The Counterfeit Count

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “I left a message that I would be with my fellow officers all day,” she said.

  “Miloradovich must be nervous about putting on a good show for the czar.”

  “I believe he is. He met with various officers throughout the day.” She laughed as she looked at the ballroom with its grand gilt walls. Music lilted on the air that was heavy with cigar smoke from the room across the hallway. “Mayhap he fears that the czar will realize the truth about him.”

  A light voice twittered, “Good evening, my dear Count Dmitrieff.”

  Tensing as Maeve Wilton ran a fan along her coat sleeve, Natalya could not keep from admiring the painted fan. It was decorated with ribbons that matched the ones at the high bodice of her gown, which was as unblemished as Creighton’s breeches. With pearls laced through her hair and about her neck, she looked as beautiful as one of the angels painted onto the high ceiling.

  Natalya swallowed roughly. She could not keep from admiring Miss Wilton’s ensemble nor could she keep from noting how Miss Wilton complemented Creighton as they stood side by side. They were an undeniably handsome couple.

  Swallowing again, but unable to shift the sudden clog in her throat, she said, “Good evening, Miss Wilton.”

  “Oh, I must insist that you call me Maeve.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “It is not so difficult for you to say, is it?”

  “No, Maeve.”

  “How charming my name sounds in your endearing accent!”

  Natalya glanced at Creighton. It seemed unbelievable that Maeve would make believe that he was not standing here, but clearly that was what she intended. “I am glad it pleases you, Maeve. Would you care to join Creighton and me while we discuss the czar’s arrival in London?”

  “Creighton, how are you this evening?” she asked with a pout.

  “Simply noting how charming my name sounds in the count’s endearing accent,” he said, chuckling.

  Maeve snapped her fan closed. “Do not be impossible, Creighton!”

  “I was being honest. Something I have discovered it is wise to be all the time.” He turned to Natalya. “Wouldn’t you agree, Demi?”

  She struggled not to laugh. Poor Maeve did not need to be humiliated more by what she could not understand! “Honesty is always the wisest course.”

  Maeve slipped her arm through Natalya’s. “Do let us go to where the dancing will be. I enjoyed our last dance so much.”

  “That must wait until later, I am afraid,” Natalya answered, disentangling her arm from the other woman’s. “I have my duties to perform this evening, which may prevent me from enjoying your company as I would wish.”

  “Duties? What duties?” She rounded on Creighton. “Is this of your doing? I have seen how you watch the count and me. Jealousy is not an attractive thing, my lord!”

  He held up his hands. “The count’s duties are his own and his country’s. I am here merely as his host.”

  She started to snarl back a response, then turned to Natalya. “Forgive me, Count. I look forward to seeing you when you have completed your duties.” She held out her hand.

  Again Natalya had to fight to keep from laughing as she bowed over Maeve’s fingers. Her eyes were caught by Creighton’s, but she looked hastily away. As furious as Maeve was, her anger would be nothing in comparison to how she would feel if Natalya chuckled.

  “Very nice,” Creighton said quietly as Maeve hurried off to the admiring crowd of ladies she seemed to gather at every occasion.

  “Maeve?”

  “No, your handling of her. I own never to being as capable.”

  Natalya stepped closer to him and lowered her voice. “Creighton, if I had had any idea she would develop a true affection for Count Dmitrieff, I would have put an end to this long ago. I never meant this to hurt you in any way.”

  “Hurt me? What do you mean?”

  “I know of what happened between you and why you left London to join the army and—”

  He drew her back into an alcove. “Who has been filling your head with drunken stories?”

  “Barclay.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Who else?”

  “He is worried about you.”

  Creighton laughed shortly. “Mayhap, but I suspect he is more worried about himself. He chided me first thing this morning because I didn’t stay with him at White’s yesterday to be certain he got home and to bed safely.”

  “This morning?”

  “I asked him to withdraw his challenge for the duel, and he agreed with less reluctance than I had anticipated.”

