The Counterfeit Count

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “Fighting those among our own countrymen who would be traitors to Russia.” He sighed through taut lips. “I had no idea she had assumed my name and life until a few days ago. My lord, I must speak with Natalya immediately.”

  “As I told you, she is not here.”

  “Where is she?”

  He hated to own to the truth, but there was no other way. “I haven’t seen her since she raced out of the masquerade ball this evening.”

  “Alone?”

  Barclay stepped forward. “No one was brave enough to go after her when she shot at the chandelier in the ballroom, save for me.”

  “And you are?”

  “Barclay Lawson.” He grinned and fell back onto the settee.

  Dmitrieff turned back to Creighton. “That man is completely intoxicated.”

  “A normal state for him, I fear.”

  “Can he be believed? Did Natalya fire off a gun in the middle of a ballroom?”

  Creighton leaned his sword against the mantel. “A gun was fired, reportedly by a woman. I assume it was her.”

  “Who else?” Dmitrieff rubbed a scar along his left cheek. “Do you have any idea why?”

  “She was being chased,” crowed Barclay.

  “Chased?” asked Creighton at the same time as Natalya’s brother. “By whom? Why didn’t you say something about this before?”

  “You never asked.” He closed his eyes and folded his hands over his forehead. “I don’t feel so good.”

  Creighton pulled him up to sit. “Who was chasing her?”

  “Two men.”

  “What did they look like?”

  “Couldn’t see too well.”

  Dmitrieff muttered, “That is understandable.”

  “Barclay,” snarled Creighton, “what did you see?”

  “Not much.”

  Creighton sighed and released him. Looking at Dmitrieff, he said, “We can ride for my colonel’s house and check the list of guests.”

  “That could take hours to chase down every man.”

  “Won’t take long,” murmured Barclay.

  “Why?” Creighton put his hand on the back of the settee. Had he been this lost in drink before he left for the war? Never caring about anything but his own pleasure and a way to escape his aching head the next day, so he could join in another game of cards?

  “Weren’t that many there.”

  “The room was full.”

  “Not of Russians.”

  Dmitrieff gasped, then asked, “Russians? Are you certain?”

  “One wore a uniform just like Natalya prances around Town in.” He laughed and slapped his leg. “She looks much better in it, though.”

  Dmitrieff snarled something. Creighton could not understand the words, but Dmitrieff’s tone instantly identified them as curses.

  “What is wrong?” Creighton asked.

  “Natalya is in great danger.”

  “How—?”

  “I have no time to explain. I must stop her.”

  Creighton chased him down the stairs, catching Dmitrieff’s arm before the man could rush out the door. “Explain while my horse is brought.”

  “My lord, this is not your battle.”

  “It is if Natalya’s life is in danger.”

  Dmitrieff’s face creased in a swift smile that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “I am pleased Natalya has found a friend in you, my lord. She has been alone too long.”

  “Save for Zass.”

  “Petr is here?”

  Creighton nodded. “In London. He has shadowed her nearly every moment of her stay.” He shoved aside the memory of the few times when he had delighted in her company without Zass lurking nearby.

  “If he is with her now, she may have a chance of surviving.”

  “Surviving what?”

  “The assassination of the czar and his host, the Prince Regent.” He opened the door. “I will explain on our way. We must not delay, or the alliance and all of us may die, too.”

  Twenty-three

  The street in front of the theater was clogged with carriages and those who wanted to see the leaders in the Alliance against Napoleon. Creighton threaded his way ruthlessly through, using the butt of his hand whip to herd spectators out of the way. Curses were fired at him, but he paid them no mind. He had to get into the theater to warn the Prince Regent and the czar.

  Tossing his reins to a footman by an ornate carriage, he leapt from his horse. “This way!” he shouted to Dmitrieff as he paid for two admissions.

  They rushed into the foyer. They could hear laughter from the audience. The show was going on, uninterrupted.

  “Where is she?” Dmitrieff asked.

