A Counterfeit Heart Read online

  “Credit me with a little more talent than a thief,” she sniffed. “Besides, princes are notoriously unreliable. In real life they’d get distracted by a tavern, or a horse race, or a buxom barmaid and forget all about rescuing the princess.”

  “You are far too young to be so cynical.”

  She shot him an arch look. “ ‘All that glitters is not gold,’ as Shakespeare said. Princes are spoiled and idle. And far too used to getting their own way.”

  Richard raised a brow. God, he loved the way she challenged him. “Are you talking about me, Miss de la Tour?”

  She folded her hands piously in her lap. “It is not my place to judge you, my lord.”

  “And yet here you are. You think me everything that is bad about the aristocratic class: reckless, lazy, amoral, and dissolute.”

  She shrugged. “Even your name has the word rich in it, Rich-ard Hampden.” She took another slow sip of wine. “And I never said you were lazy.”

  He bit back a chuckle at that veiled insult.

  “And since we’re on the subject of names,” she said, “Richard does not suit you at all.”

  “My parents will be so pleased you think so. What alternatives did you have in mind? Lucifer? Beelzebub? Mephistopheles?”

  She shrugged. “History has not been kind to people named Richard. Just look at your English kings. Richard the Second was insane. Richard the Third was a hunchback who killed his own nephews.”

  “What about Richard the Lionheart?” he countered.

  She waved a dismissive hand. “He was brave, but no one ever called him handsome. Handsome men are never called Richard.”

  —

  He shot her a look of breathtaking arrogance. “Are you implying that I’m ugly?”

  Sabine bit her lip. To deny it would be one protest too far. But to confirm it would make him all the more obnoxious. She wrinkled her nose. “I’ve seen worse. Besides, it doesn’t matter what your name is. A viscount can have a clubfoot, a lisp, and a facial tic and still be considered handsome.” She shot him an assessing glance. “It’s amazing how attractive a man appears when viewed through the lens of an unencumbered estate and twenty thousand pounds a year.”

  Hampden chuckled. “It’s closer to thirty thousand, actually. And I’m pretty sure it isn’t the size of my inheritance they’re interested in.”

  Sabine raised her brows, even as she tried to ignore the hot flush that spread over her skin. Devil! How had the conversation veered to something so risqué?

  Thankfully, Hampden drained his glass and rose from the table. “As delightful as this has been, Miss de la Tour, I must bid you good night. I’m engaged elsewhere for the evening.”

  Sabine became conscious of a sinking feeling. It was not disappointment. She didn’t care where he was spending the rest of the night. She glanced at the ornate clock on the mantel—ten o’clock—and hid her pique behind sarcasm. “And here I was, praying for another hour of your exalted company.”

  “I doubt I shall return until after you’re in bed.”

  He came around the back of her chair and pulled it backward so she could stand. There was a teasing glint in his eye as he reached forward and brushed her cheek with a casual flick of his fingers. Her breath caught in her throat.

  “You should get some sleep, ma chère. You’ll need to be at your most charming and persuasive tomorrow for Skelton. If you fail to convince him you’re Lacorte, the consequences could be unpleasant for us both.”

  A shiver racked her as she sidestepped and escaped into the hall. His touch made her insides quiver, but she was under no illusion that he actually found her attractive. He was just playing power games, trying to intimidate and fluster her with his hot stare.

  She knew men like him. They loved the chase but grew bored when they captured the prize. Right now her stubborn evasion had garnered his fleeting interest, but he would lose interest soon enough.

  To her consternation, Hampden escorted her up the wide staircase and down the corridor toward her room. He stopped at the door before her own. Sabine frowned. “Is that your room?”

  He adopted an innocent expression. “Yes. You’re in the duchess’s suite. It’s the mirror image of mine. Didn’t you notice the connecting door? It’s in the paneling to the right of the fireplace. I doubt you can hear anything through the wall, but I’ll try not to wake you on my return.” His sudden grin was pure devilry. “Sleep tight.”

