He cursed silently as he stuck a twig in the fire and used it to light a cheroot. Puffing thick smoke, he tossed the kindling back onto the hearth. His irritation crept into his voice. “If summer had been upon Russia when Boney’s men arrived, the ending might have been far different. Snow makes a hero of any man.”
The count motioned for Zass to light his own cigar before saying, “Odd, for there were no heroes among the French.”
“Touché, if I may use that Froggish term.” He smiled in spite of himself. “I withdraw my comment.”
“Do not.” The count hesitated, as if searching for the words he wanted in English. A hint of a smile brightened his serious face, but it was gone so swiftly Creighton wondered if he had seen it. “You are correct, Marshall. If it had not been for the blessing of Russia’s fearsome winter, I fear we might, even now, be bowing our heads to a French emperor.”
“The Allies would not have allowed that.”
“The Allies were distant when the French marched across my homeland.”
Creighton had no quick answer. It was true. For most of the campaign, the Russian army had stood alone against the French scourge. The Allies had harried Boney’s army’s flank, but their efforts had been no more effective than a terrier teasing a maddened bull. “The war is over now,” he said, then wished he had not uttered the trite words.
“I find that unlikely.”
“Do you?”
Dmitrieff did not recoil from his sharp question. “Napoleon had ambitions to meld all of Europe into his empire. Do you think he will be happy with a mere island?”
“Your general does not share your convictions on this subject. He would as lief say that Napoleon has little choice.”
“There are always choices, Marshall, although we may wish to think otherwise.” He put his brandy down, unfinished. “I hope General Miloradovich is correct. Let the rest of our battles be fought by diplomats.”
Creighton considered asking the count if he found the brandy not to his taste, but refrained. “I think you shall find London has many entertainments planned in preparation for your czar’s visit. For example, tomorrow evening there will be a gathering at Lady Eltonville’s townhouse on Soho Square. Her hurricanes are always amusing, with music and conversation.”
“Dancing is a skill I have never mastered.”
For a moment, Creighton thought his guest was jesting, but no smile eased the stern lines of the count’s face. He never had met such a controlled man. The only time the count’s face became animated was when he spoke of the war. Creighton had thought he was done with zealots, but Dmitrieff was the worst he had met. The damned war was over! Let it be buried as the dead had been.
He downed his brandy, then said, “There are other choices of how to pass the evening. Cards, if you prefer a quieter entertainment.”
“Then you English are unlike us Russians. Gambling is not a ‘quiet’ pastime for us. We roar when we win and roar when we lose.”
“Mayhap I should have said a less complicated entertainment, for there is no worry if you have complimented your lady companion or the need to speak with the dowagers.”
“I shall leave such obligations to my superiors.” The count smiled, astounding Creighton. “General Miloradovich is a fool. He thinks himself a great favorite with the ladies, but, in truth, he cannot see his own faults. That may be the reason he was such a dreadful presence during battle. He could know no fear when he never considered he might lose. So he is a hero.”
“As you are.”
“And you.” Dmitrieff leaned forward and asked, “What deeds did you do to win that title?”
Creighton put his glass on the sideboard. No matter what he said, the count turned the conversation back to the war. The Russian had avoided answering any direct question he had asked. Instead, Dmitrieff preferred speaking of battle and diplomacy—two topics Creighton wished to hear no more of.
His silence must have been colder than he had thought because the count set himself on his feet and said, “I believe it is time for me to retire.”
At the same time, Sergeant Zass stood. Creighton had forgotten the man was sitting in the corner. “I shall have you shown to your rooms. Your sergeant is welcome to stay with my servants on the top floor.”
“Thank you,” the count replied.
Creighton dropped into his own chair as soon as Mrs. Winchell had led his guests out of the book-room. What a bumble-bath! This was going to be worse than intolerable. He had changed his mind. He had very little in common with that blasted count!
Silence threatened to suffocate him again. Usually he enjoyed the serenity of his house, but he could not when he should be acting a good host to his guest.
With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet. He stubbed out what remained of his cigar, then went into the hallway. Seeing Mrs. Winchell scurrying toward him, he asked, “Are they settled?”
“Yes, my lord.” When she added nothing else, he knew she was disturbed by their guests, too.
“You put the count in the blue room?”
“Yes, my lord. The other one is using James’s room.”
He nodded. It was appropriate for the footman to give up his room for the servant of a guest. “Very good, Mrs. Winchell.”
“My lord?” she called as he turned to climb the stairs. “He’s a strange one, isn’t he?”
“Sergeant Zass?”
She shook her head and brushed her hands nervously against her dark gown. “No my lord. The other one. Not at all like I’d thought a Russian to be. Kind of puny and …” She paused, her mouth twisting before she added, “He is strange. Something is not right with him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean no disrespect,” she said, and he knew his tone had been too sharp.
“Of course not. Just say what you wish to say, Mrs. Winchell. You know I trust your judgment.”
“I don’t know what I want to say.” She shrugged, and a sheepish smile brightened her thin face. “Just something peculiar about him.”
