A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

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  Sabine lost count of the number of times over the next three days that Richard demanded she tell him where her money was hidden to save them all the effort of printing their own. But she remained adamant; she would not give it up.

  She wasn’t helping him because of their stupid one-month agreement. She wanted to avenge that young girl in Paris as much as he did.

  Raven and Will Ambrose both learned how to use the press, but she still had to be there to supervise. She was reminded of her old team at Vincennes: Peter, Claude, and Mathilde. She’d missed the camaraderie, the sense of working together for some shared purpose.

  She missed Anton most of all, and prayed that he was staying out of trouble. He had only ten more days to wait until he could escape to Boston, but with Malet expecting his money in only four days’ time, she hoped her friend remained well hidden.

  She considered trying to print additional counterfeits to give to Malet, but it proved impossible under the watchful eyes of Raven, Will, and Richard. They knew exactly how many notes they had produced. And besides, Malet was unlikely to be fobbed off with anything less than the full amount they’d stolen from him, which was impossible. Sabine had no idea what she was going to do about that particular situation, but since the meeting with Visconti was imminent, she pushed it to the back of her mind.

  Chapter 52

  The money was ready, two bags neatly packed with five hundred thousand pounds. Neither she nor Richard had slept for more than a few hours, working solidly to print enough counterfeits to satisfy Visconti’s demand. When she hadn’t been printing, Sabine had busied herself making the fake travel documents for Visconti.

  Finally, at midday on the day of the royal wedding, a message arrived addressed to Madame de la Tour: A carriage will be sent for you at nine o’clock this evening. Bring the money, and come alone.

  Sabine handed the note back to Richard and glanced nervously through the window. “Do you think he’s watching the house?”

  Richard shrugged. “It’s possible. Which is why we’re going to appear to do just as he says. You will get into the carriage with the money and set off. Raven and I will follow, far enough away not to arouse suspicion. As soon as we see Visconti, we’ll act.”

  Sabine nodded. She didn’t want to know what Richard meant by “act,” but she suspected it would be something more than simply arresting the man. And after what Visconti had done in Paris, she didn’t feel bad about that. He deserved everything that came to him.

  Richard raked a hand through his hair. “Christ, I hate having to involve you in this.”

  She forced a confident smile, even though her stomach was in knots. “You want to catch him, don’t you?”

  His jaw tightened. “Absolutely. But take your pistol, just in case. If you feel threatened at any time, use it. Understand?”

  The carriage arrived at the door at a quarter to nine. Raven, who had been there since breakfast, went to ready the horses, but Richard caught her arm in the hallway. He turned her to face him, his expression grim.

  “I’ll be right behind you, but don’t try anything stupid. Let us deal with Visconti.” He stroked her jaw with his thumb. “This will all be over soon, I promise.” He pulled the hood of her cloak around her face and dropped a light kiss on her lips that made her stomach flutter with more than just nerves. Sabine rose up into it, but he stepped back and nodded to the two waiting footmen to load the bags into the carriage.

  She studied the carriage driver intently, but he was not Visconti. She hadn’t thought he would risk coming himself, but even if he were a master of disguise he couldn’t have faked the man’s crooked nose and numerous missing teeth.

  “Where are we going?” she demanded imperiously.

  The cabbie shot her a knowing grin and tapped the side of his nose with one finger. “Yer fine fellow told me Vauxhall. But if it’s Gretna Green yer headin’ for after that you’ll need to take the stage. Never go further than Holborn, me.”

  Sabine raised her brows. The man thought he was participating in an elopement. If she hadn’t been so tense she would have laughed.

  “Might take us a while to cross the river,” the driver prattled merrily. “Everyone’s ’eading the same way, to see them fireworks for the weddin’.”

  His gloomy prediction proved true. The carriage had barely swung onto Park Lane when it became snarled in a great throng of traffic and slowed almost to a standstill. A huge number of vehicles of all shapes and sizes filled the thoroughfare, all heading in the same direction—south, toward the prince’s residence, Carlton House.

