A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  “Making yourself at home, I see,” he said.

  His hair was disheveled and he looked weary, but she hardened her heart. She wouldn’t feel sorry for the rotten, sneaky thief. She shrugged, unrepentant. “You went through my things. I don’t see why I shouldn’t do the same.”

  He stalked forward, unhurried, and her heart rate increased. “Find anything interesting?”

  His mild tone was annoying. Why did he always have to be so composed?

  “As a matter of fact I did. Why do you pay some woman in Paris every month? Is she your mistress on a retainer? Or are you supporting a bastard, Lord Lovell?”

  She’d thought he would get angry, but he merely looked resigned. “I assume you’re referring to Madame Pensol?”

  His calmness made her want to shoot him. In the privates.

  “You have been busy. If you must know, I’ve been sending her money for the past eight years.”

  Sabine blinked. He had an eight-year-old child? Was it a boy or a girl? And why had he left the poor thing in Paris?

  He crossed the room and sank into one of the green leather armchairs. “Eight years ago I was in Paris, on the trail of an Italian assassin named Carlo Visconti. Castlereagh had received intelligence that he was planning an attempt on Napoleon’s life.”

  Sabine frowned. “I’d have thought the British would have supported such a scheme.”

  “Not at that particular moment. Napoleon was more useful to us alive than dead right then.” He sighed. “You want to know who Madame Pensol is?”

  Sabine nodded.

  “She’s the mother of a girl killed by Visconti when he blew up a cart, trying to kill the emperor. Her name was Marie-Jeanne Pensol, and she was fourteen years old.”

  Hampden’s face was pale, etched with lines of pain. “Her mother sold bread rolls and vegetables from a stall on the Rue du Bac.” His haunted eyes caught hers. “She died in my arms.”

  Sabine felt her own face leach of blood. “Tell me what happened.”

  Hampden rested his forearms on his thighs. “We knew something was being planned, but we didn’t have enough information to stop it. It was a royalist plot, orchestrated by Visconti and four others. They loaded a barrel full of explosives with shards of metal onto a cart and attached a long fuse. It was designed to disperse shrapnel on detonation to inflict maximum injury. They chose a spot in the Rue Saint-Nicaise, north of the Tuileries Palace, toward the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.”

  Sabine nodded. She knew the spot. It wasn’t far from the Louvre.

  “Napoleon planned to visit the opera that evening, so they knew the route he would take. The passing of his advance cavalry guard was the cue for the bomb to be set off. But one tiny event foiled the whole thing. Josephine was wearing an Egyptian-style cloak, and one of her aides pointed out that she was wearing it incorrectly, so she had to re-pin it. Napoleon became impatient and went without her, in the first carriage. He left in such a hurry that the guards were riding behind him instead of in front.

  “The bomb exploded when the second carriage was passing by, carrying Josephine and Napoleon’s sister, Caroline, but apart from a few cuts from flying glass and wooden splinters the ladies were unhurt.”

  He lowered his head. “Those outside weren’t so lucky. We arrived just after the bomb detonated. At least fifty people were wounded. I tried to save the girl, but she was beyond help. There was nothing I could do.”

  He squeezed his eyes closed, doubtless reliving the carnage, then raised his head and pierced Sabine with a despairing glare. “Visconti had paid her ten sous to hold the horse that pulled the cart.” His voice cracked. “A man like that deserves no mercy.”

  Nausea rose in her throat. Sabine wanted to get up and put her arms around him, but she had no doubt he would spurn the offer of comfort. He still seemed lost in the past.

  “The girl’s mother received no compensation from the government. All she had was a meager widow’s pension—her husband had been killed fighting for Napoleon in Russia. She couldn’t even afford to bury her only daughter. So I paid for a headstone in Sacré-Coeur. I thought about paying someone to lay fresh flowers on her grave each week, but cut flowers never last. I dislike them as much as you do.”

  The faint up-curl of his lips as he attempted levity made hot tears burn behind her eyes. Sabine blinked rapidly, wincing as she recalled making the same complaint about the flowers her admirers had sent. It was so frivolous compared to this.

