A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  His throat hurt; his voice was an aching rasp. He must have inhaled a lot of smoke. His eyes were stinging too.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. But the crowd slowed us down and it took me ages to work out where you’d gone. I should have known he’d need somewhere high up to take his shot.” His voice cracked. “I’m so sorry.”

  Still no answer. Her inky-black eyelashes lay in stark contrast to the snowy paleness of her cheeks, but he thought perhaps her lips were a little pinker than they had been before. He stroked his thumb across her cheek and along her jaw, trying to infuse her with his strength, his warmth.

  “Please wake up. I love you.”

  Richard held his breath as he realized what he’d said. It was so clear. So simple. Why hadn’t he realized it before?

  He studied her face, certain she would wake up now, if only to laugh at him for his admission. In fairy tales the princess always woke up at this point. He let out a jagged breath. Ah, but Sabine scoffed at fairy tales, didn’t she? Trust her to be the princess that refused to conform. She’d wake up when she was good and ready.

  For some reason that thought made him feel slightly better. Sabine never played by the rules. She was a counterfeit princess, but he’d wait a hundred years for her, give up his title, his kingdom, his gold.

  He loved her irreverence, her jaunty walk, the way she tilted her chin, just so, when she disagreed with something he said. She was clever and brave, and he was completely unworthy of her. But she would wake up. Because he needed her, with a soul-deep ache in his bones.

  Richard positioned himself gently on the bed next to her, careful not to jostle the doctor’s handiwork. He turned on his side and gathered her into his arms. He’d failed her, used her, bullied her, and seduced her. He didn’t deserve her. But she had to wake up.

  He was lost without her.

  Chapter 56

  Sabine awoke to darkness and confusion. Her eyes were open, so why couldn’t she see? A core-deep terror gripped her. She reached up in panic, trying to touch her face, but strong hands covered her own, stilling her movements.

  “Shhh, sweetheart, it’s all right.”

  Richard’s voice, sure and low. “Richard?” she croaked. Her voice sounded odd, unused. “Why can’t I see? Oh, God, am I blind?”

  “It’s all right. It’s just a bandage. Let me help.”

  Her panic ebbed away as the darkness eased, lightening with the removal of the bandages. She blinked as Richard’s face came into focus.

  “Hello,” he said solemnly.

  She frowned. He looked awful—at least by his own usually high sartorial standards. His jaw was stubbled with at least a day’s growth of beard and his hair stuck out in wild disarray, like Argos’s fur.

  “What happened?”

  She started to sit up, but a terrible pain slashed across her skull and she sank back, nauseated. Flashes of memory came and went and she frowned, unable to sort one from another. A fire—but not the one in which she’d burned the money with Anton. Another one, with Richard. And Visconti.

  Complete recollection came to her. The fireworks. The explosion. Visconti. Blood. She groaned. The two bags of money they’d printed had been in there. They must have burned too. Sabine closed her eyes. What a waste of good counterfeits!

  She was so tired. Richard was holding her hand, and she guessed the warm weight by her feet was Argos, curled up on the bed. She smiled and slid back into the darkness.

  It was daylight when she woke again and she became conscious of a weight on her arm. She turned her head cautiously and saw Richard next to her; he was asleep, his head resting on the pillows, his hand in hers.

  He stirred, as if sensing her regard. His amber eyes opened and a look of sweet relief creased his face. The dimple appeared.

  “You’re awake.”

  His voice was gravelly, deep with sleep. It made her stomach clench. She blinked. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Two days, give or take.”

  A jolt of panic made her sit up. The room twirled around her like a waltz. “Two days! What day is it?”

  He regarded her with steady amusement. “Sunday, the fifth of May. Why do you ask?”

  She bit her lip. Merde! Malet was expecting his money today. She could only hope that if he came to the house, Hodges would turn him away with the excuse that she wasn’t receiving visitors. And Anton’s ship wasn’t leaving until the eighth—thank God she hadn’t slept through that; she’d promised to be there to see him off.