  “Did you go—I mean …” She was not sure what she intended to say. Anything she could imagine saying would reveal her feelings too clearly when he had said nothing of his own.

  A flurry of emotions swept through his eyes, too fast for her to comprehend a single one. “Natal—Demi, we need to talk.”

  “Yes.”

  “I assume you have to stay here until the guests of honor appear.”

  “Yes.” She put her hand up to his face and tilted it so his gaze met hers. “Creighton, you must listen to me about the danger you are in. The murderous threat in the note Petr found is now a day closer to its deadline.”

  “Not that again! You have this annoying habit of getting something in your mind and not letting it go, whether it is logical or not.” He laughed softly. “Just like a woman, Demi.”

  “Please. This is no time for jesting. You must heed me.” She ran her thumb across his lips and sighed when his breath warmed her skin. “You heeded my needs last night. Let me heed yours tonight.”

  His voice became husky as he gripped her elbows, drawing her nearer. “I know you don’t mean what you are saying. I could easily think only of how much I need you against me without even a hint of silk separating us.”

  “Then listen when I tell you what Petr found in those thieves’ possession. It—”

  “Lord Ashcroft!”

  Creighton released her as Tatiana Suvorov came toward them. “My turn, I fear.”

  “Yes.” Natalya was shocked to hear relief in his voice. Was he so happy to use Tatiana as an excuse to put space between them? She had thought he wished … No, she was unsure of anything. She longed to speak to him of last night, but she had no chance to add more as Tatiana greeted Creighton with a bold kiss on the cheek.

  General Miloradovich’s niece was dressed as elegantly as Maeve, and she flipped open her fan to reveal it was the one Creighton had purchased for her. “I hope you do not think me brazen when I wish to show off what good taste you have, Lord Ashcroft,” Tatiana said in her breathy voice. In the same sour tone that Maeve had used when she greeted Creighton, she added, “Good evening, Count Dmitrieff.”

  Not taking Tatiana’s outstretched hand, Natalya dipped her head. “Dóbry vécher, grazhdánka.”

  “Good evening, miss,” Creighton said, chuckling.

  Tatiana gasped. “I did not know you spoke Russian, my lord!”

  “Only what I have learned from Demi.”

  “Demi?”

  “My friend Count Dmitrieff.” He patted Natalya on the shoulder, then offered his arm to Tatiana. “Allow me to get you something to drink, Miss Suvorov.”

  “Da.” She dimpled. “That means—”

  “Yes,” Creighton said with a warm chuckle that sent a chill through Natalya. As he led Tatiana into the ballroom, he went on, “As you can see, Demi has proven to be an excellent teacher.”

  At a laugh behind her, Natalya turned to see Colonel Carruthers. “I doubt if Miss Suvorov would need to teach any man much more than that one word.” He cleared his throat as guilt settled on his face. “Forgive me, my lord. That was not something meant for anyone’s ears but my own.”

  “There is nothing to forgive when we are much of a mind.” She smiled.

  “If she plans to do something that could wound Captain Marshall—” He chuckled. “Allow me to beg your forgiveness again. I sound like an old tough guarding her young charge.”

  “Creighton is importan
t to you. That is nothing to be ashamed of, sir, for I am well aware of how an officer comes to depend on his men.”

  When her name was bellowed, Natalya sighed. Not a single conversation this evening was going to go uninterrupted, but she could not dawdle when General Miloradovich shouted for her to join him along the corridor beyond the ballroom.

  Instead of a greeting, the general demanded, “You did not answer the questions I posed to the rest of my staff this afternoon, did you?”

  “No, sir,” she answered, not adding that he had not asked her.

  “What do you think of London, Dmitrieff?”

  “It is very full of people,” she said evasively, not sure what answer he sought.

  “As any city is.” He laughed. “I forget you prefer dirt beneath your feet. What do you think of the English?”

  “They seem to enjoy their endless entertainments.”

