A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  She didn’t want to discuss Hampden with Anton. The clock struck a quarter to three. “I have to go. I’ve been away from the house for too long already.” Her lips quirked. “I’m supposed to be preparing for tomorrow’s outing.” She briefly told him of the English plotters and the emperor’s letter she’d written for Hampden.

  Anton’s brows drew together. “These are dangerous men you’re dealing with, Sabine. Are you sure Hampden can protect you?”

  Sabine remembered the way he’d fought in the ballroom. “Yes,” she said. “He can. But it won’t just be him. Several of his men will be there too. As soon as the plotters accept my offer, they’ll arrest them.”

  “Be careful.” Anton gave her another swift hug and kissed the top of her hair. “Is this goodbye?” he said softly.

  Sabine pulled back. “No. I’ll come to the docks to see your boat leave.” She smiled grimly. “Even if I have to knock Hampden unconscious and tie him up, I’ll be there.” She punched Anton playfully on the arm. “Try not to get beaten and robbed again, if you please. That means keeping a low profile—no seducing ladies or rescuing damsels in distress. And only spend as much of that money as you need.”

  Anton nodded dutifully. “Yes, Maman,” he teased.

  They reached the eastern exit to the park. Anton gazed across the road at Upper Brook Street. “There was quite the commotion over there earlier. Your work?”

  Sabine nodded proudly. “All mine. I knew practicing Hampden’s signature would come in handy.” She bit her lip. “He’s going to be livid when he finds out what I’ve done—he’ll guard me even more closely from now on. I’m not sure how I’ll get out to meet you at the docks, but I’ll think of something. A doctor’s note, an urgent summons from his banker…”

  “Good luck,” Anton laughed, and disappeared into the trees.

  With a sigh, Sabine started back toward the house. She was not looking forward to the inevitable confrontation with the irascible Lord Lovell.

  Chapter 40

  “There is a boy to see you, sir.”

  Richard glanced up from his newspaper with an irritated frown. He’d come to White’s for an hour of uninterrupted reading—a feat impossible in his own house due to a certain irresistible Frenchwoman. Even when she wasn’t physically haunting his library he felt her presence, somewhere in the house, calling to him, urging him to stop reading and start—doing other things.

  “Afternoon, guv’nr.”

  Will Ambrose’s cheeky face peeked around the doorman’s portly bulk. Richard dismissed the man with a nod and Will took the empty seat opposite. He glanced around the opulent room with interest. “Didn’t fink they’d let me in ’ere. But your name opens doors, it does.”

  “Don’t even consider stealing anything.” Richard gave a wry smile. “So what brings you here, scamp?”

  “Nuffin’ much,” Will grinned. “Just thought you might be interested to know that that lady o’ yours spent the afternoon in the park. Wiv a man,” he added smugly.

  Richard lowered his paper. “Which man?”

  “Didn’t recognize ’im.” Will shrugged. “And they was too far away for me to ’ear anyfink, like.”

  “What did he look like?”

  Will’s nose wrinkled. “S’pose if I was a girl I’d think ’im ’andsome. Dark ’air, afletick figure, broad shoulders. Tall—not unlike yerself, guv’nr,” he added cheekily. “ ’Ard to see ’is face, on account of ’is ’at, but looked like the cove’d taken a right beating. Black an’ blue, ’is neck was.”

  “And what did they do?” Richard asked grimly.

  “She ’anded ’im summit out of ’er bag. Paper. Looked like money. They talked a while, then went their separate ways.”

  “Did they embrace?”

  “Kiss, you mean?” Will shook his head. “Nah. Hugged a few times, but no kissin’ like.” He stood and tugged down the front of his scruffy waistcoat with an air of importance. “Anyway, fought you might like to know.”

  “Thank you, Will,” Richard said grimly. He reached into his waistcoat and flipped the boy a shilling, which Will plucked from midair and pocketed in the blink of an eye. “You were right. The whereabouts of that woman is of very great interest to me indeed.”

  When Will left, Richard stared moodily into the fire, then glanced at the clock on the mantel. Was four in the afternoon too early to start drinking? Probably.