  “What happened to Visconti?” she asked.

  “Tried, convicted, and hanged,” Richard said with grim satisfaction. “With all the evidence we’d collected on him over the years, it took the jury less than ten minutes to find him guilty of treason. Neither the prince regent nor the lord chancellor wanted the publicity of a public execution. He was hanged yesterday morning at Newgate.”

  Sabine squeezed his hand. “Good. And the plotters?”

  “Arrested. They’re all looking at lengthy prison sentences or transportation.” Richard rose from the bed. “I’ll go and tell Heloise you’re up. She’s been nagging me for two days to come and see you. Mother, too.” He gestured at the side table. “I brought some books for you to read. And there’s a drink of water there.”

  Sabine watched him go with a pang in her heart, then inspected the books he’d chosen for her. On the top was William Shakespeare’s The Tempest. She opened it up and found her favorite passage:

  Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

  As I foretold you, were all spirits and

  Are melted into air, into thin air:

  And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,

  The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,

  The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

  Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve

  And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

  Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

  As dreams are made on, and our little life

  Is rounded with a sleep.

  Hot tears stung her eyes. Her time with Richard was at an end too. It had been a brief interlude, a beguiling fantasy. But now it was time to return to real life. Anton had prior claim to her loyalty. She had to help him escape Malet.

  Richard, of all people, should understand the power of such a bond; he shared the same link with his band of brothers, Raven, Nic, and Kit. His loyalty to those fortunate enough to have it was absolute.

  Sabine closed her eyes. If only she could give Anton real money, so he wouldn’t have to spend the fake cash she’d given him. She hated the idea of allowing her forgeries onto the open market. But Richard wouldn’t pay her until the end of her month of service, and by her calculations she still had twelve days to go. She couldn’t very well ask him for an advance.

  And how on earth was she going to get herself to the Thames docks to say goodbye to Anton as she’d promised?

  Her fretting was interrupted by Heloise, who breezed into the room with a delighted smile. She raced over to the bed, hugged Sabine gently, then settled in the chair to one side of the mattress in a flurry of skirts.

  “Oh, I’m so glad you’re recovering! We were all so worried. Richard barely left your side and Raven told me how brave you were, facing Visconti. And guess what?”

  Sabine shook her head, bemused at the torrent of chatter. “What?”

  “The prince regent has requested your personal attendance at a ball he’s hosting on Wednesday evening. Castlereagh told him of your involvement in catching Visconti and the prince means to honor you for your bravery!”

  Sabine’s mouth fell open. “He does?”

  Heloise nodded. “The recognition will need to be secret, of course, due to the sensitive nature of the circumstances. Very few people are aware that an attack was foiled and the prince doesn’t want it made public. But he asked for you to be there. Do you think you’ll be well enough to go?”

  Sabine’s heart sank.
Anton’s ship sailed on Wednesday. If everything went to plan, she wouldn’t be here.

  The thought of leaving her new friends, of leaving Richard, made her chest tighten up in misery, but she forced herself to sound enthusiastic. “Of course! It was only a little bump on the head.” She patted the bandage at her temple and smiled, but she desperately wanted to cry.

  Thankfully Heloise didn’t notice her sudden pallor. “Good. Because I have the most wonderful idea for a dress…”

  —

  Two days later Sabine was feeling a lot better. She moved from Richard’s bedchamber back to her own, and while she still had a small bandage on her head, her splitting headache had diminished and the bruises on her body were fading.

  She spent the morning comfortably ensconced with Heloise, chatting and laughing, each moment bittersweet because Sabine knew how soon she’d be leaving. She was also humiliatingly convinced that the other girl knew exactly how involved she’d become with her brother.

  Heloise put down the pattern book they’d been studying and tilted her head. “Did you know that etymology—the study of words—is a particular hobby of mine?”

  Sabine made a little hum of interest. “Really?”