  Richard took a deep breath. “I have someone tend her grave and commissioned a garden around it in memory of her.” He ran his fingers through his hair and rolled his shoulders. “I pay Madame Pensol a modest sum every month. I can afford to do it, and it seemed the right thing to do.”

  Sabine’s throat ached. She felt awful for doubting him, for jumping to the wrong conclusion. He was a good, decent man. A few hundred years ago he would have been one of those courtly knights who entered the lists and fought for the honor of their lady with jousting or swords.

  Hampden’s next words made her swallow, though. His expression hardened. “I vowed that I would make Visconti pay for what he’d done. What kind of heartless bastard pays a child to stand next to a bomb? It’s one thing to kill an enlisted soldier in the heat of battle, but to kill a defenseless child is the meanest sort of cowardice.”

  He glared at her across the room. “There were five men in the group. I tracked them down. I caught them. And I sent them to the gallows. Only Visconti escaped.”

  Sabine hardly dared breathe. His expression was bleak, unreadable. “Eight years, I’ve been tracking him.” He rubbed a hand through his hair, disordering it further. “The man who came to the meeting tonight? Toulin? That was Visconti.”

  Sabine felt all the blood drain from her face.

  “That’s why I had to get you out of there. He’s a dangerous man, Sabine. A murderer. A month before the attempt on Napoleon’s life, he was involved in the assassination of the bishop of Quimper. The month before that, he’d kidnapped the French senator Clement de Ris in Touraine. After Paris he worked all over Europe. He doesn’t care who he kills. He’ll work for whoever will pay him.”

  “Do you think that’s why he was there tonight?” Sabine whispered. “Do you think the plotters are paying him to kill someone?”

  “That would be my guess.” Richard shrugged. “And they’re using your money to do it.”

  Her guilt at creating the man’s passport doubled. “He used travel papers I made to get here,” she said quietly.

  Hampden nodded. “And you also provided the passport he used four years ago. Does the name Joseph Berthier ring any bells?”

  Sabine nodded miserably.

  Richard’s voice was harsh. “Do you know what he did while he was here?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “He murdered the Comte d’Antraigues, right here in London.”

  He was forcing her to take responsibility for her criminal actions, but how could she have foreseen such awful consequences? She’d asked as few questions as possible about those who’d requested her fake papers, and always salved her conscience by telling herself she was helping people. Innocent people.

  Sabine closed her eyes. Was she any better than Visconti? She’d worked for whoever could pay her, too. They’d both sold their dubious skills, like mercenaries. Misery and guilt tightened her chest.

  He glared at her. “You helped Visconti come to this country, Sabine. Which means you have a responsibility to help me now. You can bloody well help me track him down.”

  She nodded, numbly.

  “If we don’t stop whatever assassination he has planned, Britain will be plunged into chaos, maybe even civil war, a revolution just like in France. There’s already plenty of antiroyalist sentiment. I don’t give a stuff about the politics, but I do care about all the innocent people who will be caught up in the subsequent violence.”

  Back in her room, Sabine threw herself down on the bed in frustration. She wanted her old life back. This compli
cated mess of emotions Richard Hampden stirred in her was exhausting.

  How dare he be good and bad in equal measure? She admired his steadfast determination to right wrongs, the way he championed and avenged innocents, but in confiscating her money he’d made her life a whole lot more difficult. She didn’t want to have sympathy for him. He was a stealing brute. And he’d left her with nothing but anger and guilt.

  Chapter 44

  Richard pinched his nose and leaned back in his chair. He’d never told anyone what had happened all those years ago in Paris except Raven, Nic, Kit, and Castlereagh.

  Hodges knocked discreetly on the door.

  “What is it?” Richard asked wearily.

  “Lord Ravenwood to see you, sir.”

  Raven sauntered in without waiting for an invitation. His expression was grim. “They found Anderson.”

  “Alive?”

  Raven nodded, and Richard let out a relieved breath.

  “Only just, though,” Raven qualified. “Visconti realized he was being followed and ambushed him in a side alley. Stabbed him in the side. Barely missed his kidneys, but he’ll live.”