  “I don’t know. She should have been here by now. She had a head start on us even if we had not stopped at—”

  He cursed. “Unless she was halted.”

  Creighton turned back toward the door. “We need to find her.”

  “We need to stop what may happen here at any moment. We can’t wait.” Dmitrieff glanced around the foyer. “Where do we go?”

  “One of the boxes, I’m sure, but which side? We may not have time to search them all.”

  “Do you know which box the Prince Regent is using tonight?”

  “The wrong one” came an answer from their left.

  Creighton whirled, flinching as he recognized the Russian accent. “Who in perdition are you?”

  A short man laughed as he pulled a pistol from beneath his coat. “We knew you would come. We have been waiting for you, my lord—Ashcroft, isn’t it?”

  “Dmitrieff, run!” He reached for his sword.

  Another gun was pressed against his back. The man in front of him laughed again. “Dmitrieff? Can’t you recognize your own guest?”

  Creighton risked a glance over his shoulder. As he had feared, Dmitrieff was surrounded as well. He looked back at the short man. “Who are you?”

  The man in front of him shoved him down a narrow corridor. He opened a door hidden in the shadows. “Someone who is going to give you a last, futile chance to be a hero, Ashcroft. They said you were with the woman who eavesdropped on us.”

  “And who eluded you to sound the alarm.” He laughed tersely. Natalya must still be free if this man had not discovered the truth. “No doubt, by this time, she has gone to warn Count Dmitrieff.”

  “You should have been sensible like the count and stayed away from here.”

  Creighton did not answer as he was shoved into the darkness. He gripped a banister when his foot dropped onto what must be a step. Behind him, he heard Dmitrieff curse. The pistol prodded against his back, and he went compliantly down the steps. A dull glow appeared in front of him. As the floor smoothed in front of him, he tried to determine where they were. They were heading toward the stage, but near the outside wall. Boxes and painted boards were stacked haphazardly along the walls. This must be a corridor the stagehands used to store scenery. The boxes had to be right above their heads.

  A familiar odor assaulted him. Gunpowder! Horror choked him. Were these blocks attempting to copy Guy Fawkes who had tried centuries before to blow up Parliament? An explosion from here would rock the whole theater. If there was a fire, it would rush up the stairs, cutting off the escape for everyone in the boxes on this side.

  He heard a shout. In Russian! These men were planning to kill their own czar. Why? He did not understand.

  Rounding a corner, Creighton cursed. A dozen men were slumped together in the cellar. One form was unmistakable among the barrels he knew must contain gunpowder. “Miloradovich!”

  The general straightened. He snapped an order.

  “Ashcroft!” shouted Dmitrieff. “Be—” A gurgle was followed by a thump.

  Creighton whirled. He caught the raised hand with the pistol aimed at his skull. Knocking the gun to the floor, he struck the Russian in the gut. He raced to scoop up the pistol. A brawny arm snaked around his neck. He was shoved up against a wall. Pain crashed through his head as it struck the ston
e.

  Miloradovich snarled again.

  Creighton repeated the last word, “Zass?” He stared at the bearded man in the moment before agony exploded through his skull and all thought, even that Natalya might walk into the same trap at any moment, vanished.

  Natalya jumped from her horse. Lost! She had gotten lost twice in the curving streets of London. Even getting directions had failed to help her. She could see none of the landmarks in the dark.

  She ran to the door of the theater. She did not get far before two hands grabbed her. She was whirled to look at a burly man. He stuck his hand under her nose.

  “I’ve no time for this,” she said. “I have to get inside.”

  “Pay first.”

  “Pay?” She patted her waist. Dash it! She had left her English coins in her reticule. “I don’t have any money right now. If you will let me go inside—”

  “Pay first,” he grumbled.

  “Will this be enough to pay for it?” She pulled her sword.

  He shrieked and released her, calling for the watch. She tossed the sword at him. He let it clatter to the stones at his feet, then stared at her in silence.

  “Enough?” she asked again.