  “Yes. In fact, my love of languages is what led me into code-breaking. Words are all linked, you know. They all have a common thread somewhere down the line. You just have to trace the right path backwards to find the answer to the puzzle, like Theseus following Ariadne’s string to escape the Minotaur’s maze.”

  Sabine wrinkled her nose, not sure what point Heloise was trying to make. “Hmmm?”

  “Anyway, I was thinking about the word forge the other night,” Heloise said. “In your honor.” She shot Sabine a conspiratorial grin. “You, obviously, associate the word with forging money, or coins, or documents. You use it to mean ‘making something fake.’ ”

  Sabine shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  “But have you ever considered that the word isn’t always used negatively? To forge also means simply to create, as in ‘to forge something anew.’ The way a blacksmith creates something with his hammer and anvil.” Heloise cast her a sideways look. “One can forge a new life, for example. Something different from the life we thought we had planned.”

  Sabine narrowed her eyes. What was the other girl hinting at?

  “Also to forge ahead,” Heloise continued blithely. “To push your way through something difficult and emerge successfully on the other side. To do something no one else has done.”

  Her innocent expression was not very convincing. Heloise was meddling.

  “I’ve never thought of it,” Sabine murmured.

  Heloise patted her hand and shot her a warm smile. “Perhaps you should,” she said meaningfully.

  An hour after Heloise left, a smiling Hodges arrived with a tea tray. “His lordship sent this up for you, Miss de la Tour,” he said. “For the prince’s ball tomorrow evening.”

  Sabine gave an inward sigh. She’d seen very little of Richard over the past few days, and now, it seemed, they were back to “Lord Lovell” and “Miss de la Tour.” She told herself it was for the best.

  Hodges set down the tray and handed her a leather-covered box. Sabine’s stomach dropped. When the servant left, she opened the lid and stared at the necklace inside. Two rows of perfect diamonds sparkled like fireworks against the night sky, a shower of pure color and light. She lifted it from the velvet and the pendant stones trembled with the shaking of her hand. She unfolded the accompanying note. Richard’s negligent scrawl commanded the page.

  Sabine,

  These are for you. They are not paste: I’d never dare give you anything other than genuine stones. I know you can tell the difference.

  With utmost respect and gratitude,

  R.

  Sabine closed her eyes, shutting out the beauty of the gift. She’d never seen anything so lovely. The elegant simplicity of the design was exactly what she would have chosen for herself.

  Her throat felt hot and scratchy. She wasn’t worthy of real diamonds. She was paste, a fake. Heloise might talk about forging a new path and creating a new life for herself, but there was no future for her with Richard. He was a wealthy, titled, respectable member of the ton. She was a criminal with nothing but lies and deceit to her name.

  A tight knot of misery balled in her stomach. Tears stung her eyes. She couldn’t keep this gift, however much she wanted to. What use did a counterfeiter have for jewels? She wasn’t going to the prince’s ball tomorrow. She was going back to Paris.

  The very idea of giving them away, or selling them, made her feel physically sick, but what choice did she have? Anton needed them far more than she did. He could sell them, use the money. Sentiment had no place in her life. There was only necessity.

  She found paper and ink in the library, and addressed a letter to the jewelers Rundell, Bridge & Rundell. Lord Lovell “respectfully requests to return these jewels” as they “did not find favor with the lady for whom they were intended.”

  Sabine bit her lip at writing that awful untruth, then added that “a cash refund paid to the bearer of this note would be perfectly acceptable.” Not wanting the jewelers to think they had somehow offended their client, she added that they could be “fully assured of His Lordship’s continuing patronage in the future &c.” She signed it with Richard’s name, blew on the ink to dry it, and carefully folded the missive.

  Who could she trust to run this errand for her? She glanced out of the window. Will Ambrose was half-heartedly sweeping the crossing with his twig broom, obviously there to keep an eye on the street. Or on her. When he saw her at the window, he grinned and waved. Sabine beckoned for him to come to the house.