  Richard cursed. “I told him to stay back. Christ.”

  When Richard had aborted the mission earlier, he’d ordered each of his men to follow one of the plotters. He and Anderson had followed Visconti, but they’d become separated in the warren of side streets and back alleys. Richard had eventually given up and gone to report to Castlereagh. He’d hoped Anderson had done the same.

  “Anderson revealed your name,” Raven said carefully.

  Richard swore long and fluently. Raven, no stranger to profanity, raised his eyebrows, impressed.

  “Visconti could be anywhere. He could be outside this very house right now,” Richard said.

  He wasn’t so concerned about his own welfare, but he felt guilty for putting Sabine into the path of that madman. The thought of Visconti getting anywhere near her was enough to make him break into a cold sweat. It wasn’t that he thought her incompetent—far from it—but she was no match for a killer.

  Raven took the seat opposite him. “What’s his plan do you think? Kill the king? The prince regent? The prime minister? It’s only been four years since Spencer Perceval was murdered.”

  That was true. The prime minister had been shot dead in the House of Commons by a deranged man named John Bellingham, a veteran who believed he’d been unjustly imprisoned in Russia during the war and was entitled to compensation.

  “The newspapers print when the royal family are expected to attend the opera, the theater, and the like. It would be easy to target them, as he did Napoleon,” Richard said.

  “Think he’ll try another infernal machine, like in Paris?”

  “He likes dramatic gestures, but he doesn’t have a team to help him this time. It’s too much for one man to organize.”

  “What then? A simple assassination?”

  “That’s all it would take. The country’s so unstable.” Richard steepled his fingers. “The royal wedding’s less than a week away. That would provide excellent cover. Lots of crowds to hide in.”

  Raven nodded. “The ceremony’s set for nine o’clock at Carlton House, with fireworks afterward in both St. James’s Park and Green Park. The royal party will come out onto the front terrace of Carlton House to watch fireworks…”

  Richard grimaced. “Perfect for a sniper. Lots of loud flashes and bangs to hide the noise of a gunshot.”

  “Plus everyone will be looking up at the sky.”

  “Who will be attending the wedding?”

  “Pretty much everyone you’d want to assassinate if you were Visconti. The queen. The royal princesses, the prince regent, the bride and groom, most of the House of Lords. The archbishop of Canterbury is going to officiate.”

  Richard nodded grimly. “We’ll tell Castlereagh to tighten security. And pray we catch Visconti in the next five days.”

  Chapter 45

  Sabine was still angry the following morning. She listened until she heard Richard leave the house, then slinked downstairs and encountered a beaming Hodges in the hall.

  “Another bouquet arrived for you this morning, madame. I put it in the drawing room.”

  Sabine sighed. More cut flowers. This particular bunch was already on the turn. The heads of the blooms were drooping and overblown, past their best. The hint of brown decay at the edge of petals made her feel slightly queasy.

  It was probably from Malet, an unsubtle threat to remind her of his ultimatum. She unfolded the accompanying note and her blood ran cold.

  M. Toulin requests a private audience with Philippe Lacorte at the White Swan, Vere Street, at ten o’clock this evening. Come alone and do not inform your friend Lovell. I would not wish anything untoward to befall him or his charming family. It was signed Toulin.

  Sabine crumpled the paper in her hand. Merde! The irony that Visconti was blackmailing her, just as she’d blackmailed Richard, was not lost on her. But she’d never had any intention of making good on her threats, whereas she had no doubt at all that Visconti would truly harm someone if she failed to comply.

  It served her right, she thought miserably.

  She ought to tell Richard immediately. To face a man as dangerous as Visconti alone was beyond foolish. But if anything happened to Richard or his family because of her she would never forgive herself. Far better to put herself at risk than endanger them.

  Visconti obviously knew her location—witness the flowers and the note. For all she knew, he could have a team of men watching the house. She glanced out of the window, looking for suspicious characters lurking around Upper Brook Street, but could see nobody unusual. She couldn’t even contact Anton; she’d forgotten to ask him where his new lodgings were.