  Pedestrians crowded around, passing between the slow-moving vehicles like a great wave. Horses tossed their heads and reared in agitation as drivers shouted curses and admonishments and tried to settle their teams. Sabine’s driver joined in, hurling colorful invectives at children ducking under the traces and hawkers pressing close to lean through the window to offer her gaudy colored ribbons or oranges with cloves pressed into the skins.

  They crawled forward, barely faster than a walking pace. Sabine couldn’t see Richard following her, but he’d surely have no difficulty keeping track of her carriage in such a slow-moving cavalcade.

  The carriage rocked sideways on its springs as someone stepped on. Sabine turned to berate the hawker, then stifled a cry as the figure pulled open the door and swung himself in next to her. Her heart lurched as Visconti settled himself onto the seat opposite.

  “Good evening, madame.”

  Visconti’s face was calm, amused, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Sabine’s heart began to race. Had Richard seen him slip inside the carriage?

  Visconti placed a slim, black wooden box on the seat beside him and withdrew a wicked-looking knife from his waist. Sabine pressed back into the seat.

  “Ah, so you see my pretty knife, do you?” Visconti purred. “Don’t forget it. I will cut you from ear to ear if you don’t do exactly as I say.”

  The gentleness of his voice was extremely disconcerting—and far more frightening than if he’d shouted. Sabine glanced into his dark eyes. In the gathering dusk they were like bottomless pools, utterly devoid of emotion. He truly wouldn’t bat an eyelid if he had to slit her throat. Her palms began to sweat.

  “Do you have my money?”

  She cleared her throat. “Yes.” She pointed at the bags at her feet.

  “Open them,” he said harshly. “I want to see.”

  Her hands were shaking so much that it took several tries to undo the buckles and open the brass latches, but she finally opened the lid of one. The money had been tied into neat bundles; the uppermost edges riffled in the breeze coming in through the window.

  Visconti leaned forward and flicked through them, glancing at each note in turn, right to the bottom. Thank God they hadn’t tried to dupe him by putting just a few printed notes on the top of each bundle and then filling the remainder of the box with blank paper. All that effort had been worth it.

  He nodded. “Good. Now the other.”

  She showed him the contents of the second bag, and breathed a sigh of relief when he slumped back, apparently satisfied. “I commend you on the quality of your forgeries, madame.” He held out his hand. “Now the fake papers.”

  Sabine handed them to him. He subjected them to intense scrutiny too, but she was confident in her abilities. He would have no complaints. She strained her ears, listening for any sign that Richard was outside and preparing to pounce.

  A quick glance through the window showed they were opposite the gated entrance to Green Park. A great number of people were jostling to get inside to see the amusements.

  Visconti picked up the wooden case, keeping his knife in his other hand. “Pick up the bags,” he ordered.

  When Sabine complied, he swung open the door and gestured for her to exit the still-moving carriage. Sabine took one look at his knife and jumped down. She stumbled as she landed and looked around frantically for Richard, but Visconti pressed the blade into her
side and urged her forward, through the crowd.

  “Walk,” he ordered in her ear.

  The park was a sea of people, all keen to get a glimpse of the princess and her fairy-tale prince. Charlotte, it seemed, was far more popular than her fat wastrel of a father. People loved a romance, after all. Or perhaps it was just an excuse for a party, Sabine thought wildly.

  Her legs felt like water. She glanced over her shoulder, but there was still no sign of either Richard or Raven. Merde!

  Stalls, like striped tents, had been erected all along the walks and around the edge of the great central lake. They passed gypsies selling bunches of lucky white heather, rabbit’s feet, handkerchiefs, and scarves. The scent of nuts cooked in honey mingled with the aroma of spiced wine and whole roast pig, making her stomach churn.

  Music and laughter filled the night air, and the general air of merriment was a disconcerting contrast to her own panicked state. Sabine briefly considered trying to run, to slip away from Visconti into the crowds, but she didn’t dare, with his knife at her side.

