A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  Richard loomed out of the smoke and Sabine gave a whimper of relief. It turned to one of horror as Visconti lifted his own musket and fired. Richard dived behind a crate of still-exploding fireworks and Sabine craned her neck to see if he’d been hit. He staggered to his feet as Visconti threw down his gun and lunged.

  The two men engaged in a vicious tussle. Richard landed several brutal blows to Visconti’s kidneys, then concentrated on his injured shoulder. They crashed into another of the crates, knocking it over. The fireworks continued to explode, screaming up into the air like banshees. Some, knocked out of alignment, raced off across the floor and disappeared down the stairs, or set fire to their neighbors.

  It was like a scene from hell. Smoke billowed everywhere, with the acrid smell of sulfur and charcoal. Flashes of red and gold briefly illuminated a terrifying series of tableaus before plunging them back into darkness: Visconti, teeth bared in murderous fury, his hands around Richard’s neck. Richard, fists mercilessly pounding the other man’s body. Grunts of pain and labored panting.

  A Catherine wheel failed to launch and spun furiously along the ground, igniting even more of the display. Small fires sprung up everywhere.

  Sabine crawled away from the stinging flames and found Visconti’s knife where it had fallen on the floor. She staggered to her feet and approached the two men, looking for an opening. When Visconti exposed his back, she saw her chance. She raised her arm and stabbed the blade down hard into his shoulder.

  Visconti gave a shriek of pain and arched back, his arm swinging furiously to knock her away. Richard took advantage. His next blow landed square on Visconti’s temple and Visconti sagged like a puppet.

  Richard pushed the limp body away and stood, his chest heaving. He bent over double, hands resting on his knees as he tried to regain his breath. He was spattered in blood. His own? Or Visconti’s?

  “Are you hurt?” he demanded fiercely. “Answer me, Sabine. Did he hurt you?”

  Sabine shook her head, even though her ribs were aching and the pain in her head made her want to vomit. He sagged in relief.

  “I’m fine. Thank God you got here in time.” She dragged in a shattered breath and stared down at Visconti’s prone figure. “Is he dead?”

  Richard stepped forward, his face intent. “Not yet.”

  Sabine caught his arm. “Don’t,” she coughed.

  Richard glared at her as if she were mad. “He deserves to die.”

  “I know. But not like this. He should swing from the end of a rope for what he did to that girl in Paris.”

  Richard gave Visconti’s inert body a vicious kick. “He should burn in hell,” he said darkly.

  “He will.”

  Richard heaved a furious sigh, but Sabine knew she’d won. He didn’t need Visconti’s death on his conscience, however satisfying he imagined vengeance might feel. It would only leave him with more scars.

  She turned toward the stairs and let out a gasp of dismay. Thick gray smoke was billowing up from below. “We have to go,” she croaked.

  Richard would gladly have left Visconti to burn, but when she stared pointedly at the body he cursed, grabbed the other man by the collar, and dragged him none too gently toward the stairs.

  It was like descending into hell; orange flames fizzed out of a crate of unused fireworks and smoke filled the small room. Sabine put her hand up to shield her face and rushed toward the entrance, stumbling out onto the grass. Richard emerged close behind her. He deposited Visconti a few yards away, then ran over to help her, and together they staggered away from the burning structure.

  Fireworks were still shrieking up into the sky, dozens at a time, reflecting in the rippling surface of the lake, a continuous stream of white fire. The noise was a wall of sound that hurt her ears, a volley of cracks that sounded almost like applause. Each explosion was so loud it reverberated through her chest.

  The crowd roared their appreciation, presumably believing the accidental intensity of the show was all part of a spectacular final act.

  Perhaps this was what war looked like, Sabine thought dazedly. Fire dripping from the sky, streaking and screaming like comets. Explosions like dandelion heads. Something fell to the grass near her feet, and she saw it was one of the cardboard cylinders that made up the body of the fireworks.

  Richard tugged her arm. “We have to—”

  A blinding explosion filled her peripheral vision, a flash of orange flame accompanied by a vibration that punched through her body like a fist to the chest. Something hit her head so hard it knocked her off her feet. Or was it Richard who knocked her off her feet? She felt his arms around her, felt him propel her backward toward the lake. And then came a sudden unwelcome splash as she hit the water.