  Sabine entered her own room and immediately rushed to locate the hidden door. There it was, neatly disguised in the wallpaper and wooden paneling, almost invisible unless you knew where to look. She ran her fingers over the seam and felt a tiny waft of cooler air seeping through the gap.

  She didn’t dare open it, though there was probably a second door on Hampden’s side. He’d doubtless be waiting with some sarcastic comment about invading his bedchamber.

  There was no handle and no key, so she slid a chest of drawers in front of it before she got ready for bed. Not that it would make much difference. She had no way of locking the door to the main passageway, either. Clearly, if Richard Hampden wanted to seek her out, he could. It was a sobering thought.

  Chapter 19

  Sabine tried to stay awake and listen for Hampden’s return, but the last thing she remembered was the clock on the mantelpiece chiming one. She awoke to sunlight, and wondered despondently where he’d been, and with whom.

  He wanted to keep the eligible women of society at bay, but that didn’t mean he was steering clear of women in general. No doubt he’d spent the evening with someone thoroughly ineligible. And enjoyed every minute of it.

  Sabine tugged the brush angrily through her hair. She didn’t care what Richard Hampden did in his spare time. All she cared about was that he paid her.

  Another outfit had been provided for her; this one consisted of a rough hemp-spun skirt, a thin cotton shirt, and a whalebone corset. Presumably in London, as in Paris, pawnbrokers like this Mr. Skelton plied their trade in the less salubrious parts of the city.

  She wrapped a drab woolen shawl around her and descended the stairs to find a stranger waiting in the hallway. From his broad shoulders, brown coat, and tousled hair she took him for some sort of groundsman or gardener.

  “Good morning,” she murmured politely, wondering whether Hampden would even be up at such an hour. Perhaps she should—

  “Morning yourself.”

  The gardener looked up and Sabine gave a gasp of surprise as Hampden’s laughing eyes met hers. She blinked. Good God! She wouldn’t have thought he could disguise that arrogant air of lordly command that seemed so ingrained, but he’d achieved it.

  He’d mussed his hair and neglected to shave; his jaw sported an intriguing shadowy prickle. Sabine curled her fingers into her palms against the urge to reach out and feel the texture of it. He looked thoroughly disreputable.

  She descended the last step and wrinkled her nose. His clothes held the sickly sweet scent of the stables—hay and manure. He must have borrowed them from one of the grooms. She raised her hand to her nose.

  “Would you care to borrow my vinaigrette?” he teased.

  “You’ve missed your vocation,” she said scathingly. “You should have been on the stage.”

  “I’ve spent my fair share of time roughing it. There are times when it’s better not to be Richard, Lord Lovell, and be plain old Dickie ’Ampden, groomsman to ’is lordship, instead. Come on.”

  His coach awaited them outside. Sabine cast a dubious eye on the coat of arms emblazoned upon the sides. She opened her mouth to make a sarcastic comment on traveling unobtrusively, but Hampden beat her to it.

  “Wilson will drop us off a few streets away from Skelton’s,” he said, handing her into the coach. “We’ll walk from there.”

  It took only a few minutes to move from the wide, well-ordered streets of St. James’s to the narrow, winding lanes of Spitalfields. Sabine shuddered as they descended the steps of the carriage and immediately had to step over a
steaming pile of manure. At least she had on her sturdy boots.

  Hampden turned down a dingy side street, and she took care to avoid the twin channels of refuse running along either side. They exuded a pungent aroma best left unidentified. The buildings huddled together as if for warmth, or for protection. Traders called out incentives to buy from all sides, or haggled with housewives over their wares.

  “Silk stockings for the missus, guv’nor? Lovely quality, see if they ain’t.”

  “Oysters! Cockles! Fresh today!”

  A group of apprentice boys crowded around a game of dice on a street corner, shouting encouragement and curses. A few people appeared to be staggering home, as if they’d never been to bed. Women walked among the crowd with steaming baskets of pancakes and dumplings. One cast a come-hither smile at Richard, the gesture marred by her rotten stumps for teeth.

