The Counterfeit Count (13 page)

“This is a pretty room,” she whispered. She was not certain she could manage anything louder.

“Yes.”

“The front windows must overlook the square.”

“Yes.”

“Why—?”

“Blast it!” He dabbed at his coat with his napkin. He thrust his plate toward her. “Hold this, Natalya, while I open the doors.”

She bit back her questions as he threw aside the French doors. Beyond she saw a balcony that overlooked the tiny garden between the house and the stables. The fragrance of roses blended with hay and oats and other aromas that had become familiar during her years with the cavalry. Walking to the ironwork railing that twisted and contorted in a copy of the rose vines on the arbor below, she took a deep breath and smiled.

“What a perfect place!” she said.

He chuckled, his good spirits returning as he gestured for her to sit on the bench by the small glass-topped table set to the left of the door. Putting the cup and plates on the table, she went back and folded her arms on the railing.

“Not hungry?” he asked.

“Not any longer. Nor am I tired either.” She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply again. “I love that scent.”

“Which one?” He came to stand beside her, leaving a hand's breadth between them as he rested his arms on the railing, too. “The roses?”

She shook her head. “That aroma is charming, but what I love is the aroma of freshly turned earth and hay and the polish used to keep saddles from cracking. It smells like home. I didn't realize home had a smell until the first time Papa took me to St. Petersburg. Then I realized the wonder of all I had taken for granted. Even the stench of the pigs' sty was welcome when I came back home.”

His voice dropped to a sibilant whisper, no stronger than the indolent breeze curling through the space between the buildings. “And soon you'll be home again.”

“Not soon, for I am obligated to travel with General Miloradovich to Vienna.” She faced him and smiled when she saw honesty on his face. It was an expression she saw too seldom, for he did not wear it among the Polite World where a practiced smile always tilted his lips, save when he frowned at her in the wake of some badly chosen question.

“How long will you stay there?”

“As long as I am required to stay. Who knows how long it will take for the diplomats to carve up Europe to every government's satisfaction?”

“Forever.”

“So I fear.” Looking at the low building on the other side of the garden, she said, “I appreciate you letting Petr run tame through your stables.”

He chuckled. “You are gaining a competency in our cant with rare skill.”

“My language master lauded me for my quick ear.”

“You had a language teacher?”

Going to the table, she sat on the low bench and locked her fingers around her knee. “He was hired to instruct my brothers, but, save for Demi, they were more interested in things beyond the walls of the classroom than the study of words of other lands. So, while our brothers frolicked among the hills, Demi and I studied.”

“And your sisters?”

“Anna pretended to be interested, but I think she was more absorbed by our teacher's strong chin and smile than in his lessons. Sof'ja was the youngest and wished to do whatever Demi did, for she worshipped him.”

“As you did.” He sat beside her.

“Yes.”

Around them, silence dropped, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the trill of the birds in the trees. The tears again were heavy in Natalya's eyes. It must be the lack of sleep, for she had not fallen victim to such feminine frailty since she had assumed Demi's place in the cavalry.

When Creighton's finger brushed her cheek, she pulled back. He said nothing as he held up the finger which was jeweled with a single teardrop. With a curse he could not understand, she wiped it away.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of,” he murmured.

“It?”

“Grieving for those who are lost.”

“Weeping does nothing to avenge their deaths or rebuild my father's estate.”

“Is that all you think of? Vengeance and power?”

She scowled. “I owe my family—”

“And you have done your duty to them. It is time to think of your future, Natalya, not what has happened before.” Again his finger grazed her cheek before his hand curved along it, tilting it toward him. “No matter what you pretend, the truth is that you are a beautiful young woman who cannot live the rest of her life as her brother's ghost.”

His hand kept her from glancing toward the door to be certain no one was near enough to overhear. Warmth spread outward from his palm that was as coarse as horse hair. She wanted to close her eyes to savor what was so sweet, but his gaze held hers.

“What is so funny?” she demanded when he grinned.

