The Counterfeit Count

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  The Counterfeit Count

  A Regency Romance

  Jo Ann Ferguson

  For Annette Blair … on the road again.

  Thanks for being my friend over all those miles

  and through all those bookstores.

  One

  “Why me? I have just returned from the Continent.” Creighton Marshall took a glass of wine from the tray held out to him by one of the club’s silent menservants. “Find another volunteer, Colonel.”

  Colonel Samuel Carruthers smiled while he appraised his friend who was sipping the wine with a frown. Creighton Marshall, Captain, had recovered well from his year of chasing the Frogs across the Continent. The gaunt shadows had receded from beneath his brown eyes, and his cheeks were no longer shadowed by a ruddy beard. Clean-shaven, dressed à la modality in a dark-brown velvet coat and pale breeches separated by a gold waistcoat, he seemed perfectly at ease in the glossy leather chair by the hearth here at White’s. Only because Colonel Carruthers was so well acquainted with him did he realize what had been suffered by Captain Creighton Marshall, once again better known to the Polite World as Lord Ashcroft.

  “But you have all that room in your townhouse on Berkeley Square,” the colonel said, watching his young friend’s face for any sign of softening.

  There was none. “Damme, Colonel! I’ve done my duty for God, king, and country.”

  “This is for the Regent.”

  A smile tugged at Creighton’s lips, and the colonel recalled his sister’s reaction to the handsome viscount. Although she was older than Creighton by nearly a decade, she had complained of a delightful flutter in her stomach each time the viscount turned his glittering eyes in her direction. That charm had served Creighton well before he left for France. There were whispers of several young women who had vowed never to marry if they could not be Lady Ashcroft. Although he discounted such outrageous tales, Colonel Carruthers knew Creighton’s auburn hair and the kohl eyes he had inherited from his mother would be as enticing to a young miss as the title and wealth bequeathed to him by his late father.

  “Colonel, save your arguments for someone who must heed them.”

  “May I remind you, Captain Marshall, that you have not yet sold your commission to that eager young cousin of yours?”

  Creighton did not answer as he took another sip of wine. Madeira. Once it had seemed too sweet for his palate, but he had come to appreciate the finer aspects of life after being denied them for so many months. France might be famed for its excellent vintages; however, he had had no chance to sample anything but wormy bread and mud during his time on its shores.

  True, Gregory was anxious to buy the captaincy. True, Creighton was anxious to be rid of it. True, he wanted to spend all his time in the stylish clothes he had had made by his favorite knight of the cloth instead of the uniform that thrilled Gregory. Yet Creighton resisted making the final arrangements to sell his commission to his cousin. The idea of sending that idealistic young man into the maw of war disturbed him.

  But the war with France was over! Looking down into his glass, he sighed. The ending had come without the sense of triumph he had anticipated through the torment of those months in France. Napoleon had been banished to Elba, but the rest of Europe was left to try to resurrect what remained after the fighting. Old alliances had faltered, and new ones were as uneasy as a Charley patrolling unfamiliar streets on a dark night.

  “Shall we pretend, only for the sake of argument,” Creighton asked, “that I am agreeable to your plan? For whom am I to play the congenial host?”

  Colonel Carruthers linked his fingers over his generous expanse of belly. The garish stripes of his silk waistcoat matched the bright shade of his blue coat, but his eyes were serious beneath the silver hair brushing his thick, black brows. Signaling to a servant to refill his glass, the colonel asked, “You know the Czar of All Russia will soon disembark on our shores?”

  “Of course. I do not read the Morning Chronicle only for the news of the élite.”

  He smiled at Creighton’s sarcasm, which had brought common sense to many staff meetings when their fellow officers thought more of absurd honor than the needs of the men serving with them. “Then you may also realize Alexander’s well-decorated General Miloradovich, who is already in town, has brought with him one of Russia’s greatest heroes in the campaign against the French.”

