The Counterfeit Count

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  She scowled at him. How senseless and complacent could these English be? “No, I need not come to your defense, Creighton, but I regret your friends do not share your clear-sightedness of the danger that threatened all of us. If not for the combined strength of all the Allies against Napoleon, even now the treacherous French might be bringing their dreams of empire to your soil, gentlemen.”

  “Nonsense!” Mr. Hotz announced. “We would never allow that.”

  “Once we believed the same. We did not have your good fortune of never having to prove that.” She pushed herself away from the table. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  She clenched her hands at her side as she walked out of the card room. When she heard her name called, she paused. She turned to face Creighton, her fingers resting on the knife in the sash at her waist.

  He held out his hand. “Don’t you want this?” He poured the money she had won onto her palm.

  “Spasíbo.”

  “Thank you?” With a low chuckle, he said, “You’re welcome. Do I owe you thanks for leaping to my defense with such fervor?”

  “They have no idea what they are prattling about. The fools!”

  Putting his hand on her arm, he steered her along the corridor that was decorated with paintings in gilt frames and statues set on little shelves that were guaranteed to draw the eye. “Of course they don’t,” Creighton said calmly. “Are the civilians in Russia so different?”

  “Every person along the path of the French destruction knew the war firsthand.” She tugged away and faced him. “Those blocks should realize how lucky they are to have men like you who were willing to risk their lives to protect England.”

  “I am glad they do not.” Lifting one hand, he said, “We have spoken enough of this. I came here to enjoy myself this evening, not to keep you out of trouble.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “I have no doubts on that. I just don’t want to have to stop all my friends from challenging you for your incendiary words.”

  “Those?” She pointed back toward the card room. “Save for Mr. Hotz, there is not enough spirit within the lot to confront more than a kitten. Even their gambling is boring, nothing like we have in Russia. I cannot imagine any of my men chattering like a group of babas.”

  “Let me guess. Babas means babies?”

  She laughed. “Not even close. It means old women.”

  With a grimace, he motioned for her to continue walking with him along the corridor. “Watch what you say, for I may not be able to cajole the next man who challenges you to delay the duel.”

  “You really don’t want to play cards any longer?”

  “I did not like the turn the conversation took.”

  “You would as lief hear a man’s misfortune aired about among those more fortunate?”

  He shook his head. “No, I did not like that either, but I find it preferable to rehashing the war.”

  “People are curious about what happened.”

  “That is no reason to satisfy it with such babble.”

  “It does no harm to ease someone’s curiosity.”

  “Never?”

  She frowned. “Never”

  When he took her arm and tugged her out onto a balcony overlooking the back garden, she tried to pull away. He smiled as he pressed her shoulders against the stone wall of the house. “Then,” he whispered, “ease my curiosity.”

  She stared up at him. The sharp angles of his face were not muted by the darkness, for the faint light from within the house highlighted his jaw and cheekbones. Even though his eyes were hidden in pools of shadow, she could guess they were bright with amusement.

  “About what?” she asked as quietly.

  “About you.”

  “Creighton, please …” She closed her eyes as his fingertip traced the curve of her ear. Shaking her head, she said more fiercely, “Enough!”

  “I shall desist if you think I should, although I do not believe you are speaking the truth.” His hand cupped her chin, and he brought her face to his. The soft brush of his words caressed her as he asked, “How is it that a woman with a woman’s desires can think solely of something as hideous as war?” His laugh had a ragged edge. “Mayhap not solely, for your reaction when I touch you so chastely suggests you can think of more feminine pursuits.”

  With a curse, she pushed herself away from the wall. “Pursuits of feminine prey are your thoughts. I prefer the strategy of planning and winning a battle to courting and wooing. If you have no interest in what interests me, I shall ask you to excuse me.”

  Creighton smiled as Natalya went back into the house. Every inch of her glowed with fury. A feminine fury, which was as charming as the splendid motion of her hips. A fury which would escalate if she guessed the course of his thoughts.