  At first she froze in disbelief. Icy darkness enveloped her. She heard the dull boom of the blast muffled by the water and jerked into action. She flailed her limbs and surged to the surface, gasping for air.

  The noise increased tenfold above the water—the alarmed shouts of the crowd, bellows for a fire brigade. Small chunks of debris were splashing into the water all around her as she struggled to stand. The world flashed and dimmed as a great weakness tugged at her limbs.

  She called out for Richard in the darkness.

  —

  The water was only waist deep. Richard stumbled to his feet and grabbed Sabine from where she was floundering about in the weeds. He caught her hand and splashed to the edge of the pond, wading through the bulrushes. It was a muddy scramble up the bank, but he managed to pull her up after him.

  The temple was in ruins; plumes of dark gray smoke billowed up out of what remained. His ears were ringing and his soaked clothes stuck to his body, but a great ball of elation filled him. He let out a whoop of triumph.

  People were running toward them over the bridge, but he dragged Sabine against him and kissed her, hard. She seemed too dazed to respond, but he pulled back and shot her an exultant grin.

  “We did it!”

  Her hair was plastered to her head and a dark rivulet of mud trickled down the side of her face. He didn’t think she’d ever looked more beautiful.

  She put a hand up to her temple, frowned when it came back covered in mud, and opened her mouth to say something. Richard braced himself for a lecture on throwing innocent Frenchwomen into muddy ponds.

  “I can’t see you,” she said plaintively.

  She blinked, and he wondered when he’d begun to see her shortsightedness as an endearing trait. He grinned. “That’s because you’re blind as a bat, sweetheart.”

  Then he realized she really was trying to focus. Her pupils were huge and in the flickering light she was as pale as death. Her lips were bloodless.

  “Richard. My head.”

  All his elation evaporated as he realized the front of her white fichu was pink. Shit! That wasn’t mud. It was blood.

  Her eyes rolled up in her head and he barely caught her before she hit the ground. His veins turned to ice as he turned her limp body in his arms.

  “I need light!” he bellowed.

  A man with a lantern reached them, but Richard hardly knew nor cared about the gathering crowd. He swept Sabine’s hair back and almost vomited at the red smear that covered his palm.

  Oh, Christ, no. For one hideous moment he was transported back eight years, to Paris. The same acrid scent of burning in his nose, the screams and the wails, a girl bleeding to death in his lap, warm blood soaking into his breeches as he frantically tried to stop the bleeding even as he knew it was hopeless.

  He shook his head. No. This was Sabine, not Marie-Jeanne Pensol. He dragged himself out of the nightmarish vision and back to the woman in front of him. He had to think.

  “Sabine, sweetheart. Talk to me. Oh, God, it’s all right. You’re going to be all right.”

  Was he trying to convince her or himself? Panic wavered in his voice. There was blood on his hands, on her face. He brushed it from the side of her nose, leaving an obscene streak on her cheek, a crescen
t of red.

  “We have to bind her head,” he heard himself say.

  A dozen hands offered forth scarves and handkerchiefs. Richard grabbed the nearest one and bundled it into a pad. He couldn’t see exactly where she’d been hurt, somewhere in her hair, but he pressed it to her skull, then pulled his cravat from around his neck and wrapped it around her head.

  He glanced around and saw Raven pushing through the crowd, horse in tow, his face taut with concern. Richard gathered Sabine in his arms and stood. Oh, God, she barely weighed anything. She was so…breakable.

  Raven started to mount, but Richard shook his head. “No, I’ll take her. Hand her up to me.”

  He transferred her carefully into Raven’s arms, loath to let her go even for a moment, then jumped into the saddle and reached back down for her. He positioned her across his lap, her legs draped over one side, her head and shoulders nestling in the crook of his arm. She didn’t stir, as limp as a rag doll in front of him, and his heart constricted in terror.

  “Move!”

  Trusting the crowd to get out of his way, he dug his heels into the horse’s sides and set off at a gallop, trying to shield her from the jolt of the animal’s gait. “Don’t you bloody dare die!” he growled down at her.

