A Counterfeit Heart Read online

  A Counterfeit Heart is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2017 by Kate Larkins

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9780804181525

  Cover design: Carrie Divine/Seductive Designs

  Cover photographs: Period Images (couple), Fairytale Backgrounds (background)

  randomhousebooks.com

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By K. C. Bateman

  About the Author

  “Love me or hate me. Both are in my favor…If you love me, I’ll always be in your heart…If you hate me, I’ll always be in your mind.”

  —Anon.

  Chapter 1

  BOIS DE VINCENNES, PARIS, 16TH APRIL, 1816

  It didn’t take long to burn a fortune.

  “Don’t throw it on like that! Fan the paper out. You need to let the air get to it.”

  Sabine de la Tour sent her best friend, Anton Carnaud, an exasperated glance and tossed another bundle of banknotes onto the fire. It smoldered, then caught with a bright flare, curling and charring to nothing in an instant. “That’s all the francs. Pass me some rubles.”

  Another fat wad joined the conflagration. Little spurts of green and blue jumped up as the flames consumed the ink. The intensity of the fire heated her cheeks, so she stepped back and tilted her head to watch the glowing embers float up into the night sky. It was a fitting end, really. Almost like a funeral pyre, the most damning evidence of Philippe Lacorte, notorious French counterfeiter, going up in smoke. Sabine quelled the faintest twinge of regret.

  She glanced over at Anton. “It feels strange, don’t you think? Doing the right thing for once.”

  He shook his head morosely. “It feels wrong.” He poked a pile of Austrian gulden into the fire with a stick. “Who in their right mind burns money? It’s like taking a penknife to a Rembrandt.”

  Sabine nudged his shoulder, well used to his grumbling. “You know I’m right. If we spend it, we’ll be no better than Napoleon. This is our chance to turn over a new leaf.”

  Anton added another sheaf of banknotes to the blaze with a pained expression. “I happen to like being a criminal,” he grumbled. “Besides, we made all this money. Seems only fair we should get to spend it. No one would know. Your fakes are so good nobody can tell the difference. What’s a few million francs in the grand scheme of things?”

  “We’d know.” Sabine frowned at him. “ ‘Truth is the highest thing that man may keep.’ ”

  Anton rolled his eyes. “Don’t start quoting dead Greeks at me.”

  “That’s a dead Englishman,” she smiled wryly. “Geoffrey Chaucer.”

  Anton sniffed, unimpressed by anything that came from the opposite—and therefore wrong—side of the channel. He sprinkled a handful of assignats onto the flames. “You appreciate the irony of trying to be an honest forger, don’t you?”

  It was Sabine’s turn to roll her eyes.

  Anton shot her a teasing, pitying glance. “It’s because you’re half-Anglais. Everyone knows the English are mad. The French half of you knows what fun we could have. Think of it, chèrie—ball gowns, diamonds, banquets!” His eyes took on a dreamy, faraway glow. “Women, wine, song!” He gave a magnificent Gallic shrug. “Mais, non. You listen to the English half. The half that is boring and dull and—”

  “—law abiding?” Sabine suggested tartly. “Sensible? The half that wants to keep my neck firmly attached to my shoulders instead of in a basket in front of the guillotine?”

  She bit her lip as a wave of guilt assailed her. Anton was in danger of losing his head because of her. For years he’d protected her identity by acting as Philippe Lacorte’s public representative. He’d dealt with all the unsavory characters who’d wanted her forger’s skills while she’d remained blissfully anonymous. Even the man who’d overseen the emperor’s own counterfeiting operation, General Jean Malet, hadn’t known the real name of the elusive forger he’d employed. He’d never seen Sabine as anything more than an attractive assistant at the print shop in Rue du Pélican.

  Now, with Napoleon exiled on the island of St. Helena, and Savary, his feared head of secret police, also banished, General Malet was the only one who knew about the existence of the fake fortune the emperor had amassed to fill his coffers.

  The fortune Sabine had just liberated.

  Anton frowned into the flames. The pink glow highlighted his chiseled features and Sabine studied him dispassionately. She knew him too well to harbor any romantic feelings about him, but there was no doubt he had a very handsome profile. Unfortunately, it was a profile that General Malet could recognize all too easily.

  As if reading her mind, Anton said, “Speaking of guillotines, Malet would gladly see me in a tumbril. He’s out for blood. And I’m his prime suspect.”

  “Which is why we’re getting you out of here,” Sabine said. “The boat to England leaves at dawn. We have enough money to get us as far as London.”