  When a footman showed the boy into the room a few minutes later, Sabine handed him the letter. “Lord Lovell would like you to deliver this for him,” she said, glad her voice did not quaver. “He’s trusting you with collecting a large amount of money and bringing it directly back here.”

  The boy examined the outside of the letter and apparently accepted the handwriting as Hampden’s. His cherubic, if grimy, face wrinkled. “ ’Ow come ’e ain’t askin’ me ’imself?”

  “He had to go out,” Sabine temporized. “I’d go myself, but as you can see, I’m still not fully recovered.” She pointed to the bandage on her head.

  Will shot her a calculating gaze. “Wot’s in it for me?” His teeth were surprisingly white when he smiled.

  Sabine sighed, well aware she was being manipulated by an adolescent felon. “Ten pounds,” she said promptly.

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Done!” He headed for the door.

  “Make sure you come straight back here,” Sabine called. “And bring the money directly to me.”

  Will nodded and turned, his hand on the door handle. “I ’eard about wot you did, lady. Stabbin’ that Frenchie. Nice job, that.” He slipped out of the door before she could find an appropriate response.

  Sabine sank into a chair and bit her lip to prevent herself from calling to the boy to stay. Richard would hate her when he discovered what she’d done. Selling his gift was the ultimate betrayal of his trust, an insult to everything they’d shared, everything she’d hoped. She hated having to do this to him.

  She dashed away her tears. If nothing else, this just proved the impossibility of her staying with him any longer. He didn’t deserve someone like her in his life. And he didn’t need her anymore. Visconti was dead, the plotters arrested. Their worlds might have collided temporarily, but now it was time to part. Better to leave now before he tired of her, as he’d tired of every other woman in his life.

  Will returned less than an hour later with three hundred pounds, and Sabine quashed the stab of remorse that clenched her stomach. It was done. She would give half to Anton and keep half for herself. And as soon as she saw her friend safely onto his ship tomorrow, she would make her way back to Paris. She had promises to keep, broken heart or not.

  Chapter 57

  Sabin
e barely slept. All night she’d listened for an indication that Richard was in his room, hoping he would come to her, but dawn arrived with no sign of him. Her heart clenched in misery.

  Her farewell note to him had been almost impossible to write. There was so much she wanted to say that in the end she said as little as possible. She simply told him that she was ending their agreement early and taking the diamond necklace in lieu of her ten thousand pounds. She signed it, Adieu, Sabine.

  She hid her money under her skirts along with a few sketches she’d done of Richard, and the travel papers for Marie Lambert. She brushed off Josie’s concerned fluttering, assuring her all she wanted was to read uninterrupted in the library for an hour or two.

  With one last, longing glance at the portrait of Saskia, she pushed up the sash window. Argos, who’d followed her in from the hall, gave a miserable whimper, almost as if he knew what she planned. Sabine bent and kissed the top of his shaggy head. “Take care of him, won’t you?” she choked.

  The dog pawed her skirts and shot her a look of heartbreaking disappointment.

  “I can’t stay!” Sabine sniffed, knowing how ridiculous it was to be having a conversation with an animal that couldn’t even reply.

  Argos dropped his head on his crossed paws and eyed her reproachfully.

  Sabine climbed over the windowsill, dropped to the ground, and sped down the street.

  —

  Richard opened his eyes to the disconcerting sight of his younger sister, Heloise. He frowned.

  He’d spent the evening at Raven’s house, determined to stay away from the temptation that Sabine presented by getting thoroughly and uncharacteristically drunk. Raven, good friend that he was, had matched him drink for drink. Somewhere around the third bottle, Richard had slumped back in his chair and regarded the fire dolefully. “Bloody woman.”

  Raven frowned. “Which one?”

  “My one,” Richard said.

  “Ah.”

  Richard took another drink. “There was nothing wrong with my life before she came along,” he muttered crossly. “It was perfect. I had a title. A fortune. Any mistress I wanted. No need for some bloody woman to come and turn it all upside down.”