  No. She would have to go alone and see what Visconti wanted. She’d dealt with unsavory characters in Paris. She would be fine.

  The rest of the day passed in awful anticipation, dread curling in her stomach. It was almost a relief when Hodges brought her a pot of tea and cakes mid-afternoon and informed her that Richard sent his apologies but he would not be home for dinner.

  He was doubtless out with Raven and the other agents trying to catch Visconti.

  She prepared her pocket pistol with grim determination. Powder first, then the metal ball, then a patch of lubricated wadding. She rammed it down the barrel with the end of a paintbrush, then opened the pan protector, sprinkled a tiny bit of powder into the pan, and closed the lid. It was ready to cock and fire.

  She still had the outfit she’d worn for fencing. At half past nine she slipped out of her room—and almost tripped over Argos, who’d stationed himself on the floor outside her door.

  “Dieu! Argos!” she hissed. “Go! Allez!”

  The hound regarded her expectantly. His tail thumped on the carpet. Sabine sighed. “Guarding me, are you? Oh, come along then. Walk!”

  The dog leaped up with a delighted yelp. “Hush, you awful creature!” she scolded. The two of them padded down the staircase and she winced at the loud click of the dog’s claws on the tiles. Thankfully the hall was empty—sounds of the servants’ dinner drifted from below stairs.

  Sabine slipped out of the front door. From the map she’d consulted that afternoon, it was only a short walk from Brook Street to Vere Street, just off Oxford Street. Ten minutes at most. She set off, Argos trotting obediently at her heels, his tongue lolling. Despite the gaslights that illuminated the street she was glad for the dog. He was both protection and disguise. She was simply a street urchin out walking his pet.

  She’d just turned into Vere Street and glimpsed the sign for the White Swan up ahead when a large body bumped her from behind. Sabine stumbled with a curse just as her assailant shoved her sideways, into the mouth of a dark alleyway.

  For one awful moment she imagined she was back in Paris with Guillaume, the butcher’s boy, and a wave of furious disbelief rolled over her. The man shoved her against the brick wall and she raised her pistol to fi
re, but he grabbed her wrist and pushed her arm above her head.

  “What in God’s name are you up to, you foolish woman?” Hampden growled in her ear.

  Sabine sagged back in relief, even though she could feel the anger vibrating off him. “You madman!” she hissed. “I nearly shot you.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw as he ground his teeth. “Sabine, I warn you, I am tired, cold, and brutally sober. Now tell me what the hell you’re up to. Who are you meeting? An accomplice? A lover?”

  She glared at him. “No! If you must know, I’m meeting Visconti.”

  That stopped him dead in his tracks. “What?” His eyes narrowed in a combination of sudden fury and suspicion. “Do you know him? Are you working with him?”

  His lack of trust stung, but she supposed she deserved it if he believed she was underhanded enough to double-cross him. “Of course not, you imbecile! I’d never seen the man before last night. But he sent me a note, telling me to meet him here, alone, or he’d hurt you and your family.”

  There was a tense pause as he weighed what she’d said. “Not a nice feeling, being blackmailed, is it?”

  That barb hurt, but at least he believed her. “I was trying to protect you, you dolt.”

  “And who will protect you?”

  “I have my gun,” she said with a defiant lift of her chin. “And Argos.”

  Hampden glanced down at the dog with a snort. “Fat lot of good he did. He didn’t even bark.”

  “He must have recognized you,” she said. “He would have bitten anyone else.”

  Hampden ran his hand through his hair. “God, Sabine. Why must you make it so bloody hard to protect you?”

  “No one asked you to protect me,” she fumed.

  “No one needed to ask me. You’re part of my team. That makes you my responsibility.”

  It was hard to argue with that.

  His dark hair was falling wildly over his forehead and his eyes were intense. He was still holding her wrist, his warm body pushing her back against the wall. Her blood heated at the feel of him, pressed all down her front. Her attempts to squirm away failed. She was no match for the strength of his grip and they both knew it. Oddly enough, she felt safe with him. He would never offer violence toward a woman, despite his physical superiority.