  Anton gave a frustrated huff and pointed at the fire. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we have a pile of money right—”

  She shot him a warning scowl. “No. We are not using the fakes. It’s high time we started doing things legally. This English lord’s been trying to engage Lacorte’s services for months. One job for him and we’ll be able to pay for your passage to Boston. You’ll be safe from Malet forever.”

  “It could be a trap,” Anton murmured darkly. “This Lovell says he wants t
o employ Lacorte, but we’ve been on opposite sides of the war for the past ten years. The English can’t be trusted.”

  Sabine let out a faint, frustrated sigh. It was a risk, to deliver herself into the arms of the enemy, to seek out the one man she’d spent months avoiding. Her heart beat in her throat at the thought of him. Richard Hampden, Viscount Lovell. She’d seen him only once, weeks ago, but the memory was seared upon her brain.

  He, of anyone, had come closest to unmasking her. He’d followed Lacorte’s trail to her doorstep, like a bloodhound after a fox. Anton had recognized her pursuer and hissed a warning; Sabine had barely had time to hide behind the backroom door and press her eye to a gap in the wood before the bell above the entrance had tinkled and he’d entered the print shop.

  It had been almost dark outside; the flickering streetlamps had cast long shadows along Rue du Pélican. Sabine had squinted, trying to make out his features, but all she could see was that he was tall; he ducked to enter the low doorway. She raised her eyebrows. So this was the relentless Lord Lovell.

  Not for the first time she cursed her shortsightedness. Too many hours of close work meant that anything over ten feet away was frustratingly blurry. He moved closer, farther into the shop—and into knee-weakening, stomach-flipping focus.

  Sabine caught her breath. All the information she’d gleaned about her foe from Anton’s vague, typically male attempts at description had in no way prepared her for the heart-stopping, visceral reality.

  Technically, Anton had been correct. Richard Hampden was over six feet tall with medium-brown hair. But those basic facts failed to convey the sheer magnetic presence of his lean, broad-shouldered frame. There was no spare fat around his hips, no unhealthy pallor to his skin. He moved like water, with a liquid grace that suggested quietly restrained power, an animal at the very peak of fitness.

  Anton had guessed his age as between twenty-eight and thirty-five. Certainly, Hampden was no young puppy; his face held the hard lines and sharp angles of experience rather than the rounded look of boyhood.

  Sabine studied the elegant severity of his dark blue coat, the pale knee breeches outlining long, muscular legs. There was nothing remarkable in the clothes themselves to make him stand out in a crowd, and yet there was something about him that commanded attention. That drew the eye and held it.

  Her life often hinged on the ability to correctly identify dangerous men. Every sense she possessed told her that the man talking with Anton was very dangerous indeed.

  Sabine pressed her forehead to the rough planks and swore softly. The Englishman turned, almost as if he sensed her lurking behind the door, and everything inside her stilled. Something—an instant of awareness, almost of recognition—shot through her as she saw his face in full. Of all the things she’d been prepared for, she hadn’t envisaged this: Viscount Lovell was magnificent.

  And then he’d turned his attention back to Anton, and she’d let out a shaky breath of relief.

  She’d dreamed of him ever since. Disturbing, jumbled dreams in which she was always running, he pursuing. She’d wake the very instant she was caught, her heart pounding in a curious mix of panic and knotted desire.

  Sabine shook her head at her own foolishness. It was just her luck to conceive an instant attraction to the least suitable man in Europe. The thought of facing him again made her shiver with equal parts anticipation and dread, but he was the obvious answer to her current dilemma. He had money; she needed funds. Voilà tout.

  At least now she was prepared. One of the basic tenets of warfare was “know thine enemy,” after all.

  Sabine drew her cloak more securely around her shoulders and watched Anton feed the rest of the money to the flames. The embers fluttered upward like a cloud of glowing butterflies.

  When this was all over she would be like a phoenix. Philippe Lacorte would disappear and Sabine de la Tour would emerge from the ashes to reclaim the identity she’d abandoned eight years ago. She would live a normal life. But not yet. There was still too much to do.

  Sabine brushed off her skirts and picked up the bag she’d packed for traveling. There was something rather pathetic in the fact that her whole life fit into one single valise, but she squared her shoulders and glanced over at Anton. “Come on, let’s go. Before someone sees the smoke and decides to investigate.”