“Imagining you as a gnarled old man still telling tales of your exploits against the French.” He released her and sighed. “Truthfully, 'tis not amusing. 'Tis tragic that you are throwing away your life when I cannot believe that is what your family would wish for you.”

“Demi would have—”

“Blast it, Natalya!” He lowered his voice when she tensed. “I cannot believe your brother would have ridden off to war if he had not wanted to defend what he had at home, including his sister who should have a chance to grow up into the woman she was meant to become.”

“Mayhap that is what he wished.” She reached for her cup and took a hasty sip. When Creighton's eyes burned into her, she raised her gaze to meet his. “Mayhap that is what he wished,” she whispered, “but not all dreams come true, do they?”

She was startled when he looked away as he said, “No, they don't.”

Although he turned the conversation to talk of other sights he wished to show her in London, Natalya knew his thoughts were elsewhere. The twinkle had disappeared from his eyes, and he was ignoring the muffin in front of him.

Which dream of Creighton's had been destroyed? She resisted reopening the French doors and asking if his dream had died within that shrouded chamber. For the first time, she wondered how many secrets, other than her identity, Creighton Marshall hid behind his easy smile.

Eleven

Natalya tried to curb her impatience. How long could it take Creighton to do something as simple as selecting a waistcoat and tying his cravat? She glanced at her reflection as she passed a tall glass. Vanity had been set aside when she donned a man's uniform, and today she was grateful she had no choice but to wear it. They were wasting the pretty sunshine which might soon disappear beneath one of the showers that seemed to plague London.

She swallowed a yawn as she heard the street door open below. If she had even an ounce of sense, she would send her regrets to Lady Webley, who had invited them to this evening's musicale. She needed to sleep tonight.

When she heard footfalls on the stairs, she turned and nearly struck Barclay Lawson. The bald man hastily retreated a step, then scowled.

“Why are you lurking here?” he asked, the irritation in his voice matching the high color in his face. The odor of wine billowed from around him, and she guessed he was intoxicated … again.

“I was not lurking. I'm waiting for Creighton to finish dressing so we might ride about London.” She folded her arms over her chest. “He seems unduly concerned about his clothing whenever we go out.”

“Can you blame him?”

“I do not blame Creighton for anything.” She frowned. “Please explain your question.”

He circled her slowly. She turned to keep her eyes locked with his that were shadowed with fatigue. Why was he calling at this hour? She had no time to ask as his lips tightened into a sneer. “Why should I waste my breath explaining anything when you are such a gawney?”

She was not sure what the word meant, but she recognized his insulting tone. Trading demure hits with him would be worthless. Walking toward the stairs, she said, “Creighton should be down in a few minutes. I will leave you two to—”

Mr. Lawson seized her arm and twisted her to face him. She reached for her belt. “Don't!” he growled. “You may be a great war hero, but you know nothing about anything off the battlefield.”

“Take your hand off me.”

“You brag about deeds done,” he continued as if she had not spoken. Stepping closer to her, he laughed tersely. “So will you take the knife in your belt and free my blood here on my friend's rugs? Go ahead. You have hurt him enough already. Why not more?”

She lifted her fingers away from her belt and stared at Mr. Lawson. “Speak more clearly. I don't understand your riddles.”

He laughed again. “Didn't you see how everyone watched you and Maeve Wilton last night while you spoke for nearly an hour?”

“No.” She drew her arm out of his grip. “No, I did not, although I do not understand why you think that is surprising. Everyone is curious—”

“If Count Dmitrieff will succeed where Lord Ashcroft failed.”

“What are you speaking of?”

“Persuading Maeve Wilton to join you at the altar.”

Natalya stared at him in shock. “She—He—”

His laugh remained honed. “Does your English fail you, Count?” He did not give her a chance to answer. “Now you understand why Creighton is concerned about his appearance while amid the Polite World.”