Creighton wanted to agree, but he should not be speaking about his guest like this. Bidding Mrs. Winchell a good evening, he went up the stairs. He strode along the Persian runner on the floor, which shone in the candlelight from sconces by each door.
Taking off his coat, he loosened his cravat. He stuffed it and his stiff collar into his pocket and undid the top buttons on his shirt. A good night’s sleep should prepare him for another day of hosting these odd Russians.
As he passed the door to the blue guest room, he hesitated. A good host would be certain his guest was settled well for the night. With a sigh, as he hoped this would not turn into another conversation about the damned war, he rapped and swung the door open. “Dmitrieff, if—”
Creighton choked as he stared at the slim silhouette by the bed. The gentle curves belonged to no man or boy. He wanted to deny the truth, but it was impossible.
Count Dmitri Dmitrieff was a woman!
Two
“You are a woman?” Even as Creighton spoke the incredible words aloud, he could not believe them. Yet his eyes told him they were true.
The woman—for there was no doubt that those tempting curves beneath the linen nightshirt belonged to a woman—stared at him in horror. Her tilted blue eyes with their golden lashes were wide as all color drained from her cheeks. His gaze swept along her wine-red lips and past the firm angle of her chin to the expanse of skin visible above the deep vee of the shirt. It revealed no more than a stylish gown, but he was astonished how easily she hid the roundness of her breasts and her slim waist beneath her uniform. Her legs, which had been encased in boots and pantaloons, were displayed to entice him with their shapely length.
Mrs. Winchell’s voice rang in his memory. Yes, there had been something particularly peculiar about this Russian count, and now he knew the truth.
“Is this Colonel Carruthers’ idea of a hoax?” he demanded as he saw the count’s uniform folded neatly on the bed.
She r
eached for the heavy shirt she must have been wearing under her coat, but he blocked her hand. When she tried again and he slapped her fingers aside, she glared at him.
“Answer me,” he snapped. “Did Colonel Carruthers arrange this?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Begone! I shall not be questioned in my own private chambers.”
“Your chambers? This is my home, and I wish an explanation.”
When he grasped her shoulders, her fist exploded in his gut. His breath burst from him. She tried to push past him. He seized her elbow. Instincts honed during battle sped his hand to halt hers as it aimed at his chin. He gripped her around the waist and squeezed. She struggled to escape. With a grim smile, he tightened his arm. She gasped, but did not beg him to halt. Instead, she tried to shove him away. Her fingers slid from his wrist as he compressed his arm into her waist again. A soft moan oozed from her lips as she sagged against him.
He bent and slipped his arm under her knees before she could collapse. Easily, he lifted her. For all her contrariness, she weighed less than some of the equipment he had dragged across France. Dropping her, without compassion, into the pile of pillows, he stepped back and rested his hand on the upright of the tester.
He said nothing as she coughed, fighting to regain her breath, but he could not halt his gaze from tracing her splendid shape again. With her tousled, tawny curls edging her face like an aurora and her cheeks regaining their dusting of pink, she was an invitation to thoughts that had nothing to do with the present predicament. She took deep breaths to steady herself, and he followed the motion of her breasts which were covered by the undecorated linen. Her slender waist needed no corset. And her legs … Firmly, he told himself to keep his mind on the problems at hand. ’Twas not easy when she was half-dressed and lying in his guest bed.
She scowled at him and started to speak. Only another cough emerged. When she pulled a pillow in front of her to conceal the curves that had betrayed her, he knew she could not guess how the lace on its edges accented the femininity she fought to hide. Why had he failed to notice that her cheeks had never suffered the honed edge of a razor? Mayhap he had been beguiled, even then, by the lush wealth of gold lashes surrounding her bewitching eyes.
Damme! He must not let himself be seduced by this woman who paraded about in a man’s uniform as bold as a cyprian plying her trade in Covent Garden.
Coolly, he asked, “Why?”
“Why what?”
He leaned forward until his nose was only inches from hers. In spite of himself, he noted how warmly tanned her skin was. Such a healthy hue was not the rage for ladies, but the color accented her sapphire eyes. His hand clenched on the post. More fiercely, he reminded himself again that when her lips were so close beneath his was not the time to think of how luscious she looked.
He drew back a few inches before temptation persuaded him to taste her lips. Irritation at his own reaction to this pretty sprite spiked his voice. “Answer me—” He swore, then demanded, “What is your name? Your real name!”
He expected her to demur, but she answered, without emotion, “Natalya Dmitrieff.”
“Then tell me, Natalya Dmitrieff, why Colonel Carruthers arranged for you to come here.”
Her eyes narrowed with bafflement, and he noted how she tensed against the pillows. Even though her hair might be as soft and silky as a kitten’s, she had already proven she could fight like a lion. He would be cork-brained to trust her even for a minute.
“I had no place else to stay,” she said in the warm voice that had startled him when he first heard her speak. “There was not room enough for me to stay with the Grand Duchess’s party at the Pulteney Hotel.”
“But why here?”