  Mayhap this would have been a simpler thing if Barclay had not flown up to the boughs this afternoon. During the card game, he had avoided looking for Barclay. Barclay would like nothing better than to announce his challenge to Natalya at the moment when it would cause the most commotion. It was Creighton’s duty now, in addition to playing host to Natalya when he could easily have played something more pleasurable with her, to keep Barclay from finding out what must stay hidden.

  This was certainly not going to be the lighthearted Season he had planned in the wake of the war. The battle continued on, but now his most fierce foe was his own desire to draw Natalya back into his arms. It was a battle he must not lose.

  Nine

  “Do tell us, Count Dmitrieff, what you think of London.”

  “Yes, do tell us.”

  “Is it anything like your cities in Russia?”

  “Can you say something for us in Russian? I do hear it is a most unusual language.”

  “What colors do the ladies prefer in Russia?”

  Natalya struggled to keep her smile from vanishing as she tried to ease away from the circle of women which had formed around her within seconds of her arrival in the bright gold ballroom. It was impossible. She was defeated more soundly than she had ever believed possible. Elbowing aside one of the women, all of whom were dressed in white silk as foamy as the plaster friezes edging the ceiling, was unthinkable. How easily she had forgotten the skills women employed when they wished to flirt with an unknown gentleman! Now she knew why she had so readily assumed the plain-speaking ways of the men in her command.

  “You would be better served by asking the Grand Duchess what colors the ladies prefer,” she said to a slender blonde who was nearly as tall as Creighton.

  “But you, Count Dmitrieff, are a man, and we wish to know what the Russian men have noticed about the gowns that are worn by the ladies of Russia—” The blond Englishwoman took a step closer and flashed a coquettish smile. “—and England.”

  “Miss—”

  “Wilton, my lord.” The elegant design of her gown, which gained her envious stares from the other women, shimmered in the candlelight. Holding out her hand, she offered Natalya a warm smile.

  Too warm for Natalya’s comfort, but she took the woman’s hand and bowed over it as she had bowed over what seemed like countless hands since her arrival in England.

  “Count Dmitrieff, meeting you is a pleasure I have been anticipating with the greatest pleasure.” Her low voice was husky and inviting.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Miss Wilton,” she mumbled.

  Natalya noted Miss Wilton’s superior smile. If these ladies thought to compete for her favor, they were sadly wasting their time. Although a flirtation with one of the women would serve her disguise well, she did not want to risk hurting anyone.

  “Miss Wilton,” she asked, hoping this excuse would allow her to make her escape, “may I get a glass of something cool for you?”

  She held up a goblet of champagne. “No need, my lord.” Linking her arm through Natalya’s, she glanced around the circle of women and said, “Allow me to steal you from these admirers so I might introduce you to some of the other ladies who are eager to m
ake the acquaintance of one of Russia’s greatest heroes.”

  “You flatter me.” Natalya tried to think of some other reason to free herself from this predicament. If she had had half an ounce of foresight, she would have remained in the card room where she could have avoided this discomfort. “However, I have to speak with General Miloradovich about a matter he expressed interest in earlier this afternoon. If you will excuse me …”

  “Do stay and speak with us a moment longer.” Miss Wilton squeezed her arm.

  Again the volley of voices bounced over Natalya.

  “Yes, do. Do stay and speak with us.”

  “Tell us about what you saw in Paris.”

  “Yes, what are they wearing?”

  “Did you see Napoleon before he was exiled?”

  “When is the czar arriving in England?”

  Natalya longed to roll her eyes, spit a curse that was sure to offend all of them, and leave. In near desperation, she glanced around the room. She wished she had brought Petr with her. He always could be depended on to know when she needed his assistance. Somewhere there must be help to escape this silliness.

  Her breath caught as her gaze locked with Creighton’s. He stood in one of the trio of doorways opening into the corridor. With him were the gentlemen who had joined them at the card table, but she took no more than casual note of them. Every thought was focused on Creighton. Her feet yearned to run across the ballroom to bring her against the firm warmth of his chest.