“I still don't understand. Does he wish to win Miss Wilton back? If—”

Instead of answering her, he turned to look at the stairs leading to the second floor. Heat slapped Natalya's cheeks when she saw Creighton coming down them. She had to own he had chosen his clothing well. Not only was its cut in prime kick, but the sand color of his coat deepened the brown of his eyes and his green waistcoat was the perfect foil for his auburn hair.

Creighton reached out and clasped his friend's arm. “What stirs you out of your bed before noon, Barclay?”

Mr. Lawson glanced at Natalya as he replied, “The count's winnings were left behind at Lord Marr's last night, so I thought to retrieve them and bring them here.” He tossed a small pouch to Natalya.

“Good of you.” Creighton adjusted his waistcoat. “Will you join us on a few errands?”

He shook his head. “No, for I find I am quite exhausted. I shall seek some sleep while you do what you must. Good day, Count Dmitrieff. I am counting the few days left in our fortnight with the greatest glee.”

Natalya struggled to keep her face from betraying her thoughts. 'Twas nothing she had done that had caused Miss Wilton to end her betrothal to Creighton, for that must have happened before she came to this house. She met Mr. Lawson's icy gaze evenly and nodded as he went down the stairs to the door.

Clasping her hands behind her back, she watched Creighton as he went to bid his friend a good day. He did not appear to be suffering from the demise of Miss Wilton's affection. His smile bore no shadows of strain, and his eyes were cheerful.

Unlike when they had walked through the closed room
. The thought came unbidden. She glanced over her shoulder at the door which was once again shut as tightly as a tomb's. Was it closed because of a silly woman's change of heart? This was all too absurd.

Natalya had no chance to ask because Creighton kept up a steady prattle as they went down the steps and out to the phaeton he had waiting. Even as he drove them along the busy streets, he seemed resolved to allow no silence to settle between them. She tried to get caught up in his excitement as he pointed out the homes of his friends and of titled lords she had met during the week.

When they turned onto a narrow street and halted, she broke into his monologue to ask, “Do you have an errand here?”

He jumped down. As he reached up to her, he hastily pulled back his hands. Instead, he waited until she stood by him on the walkway. “I thought it would be wise to replenish the box of cigars that Barclay has raided on every look-in.”

Natalya stared at the collection of shop signs that hung off the buildings. They were jumbled together as if they had been blown here by a harsh winter wind. One was hung atop another, so she guessed some of the shops must be on the upper floors.

Without hesitation, Creighton opened a door and ushered her into a shop. Her nose wrinkled. It was scented with roses, not tobacco. When she saw stacks of books opened to reveal drawings of ladies' gowns and a drape of white silk and lace across a bench, she winced. Her heart cramped as she recalled giggling with Mama and her sisters when the seamstresses brought fine fabrics for them to choose. Mama had wanted them to dress as befit the daughters and wife of a respected count. A barrage of emotions she had thought long forgotten surged forth to attack her like a row of French infantry. Mama … her sisters … Papa … Demi … Always Demi, who had treated her with kindness and never made her feel insignificant because she was a girl, even when he had teased her about her skirts getting in the way as she waded a stream or rode.

She forced the memories back within the chamber of her heart, which she hoped would remain locked forever. This was her life now, and she would choose no other. Yet … her fingers itched to caress the silks hanging over a table.

“I hope you do not mind this stop before we go upstairs to the tobacco shop,” Creighton said.

“No.” She winced at the pitiful sound of her voice. Squaring her shoulders, she forced a smile. “Do you come to a seamstress's shop often?”

His smile was as cold as hers. “If you are suggesting, Demi, that I opt to wear unexpected clothing as you do, you are sadly mistaken.”

“I meant no such thing.” She drew off her gloves and fingered the silk, unable to resist. A soft gasp bubbled in her throat. She had forgotten how luscious such fabric was against her skin. When it caught on her rough fingertip, she drew back her hand. She was no longer the daughter of a count. She
was
Count Dmitrieff. “I am simply curious why we are here now.” She faced him. “I have no need for such a shop as this.”