The Counterfeit Count (7 page)

“Yes, my lord.” She lowered her voice as Barclay stamped up the stairs. “I never saw its like.”

“In what way?” Mayhap Mrs. Winchell's eyes were clearer than the others in the household.

“The count, my lord.” She leaned toward him as she continued in a conspiratorial whisper, “I saw the whole. Mr. Lawson stepped right in front of the count's horse. I could not believe the count was able to pull his horse away from trampling Mr. Lawson. 'Twas right fine riding, Lord Ashcroft.”

“The count did ride with the cavalry into battle.”

Mrs. Winchell nodded. “True, but 'twas fine riding nonetheless. Never saw its like.” She straightened and said, “Good afternoon, my lord.”

Creighton turned to see Natalya behind him. Damme! She was as light on her feet as a will-o'-the-wisp. Clasping his hands behind his back, he said, “You continue to disrupt this household in ways I could not have imagined, Captain Dmitrieff.”

“Nor I.” She glanced up the stairs and sighed. “Please convey to Mr. Lawson that my offer still stands. I will replace his coat if he feels it is ruined beyond repair.”

Mrs. Winchell clucked her tongue. “'Twill be fine once it dries and I brush it.” Quickly, she lowered her eyes. “Excuse me, Lord Ashcroft.” She scurried away.

Natalya said, “If I misspoke—”

“You apparently have done nothing wrong through all of this, save for riding well enough to prevent Barclay's absentmindedness from causing him to be injured.”

“Mr. Lawson does not seem the type to be absent his mind,” she replied, her forehead ruffled with bafflement.

“You do not know him well.” Creighton again fought with temptation—this time not to laugh. At the shout of his name down the stairs, he called, “I shall be with you directly, Barclay. Natalya—”

She put her gloved hand on his arm. “Please do not call me that.”

“It
is
your name. I do not wish to call you ‘count' or ‘captain' for the duration of your stay.”

“Yes,” she murmured, “the duration of my stay …”

He caught her hand before she could draw it off his sleeve and turn away. “What is it—Damme! I must have something I can call you.”

“My fellow officers called me Demi as a familiar version of Dmitri.”

“Then, Demi, what is it that upset you about what I just said?” He laughed, halting her answer when he saw the truth on her bleak face. “You went to General Miloradovich today, didn't you?”

“He insists we serve the czar best by remaining here.” Again, charming confusion threaded her forehead, giving him a hint of the gentle young woman she might have been, save for Napoleon's greed for power. “I fail to understand why.”

“Nor do I. What is it you told me?
Ya pon
—”

She laughed. “
Ya ne ponimáyu
. I do not understand.”

He stroked her fingers and folded them beneath his against his chest. “On that, if nothing else, we are in agreement, Demi.” Smiling, he said, “That name suits you even less well than the others you claim.”

“Demi? It is a good name.”

“But in French, demi means half, and I cannot envision you ever doing anything by half.” He watched how the soft glow in her eyes deepened as he drew her closer as he whispered, “You give all of yourself to your goals. You—”

“Creighton!” Barclay leaned over the banister on the upper floor. “Where in blazes are you?”

When Natalya snatched her hands away, Creighton did not speak the curse battering his lips. He should be grateful to his friend for interrupting. In fact, if he had half an ounce of wit about him, he would not delay in inviting Barclay to move into the townhouse as well. He had never understood the need for a watch-dog … until now when he was constantly bombarded by his curiosity to taste Natalya's lips.

“I shall be right there,” he called back. As Barclay's furious footfalls resounded from upstairs to the ground floor, he added, “I think it would be wise, Natalya, if you do not join us.”

“I agree.”

He was unsure if he detected a tremor of amusement in her voice, and she was striding away before he could ask her another question. When he saw something move in the shadows beyond the staircase, he frowned. He should have guessed Zass would not stray far from Natalya once she returned to the house.

Creighton took the steps, two at a time, up to his book-room. The Russian sergeant was enough to give any man second thoughts about Natalya. Wryly, he smiled. Second thoughts about her did not seem to be a problem for him. He thought about her every second.