  Impossible! Had she lost every bit of sense she possessed? Tonight she was Count Dmitrieff, not a woman determined to capture a man’s attention.

  “Count Dmitrieff,” said Miss Wilton, “do tell us how you won that medal.” She put her finger out to the ribbon set above the braid on Natalya’s uniform.

  Natalya drew back before Miss Wilton could touch her breast. Forcing a smile, she said, “That was for a battle whose retelling may not be fit for the ears of ladies.”

  “Oh, do tell us,” Miss Wilton urged. Her blue eyes were tinted with specks as gold as her lashes. “We would so like to know.”

  “Yes, yes,” said another of the ladies, and they all echoed the words like well-trained acolytes.

  “If you wish …” Natalya glanced again at Creighton. He had not moved, so she would have to devise her own escape.

  Creighton surrendered to his urge to smile as Natalya turned back to speak to the group of ladies who had clumped around her. One had her arm through Natalya’s. This late in the Season, some women were willing to chance even exile in distant Russia in order to win a titled husband. He chuckled to himself. What a surprise would await that bride on their wedding night!

  “Count Dmitrieff is quite the ladies’ man, I would say,” murmured Lord Pleasonton.”

  “I think I shall play the good host and rescue my guest from Lady Eltonville’s guests,” Creighton replied.

  “I doubt the man wants rescuing. Even icy Russian blood needs heating once in a while, I suspect.” Lord Pleasonton sighed. “As for me, I profess an interest in what our hostess has provided for us to drink this evening. I know my black coat is no match in the ladies’ eyes for Count Dmitrieff’s gold piping and buttons.”

  “Count Dmitrieff?” intruded a voice laced with rum. “Where in perdition is that blackguard?”

  Creighton caught Barclay’s arm as his friend was about to stride across the ballroom in pursuit of Natalya, although Creighton doubted Barclay could see anything clearly past the tip of his nose. “Slow down,” Creighton ordered.

  “Want to talk to him. Now!”

  Lord Pleasonton cleared his throat, gave Creighton a pitying smile, and then turned to talk to someone else.

  Creighton steered his friend in the other direction. “We shall talk, Barclay, but later.”

  “I want to talk to him now!” He raised his hand and fired an invisible pistol. At least it was invisible to Creighton. He was unsure what Barclay was seeing right now.

  “Barclay?” Creighton did not want to leave his friend, who was top-heavy with wine, among ears which would be delighted to listen to his challenge to Count Dmitrieff. They did not need an audience for this blasted duel.

  Barclay pulled away and dropped into a chair. “Go and get your count. I shall wait right here like a good lad and speak only when spoken to.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Creighton got a grin in response. With a deep sigh, he tried to guess what he had done to deserve this muddle being dumped in his lap. It was enough to persuade him to volunteer for service at the farthest edge of England’s holdings. He frowned. Mayhap that had been Colonel Carruthers’ intention from the beginning with this assignment. If so, Creighton would endure being Natalya’s host until he could get that damned commission transferred.

  He offered a smile to a pair of dowagers as he crossed the smooth marble floor. Lady Eltonville’s assemblies were without par, but tonight he wished he had stayed home. There was something unsettling about catching only the attention of two women old enough to be his mother while half the ladies in the room were clustered around Natalya. He never thought he would have to consider a woman as a rival for the eyes of the ladies.

  “Good evening,” he said, as he came to stand behind Natalya. “I hope I am not interrupting something that cannot be continued. I …” He took a step back as the woman holding on to Natalya’s arm faced him. He swallowed his curse as he met familiar eyes. “This is an unexpected pleasure to find you keeping Count Dmitrieff busy this evening.”

  Natalya stiffened at the frozen edge on Creighton’s voice. Even though she had known him but a short time, she recognized the tension straining his tight smile. Something was amiss here. She knew it as well as she knew the best moment to send her men into battle.