  He ascribed the sudden roiling in his gut to hunger, not jealousy. What was she up to? Hadn’t he told her to stay at home? Who had she been meeting?

  He didn’t trust her any farther than he could throw her.

  That was just a phrase, of course, but his fiendish brain began to imagine it literally. To throw her he’d have to wrap his hands around her tiny waist, span his fingers under her ribs, and lift her. He wouldn’t want to hurt her, which meant he’d have to throw her onto something soft, like a sofa. Or a bed.

  Richard shook his head to dislodge the kaleidoscope of erotic images that naturally followed that imaginary event. He beckoned a footman. Four o’clock be damned; he needed a brandy. And then he was going home to find out exactly what game Little Miss Counterfeit was playing.

  —

  Fate smiled on Sabine. Cook was so preoccupied dealing with the contents of the picnic hamper that she barely spared Sabine a glance when she slipped in through the kitchen door.

  “It appears we have quite a bit of food,” Sabine said innocently as she headed for the servants’ staircase. “Would you send a tray up to my rooms, please? I think I’ll eat up there this evening.”

  Cook beamed. “Of course, madame.” She held aloft two muslin-wrapped packets. “You can ’ave some o’ these lovely Scotch eggs and a nice bit of cheese. I’ll send up a bottle o’ this new claret, too.” She indicated a newly opened wooden crate on the floor.

  “That sounds lovely, thank you.”

  A piercing squawk from the hallway above them almost made Sabine drop her bag of drawing tools—until she recalled the parrot. She stifled a chuckle. Oh yes. Hampden was going to love that purchase.

  She found Hodges overseeing two footmen carrying a large, domed metal cage, the inhabitant of which was a handsome gray parrot with a coral-pink tail and white patches around each of its beady eyes. Argos skipped excitedly around them, offering assorted woofs and growls and generally getting in the way.

  “Must’ve been in his cups,” the first footman muttered.

  Hodges shot the young man a disapproving frown. “I am certain his lordship was no such thing, Henry.”

  The bird let out an ear-splitting shriek, then, quite clearly, said, “Fall to, boys. Ready about! Hard alee!”

  Hodges’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline.

  The parrot bit the wire bars, flapped its wings, and added in a jovial, booming voice, “Come on board, sir! Come on board.”

  One of the footmen laughed in amazement.

  “Yer buffle-headed boat-licker!” squawked the bird.

  Hodges gasped. The footmen chuckled in delight.

  “That bird should go straight to his lordship’s rooms,” Sabine said decisively. “I distinctly recall Lord Lovell saying that he wanted it in his suite. As a companion.”

  She escaped up the stairs to conceal her giggles.

  Once in her room, Sabine glanced around for somewhere to hide her money. After much consideration, she got on her knees in front of the fire grate and pushed it up the chimney shaft. It lodged an arm’s length up, where the flue angled backward into a smallish sloped shelf.

  There was a tense moment when Josie entered with the tea tray and noticed the mess of soot Sabine had dislodged on the carpet, but Sabine fobbed her off with a story about hearing birds in the chimney and begged her not to light any fires until it had been swept by a chimney sweep.

  Chapter 41

  It was, of course, too much to hope that Hampden wouldn’t have something to say about the afternoon’s activities. Sabine had just finished her dinner and poured a sec
ond glass of the rather tasty Bordeaux when the door to her room banged open.

  She treated Hampden to a welcoming smile. “Good evening, my lord. Would you care for a glass of claret?”

  He closed the door behind him with a controlled click and narrowed his eyes. “No, I would not like a glass of claret,” he said. He held up a sheaf of what she supposed must be bills for the purchases she’d made. “What I would like is for you to explain why I am now the proud owner of two pairs of new riding boots, a dozen orange trees, and”—he consulted the invoices—“a rosewood pianoforte?” His voice was dangerously calm. “I don’t play the pianoforte, Miss de la Tour.”

  “Your future wife might,” Sabine said reasonably.

  He ignored that little provocation and riffled through the assorted pages, reading aloud. “A folio of erotic drawings from Orme & Co., Old Bond Street?”

