The Counterfeit Count (25 page)

“The occasion is special. All of the lady's household should look their best.” She lowered her voice. “The Regent himself may be in attendance.”

“If you wish.” She jotted some numbers on a sheet of paper and offered it to Natalya. “The matching mask would be a few guineas more, depending on how much lace or gems you wish on it.”

Natalya hoped her gulp did not reach the seamstress's ears. She had been with her father when he negotiated for a pair of fine horses. Their price had been less than what this dress would cost. “I will agree if you can have the dress ready for me to wear Monday next.”

“Monday next? Impossible.”

“But, Madame Barbeau—”

“Impossible!” She muttered something else in French under her breath.

“I shall pay half in advance.”

The
modiste
's eyes narrowed as a sly smile tipped her lips. “All in advance.”

“But if the dress is not finished—”

“It shall be finished.” She held out her hand. “However, I must delay not a second more.”

Natalya reached into the bodice of her gown to draw out her leather purse. As she counted out the coins, Madame Barbeau sniffed and added that she would include a proper reticule for Natalya.

“Thank you,” Natalya said, trying not to think how few coins remained in the bag. “When will I need to come in for fittings and—”

The street door opened. Natalya turned and stifled a groan. How much more could go wrong today?

“
Bonjour, madame,
” Maeve Wilton called out in a cheery voice. As she untied the ribbons on her wide-brimmed straw bonnet, she said, “I see you have another customer.”

“One of the Russians visiting our country,” the
modiste
answered with so much pride that Natalya would have guessed the Frenchwoman had sought out Natalya for her business.

“Russian?” Maeve raised a quizzing glass to her eye and asked, “Do I know you?”

“I think not,
grazhdánka,
” she said, edging toward the door.

“Odd, for I am almost certain we have met before.” Maeve slipped off her paisley shawl and smiled at the
modiste
. “Mayhap it was here.”

“Mademoiselle Butovshyj is visiting my shop for the first time,” the seamstress said.

“Do not hurry away,” Maeve urged. “Come and talk with me while Madame gets us some tea.”

Natalya glanced at the
modiste
, whose lips were pursed at the idea of running errands for her patrons. “I believe she is busy.”

“Nonsense. She always brings me tea.” Maeve smiled with arrogant self-assurance. “Don't you, Madame?”

“Certainly, Mademoiselle Wilton.” The seamstress went toward the back of the shop. “Once you have enjoyed your tea, I can take your measurements, Mademoiselle Butovshyj.”

Maeve swept the pattern books from the table and sat in the closest chair. Motioning for Natalya to take the other, she said, “I know we may never have met, but I have had the good fortune to be introduced to several of your countrymen. Do you know Count Dmitrieff?”

“The name is known to me, although I have not met the count in London.” As she sat, her feet pressed against the floor, eager to speed her out of the shop. “He is not within our household.”

“He is staying with Lord Ashcroft. Do you know anything of the man?”

“I have heard he is a war hero.”

Maeve waved that aside as Madame Barbeau set a tea tray in front of them. Not even bothering to thank the
modiste
, she replied, “That matters nothing to me. Does the count have a wife?”

“No.” She bit her lip to keep from laughing. This was all so absurd. Never had she imagined such a
contretemps
when she first had chosen to fulfill her brother's obligation to the czar.

“A fiancée?”

“None that I have heard of.”

Raising her quizzing glass, Maeve peered through it. “Are you sure we have not met before this?”

“I am only recently arrived in London. We came with the czar's party.” She pointed to the
modiste
, who was hastily gathering all she needed to make the dress for the masquerade. “I have had time only to come here in order to have a gown ready for the assembly in honor of the Russian delegation.”

“Monday next,” muttered Madame Barbeau. “She gives me only until Monday next to make a gown fit for such an evening.”

Natalya opened her mouth to reply, but Maeve interjected, “Pay her no mind. Madame mumbles like that every time I come in.”