  “It is an unexpected pleasure,” Miss Wilton said as she fluttered her fan in front of her face. “I had not thought to see you here tonight either, Creighton.”

  Natalya wondered what Miss Wilton was trying to hide. Or was the fan a shield to protect her from the flurry of emotions racing through Creighton’s eyes?

  “Count Dmitrieff is my guest,” Creighton said, shrugging his shoulders in a nonchalant pose she knew was false. His hands were too tightly clenched behind him. “It is my duty and my honor to show the count every facet of the Season, both the glorious and the ghastly.”

  A quick glance at the other women warned Natalya something was happening here that she was not privy to. Her fingers went instinctively to her knife, but she forced them to relax as Miss Wilton murmured, “Am I the glorious or the ghastly?”

  “That,” Creighton said without faltering, “is something I shall leave you to decide, for I must ask you to excuse the count and me. Duty calls, you know.”

  “Must you go?” Miss Wilton asked, turning back to Natalya.

  “It appears I must.” She bowed toward the women. “Thank you for your pleasant conversation, ladies.”

  “Do consider calling on Mama and me, Count Dmitrieff,” Miss Wilton cooed, her long lashes fluttering as rapidly as her fan. “I know Mama would be so pleased to meet a brave hero from such a distant land.” She held out her hand. “We are at home on Tuesdays.”

  Natalya frowned. “Where are you the rest of the time?”

  Miss Wilton gave a laugh as light as the music for the quadrille rolling through the room. Tapping Creighton lightly on the arm with her fan, she chided, “You need to give your guest much more tuition in the ways of a London Season.”

  “A difficult task,” he said, drawing his arm away, “when I have not proven to be the master of such myself.” Motioning toward the far wall, he added, “Count Dmitrieff?”

  Gladly, Natalya followed him across the dance floor where couples twirled to the cheery music. When she sighed deeply, he glanced at her with a hint of a smile.

  “Is that sigh happy or sad?” he asked.

  “Glorious or ghastly, don’t you mean?”

  “Mayhap.”

  When the whisper of his smi
le vanished, she locked her hands behind her as she surveyed the room. “Do English ladies speak of nothing but fashion and gossip?”

  “Farradiddles consume much of the conversation among the élite.”

  “They twitter like birds.”

  He dropped his arm companionably over her shoulders. “So you have suffered ennui among the men and are overmastered by indifference at the conversation the women share. You are clearly neither fish nor fowl, Demi.”

  “Fish? Fowl?”

  “An English saying. It means you are neither one thing nor another.” He chuckled. “Why did you come to London when you should have known you would never fit in here?”

  “Orders.”

  “An easy answer, but I suspect you could have given your superiors good reasons for you to remain behind in Paris or go directly to Vienna.”

  She shuddered. “Another experience I am not anticipating with pleasure.”

  “More parties, but there shall be many exotic heroes among the diplomatic corps. You need not be the center of attention.”

  “I’m glad.” She rubbed her hands together. “How much longer will this gathering last?”

  “A few hours.”

  “Hours?”

  He laughed at her astonishment. “If you could find something to interest you, the time would go quickly. However, it seems as if this gathering has nothing to appeal to you.”

  Natalya stepped away. Something here appealed to her, something appealed to her very much. Nearly every word Creighton spoke to her was an invitation to throw off her guise and urge him to pull her back into his arms while she discovered if his kisses were as mind-sapping as his suggestion of such intimacy.

  “Nor does much appeal to you,” she said quietly. “You walked away from the card table.”

  “To catch you.”

  “And you were beneath reproach in speaking with Miss Wilton.”

  “You looked as if you wished to flee.”

  She smiled. “True, but being rude was not the way I planned to do that.”

  “Trust me.” He put his hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. The motion, which should have been a sign of friendship, sent a flurry of delight swirling through her with the strength of a blizzard across the steppes. His fingers stroked her shoulder surreptitiously as he said, “I know these people, and you do not. Some of them do not understand subtlety. They see hesitation as weakness.”