  “Improvements to your library,” Sabine said. “The top shelves looked a little empty.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “A large order of loose leaf tea from Bennet & Tolson, tea merchants?”

  “In case I need to age any more documents.”

  “One solid gold timepiece from Francis Perigal, watchmaker to His Majesty.”

  “Wouldn’t want you to be late to all those routs and balls you so enjoy.” She gave him an innocent smile. “The ladies would be devastated.”

  “A mahogany-cased set of dueling pistols from Charles Grierson.” He glanced up, looking sorely tempted to use them on her. “I already own a perfectly good set of pistols by Manton.”

  Sabine shrugged. “I thought you might need a spare pair. But I’ll have them, if you don’t want them. They sound much better than my little pocket pistol.” She shot him a bland look, but inside she was quaking with laughter.

  A loud, reproachful squawk echoed from the adjoining rooms. Hampden closed his eyes as if in acute pain.

  “And the parrot?” he inquired softly, but with distinct menace. “Would you care to explain the parrot? A bird that appears to have been brought back from the tropics in the company of a bunch of foul-mouthed sailors and whose vocabulary consists of little more than maritime instructions and curse words.”

  “Bugger me down dead!” squawked the parrot, right on cue.

  Sabine bit her lip. “I thought you might find it entertaining.”

  “Turn out, ye cock-chafing bastards!” screeched the bird.

  She offered a plate forward, struggling to keep a straight face. “Do try a Scotch egg.”

  A muscle ticked in the side of Hampden’s jaw. He looked like a man pushed past the limits of his endurance. It was a marvelous sight. Sabine could only pray he would crack. She very much wanted to see him lose his fabled cool. Sadly, however, he took a deep breath and appeared to regain control.

  “You forged my signature,” he said evenly. “You bought these things pretending to be me. Why?”

  What could she say? So I could escape and meet my friend? So I could retrieve some of that counterfeit fortune you so want to get your hands on? Hardly. She gave a careless shrug. “I was bored. Women shop when they’re bored.”

  His amber eyes bored into hers and her heart beat wildly against her ribs. Oh, she was enjoying teasing this wolf immensely. She was half frightened, half exhilarated. Any second now he would pounce. She took a fortifying sip of wine. “I was merely helping your deceit of the ton.”

  One dark eyebrow rose. “How so?”

  “These are the purchases of a man setting up home. Extra cutlery, glasses, upholstery fabric. All evidence of an imminent intent to start entertaining. It adds credence to your story that you’re courting me with a view to matrimony.”

  He didn’t blink. “The furnishing of this house is to be left to my actual wife, Miss de la Tour. It is not your prerogative. Is that clear?”

  Sabine suppressed a scowl. Condescending idiot. Someone like her would never occupy that lofty position, evidently.

  “Very clear, your lordship.” She gave a helpless little shrug. “It’s just that I hate sitting around all day. You could at least have given me something to forge while you were out. You’re paying me ten thousand pounds, and all I’ve done so far is write one letter from Napoleon and convinced that fat slug Skelton I’m Lacorte. You’re not precisely getting your money’s worth out of me.”

  His eyes narrowed in a way that made her insides heat. “Oh, I fully intend to get my money’s worth, Miss de la Tour.”

  He crossed the floor and she tensed in anticipation, but he merely sank into the seat opposite her with a sigh. She caught the faintest tang of brandy and wood smoke.

  “We need to discuss the plan for meeting with the conspirators tomorrow.”

  “Now?”

  He glanced pointedly over at the bed, then back at her. The corners of his mouth twitched. “Is there something you’d rather do instead?”

  His gaze lingered on her mouth and she tried to banish all the wicked suggestions swirling around her brain. She swallowed and shook her head. “No. Of course not. Go ahead.”

  He nodded and used her wineglass to pour himself a generous helping of claret. “According to my sources, two other men should be at the meeting tomorrow with Skelton.”

  He took a sip of wine and grunted appreciatively. It was a good thing he liked it; it was an exorbitantly expensive Château Palmer, and as of this afternoon he was the proud owner of three crates of the stuff.