  Creighton sighed. He was not sure why he had answered this invitation to join the colonel at White’s today. How much more easily the time could have been spent with a ride in the park or with brandy and conversation in his book-room. His lips tightened. It would have been easier, but then he would have had to acknowledge the memories he had hoped would be forgotten by the time he returned home. Nearly every room of his home brought to mind a scene of him and Maeve. Even in his bedchamber, he could not escape the memory of her.

  Damme! She had been the one who was carrying on an affaire with another man even while Creighton was speaking to her family of marriage.

  “Which great Russian hero are you going to drop on my doorstep?” When the colonel smiled at his sour tone, Creighton shook his head and grinned. “Listen to me. I have agreed to your request without debate.”

  “You know I appreciate volunteers.”

  “I recall your idea of a volunteer is anyone who happens to be within earshot of your bellow.”

  “This is a request only.” Colonel Carruthers became suddenly serious. “I know you wish to immerse yourself in the whirl of the Season. Why not take this Russian officer with you? You will entertain him and solve my problem at the same time.”

  “I don’t speak Russian.”

  “I understand the count speaks excellent English.” He picked up his pipe. Taking a deep draught on his pipe, he blew smoke toward the ceiling. “From what I have heard of the count and his exploits, I think you shall find him extraordinary company. I believe you two have a great deal in common.”

  Creighton recognized defeat. Colonel Carruthers had the disagreeable habit of accepting no answer but the one he wanted and badgering a man until he got it. After months under his command, Creighton had learned that. He had learned as well that the colonel always had a reason for what he did.

  “So what is the name of this count?”

  “Count Dmitri Dmitrieff.” He leaned back in his chair, but Creighton was not bamboozled by his nonchalant pose. “The count holds the rank of captain. I speculate that will change, for the czar himself arranged for the count to come to England with General Miloradovich on this visit, if the gossip-mongers are to be believed. Dmitrieff is a cavalryman. I am sure he will enjoy the hunt of the fox as well as the entertainments of Town. You two could be living in one another’s pockets by the time this visit is over.”

  Skepticism crept into his voice. “I doubt that, Colonel.”

  “But you shall host Count Dmitrieff?”

  “Yes,” Creighton answered, hoping he would not come to regret his acquiescence more than he did at this moment.

  One thing remained the same as his days before the war. Creighton Marshall hated the strictures of protocol. They were a waste of time—time that could be better spent with a hand of the devil’s books and the company of good friends whose pockets were filled with gold.

  Mist off the river brought the scent of rain, but he ignored it as he edged his horse through the maze of carriages clogging the street in front of the deceptively plain townhouse. Holding the leading rein of another horse, he listened to the prattle of the people filling the street and craning to see the house at its end. Everyone wanted to be the first to see the Russians, although twilight was thick along the cobbles.

  Creighton considered telling them to go home. The czar would probably
be busy, as soon as he arrived, plotting mischief with his sister, the Grand Duchess Catherine of Oldenburg, at the Pulteney Hotel. Rumor suggested the Regent was insulted because the czar had turned down an invitation to stay at St. James’s Palace and planned to install his retinue in the hotel, save for a few who would be billeted with Colonel Carruthers’s soon-to-be retired staff.

  He chuckled to himself as he swung out of the saddle and handed the reins to a servant in a livery that glowed a brilliant red in the light from the streetlamp. Behind him, whispered supposition filled the air. His black coat and white breeches were fine enough for an evening at Almack’s, but gave no clue to his identity. He heard the questions. Was he a Russian or an Englishman? He did nothing to satisfy the curiosity as he climbed the trio of steps. He adjusted his perfectly tied cravat and took a deep breath as he recalled the phrases he had spoken so many times in the past, the trite words of strangers who did not expect to see each other again.

  The door opened, and he entered. Handing his tall beaver hat and a carte de visite to the footman, he glanced around the foyer. It was surprisingly empty. Straining, he could hear no sound of conversation. This was the correct evening and hour for his call, and the colonel had told him there would be a gathering of those who would be hosting the Russians.