  Hundreds of glowing lanterns had been suspended on tall stakes and hung from the trees. Rows of them draped the ornamental Chinese-style bridge that spanned the water and illuminated the five-tiered pagoda that had been erected in the center.

  Visconti steered her across the bridge. As the crowds thinned, he gestured her off the path and through a small copse of trees. Sabine’s panic increased. Richard hadn’t seen her. She was on her own.

  She considered hitting Visconti with the bags of money she was holding, then rejected the idea. They were too unwieldy. She still had her pocket pistol, but how could she get it when she was holding these infernal bags?

  They emerged from the trees next to a building that had obviously been erected for the festivities; the large wooden structure looked like a Grecian-style temple. Sabine glanced across the lake and realized they were opposite the entrance to Carlton House. A great crowd had gathered on the far side, awaiting the imminent appearance of the wedding party.

  Her heart thudded against her breastbone. Did Visconti mean to kill her? He had his money and his travel papers. She was of no further use to him.

  He urged her inside.

  A single torch illuminated the interior. Unlike the outside, which was fully decorated, the interior was unfinished, like the reverse of a theater stage set. Angles of wood and tangled crossbeams propped up the exterior walls and an unsteady-looking set of wooden steps rose to an upper level. It smelled of new sawdust and fresh paint.

  Visconti gestured for her to put down the money, then pointed at the stairs. “Up.”

  Sabine was torn between confusion, irritation, and terror. Up? Why on earth did he want her to go up there? If he was going to kill her, surely he could do it just as well down here. She opened her mouth to tell him precisely that, but he spoke first.

  “You must be wondering why I brought you here.”

  When she merely raised her eyebrows, he chuckled, delighted by her refusal to be cowed. “I’m not going to harm you, chèrie,” he chided. “You’re far too valuable. I’d be a fool to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.”

  A hysterical laugh welled up in Sabine’s chest. She’d always wanted to be irreplaceable. Now, it seemed, her skills were going to save her life. She slipped her hand into her pocket and cocked the pistol. “I will never work for you,” she said coolly.

  Visconti pushed her toward the ladder. “Up.”

  “No.” Sabine withdrew her pistol, turned, and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 53

  The gun’s report was followed almost immediately by an enraged bellow from Visconti. Sabine barely had time to register disbelief that she’d missed when his fist caught her across the cheek.

  Pain exploded in her skull. She staggered back into the steps as he twisted the gun from her grasp and grabbed her hair.

  “You little bitch! Get up!”

  Sabine let out a shriek of pain as he forced her up the steps. Her eyes were watering as they emerged onto an upper level and it took her a few moments to realize that it was open to sky, like the battlements of a castle. Visconti’s breath was heavy in her ear as he thrust her against the wooden railings. She sank to the floor, her ears still ringing, furious and despairing all at once. How had she managed to miss? He’d been less than a foot away!

  The wicked sliver of his knife flashed before her eyes as he yanked her head back. Sabine stilled.

  “You don’t lack for courage, I’ll give you that,” he said in a curiously detached voice. “But if you move again I will kill you, golden goose or not. You’re not the only forger in Europe.” His grip tightened painfully on her scalp. “Do you understand?”

  Sabine moved her head just the smallest fraction in agreement. Visconti released her and stood. “Good. Now sit there while I take care of business.”

  Sabine glanced around. The platform was covered with an assortment of cardboard tubes laid neatly in lines, all facing upward, with what seemed to be string running between them. She squinted, trying to read the wording on those nearby: Chinese Fountain, Yew Tree, Flaming Star.

  Understanding dawned; these were the fireworks for the display, joined by a single fuse. Each one would light the next. Sabine wondered miserably what Visconti had done to the person who was supposed to be lighting them.