Closing the door behind him, he hoped nothing would intrude before he convinced Barclay to forget that he had challenged her to a duel. It would not be simple. Barclay prowled about the room, his virtually bald head catching the glint of the sunshine each time he passed a window. On every step, he muttered a condemnation of the Russian who, he was certain, had humiliated him.

Creighton sat in his favorite chair and watched. When brandy was brought, he poured a glass for himself and one for his friend. He sipped his and listened to Barclay's rumbles.

Finally, when it seemed his tie-mate could go on indefinitely, he interrupted to say, “Barclay, I can listen to no more of this. Count Dmitrieff is my guest.”

“That changes nothing.”

“The count reiterated the offer to replace your coat, although Mrs. Winchell has assured both of us that it can be cleaned without looking the worse for wear.”

“That changes nothing,” he repeated grimly. “I shall have my satisfaction for his outrageous taunts. Carpet-knight, indeed!”

“You cannot duel Count Dmitrieff.”

“Why not?”

Creighton lifted his glass of brandy. “You have no second.”

“Why not you?” He gripped the back of the chair facing Creighton and scowled.

“Tonight I plan to attend Lady Eltonville's soirée and I have no desire to rise before the sun to stride across wet grass to allow you to vent your spleen. Even if I did, you cannot duel Count Dmitrieff.”

“If you will not stand as my second, Creighton, I shall find someone who will.”

“You cannot duel Count Dmitrieff,” he repeated, prepared to say the words over and over until his friend would listen.

Barclay slammed his fist into the chair. “Tell me one reason why not.”

“Because the count will air your skull for you with a single shot.”

“I can best any half-pint Russian in any affair of honor.”

“The count is a war hero. You have faced nothing more fierce than a fox seeking earth.”

Barclay's lips worked, but no sound came out. Seizing his glass, he downed a hefty drink of brandy. “Are
you
now questioning my abilities, Creighton? I thought you were my friend.”

“I am your friend. That is why I am urging you to rethink this.” He set his glass on the table by his chair. “Barclay, you cannot duel Count Dmitrieff.”

With a curse, Barclay threw his glass onto the hearth. The flames leapt wildly. He strode toward the door and flung it open. “I shall not let my honor go unavenged. Those words were spoken publicly.”

Creighton jumped to his feet. Taking his friend by the lapel, he shook him as he kicked the door closed. “Listen, you stubborn dull-swift! You have more hair than wit, and you have no hair! Listen to me! You cannot duel Count Dmitrieff.”

“You cannot halt me.”

“I shall!”

Barclay jerked away. “If you are afraid I shall wound your guest and embarrass you—”

“I doubt you shall get a shot off before the count lets fly the pop.”

He laughed coldly. “I invite you to join us for the duel, Creighton, and you shall see how mistaken you are. My shot shall strike that damned Russian and put an end to the insults to decent Englishmen!”

“No.”

“No?”

Creighton sighed. Walking away from the door, he shook his head. The simplest way to halt Barclay from embarking on this nick-ninny's quest was with the truth, and he was forsworn to say nothing of it. Yet, if he remained silent, he knew what the results of the duel would be as surely as if he were a soothsayer who could discern the future. Natalya would finish Barclay's life for him with a single shot. She could not risk being struck, for, as soon as anyone examined her wound, the truth would reveal itself along with her feminine curves.

Staring down at the fire, he sighed again. “The count is my guest. I will not allow you to duel him.”

“Not allow?” Something else followed the question, but Creighton could not understand the words spat through Barclay's clenched teeth.

“I am saying, Barclay, that you cannot duel Count Dmitrieff. You are fooling yourself if you think you will get off the first shot. The count will see you dead.”

“Let me show you how well I shoot!”

“It does not matter. I shall not allow it.”

Barclay jabbed a finger at Creighton's waistcoat. “This is between me and that witless Russian. Do not interfere.”

Creighton arched a single brow, then stepped away from Barclay's bony finger. Obviously good sense was not going to prevail when his friend was in such a pelter. Clasping his hands behind his back, he said, “Very well.”