  “They’re both English. The first is George Levy. He’s ex-navy, with a fondness for ale. Been shooting his mouth off in taverns for months, criticizing the way our veterans have been treated after the war. He blames our ‘profligate prince’ for wasting money on lavish ceremonies while injured soldiers are left to starve on the streets.”

  Sabine raised her brows. “You can hardly fault him for that.”

  Hampden nodded. “No, I can’t. But his suggestion—assassinating the prince and doing away with the royal family altogether—is not the way to effect change.” He frowned. “The second man is John Maynard. He owns a betting shop in Spitalfields and organizes horse races all around the country. He distributes the proceeds of stolen goods sold through Skelton’s shop. His brother was killed at Waterloo, and he’s been organizing protests out in the provinces, trying to stir up civil unrest. He’s as keen to see the government topple as Levy. That’s why I’m sure he’ll agree to the suggestion of using your counterfeits.”

  Hampden took another sip of wine. “Speaking of which, are you sure there’s no way you can get even a small amount of your fake currency? You promised Skelton you’d take a sample of it to show him.”

  Sabine didn’t even glance toward the fireplace. “I told you, I don’t have access to it.” Her heart thudded guiltily at the lie, and she was sure her cheeks were turning pink, but Hampden seemed to accept her word.

  “Pity. Oh well, we’ll just have to take some real money and hope they don’t notice the difference. I should be able to rustle up five hundred pounds or so. Provided you’ve left me some funds in my account after your zealous shopping spree,” he added pointedly.

  Sabine ignored the jibe and grinned. “It will be an interesting change, passing real money off as fake.”

  Hampden finished his wine and stood. “My men will be stationed in the inn and across the street. As soon as the plotters incriminate themselves by agreeing to buy your counterfeits, I’ll give the signal and they will storm in and arrest all three of them.”

  Sabine nodded. “All right.”

  He looked down at her for a long moment, his face unreadable.

  “Show a leg, ye cadger!” the parrot screeched.

  Hampden shot her an exasperated look. “If you’ll excuse me, I must have that thing strangled.” He offered her a formal bow. “Good night.”

  —

  The following morning, Richard dispatched Sabine next door to visit his mother and slipped into her bedroom.

  According to Will Ambrose, she’d exchanged something with her mysterious male friend
in the park yesterday and he was determined to discover what it was. She wouldn’t have chosen anywhere obvious to hide it; she was too sneaky for that. Even so, he searched her paint box, her drawers, under the mattress, and behind the small portraits of her parents on the mantelpiece.

  Nothing.

  He stood in the center of the room, hands on hips, lips pursed. Her maid had reported sweeping up a sooty mess in front of the fireplace. She said Sabine had given explicit orders not to light a fire because she suspected there might be a bird’s nest up there.

  Richard snorted. Bird’s nest, my arse. There was something up that chimney, but he’d bet his boots it wasn’t avian. He knelt in front of the grate and peered up the flue; it was pitch black, but he took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and stuck his arm up the chimney. His fingers touched a large leather package and he chuckled in delight.

  Nice try, Little Miss Counterfeit.

  With some judicious wiggling the package came free. It fell and hit him on the head, but his irritation vanished when he opened the leather bag and discovered the small wooden cigar box inside. A smile split his face.

  He had her.

  Chapter 42

  After an enjoyable afternoon spent with Therese and Heloise, Sabine bathed and dressed in the same unremarkable outfit in which she’d met Skelton. It was almost dusk when she descended the stairs.

  Richard had reprised the role of her dumb brute cousin Jacob, and embellished his outfit with a greatcoat, the caped shoulders of which added even more bulk to his already intimidating size.

  He turned to her with a conspiratorial grin. “Ready?”

  “I suppose so.”

  For one instant they shared a look of perfect complicity; they were in this together, accomplices in deception. Sabine’s insides warmed. It felt good. She might not have much in common with Richard, Lord Lovell, but this man, this roguish vagabond, oh, she knew him. A man like him would be easy to fall in love with.