  He nodded.

  She did not wait to see if he said anything else. She ran into the theater. Hearing laughter, she did not know which way to go.

  Her eyes narrowed as she saw someone in a military uniform slink around a corner. She could not discern what nation it belonged to. She followed and discovered a small door ajar. It broke the pattern of the wall. She peered into it. When she heard footsteps coming from within, she edged behind the door. She held her breath as fingers came around it. A low laugh rang in her ears. She knew that laugh! She heard it when the two men were talking in Russian on Colonel Carruthers’ balcony and during the hunt and …

  “Radishchev!” she whispered as he began to close the door. One of her fellow officers was planning to murder the czar?

  She struck his head with her pistol. He fell to the floor with a crash. She held her breath, but no one came running. Pushing the door open with her hip, she checked what was beyond. Stairs! This was not going to be easy.

  Sweat was dripping down her back by the time Natalya got the unconscious man propped on the top step so he would not tumble down and alert whoever was below. She had nothing to bind him with, save for her belt. It was clumsy, but she hoped it would hold him long enough for her to discover what was happening.

  Drawing the door nearly closed, for she was unsure if she could open it from this side once it was shut, she tiptoed down the stairs. Voices struck her. Russian voices! How could that be?

  When Natalya reached the bottom of the stairs and saw the glow of lanterns, she was certain she must be in the midst of a nightmare even more horrible than the one that had routed Creighton. Barrels were stacked next to a wooden column. A man was opening one of the lanterns and reaching under his coat for a piece of tinder. A coat just like hers!

  “Hurry, you fool!”

  She moaned as she recognized the voice, now that it was no longer distorted by the stairwell.

  General Miloradovich!

  She inched closer. Her foot struck something soft. Stretching down with her left hand, she touched a damp stickiness. Blood! Was the man dead?

  A lantern shifted, splashing light across the prone man’s face. Creighton! What was he doing here? She knew she had no time to get an answer, even if he could give her one. Something glittered on the ground beside him. Another pistol! She grabbed it and rose.

  “Light it,” ordered the general. “Hurry, so we can get out of here.”

  The man held the burning tinder to the fuse. It caught and flared.

  “No!” Natalya shouted. She jumped from the shadows, firing her pistol.

  One man reeled back, clutching his chest. Shouts filled the cellar. She raised the other gun. She screamed as flame pierced her arm. The gun fell to the floor. Blood flowed down her arm.

  Miloradovich kicked her pistol away and laughed. He pulled out his own gun, then lowered it, laughing. “Stay here and die, Dmitrieff. I knew I could not trust you, the great hero of Mother Russia. You fool. You naïve fool! You could have joined us and gotten the rewards we can get only from battle.”

  “Battle? What do you know of battle?” She fought to keep her voice strong. “You know we will stop you.”

  He frowned. “How? Who?”

  She took a steadying breath. He must believe she had alerted someone who could halt him. She must be careful what she said. “As we stopped your other assassination attempt on us.”

  He sneered. “’Tis a shame that failed, for your death would have caused enough commotion to give us cover for our work.” He gave a deep belly laugh. “Not that it matters. We shall succeed, and you shall die.”

  “You shall not succeed. I—”

  He struck her wounded arm with the gun. With an agonized scream, she collapsed to the floor, fighting for her senses while pain raced up her arm. As if from a deep hole, she heard his laughter as someone called for everyone to flee while there was time.

  Their footsteps vanished up the stairs. She heard the sizzle of the fire in the silence broken only by her struggle to breathe. Wet coursed along her arm. Pushing herself to her feet, she fell back to her knees. The fuse! She had to cut the fuse.

  She crawled to where it was burning rapidly. She tried to pull her knife. Her fingers refused to close on it. Something crashed overhead. Gunshots? Impossible. It must be applause. Those fools! They had no idea they were sitting on death.

  Her knife. She had to get her knife.

  Broad fingers closed over hers. She moaned and tried to pull away, crying out when she bumped her wounded arm against a barrel.