  No response. Not even the flicker of an eyelid.

  Chapter 55

  The trip back to the house was a nightmare blur. The part of his brain not focused on Sabine dimly registered the direction he needed to take. St. James’s Park adjoined Green Park—quicker to go through them than navigate the crowded streets. Richard bellowed invectives for people to clear the path; they took one look at his stricken face and leaped out of the way.

  Past Hyde Park Corner and Apsley House, Wellesley’s home. The wind whistled past, chilling his soaking hair and clothes. It matched the cold terror in his heart. His panicked breaths echoed the drumbeat of the horse’s hooves as he panted out the same pleading refrain: “Don’t die. Don’t die. Don’t die.”

  Despair clawed at him. He could feel blood seeping into his shirt and cradled her cheek to his chest. He crossed into Hyde Park, sending ducks and pedestrians running for cover. As he clattered up outside number five he slid off his mount and took the steps two at a time, ignoring a blur of anxious faces, a flurry of questions.

  “A doctor! Quickly!”

  His voice was hoarse, but he managed to get the order out. He rushed upstairs and into his room and laid Sabine on his bed. His heart kicked in an irregular rhythm. She looked so small.

  “Wake up for me, sweetheart. Please. You have to wake up.”

  His voice broke in the middle as he applied more pressure to the wound. She was so pale; her skin was almost translucent. He felt for a pulse at her throat and knew a moment of stark terror when he couldn’t find it, then joy as he located it. It was faint, so weak and erratic. But there.

  “Where’s the doctor?” he snarled.

  “Minton has gone for him, sir.”

  Richard blinked up at Hodges, who was hovering by the bedside.

  Guilt and self-loathing surged over him. He shouldn’t have risked her to get to Visconti. Shouldn’t have let her get within fifty miles of that murderous bastard. Dimly he registered a commotion downstairs, the thud of hurrying feet.

  “Dr. Foster’s here, my lord.”

  The man looked familiar. Richard frowned, then recalled that the physician was his neighbor. He scowled as the younger man tried to push him aside. He moved just enough to allow him access to the bed, but refused to relinquish Sabine’s hand.

  The doctor peeled back the makeshift bandage and Richard forced himself to look. His stomach churned. Fresh blood, bright red, seeped from a nasty cut just above her ear.

  “Hmm. How did this happen?”

  “There was an explosion. Something must have hit her in the head. A bit of wood, maybe? I didn’t see. And she fell in a lake.”

  Foster pursed his lips. “That may pose a problem for infection. Head wounds can be notoriously difficult.” He probed the matted hair and Richard had to look away.

  “I don’t believe the skull is cracked, but injuries like this often bleed heavily. How long has she been unconscious?”

  Richard tried to think. “Ten, fifteen minutes?”

  Foster lifted Sabine’s eyelid and looked into her eye. “It is probably better that she’s insensible. I’ll need to sew it shut.”

  Richard’s stomach clenched. “Use laudanum,” he ordered. “Make sure she doesn’t feel anything, you hear me?” It came out as a fierce growl.

  “Yes, sir,” Foster said, apparently unoffended by his gruff tone.

  Richard watched as the doctor dribbled laudanum down Sabine’s throat, then cleaned and stitched the wound. He’d seen hundreds of injuries, suffered many himself, but seeing Sabine like this almost made him retch. His fingers tingled unpleasantly.

  “When will she wake up?” he demanded hoarsely.

  Foster finished tying off the end of the bandage he’d wrapped around her head and stepped back. “I cannot say, my lord. She’s lost a lot of blood.”

  Take mine, Richard wanted to say. Cut my arm open and pour it into her. He’d give it all, his last drop, if it would save her.

  Foster sighed. “That’s as much as I can do. The rest is in God’s hands. She’ll wake up when she’s ready. Have someone change her out of those wet clothes and watch over her until she regains consciousness. I will return in a few hours, if that is acceptable, to check for signs of infection.”

  Richard nodded. Sabine was so still it terrified him. She was usually so vibrant, so full of life; the contrast was awful. He wanted her to wake up and start sniping at him. “I’ll stay with her.”