  The general rammed his fist into a table beside him. The vase on it wobbled. She steadied it as she stared at him. What had she said to distress him? Her words had been innocuous.

  “Endless!” He grumbled something she could not understand under his breath. “They act as if the war never happened.”

  “The people I have met are curious about it.”

  “As they would be curious about some new creature out of Africa.” He fisted his hand on his beefy hip. “That is what we are, Dmitrieff. Some exotic monkey to entertain them until they are bored and go onto something else.”

  “In Russia—”

  “It will be no different. We are an anachronism, Dmitrieff, in this time of peace.”

  She forced a smile. “I am sure the czar has many plans to use a man with your skills, General. Peace just brings us a different type of battle to fight.”

  “Battle?” He scowled so fiercely, she almost drew back. “So that is how you see it? Growing potatoes and raising pigs is as worthwhile as slaying our enemies?” He waved his hand. “Begone, Dmitrieff. I should have known you would not be able to see past that farm of yours.”

  “General—”

  “Begone.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, backing away.

  Natalya turned as horns heralded the arrival of the evening’s guests of honor. Not able to see over the heads in front of her, she sighed. First Creighton refused to listen to her, and now the general.

  Her sigh became a silent moan of resignation when Maeve rushed to her side and hooked her arm through Natalya’s so she could lead her into the ballroom and “introduce my dear, dear friend, Count Dmitrieff, to my closest family.” Natalya was not sure how anything could become much worse, but she feared it would before the czar’s visit was over.

  Twenty

  Natalya yawned as she picked up the newspaper and scanned the headlines on the first page. Every article was focused on the visit of the Regent’s allies. She must read it to Petr later, although she doubted if he would do more than laugh at the English people’s preoccupation with how the czar looked and what his sister the Grand Duchess Catherine of Oldenburg wore and why the Czar of All the Russias had again turned down the Prince Regent’s invitation to stay at St. James’s.

  “No doubt he wishes some time to be with the Grand Duchess,” she said, as she turned the page. Gossip never had appealed to her, and, since her arrival in England, she had come to wonder how the British had won a single battle. Too much talk and little too action seemed the hallmark of the ton.

  “Looking for your name in the society columns?” Creighton asked as he came into the breakfast-parlor. His coat was slung over his arm, and he tossed it on an empty chair. With his hair still damp from his morning ablutions and his cravat only loosely tied, he seemed more at ease than she had ever seen him.

  She resisted reaching out to take his hand as he passed her. When he went to the sideboard, she stared at the table. Not once had he said a word about coming to rescue her from her nightmare and staying to hold her through the night. Mayhap she was the air-dreamer to imagine there might have been more to his feverish kisses than the light-hearted flirtation he shared with Tatiana. She put her fingers to her lips and choked back a gasp. Had he kissed Tatiana, too? How many times had he told her he was little different from his best friend? Barclay seldom was sincere, and he certainly would never give his heart to one woman.

  “What do you say, Demi?” Creighton asked, his voice still teasing. “Have you become like tout le ton and seek your name in the morning paper so you might remember what your befuddled brain cannot recall in the morning?”

  “I had not considered it might be newsworthy enough to be there.”

  “Mayhap others have.” He served himself from the sideboard and sat facing her at the round table. “The carefree gentleman can often find his cares much less free after his name appears connected to a lady he barely knows but had the misfortune to speak too many words to within earshot of a matchmaking mama.”

  “I doubt if that is the case for either of us.”

  “Really?” He snatched the paper out of her hands and paged through it. “Aha! Heed this, my dear Demi.” He struck a pose and read in a pompous tone, “‘Last night during the gala presentation of the Prince Regent and his guests before the dinner hosted by George, Prince of Wales, it was noted that one of our country’s honored guests was much in the company of Miss Maeve Wilton. Count Dmitrieff of—”

  “You are hoaxing me!”

  “Am I?”

  She seized the paper. It tore in two. With a laugh, he pointed to the page he still held.

  “I would like to see it, Creighton.”