  The foyer was gaudy with gilt. Gold decorated the plaster friezes on the ceiling, the metalwork of the balusters rising along the curving staircase, and the tables set on either side of the door. Only the black marble floor offered a rest for his eyes.

  When the servant returned, moments later, Creighton was escorted up the stairs and through double doors to the right. The room was choke-full, but the conversation rose barely above a whisper. What furniture remained had been pushed back against the red silk walls. No light filtered past the lace curtains set between gold brocade drapes at both of the windows.

  As he entered, Creighton saw Colonel Carruthers signal to him. He crossed the parquet floor to where the colonel was involved in an intense conversation with a squat, bearded man Creighton did not know. Resplendent in his dress uniform, Colonel Carruthers emphasized every word with a broad gesture.

  “And this is my aide-de-camp, Captain Creighton Marshall, Lord Ashcroft,” the colonel said as he welcomed Creighton into the conversation.

  “Gentlemen,” Creighton said quietly. To speak louder than a murmur would shatter the smothering hush.

  The colonel continued, “’Tis my pleasure to introduce General Miloradovich.”

  “Miloradovich, Karl Miloradovich,” the short man said, smoothing his thick beard. His arrogant tone warned that he expected Creighton to be impressed.

  Creighton was impressed with the boorish man’s girth. He struggled not to smile as he wondered if the general had a horse strong enough to support him or if he must be pulled to the vanguard of his troops in a cart. No doubt Miloradovich spent most of his time close to a laden table.

  “An honor, General.” He said nothing else as he scanned the room. Which one of these Russians was the count?

  “You were with Colonel Carruthers in Paris?” asked Miloradovich in his thick accent. “How did you find the city?”

  “In dire need of a sane leader.”

  “It has one now.”

  “At least temporarily.”

  “Do you expect Napoleon to escape his island prison?” The general boomed a derisive laugh that caused heads to turn throughout the room. “I can reassure you, Captain Marshall, you need not trouble yourself on that. Napoleon Bonaparte will cause us no more problems.”

  “I wish I could share your complacency.”

  Colonel Carruthers intruded to say, “Complacency is not a fault of the general’s.” He flashed Creighton a disapproving frown.

  Creighton swallowed his irritation as he bowed his head in the general’s direction and said, “Gentlemen.” He had no interest in staying and listening to the rotund man’s opinions. Diplomacy was just a different sort of battle, and he did not want to be embroiled in a war of words this evening.

  As he turned, he nearly bumped into a man who wore the uniform of an English infantry corporal. Creighton nodded when the corporal asked if Captain Marshall would come with him. Looking wistfully at the table where wine waited, Creighton followed.

  The corporal stopped suddenly and, snapping to attention, intoned, “Dmitri Dmitrieff.”

  Creighton’s eyes widened as he looked at the man coming to his feet. This was not the hulking bear of a man he had expected. Above a red coat garishly decorated with gold trim, blond curls surrounded a slender face and accented almond-shaped blue eyes. Dmitrieff might be a superb commander and an unparalleled master with the sword he wore hooked to the crimson sash at his waist, but the top of his head barely reached past Creighton’s chin.

  The count nodded ever so slightly toward Creighton. Only the arch of a single eyebrow suggested the count was amused by Creighton’s reaction.

  Determined not to give away any of his other thoughts, Creighton said formally, “Welcome to London, Count Dmitrieff. I am your host, Creighton Marshall, Captain.”

  “You are Lord Ashcroft as well, I believe,” he replied in nearly perfect English. His tenor voice suggested he was a lad as lief a well-tried warrior.

  “I prefer informality in my household.”

  “Then Marshall it shall be.”

  He thought he heard a hint of humor in the count’s voice, but the shorter man’s face remained somber. Noting that the man wore his riding gloves, he said, “I would be glad to escort you to Berkeley Square at your leisure.”

  “Then let us take our leave. I have suffered enough of these stilted proprieties for today. I trust my comments bring you no insult.”