  “Let me help, Natalya.”

  “Creighton!”

  She watched, struggling to hold on to her wits, as he pulled her knife and tried to slice through the tar-soaked rope. With a curse, he moved to a length closer to the barrels. He shouted in triumph when he cut it. Kicking away the burning rope, he stamped it beneath his boot.

  Another crash came from above. It was a gunshot!

  She forced herself to her feet.

  “Natalya, wait!”

  “No time to talk now!”

  “I had no plans for talking,” Creighton said roughly as he whirled Natalya into his arms. “You calf-headed, want-witted …” His words became a low moan as he captured her lips.

  Wanting to stay in his embrace, she pulled away. “Wake your friend. We have to keep them from getting away.”

  “My friend? Natalya, don’t you—”

  “We have to stop them!” She was trying to reload her gun even as she ran to the stairs. Her fingers fumbled as pain swelled through her arm.

  “Natalya, wait!”

  Creighton’s voice echoed up the stairs, but she did not pause. If she stopped, she was not sure she could get her feet moving again. She burst out of the door and heard shouts from the street. Holding her gun at ready, she ran outside.

  Dozens of men were milling about. They wore uniforms, but ones she did not recognize. She blinked. Yes, she did. They matched the one Colonel Carruthers had worn at the masquerade ball.

  A hand on her arm slowly lowered her gun. She looked back to see Creighton’s face that was etched with blood from a wound on his temple.

  “It is over.” He pointed to where a score of soldiers surrounded Miloradovich and his men. The Russians were being herded into a cart.

  “How—?”

  “On our way here, we stopped to alert the colonel of trouble.” He brushed her hair back from her face and whispered, “I’m sorry I pooh-poohed your threat. You were right.”

  “Not completely.”

  “Close enough. If—” He shoved her behind him and pulled his knife as a huge man lurched toward the cart, then turned to them.

  “Petr?” she gasped. “No!”

  An English soldier stepped in front of him. Petr swept him aside with a gr
owl. He lumbered toward Natalya. Shouts filled the night.

  Natalya saw guns being raised. She pushed past Creighton and rushed to Petr. They could not shoot him! As she grasped his arm, she heard the order to hold fire.

  Looking up at him, she whispered, “Tell me it isn’t true. You can’t be with them!”

  Creighton caught her uninjured arm and pulled her back from Petr. As if he understood Russian, he said, “He was with your friend Miloradovich below.”

  “Petr, how can that be?”

  Again he did not give the bearded man a chance to answer. “Touch her, Zass, and you will be missing a hand.”

  “Nyet,” he said.

  “Da,” Creighton snarled back with a tight smile.

  Natalya stretched out her fingers to Petr. “Why were you with them?” she whispered.

  “To protect you, Grazhdánka Natalya.”

  “Protect me?”

  He nodded. “I heard rumblings of what they had planned, and I knew you would not be a part of it, for you have too much honor. But I feared they would turn on you like the rabid beasts they are. So I joined them to try to halt them, and—” When he teetered and collapsed to one knee, she rushed to put her hands under his arm. The weight nearly drove her onto the ground, but she eased his way to sit back against one of the columns at the front of the theater. More dampness ran along her sleeve.

  “He is hurt!” she gasped, then repeated the words in English. “Creighton, help us.”

  “What is wrong with him?” he asked, clearly not willing to waste sympathy on Petr.

  “U menyá bolít golová,” the big man mumbled.

  “What did he say?”

  “He has a headache,” answered a deep voice before she could.

  Looking over her shoulder, Natalya stared up at a face out of her memories. Slowly she rose and put out a tentative hand. Would the phantom vanish if she touched it? Her forehead furrowed as she whispered, not believing her own eyes, “Demi?”

  “Kóshka!” He held out his arms.

  She threw her arms around him, then winced as pain erupted up her arm. “They told me—”

  “I know what you were told.” He brushed her hair back from her face. “I am sorry, Kóshka.”