  At that moment a great cheer went up from the crowd across the water. A blurry group of figures emerged from between the pillars of Carlton House. Sabine could just make out the newlyweds: Charlotte in a silvery-colored dress and Leopold in the uniform of a British general. A group of other dignitaries and courtiers, many in military colors, flanked them. And there was the prince regent himself. A chair had been provided for his corpulent form and he seated himself in their midst—an unmistakable target.

  Visconti set his wooden box on the balustrade, laid down his knife, and took out a short-barreled musket. He stroked the wooden stock like a lover.

  “I was a marksman, you know,” he said mildly, and Sabine shivered at the reasonable tone of his voice. He didn’t sound like a madman. “In Russia. I can hit a target over three hundred yards away.”

  He glanced over at the steps of Carlton House, judging the distance. “Only two hundred to the prince,” he said with a sick smile. He loaded the musket with frighteningly brisk efficiency.

  “At first I considered an explosion of some kind,” he continued. “But it’s never easy to ensure the accuracy. A bullet is so much more…personal.” His thin lips stretched wide at his own humor as he carefully removed his jacket and draped it over the rail.

  Sabine’s stomach churned at his casual boasting of cold-blooded murder. She had to stop him. Should she tackle him? Shout for help?

  “Why are you doing this?” Her cheek hurt from where he’d hit her. “You already have money. Why don’t you just leave?”

  A bell rang, across the water. The music ceased and an expectant hush fell over the crowd. Visconti shook his head. “That’s my cue, chèrie.”

  Sabine realized that the entire crowd had turned to face the pavilion; hundreds of indistinct pale faces angled toward them. She braced herself to leap up, but Visconti shot her a lethal glare. “Do not move.”

  He placed the loaded gun next to his knife on the railing, lit a wooden taper, and touched it to the fuse on the nearest firework. Fire raced along the thin cord in a glowing fizz of sparks. There was a brief pause as it disappeared beneath the first firework, and then an ear-splitting shriek as the pyrotechnic shot up into the sky.

  The crowd roared with approval.

  The next firework followed, then the next, an unstoppable chain reaction. In a moment the whole air was ablaze, and Sabine clapped her hands over her ears to block out the deafening noise. The crowd gasped and cheered as the glowing sparks formed crowns, hearts, even the entwined initials C and L for the bride and groom, in the dark sky above.

  The explosives gave off a thick gray smoke that caught in her lungs and made her do
uble over, coughing. Sabine felt a brief spurt of hope that the smoke might obscure Visconti’s shot at the prince, but he seemed unperturbed. Doubtless he was used to compensating for conditions like this during warfare, she thought desperately.

  Through the smoke she saw him kneel and balance the musket on the balustrade.

  She couldn’t let him fire. Sabine pushed herself to her feet and launched herself at him, trying to remember every dirty move Richard had taught her. He toppled sideways, caught by surprise, and she followed, clawing and scratching at his face. Her hand found his ear and she twisted mercilessly, then wrapped her arms around his head to obscure his eyes while simultaneously trying to avoid the deadly barrel of the musket.

  When he put an arm around her neck she bit his forearm. Hard. Visconti swore viciously—and her momentary advantage ended. He raised the musket and delivered an agonizing blow to her ribs with the wooden butt.

  Sabine collapsed and curled into a tight ball as pain darkened her vision. She clutched her stomach, barely able to breathe as her muscles spasmed. Visconti staggered to his feet and delivered a brutal series of kicks to her back and ribs and she cried out, trying to shield her head and body with her arms.

  “Bitch!” he cursed bitterly.

  She tried to crawl away, but her limbs wouldn’t obey. She dragged in an agonized breath and closed her eyes, waiting for him to use the musket on her. She could detect the flashes of the fireworks even behind her closed eyelids. She screwed them up tight and heard the hammer of the musket click.

  Then came the explosion.

  Chapter 54

  Sabine waited for the pain to hit, but there was none—at least, no more than she already had. She uncurled just in time to see Visconti stagger back, a dark stain spreading on the shoulder of his white shirt. He turned toward the staircase with a howl of disbelief.