  “None. I learned many months ago that I would be wise to leave politics and its intricacies to those who delight in them. I have brandy and cigars waiting at my home. Let us enjoy them instead.”

  The count turned, and a man, who was even taller than Creighton, appeared out of the shadows. This man matched Creighton’s image of a Russian count. He wore a full brush of beard, and he was as muscular as a bear. His uniform was a quiet version of the count’s.

  “My aide, Sergeant Zass,” the count said. “He, of course, travels everywhere with me.”

  “Of course.”

  Creighton motioned for the count to lead the way to the door but glanced at Colonel Carruthers, who flashed him a grin. The colonel had been right. The count and he had something in common already, for they both looked upon functions such as this with distaste. Colonel Carruthers was going to be even more insufferable now as he crowed about how correct he had been.

  With an ease that bespoke his reputation as a cavalryman, Count Dmitrieff mounted the extra horse Creighton had brought. “An excellent animal,” he said, patting the chestnut’s neck.

  “He is yours to use as you wish during your stay.”

  “I am even more in your debt.”

  Creighton thought he saw a twinkle of delight in the count’s eyes, but the shorter man’s face remained impassive. Behind them, Sergeant Zass swung onto a black horse brought to him by a stableboy. The large man, whose face was nearly hidden in that untrimmed hedge of beard, had said nothing. Creighton wondered if he understood English.

  Although he waited for Dmitrieff to speak again, the ride back to Berkeley Square passed in silence. The street was far from quiet with the rattle of wagon wheels and all the hubbub of Picadilly Street. Even when they turned onto Berkeley Street and rode around the square to the west side, the count said nothing.

  The silence began to vex Creighton as he escorted his guest through the wide foyer of his townhouse and up the stairs. Zass followed like a malevolent shadow. Creighton saw the household turn to watch the two strangers with disquiet straining their polite smiles.

  Creighton led the way into his book-room. The mahogany furniture was covered with heavy, dark-green fabric that was intended to invite his guests to relax and enjoy some cordial conversation. He waited
for the shorter man to select a chair. Creighton kept his smile in place, but annoyance pinched him when Count Dmitrieff took Creighton’s favorite chair as Zass went to sit in a corner. Shadows seemed to be his preferred milieu.

  Selecting a seat opposite the count’s chair, Creighton stretched out his feet on a stool. He shifted irritably. This was definitely not as cozy a chair as his own. When Mrs. Winchell bustled in with a tray holding glasses and a bottle of Creighton’s best brandy, he saw the housekeeper was trying not to stare at his guests. He thanked her and waited until she backed hastily out of the room, clearly intimidated by the odd quiet.

  Pouring two glasses, Creighton held out one to the count. The man turned to pass it to his sergeant. Creighton hid his surprise. He had heard tales of how cruelly Russian officers treated their men, but Dmitrieff must not fit that mold. Offering the other glass to the count, he rose to get a third glass from the sideboard by the hearth.

  “So what do you think of London?” he asked, determined to put an end to the silence.

  “I have seen little of it,” the count replied, “but it seems a fine city. I must express my thanks to you, as a representative of England, for hosting us.”

  “Your czar will be a guest of my Regent.” He added a bit more brandy to the glass he had poured for himself. He suspected he would need it to get himself through this conversation. Taking a deep drink, he said, “It is time to celebrate the war being over.” He splashed more brandy into the goblet and raised it. “To peace.”

  The count lifted his glass to his lips, then lowered it. “England is fortunate to have been spared the destruction that was left after we tossed the French out of Russia.”

  “Winter did more to defeat Boney than the czar’s army.” He opened a box of cigars and offered it to the count.

  Dmitrieff took one and sniffed it. With a hint of a smile, he passed it to his sergeant.

  Creighton forced his smile to remain in place. Blast this Russian count to perdition! These cigars were too costly to be wasted on the palate of a Russian bear who could hardly appreciate their fine leaf. When Dmitrieff waved aside the box, Creighton wondered if the count deemed the cigars beneath his touch.