jean Malet for long.” His lips tightened beneath his bristling mustache. “I followed him from Paris, you know. Spoke to some of his old contacts, found out he used a fake passport to come to England, under the name Christian Lambert.”

  He plucked a tall daisy from one of the bunches of flowers and twirled the stem idly between his fingers. “And he wasn’t traveling alone. No, he was with his ‘sister,’ Marie. That was you.”

  Sabine’s hands were clammy, but she lifted her eyebrows the way Hampden did when he wanted to express genteel incredulity. “I say again, monsieur, you are mistaken. What you say is a fantasy. I have never met this Monsieur Carnaud. Or this Lacorte of whom you speak.”

  Malet’s smile would have made a snake recoil. “Eh bien. If that’s how you want to play it. But you should pass on a message to your friend. He has my money and I will get it back. I tracked him here. I will track him wherever he goes until he returns what is mine. If he does not, well…” The daisy snapped in half under the pressure of his thumb, and Malet bared his teeth in the semblance of a smile. He gave a mock start of dismay. “How careless of me. I am staying at Grillon’s. Tell Lacorte that he has ten days to return my money or I will bury him.
” He bowed. “I know where you are now. Don’t think that Lovell’s lofty position will shield you if Lacorte does not comply. Good day, madame.”

  A chill ran down her spine, but she merely tilted her head as Malet swept past her. She dimly heard Hodges open the front door as she sank into a nearby chair. Her stomach churned. Merde, merde, merde. They had seriously underestimated Malet.

  Sabine pressed a hand to her stomach and took a deep breath. Oh God. Which of her friends had he threatened in Paris to extract the information about the passports? She hoped they were all right.

  She’d have to tell Anton of this new, unwelcome development this afternoon. There was no question of them returning the money to Malet, of course, but now it was even more imperative for Anton to leave England as soon as possible.

  Chapter 39

  Sabine brooded over Malet’s visit so much that two o’clock came almost before she was ready. At five minutes to the hour, she listened to the growing clamor in the street outside and her mood lightened. She pushed up the sash window of her bedroom, leaned out, and gave a sigh of delight.

  Ah, sweet chaos.

  Upper Brook Street was as crowded as the Place Vendôme before an execution. Fifteen assorted tradesmen all trying to deliver to the same address at the same time had created a traffic snarl of epic proportions. The road was full of confused, jostling merchants, all desperate not to irritate their lordly customer by being late.

  The crates of wine and enormous grocery hamper she’d ordered from Messrs. Fortnum and Mason were visible on the back of the nearest cart. The driver was trying to negotiate his way past a second cart, painted J. BROADWOOD, containing a beautiful new pianoforte. Sabine had no idea whether Hampden even played the pianoforte, but she’d noticed the ballroom was in dire need of an instrument when they’d been fencing the other day.

  The nurserymen’s cart was instantly recognizable by the sixteen large orange trees protruding from the sides. Two men in aprons—possibly the butchers from whom she’d ordered a large haunch of venison—were trying to back up their agitated mare to allow other representatives carrying an assortment of boxes to reach the front door.

  Sabine chuckled. No doubt those were the boots from Hoby and the new superfine jacket she’d ordered from Weston. Lord Lovell bought only from the best.

  Two burly apprentices were struggling to unload a handsome longcase clock, hampered by several dogs that were darting in between the horses’ legs and barking excitedly. They almost tripped a young man bearing a paper-wrapped package that Sabine deduced to be the small but exquisite Raphael drawing she’d seen in the window of a gallery on Bond Street on the way home from the museum. It would look lovely opposite the Rembrandt.

  She felt a brief twinge of guilt for spending so much of Hampden’s money, and brutally quashed it. He could afford it, and it served him right for trying to keep her under house arrest.

  The front door knocker was banging incessantly. Sabine slipped downstairs and found a harassed Hodges directing the nurserymen toward the back garden. She pressed herself against the wall to make room for two more boys carrying cylindrical rolls of upholstery fabric—all in deliciously feminine shades of pale rose and lavender. Sabine snorted. Heaven knew what Hampden would do with those. She’d love to see him redecorate his lordly bedroom in pastel pink.

  With the rest of the servants rushing to and fro dealing with the unending stream of purchases, it was easy to slip out of the door. Using the tangle of carts as cover, she weaved through the baying crowd and hailed a hansom cab at the corner of Park Lane. “The British Museum, please,” she called gaily.

  “Right-o, miss.” The driver tilted his head toward the chaos behind her. “What the ’ell’s ’appenin’ there? Beggin’ yer pardon,” he added as an afterthought for his ungentlemanly language.

  Sabine shrugged innocently. “I have absolutely no idea.”

  It took a mere ten minutes to get to the British Museum, and no time at all to retrieve her bag of “artist’s materials.” She’d told the driver to wait for her, and on the return journey he dropped her off at Hyde Park Corner. The church clock struck half past two just as she entered the park through the tall wrought-iron gates. Perfect timing.