“Very well?”

“Are you going to parrot back everything I say?”

“I am astonished.”

“I suspect so, but I hope you are not so astonished that you see the wisdom of what I am about to say.” Creighton held up his hands to forestall Barclay's next comment. “Listen to me. The count is nearly arrived from the Continent. I do not know how they handle these challenges in Russia, so allow me to discern what procedures the count is familiar with before you set the time and place of your death.”

Barclay started to nod, then snapped, “Don't assume the count will be the better man.”

Creighton smiled. “That is one thing, my friend, you can be certain I shall never assume.”

Six

Natalya jumped to her feet when someone rapped on the door of her bedchamber. Throwing it open, she said, “Petr,
mózhno
!”

Mrs. Winchell regarded her, wide-eyed. “Is that Russian, my lord?”

“Yes.” She buttoned the front of her jacket quickly. “Excuse me. I thought you were Sergeant Zass.”

“No, my lord.” An extraordinary flush splashed across her thin cheeks. “Lord Ashcroft asks that you join him and Mr. Lawson in the book-room.”

Noting a motion at the other end of the passage, she nodded. “Please let Lord Ashcroft know I shall be there directly.”

Mrs. Winchell glanced along the hall, shuddered, and whispered, “Of course, my lord.” She scurried away as if a hungry wolf were at her heels.

Natalya switched effortlessly to Russian as Petr came toward her. “What have you done to frighten that poor woman away from her wits?”

“I vow to you, Kapitán, I have said nothing to her.” His eyes twinkled. “She will be pleased when we are gone.”

“Which shall not be soon, Petr.” Walking along the soft rug that swallowed the sound of her boot heels, she explained the general's insistence that they remain here. “It is most odd.”

“How?”

“It was as if General Miloradovich were laughing at a joke I could not be privy to.”

He combed his fingers through his beard as he did whenever he was deep in thought. “The general often has done odd things.”

“Like ordering us to the flank of the other hussars outside Vitebsk?”

“Fortunately for him, we were there in time to halt that band of French and Hessian mercenaries from sneaking away.”

“Fortunately for him,” she agreed. Only because she had been serving as a liaison between the field and the general's headquarters, which were comfortably out of the range of French artillery, had she—and Petr—known the truth. General Miloradovich had panicked and given the wrong orders, turning too many of the men away from the main thrust of the French vanguard.

If only they had been so lucky when Moscow came under siege …

“How long will we be billeted here?” Petr asked, freeing her from her dreary memories.

“Until the state visit is over, if I know the general. He is preoccupied with other matters.”

“A blonde or a brunette?”

“A redhead.”

“That is something new for him to sample.” Petr's chuckle rumbled along the silent hallway. “All the general's appetites are well-renowned.”

Natalya's answer went unspoken when a door opened to spill light across the dark carpet. “Say nothing, Petr.”

“They will understand nothing I say, even if I do.” His dark brows lowered in a fierce scowl. “Kapitán, what trouble are we in now?”

“We are in no trouble.” That much was the truth, although she had few doubts how Petr would react when he discovered she had been challenged to a duel. During their campaigns, he had been insistent that she should fight only when necessary—and only against the enemy. The expediences of war had demanded that
Grazhdánka
Natalya change to become
Kapitán
Dmitrieff, but she knew, even though he had not spoken of it, how Petr longed to return to their home and the life they once had known.

Natalya swept all emotion from her face as Lord Ashcroft motioned for her to enter. He was not as successful in concealing his thoughts, for she saw his eyes narrow when Petr followed her into the cozy room. Did he think Petr was accompanying her as her second so she could face his loudmouthed friend over bare swords right here in his house?

“Gentlemen,” she said cautiously.

Mr. Lawson stared at her, glanced at Lord Ashcroft, and then swallowed roughly. “Creighton has persuaded me to wait before issuing my challenge to you.” His tone was as strained as hers.

“Wait? Why?” She looked at Lord Ashcroft who was smiling coldly.

“That is something,” the viscount said, “we shall discuss at length later.”