The Counterfeit Count (24 page)

“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 someone 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.

Before she could do more than gasp at the bolt of pleasure ripping through her at his touch, he pulled back his hands. She raised her arms to his shoulders. He moved aside, his face naked of expression.

“I do not want you guarding me like a sentry, Natalya.” His voice was whetted with an anger that shocked her. “Keep yourself and your huge bear of a watch-dog away from me. Do your duty for Russia here and wherever else you go. I want no more of this.”

Natalya stared after him as he grabbed his coat and charged out of the room. Moments ago, he had been joking with her. She stared down at her hands. Just the promise of her touch had sent him fleeing.

Tears filled her throat. She should be grateful for his cold words. He was right. Her duty was not here. It was to her family, as it always had been. Letting herself become bedazzled by the caresses of an Englishman would betray her vow to get her vengeance on those who had slain her family and to see the latest Count Dmitrieff in the restored dacha amid burgeoning orchards and fields.

“My lord?”

She forced a smile for James. “Good morning.”

“Here are the messages that have been delivered for you this morning, my lord.”

Thanking him, Natalya read through the dozen notes as she walked toward her room. Count Dmitrieff would become quite the one to dine about amid the Polite World if she accepted even half of these invitations. She winced as she opened one with florid handwriting. It was to remind Count Dmitrieff to be certain to call during Maeve's next at-home.

The last one was addressed to both her and Creighton. She broke the sealing wax and unfolded it. With a smile, she read it. Colonel Carruthers was hosting a masquerade ball on Monday night next. Monday night next! The date of the threat in the note. Creighton would insist on attending, even though he could be the target of murderers.

She must protect him from his own folly. But how? A slow smile spread across her face as she stared at the sunshine sweeping all the shadows from the stairs.

A masquerade ball was perfect for what she needed. The assassins would be looking for Lord Ashcroft
and
Count Dmitrieff. If she went in disguise, no one would guess the truth of her identity, for her face could be concealed behind a full mask. A domino would be too dangerous.

Yes, a mask would work. She could watch over Creighton without him knowing she was there. It would be perfect. All she needed was the right costume.

Her smile broadened. She knew just the perfect one.

Natalya spread the skirt across the bedcovers and smiled. Borrowing this gown from the laundry behind the kitchen had been easier than she had guessed. The heavier material of a servant's dress would conceal her lack of proper smallclothes to wear with it. She frowned. What did a fine lady wear beneath those slender, sheer gowns?

A deep gasp burst from behind her. She gathered up the gown and rolled it into a ball as she turned to see the astonishment on Petr's face.

“Don't sneak up on me like that!” she cried.

“Forgive me.” He fingered his beard as his eyes narrowed. “What is that?”

“Nothing of import.”

“A dress?”

“Yes, but—”

“For you?” He frowned. “
Grazhdánka
Natalya, you must be careful of which path you choose now.”

Natalya stared at him, astounded. He had not called her “
Miss
Natalya” since the day they crawled from their hiding place to see the horror left by the French. That day, as they took a pledge to see their enemies pay for their crimes with their lives, she had become his captain.

“Petr, you are worrying needlessly. It is nothing but a serving woman's dress.”

“For you?”

“There is to be a masquerade ball.”

“And you will go as a woman?” He shuddered. “I feared this would happen.”

“What would happen? I do not understand.”

His scowl etched lines deep into his tanned forehead. “The
anglíski
lord. He wants more than friendship from you.”

“You are wrong. He let me know at breakfast that he wishes me out of his life with all speed.”

“You believed him?”

“Of course. He made his feelings quite clear. He does not believe the threatening note you found presents a peril to him, and he wishes to live his life as he alone sees fit.”

His beard jutted toward her. “He lies.”

“How do you know that?”

“I am a man. I know how a man thinks.”

“Good.” She dropped the wrinkled dress on the bed. “Then enlighten me, for I cannot understand why he resists my offer of our help to protect his life and ours. It makes no sense.”

“It is not my place to say anything.”

She fisted her hands on her waist. “Be honest with me, Petr. Give me some insight into why Creighton is acting as he is.”

“I know only what I have seen, and, if you wish me to be honest, I shall say I am not sure if your father would be pleased to see his daughter share the bed of an
anglíski
lord.”

Her eyes widened. She had not been mistaken. The door
had
opened to her bedchamber the night Creighton offered her comfort from her memories. Petr must have come to check on her. He would have seen … She must not think of that now, for even the memory of Creighton's arms around her urged her to rush to him so he might enclose her in those strong arms again. She had as lief to think how stubborn he was, and how she must save his life, whether he wished her to or not.

Rubbing her hands together, she said, “You need not worry about my father's dismay, for Creighton has no interest in marrying anyone. He wishes to be as free of hindrances in his life as his inimitable friend Barclay Lawson.”

Rage lowered his brows. “He would dishonor you and—”

“Lord Ashcroft has done nothing to dishonor me.” She looked away so she did not have to hide her pain as she spoke the truth, “He sees me as a comrade-in-arms, as you and the other men do.”

“In his arms?”

“Petr!”

He picked up the dress and snapped wrinkles from the fabric as he held it in front of her. Handing it to her, he said, “I am glad, for I have no wish to stay in this pale country. I long for the fresh air and beauty of our homeland. Will we return there soon?”

“I pray so.” She smiled grimly. “Once I am certain we all have survived Monday next.”

The
modiste
's shop was empty when Natalya opened the door. The heavy aroma of roses nearly drove her back to the street. She took a deep breath of the pungent air off the walkway, then plunged inside.

The
modiste
peeked out from the back of the shop. She was not wearing the generous smile she had when Creighton had entered the shop.

Natalya brushed her hands against the simple material of her gown. It announced her place in society as surely as if she wore a sign. Mayhap she should have gone to another shop, mayhap serving lasses did not come here, but she was unsure where she might find another
couturière
.

“Are you Madame Barbeau?” she asked, thickening her accent to mock Tatiana's.

“Yes.” She edged out of the back. “Are you one of the Russians?”

“Yes, I am
Grazhdánka
Butovshyj. Miss Butovshyj.” Smiling, she turned slowly to look at the bolts of fabric displayed on the wall. “I have heard you are one who can work miracles. I need a gown for a masquerade.”

“What do you seek?”

“Silk.” The word popped out before she could halt it.

“Excellent choice, mademoiselle.”

Natalya smothered her wince at the French phrase. The
modiste
had also lost much because of that Corsican beast, so it would behoove Natalya to ignore how being addressed in French sickened her.

“Do you have an idea of a color?” continued Madame Barbeau. “With your golden hair, you would look very classic in white, but you can wear nearly any shade to a masquerade.”

She touched a mother-of-pearl silk set on the lowest rack. “How about this?”

“That is
très cher
.” She eyed Natalya, clearly trying to appraise the number of coins in her purse by the quality of her clothes. “Very expensive.”