  They couldn’t go home, to the print shop on Rue du Pélican. Her heart constricted as she recalled the scene that had greeted them earlier. Malet had already ripped the place apart looking for “his” money. Her stomach had given a sickening lurch as she’d taken in the carnage. Books pulled from the shelves, paintings ripped from the walls, canvases torn. Old maps shredded, drawers pulled out and upended. Their home, her sanctuary for the past eight years, had been utterly ransacked.

  But there had been triumph amid the loss. Malet had found neither Anton nor the money. And if Sabine had anything to do with it, he never would.

  Anton hefted the two bags of English banknotes that had been spared the flames as Sabine turned her back on Paris. For the first time in eight long years she was free.

  It was time to track down Lord Lovell.

  Chapter 2

  THREE DAYS LATER, LONDON, 10:45 P.M.

  Sabine pressed her hand to her stomach in a vain attempt to quell her nerves. She couldn’t back out now; she’d come to this imposing townhouse for the sole purpose of propositioning the man inside. She straightened her shoulders and took a calming breath. She was Europe’s greatest forger. She could fake anything. Even a confidence she was far from feeling.

  Number five Upper Brook Street was located in the exclusive, aristocratic enclave of Mayfair. To the east loomed the tree-lined railings of Grosvenor Square. To the west carriages rattled past on Park Lane, and beyond that lay the expansive darkness of Hyde Park.

  Even at this late hour the streets were busy. Linkboys, with flaming torches of pitch and tow, ran alongside sedan chairs conveying people to and from their evening’s entertainments or followed pedestrians to light their way home in exchange for a farthing.

  Sabine mounted the shallow flight of steps in front of the house. The knocker was so shiny she could see her own face reflected in it; the snarling lion’s nose distorted her features so she appeared no more than a blur of dark hair and dark eyes. The heavy brass fell against the black wood with a crack that sounded like gunfire.

  An elderly male servant answered, dressed in dark livery. If he was surprised to see a lone woman on his master’s doorstep at almost eleven o’clock in the evening, he gave no outward sign. Clearly he was both well trained and discreet. Or perhaps it was not such an unusual occurrence, Sabine thought wryly.

  He raised bushy gray brows. “May I help you, madame?”

  Sabine suppressed a smile. Apparently twenty-four was too ancient to still be addressed as “mademoiselle.” She strove to recall her mother’s polite, English tones. “You can indeed. I am here to see Viscount Lovell.”

  “And who might I inform him is calling?” The butler’s impassive countenance gave nothing away.

  Sabine tilted her head. “Someone whose acquaintance he has been seeking for a very long time. Please give him this.” She pulled the letter she’d prepared from her cloak.

  The butler took it and she waited to see if he would usher her inside or make her wait upon the doorstep. Perhaps he would send her around the back to the servants’ entrance. For some reason the thought made her smile.

  Instead he opened the door and indicated for her to step inside. “If you would care to wait here, madame, I will inform his lordship of your visit.”

  Sabine gave an imperious nod, as if it was no more than she expected. “Please do. I am quite certain he will want to see me.”

  She glanced around the hallway as the butler strode away. It was suitably grand for the residence of a viscount, with a black-and-white-tiled floor and an imposing staircase curving toward the upper levels. The dark mahogany doors leading off the hallway were all closed. She ha
d not been anywhere so elegant in years, but she would not be overawed. She had lived in a house as grand as this herself, once.

  A thin under-footman, emerging from below stairs, regarded her suspiciously, as if she might be thinking of stealing something. Sabine watched in amusement as he took in her appearance, silently assessing her net worth and social position with one glance.

  The dismissive curl of his lip told her his conclusion. No doubt her accent pronounced her as one of the hated French, and he clearly supposed her mistress material, a female of the canaille. His eyes flicked insultingly to her stomach and she suppressed another smile. Did he suppose she was enceinte? Come to inform his lordship of her delicate condition? Ha! Sabine caught his eye and returned his insolent glance with one of her own.

  He dropped his eyes first.

  —

  “You have a visitor, my lord.”

  Richard Hampden, Viscount Lovell, glanced at the ornate gilt clock on the mantelpiece and raised one dark eyebrow at his majordomo.

  “At this hour?” The clock showed five minutes to eleven. He and Raven had only stopped into the library for a glass of brandy before heading out to White’s.

  The elderly servant bowed. “A female, my lord.”

  Richard narrowed his eyes at his butler’s studied lack of intonation—and careful choice of noun. “What kind of female? A lady? Or a woman? Because it’s an important distinction, as you well know.”