  “I doubt that.” Tossing it in front of her, he stabbed at the middle column. “However, if you insist, there it is.”

  In disbelief, Natalya read the tiny print. She began to chuckle. When he asked what she found so amusing, she said, “You did not read far enough. Otherwise, you would have been as delighted as I to learn that Lord Ashcroft’s name is here, too.”

  “Blast!” He stood and peered over her shoulder. “My name and hers! Does Tatiana read English?”

  “I’m not certain she reads Russian, but you can be sure someone will read it to her.”

  “Blast!”

  “You said that already.”

  Grinning, he took his seat and jabbed his fork into his scrambled eggs. “The woman needs no persuasion to continue her pursuit of me. Do give me advice, my dear count, on how to deal with your countrywoman, who has such firm convictions.”

  “I would gladly give you advice.” Natalya folded the tattered newspaper and set it aside. “The advice I have wished to offer you now for two days.”

  “To get myself a chaperone if I expect to be with Miss Suvorov?”

  “No.”

  His smile vanished, and she knew her intense tone had reached him. “If this is in reference to what you’ve been prattling about since the general’s party at White’s, I have no wish to hear it.”

  “’Tis no jest, Creighton. Chance smiled on us when Petr found the note.”

  “Mayhap he arranged for it to get you out of here. You know he hates it here.”

  She scowled. “Don’t be absurd! He cannot read nor write Russian. He can’t even speak English!”

  “Fine education you give your servants.”

  “You are changing the subject.”

  “I was bored with the other one.”

  Grasping his wrist, she clamped his hand to the table. Eggs flew across the table, but she ignored them as she gasped, “Are you trying to prove you are as want-witted as Barclay? Is it so important for you to become like him again that you cannot see the danger in front of your nose?”

  “I see only splattered eggs.” He pulled away and scooped the eggs back onto his plate.

  “As splattered as you may be.”

  “By Jove, you have a lurid imagination.”

  She shook her head. “I have seen what happens to a body on the wrong side of a gun. You have to face that you are in deadly danger.”

  “You think someon
e wishes to kill me?” Creighton laughed again and reached for a muffin. “Why would anyone wish to kill me now? The war and its barbaric sport is past.”

  Natalya clenched her hands. She could think of one reason someone would wish to see him dead: his dashed stubbornness. Instead of answering, she unbuttoned her coat and reached under it. She pulled out the slip of paper Petr had found and tossed it on top of his plate of eggs. “I think the reason why is less important than the simple facts in front of you.”

  He picked it carefully and shook a piece of egg from it. His brow furrowed as he read it. With a derisive snort, he dropped it back in front of her. “You aren’t the only Russian in London, and I am not the only host.”

  “We are the only ones to be attacked.”

  “And they failed. The attack was not even on the day in that blasted note.” He stood and shoved his plate aside. “I shall not live my life cowering in my house. That’s how this whole nation was acting when Napoleon threatened to cross the Channel. Hiding like rabbits in a hedgerow. Too many died stopping him for us to remain so timid.”

  “So you will be foolishly fearless instead?” Setting herself on her feet, she said, “If you will not watch out for your own welfare, then I am obligated to.”

  He groaned and shook his head. “Do me no favors, Count Dmitrieff. I have no wish to be included in your unending war.”

  “It has nothing to do with war.”

  “Then with what?”

  She faltered. If she spoke of how she yearned to safeguard him as he had her, he might laugh again. She could not endure to hear him belittle the night that had been so precious.

  Picking up the torn newspaper, she folded it. “Mayhap you are right, Creighton. Mayhap the threat is not for us. That means we must be doubly alert to the danger surrounding our friends and compatriots. It is our duty to—”

  “Duty! I want nothing more to do with duty.”

  “So you can be just like Barclay Lawson?”

  “If I wish to. That is the whole point of being a free man. To be able to choose how I wish to spend my life.”

  “Even squander it?”

  “If I wish to.” He seized her shoulders.