“
Grazhdánka
—”

“Maeve. You must call me Maeve.” Her forehead furrowed. “What is your given name?”

“Natalya.” She was unsure how many other names she could reply to without revealing the truth, so her own name might be best.

“So you know nothing else of the count, Natalya?”

Deciding to take the offense, she poured herself a cup of tea and said, “You seem obsessed with the count. Do you have affection for him?”

“Not exactly, but I wish to know more of the man.” Maeve smiled secretively as she stirred more sugar into her tea. “I do not know how things are done in Russia, but here the way to a man's heart is often through another man's.”

“So you wish to convince someone else that you have affection for him by pretending to be bemused by the count?” She smiled. She did not have to ask who was the target of Maeve's campaign, which seemed as carefully thought out as an attack on the French. Creighton must still hold a place in Maeve's heart, or, she corrected herself as she noted Maeve's possessive smile, Maeve Wilton intended to ensnare his affections anew. “Your English ways are most confusing.”

“Men are confusing.”

On that, Natalya was ready to agree wholeheartedly. Somehow she had to determine why Creighton was acting the way he was before both of them ended up dead. She hoped this was the way, or Maeve Wilton might soon be weeping at the funerals of both Count Dmitrieff and Lord Ashcroft.

Twenty-one

When boot heels pounded into the room, Natalya did not look up from cleaning her own boots. She recognized the sound of Creighton's furious steps with an ease that threatened to break her heart anew. During the past few days, he had said barely a score of words to her.

Without the courtesy of a greeting, he demanded, “What do you mean by leaving me a note that you aren't attending Colonel Carruthers' masquerade tonight?”

“I do not wish to go.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Afraid?” She looked up at him, then quickly away before she found herself admiring the excellent cut of his coat and how his breeches accented the strong line of his legs. “Do not be absurd! I am not afraid of your
anglíski
thieves.” She bent to rub harder against the spot on her boot.

He snatched it away.

“Creighton!”

Tossing it into the corner, he said, “I would appreciate your undivided attention, Natalya.”

“Creighton, watch what you say!”

His snort was as outraged as any she had heard from Barclay. “Why do you expect everyone else to heed me when you pay me less attention than the mud on your boots?”

“When you act like this, you should not be surprised that your petulance is ignored.”

He reached toward her, then clamped his arms across his chest. “Dammit, Natalya!” He cursed. “Don't glare at me! I shall call you what I wish.”

With a sigh, she drew off her other boot. She set it by the chair and stood. “I am tired of this endless round of parties where everyone talks and no one says anything. Please extend my apologies to Colonel Carruthers, but I doubt if anyone will miss me amidst the gaiety.”

“So you are just going to hide here like a coward?”

She clenched her hands in front of her. “I am no coward.”

“I think you are.” He leaned on the back of the chair and smiled icily. “Are you going to strike me with your fists?”

“No.” She forced her fingers to uncurl. She did not want to hit him; she wanted to draw his arms around her as she melted to him. If he would lower his guard for even a moment, she might—No, she could not. She must not.

“No? Afraid?”

“I would not be silly enough to bruise my knuckles on your hard head when 'tis clear even such a blow would not be enough to knock sense into you. Today is June 13. Today is the day the Russian and his host may die.”

Turning slowly with his arms outstretched, he said, “No holes in me yet.”

“Only in your skull!” She tapped his forehead.

He caught her wrist in a grip as strangling as a vise. Something flickered in his eyes when his fingers softened to stroke the inside of her wrist. Then he pushed her hand away, saying, “Enjoy your evening alone, Natalya. I hear General Miloradovich plans to leave for Vienna soon. Good riddance to both of you.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“From the good general himself.” His smile remained cold. “Mayhap you would hear the same if you didn't cling to this house like a child afraid of its shadow.”

Natalya gathered up her boots and left him to stew in his own misconceptions. Dash it! She was going to save his neck, if for no other reason than to prove that she was right. Then … She did not want to think of then or why General Miloradovich was planning to leave London so soon without telling her.