“I told you.” Pressing her hand to her side where he had held her so roughly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She must have sensed his gaze riveting on them, because she pulled the burgundy blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her as she stood. “My English is not perfect. Mayhap I do not make myself clear. I was told Colonel Carruthers arranged for me to stay here. But as a joke? Ya ne ponimáyu.” Quickly, she added, “Excuse me. I do not know what you mean.”
When Lord Ashcroft stepped in front of her, Natalya glowered at him. She had faced scores of men across bared swords with the smoke of battle smothering her. This English lord would not daunt her. She had met taller men and shorter ones. She had seen their blood glisten on her sword. She had sat with her comrades while they sang and while they spoke of the women left behind … and while they died.
He folded his arms across his chest, but she met his brown eyes steadily. Colonel Carruthers had graciously told her that he was honored to arrange for her to stay with the captain who had been his aide-de-camp during the English campaign that ended in Paris. She tried to imagine this handsome man who wore velvet and lawn covered with the filth of battle.
She lowered her eyes when she realized she could, with ease, envision him fighting. The fervor in his ebony eyes warned he would be a ferocious opponent who would seek any flaw and exploit it to destroy her. Fighting him with no weapon other than her fists would be stupid. He had already proven he was stronger than she was, even if she could not have guessed that from his broad shoulders and strong hands. There were other ways, and she would use any form of guile to defeat him.
Edging around him, she vowed to give him no chance to best her, although he had discovered her greatest weakness. She could not trust him. She could trust no one but Petr Zass. She would not allow Lord Ashcroft to betray her when she was so close to getting what she needed to rebuild all that had been destroyed by the French.
Again he stepped in front of her. A frigid smile erased all civility from his face. The pleasant host had vanished; the savage warrior had appeared.
Squaring her shoulders, she faced him without speaking. She knew well how to deal with soldiers. Their brains usually worked in a certain, logical way she found admirable. If she could appeal to that part of him, he might be willing to forget he had seen her like this.
His finger brushed the curve of her jaw, and she flinched in spite of herself. Her breath caught, shocking her, as sweet warmth spread through her to submerge her anger. She did not want her anger smothered. This single touch should not affect her so. She leaned her face away from him, knowing this reaction, delightful though it might be, was a warning he would not be as easy to deal with as the men she had commanded. Yet, she must be as unrelentingly strong as she had been with them.
“Marshall, I—”
“I think it would be wiser if you called me Lord Ashcroft. Under the circumstances, informality might not be the wisest course.”
“As you wish.”
“I doubt you are always so compliant.” His smile broadened.
“You are my host.”
“And you are no Count Dmitrieff!”
Natalya took a step toward her left and her small knife which she had placed on a table on the far side of the room. He countered and put his hand on the tester pole at the foot of the bed. The only way she could get past him was to sneak beneath his arm. She would—if she must—but she wished to hold onto whatever dignity she had remaining.
“You are wrong, my lord. I am Count Dmitrieff.”
“A captain in the czar’s army?”
“As Kapitán Dmitrieff, I led one of his most decorated troops. We Cossacks do not like to lose.” She hoped he would take that as a portent of the trouble he could bring upon himself if he continued this conversation.
He did not, for he asked, “Was the czar so desperate for soldiers that he forced women into his army?”
“I volunteered!”
“As a carpet-knight, no doubt.”
Baffled, she said, “Ya ne ponimáyu.”
“You said that before. You don’t understand?”
She smiled slightly. “You apparently understand better than I, for that is what I said. What is a carpet-knight?”
“Allow me
the honor of explaining.” His sarcasm lashed her, stealing her smile. “A carpet-knight is any soldier whose battles are fought in a parlor.”
She tapped a ribbon pinned beneath the fur collar of her uniform. “The czar does not award decorations to the best dancer. I earned the title of hero, my lord.”
“And you were made an officer just like that?”
Her voice was as hard as the steel in her ceremonial sword on the carved blanket chest at the foot of the ornate bed. “I was no portupej-junker.”
“What?”
“A cadet who is waiting to better his skills to become an officer.” She could not help smiling when she saw his astonishment as she added, “I was breveted immediately to my rank.”
He laughed as he sat on a chair covered in red velvet and set his feet on a tufted stool. Folding his arms on his chest, he gave her a superior smile. “So, you simply walked up to a Russian officer and offered your services?”
Natalya knew her cheeks were afire, turning them the shade of the wool of her coat. His insult was clear. She had been no camp-follower, but a respected officer who had won decorations and the czar’s attention for her valor.
“Yes, my lord, but you must understand that my services consisted only of a strong arm and the ability to maintain my seat during a battle as well as being able to inspire my men to deeds of greatness.”
“Then the Russians are bigger blocks than I had thought.” Not giving her a chance to respond to his double insult, he went on, “I cannot conceive of what would make a young woman search out the war, so she could play a part in it.”
“I did not need to search for it. The war found me.” A deep sigh punctuated her words as she slowly sat on the chest. Twisting the fringe on her sword about her fingers, she said softly, “My father and my older brother joined the czar’s men to battle in Prussia against the French. Dmitri came back. Father did not. Then the French came to Russia.”
“And your brother went again to fight?”
The Counterfeit Count Page 2