  Sabine inhaled deeply, glad to be outdoors. It was easier to think with the peaceful tones of green around her. She passed the spot that had once held the infamous gallows, now commemorated by a small round plaque, and shivered. Doubtless they’d hung counterfeiters on that murderous gibbet, as well as highwaymen and thieves.

  At this hour there was hardly anyone around, just a few harried nurses chasing after their small charges, who in turn were chasing the hapless ducks. Anton was waiting for her along one of the tree-lined walks. His injuries looked even more alarming in daylight: a grotesque rainbow of shades ranging from jaundiced yellow to deep bruised plum. He looked thoroughly disreputable, an effect heightened by the hat he wore pulled down low over his forehead to try to disguise the worst of it.

  “I’ve found a boat going to Boston,” he said by way of greeting.

  Sabine returned his friendly hug and tugged him off the path between a clump of trees.

  “The Black Ball Line has a brig, the Falcon, under a Captain Lewis, leaving on the eighth of May from the Pool of London docks. It costs five pounds and takes about thirty days, depending on the weather.”

  Sabine frowned. “That’s in twelve days’ time. You need to be on it.” She told him of Malet’s unexpected visit and his ultimatum.

  Anton pursed his lips. “The wily old bastard. I never thought he’d have the brains to follow us here.”

  Sabine rummaged in her bag for the box full of cash. “Here, take it.”

  “I don’t need it all. You have to keep some for yourself.” Anton carefully counted out half the money and returned it to her. He folded his five hundred pounds inside his waistcoat.

  Sabine nodded. She’d been willing to let him have it all, but what he said made sense. She’d have nothing to fall back on until Richard paid her otherwise. She hated the fact that they were being forced to use the fake money, but there was little hope that Hampden would pay her an advance and Anton couldn’t wait until her arrangement with him was done. Every moment he stayed in London increased the chances of discovery by Malet.

  Sabine studied Anton’s profile in the dappled sunlight. Even battered and bruised, he was handsome. He’d been her best friend for more than half her life. She blinked back the hot sting of tears. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you,” she said bleakly.

  He put his arm around her shoulders and she recalled the first time they’d met, at the Louvre. She’d been ten, Anton thirteen, and both of them had been left to draw the same classical statue while their fathers discussed a newly acquired painting in one of the back offices. Anton had wryly remarked that her drawing was better than his. Then he’d taught her how to wolf-whistle. It had been the start of a beautiful friendship.

  Sabine swallowed the painful tightness in her throat. Anton had saved her from the butcher’s boy, that night in the lane, and shielded her in so many other ways, too. They’d been together, watching each other’s backs, for eight long years.

  Anton let out a deep sigh. “You could always come with me, you know.” He lowered his chin to see her expression. “Forge a new life in the Colonies? It’s a land of opportunity for people like us. Think of it, Sabine. We could start again, be anyone we want to be.”

  Sabine shook her head sadly. “No. I still have things to do back in Paris. You know that. And besides,” she said, “I gave my word to Hampden that I would work for him for a full month. I still have three weeks left.”

  Anton gave one of his patented shrugs, using both shoulders for full dramatic effect. “Bah. What can he do if you just disappear? He won’t have any idea where you’ve gone. You need to get away from Malet, too. If I leave the country who will protect you from him, eh?”

  Sabine put on a brave face. They’d discussed the future at great
length on the way over from Paris. Dealing with Malet would be unpleasant, certainly, but she could manage it. If only she didn’t feel as if everyone she cared for was abandoning her. It wasn’t Anton’s fault, of course, but she couldn’t help the wave of despair that swept over her.

  He deserved to find happiness. She’d always suspected that one of the reasons he’d never settled down in Paris was because he didn’t want to leave her. He’d taken his responsibilities as her adopted brother seriously, and she’d had no desire to be a burden to him. He needed his freedom, and as much as it pained her to see him go, she had no desire to accompany him. In three weeks she’d be going back to Paris with her ten thousand pounds and keeping the promise she’d made to the memory of her father.

  Anton shot her a deceptively innocent look. “Sure it’s not because you want to stay with Hampden?”

  Sabine whacked him on the arm with her bag. “Of course not! I’m only using him for the money.”

  Anton ruffled her hair. “I saw you with him in the garden, chèrie. That didn’t look much like work.” He shook his head, pretending to be scandalized. “Oh la la!”

  Heat flashed across her face. “Dieu! You were spying on us? You…pervert!”

  Anton chuckled. “Only for a moment. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to hurt you. But he kissed you. Or rather, you kissed him.” He let out a long, low whistle. “My God, Sabine, that man wants you! I could feel my hair curling from the heat!”

  As embarrassed as she was that Anton had witnessed the kiss, Sabine was also strangely pleased that he’d confirmed Richard’s desire for her. She hadn’t been imagining it.

  “You be careful with him, little one,” Anton warned, his voice suddenly gruff. He chucked her under the chin. “Hampden is not a man used to hearing ‘no.’ If he wants something, he gets it. Just be sure you know what you’re doing, all right? You’re playing with fire and I don’t want to see you get burned.”