Natalya turned slowly in front of the looking glass. The sensation of silk against her legs and curling around her shins was almost decadent. For more than two years, she had worn ponderous boots and the bulky wool uniform of a cavalryman. She turned again to look into the glass and gasped.

Reflected back to her was her memory of Mama. Touching the white ribbon in her hair, which possessed the same gold aura as her mother's, she swept her hands along the sides of her gown. Slowly, her fingers touched the bodice. As a child, she had rested her head against Mama's breasts and been comforted in the wake of a nightmare.

Just as Creighton had comforted her. Yet his embrace had been so unlike Mama's, for Mama had offered solace and Creighton's arms promised passion beyond even her most daring fantasies.

That was over!

She would make sure he survived the night, and then she would leave. She had to go back to Russia and do as she promised, even if it broke her heart utterly. Let him stay and become just like Barclay Lawson while he flirted with Maeve Wilton. If he wanted that life … She swallowed roughly. She could not believe he did.

Pulling her thickest cloak from the back of the chair, she flung it over her shoulders. More carefully, she pulled the hood up to conceal her hair. She took her reticule and opened it. Seeing the glitter of brass on the pocket pistol inside it, she closed the top and hid the bag beneath the cloak. It would give her only a single shot, but that might be all she needed.

She was ready to face whatever might be thrown in her way. Hearing the rattle of the carriage in front of the house, she peeked through the curtains. She watched Creighton get into the closed carriage.

Dropping the drapes back into place, she skulked out into the hall. She must follow closely, or all might be lost even before the masked ball began. Even spending her last coin on a hired carriage would not be too much if she could thwart the assassins.

Natalya's heart thudded against her chest as she crossed the brightly lit foyer of Colonel Carruthers' house. With her mask in place, she was unrecognizable, but so were many of the other guests. This was going to be more difficult than she had imagined.

A footman stepped forward to take her cape. She handed it to him along with the engraved invitation.

“Whom shall I announce?” he asked, as correct as a new recruit on parade.

“Natalya Butovskyj.”

“Butov—”

“Butovskyj,” she repeated slowly.

He nodded and, giving her cloak to a maid, he motioned for her to follow him up the broad marble stairs. The ballroom was awash in music and conversation beneath the brightly lit chandeliers. Inside the doorway, she saw General Miloradovich with Kapitán Radishchev hanging on every word. Radishchev would be pleased Count Dmitrieff was not here tonight. It would give the fawning fool a chance to gain more of the general's favor. She wondered if Radishchev knew of the plans to leave London.

With his back straight, the footman bowed toward her and then to Colonel Carruthers, who was wearing a full dress uniform that must have been uncomfortable because he was shifting from one foot to the other.

The footman stumbled over her name again, so Natalya offered her hand to the colonel and said, “I am Natalya Butovskyj. Thank you for inviting the members of the Grand Duchess's household to your gathering this evening.”

“You are welcome.” He kissed her hand lightly. “I thought the Grand Duchess had sent her regrets that no one would be able to attend because the household was going to the theater with the Prince Regent and his party.”

She hoped her laugh sounded genuine. “She did not want to offend you, Colonel, by ignoring your generous invitation. She knows how I love masquerades.”

“That is no surprise,” answered a deeper voice.

Natalya whirled to see Creighton standing behind her. Even with a black domino hiding half his face, nothing could diminish the strength of his gaze. Beneath his ebony coat, his silver waistcoat glittered in the light from the chandeliers like a vest of jewels.

“Creighton, do you know Miss Butov—?” Colonel Carruthers smiled as he said, “A most impossible name for our English tongues, I fear.”

“Then she must grant us all the favor of allowing us to call her by her given name.” He offered his arm. “Do allow me to escort you in, Natalya.”

She did not hesitate. To do so might cause a scene she could ill afford. As he wove a path through the guests, without pausing to speak to any of them, she whispered, “How did you recognize me so swiftly?”