  “Might I also suggest you make yourself a little more comfortable?” The smile in the other man’s voice finally penetrated his gloomy thoughts. “You’re making a puddle on the floor.”

  He looked down at himself. His knuckles were red from his fight with Visconti, but apart from a few scrapes and bruises he’d emerged practically unscathed. Unlike Sabine. Water dripped from his shirt cuffs, and his sopping breeches had made a wet patch on the Aubusson rug. He nodded absently. “I’ll deal with it.”

  When Foster left, Hodges bustled forward with one of the maids holding a white linen nightgown. “My lord, if you’ll just let us—”

  Richard took the garment. “I’ll do it. Go.”

  He ignored the maid’s scandalized gasp. Sod propriety. This was his house. He’d do as he damn well pleased. Nobody was touching Sabine except him.

  He stripped her himself, moving her limbs gently so as not to hurt her, wincing as he discovered bruises already forming on her ribs and back.

  A fresh wave of fury warmed his chest. That bastard had beaten her.

  Richard frowned as he tried to recall what had happened to Visconti. He remembered dumping his body on the grass before the explosion. Perhaps the bastard had been killed after all. He bloody hoped so.

  Hodges returned a few moments later with warm bricks wrapped in blankets and Richard arranged them around Sabine’s still form, then went to find clothes for himself, resenting even the few moments it took to locate a clean shirt and dry breeches. He growled at a knock on the door, but bit back his irritation as Raven’s dark head appeared.

  “What in God’s name happened back there?” Raven asked by way of greeting.

  Richard glanced up at his friend, then back at the bed. “Look at her.” He raked a hand through his still-damp hair. “It’s my fault. I should never have brought her into this. Never have put her in danger.” His throat tightened as he swallowed. “I failed to protect her. Just like I failed to protect Tony.”

  Raven sat in the chair on the opposite side of the bed. His dark brows came together. “There was nothing any of us could have done to save Tony,” he said quietly. “Or those people in Paris. Sometimes we just can’t get there in time.”

  His green eyes bored into Richard’s and his face was full of stoic regret. “You ha
ve to stop blaming yourself. You haven’t failed her. Visconti would have killed her when he had no further use for her; you know that. And he would have murdered someone else tonight if we hadn’t stopped him.”

  Richard knew his friend spoke the truth, but he looked at Sabine’s pale face and felt all the hope draining out of him. “What if she doesn’t wake up?” he whispered.

  Apparently Raven was unwilling to even discuss that possibility. “Visconti’s in custody,” he said instead. “I took care of him myself. You put a nice hole in his shoulder, and a stab wound in his back, but other than that he’s in perfect shape to face trial. Castlereagh’s delighted.”

  Richard nodded at the bed. “It was Sabine who stabbed him, not me.”

  Raven’s brows lifted.

  “I wish I’d left the bastard to burn,” Richard said savagely. “He hit her. You should see her ribs. They’re black and blue.”

  Raven sucked in a breath. “It’s over, Rich. He’ll hang for what he’s done.”

  Richard dropped his head. He’d always thought he’d feel some kind of savage elation when he finally caught Visconti, but there was nothing. No delight. No sense of achievement. He just felt empty. Hollow. Sabine had ripped out his heart and left him an empty shell.

  Raven stood. “I’m going to get a drink.”

  When he left, Richard lifted his head and glared at Sabine. “This is no way to behave, Miss de la Tour. Don’t think you can get out of working for me by staying unconscious for the next two weeks. I still have things for you to do.”

  She didn’t move.

  “If you don’t wake up I’m going to track down your money. All of it, you hear me? I’ll confiscate the lot. Then I’ll find that secret bloody lover of yours—the one you met in the park—and have him thrown in the Tower.”

  Still nothing. He switched from threats to cajoling.

  “I don’t care about him. Really. You can have as many lovers as you want. Just wake up for me.”

  Even as he said it, he knew he lied. Sabine was his. He wouldn’t share her with anyone. He dropped his head into his hands. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to leave me, after this. It’s my fault you’re hurt.”