  “Tuppence a tup, me fine lad,” she cackled as they went past, grabbing at his sleeve. Hampden deftly extricated himself with a wry shrug and a charming smile.

  “I can’t, sweeting,” he joked, tilting his head at Sabine. “The missus would kill me. But I wish you good hunting.”

  Sabine pursed her lips. She could practically see the tart melting into a puddle on the cobbles.

  They walked briskly, past barbers and peruke-makers, bakers and haberdashers. A swinging sign proclaimed the Spread Eagle Chocolate House, and the streets all had intriguing names like Bride Lane, Paradise Row, and Snow Hill.

  She was glad of Hampden’s broad-shouldered presence beside her. Even dressed as he was, in rough workman’s clothes, people still moved out of his way. And for all her outward confidence she was a little scared of the press of people, the noise, and the almost overwhelming smells. There was a foreignness to this English city, with its strange guttural language and odd fashions, that made her conscious of how different it was from Paris.

  Hampden took her arm to assist her around an upturned barrow of apples, but instead of releasing her, he slid his hand around until it rested at the small of her back. The gesture was both guiding and oddly protective. The light contact burned through the layers of her clothing.

  Sabine cleared her throat just as Hampden spoke.

  “Ah, here we are.”

  Skelton’s shop was squeezed between a butcher’s and a shoemaker. The traditional sign for a pawnbroker, three brass balls hanging from a bracket, swung above the door. Curved mullioned windows bowed out into the street, their panes of glass showing shelves so crammed full it was impossible to see inside.

  The grimy display held a random assortment of items: candlesticks, dinner plates, a violin and bow, linen curtains, a copper coffeepot, wooden crutches. There was even a great flopping parson’s hat.

  The bell above the door didn’t so much tinkle as make a despondent, sullen thud, and the interior smelled of dust and human despair. Sabine stepped forward cautiously while Richard hung back, guarding the door to ensure no one else entered behind them. He turned the dog-eared cardboard sign around so it read CLOSED.

  A glass-topped counter ran the length of the shop. Sabine leaned over to inspect the contents: tarnished shoe buckles, jewelry, gold watches, rings, and snuffboxes. If the items weren’t reclaimed by repaying the original loan with interest within a year, they would be sold by public auction.

  A wave of melancholy swept over her. They made her sad, these tiny glimpses of once precious things that had been surrendered in desperation. A small silver vinaigrette, a child’s ivory teething ring with three silver bells attached to it. Wedding rings and engagement rings. Were they from dead people? Or unwanted proof of a broken heart, a called-off engagement? So many small, sad stories.

  She turned away.

  Hampden came up behind her and leaned over her shoulder to inspect the contents of the case. His nearness sent a little shivery thrill through her. He indicated a silver spoon with an armorial engraved on the handle.

  “That’s Earl Gower’s crest,” he murmured in her ear. “Either he’s lost heavily at the gaming tables and found himself in the river Tick, or someone on his staff is pilfering the silver.”

  “Mr. Skelton?” Sabine called into the gloom.

  Richard stepped back as a figure loomed into view.

  Chapter 20

  Skelton was a man of epic proportions. A grimy brown waistcoat strained alarmingly over his protruding stomach and his greasy, gray-streaked hair was tied in a queue at the back of his neck. White specks of dandruff dusted the curled collar of his navy coat. Sabine caught a whiff of unwashed body and stale onions as he waddled toward her, his beady eyes suspicious in his jowly face.

  He immediately gestured to several sets of false teeth on the counter.

  “Them’s the best ‘Waterloo teeth’ money can buy. Everybody wants ’em. Guaranteed to come from healthy young men, struck down in their prime.”

  Sabine suppressed an appalled shudder. “No, thank you. My own teeth are perfectly good.” Unlike Skelton’s, she noticed. They were little more than brown stumps.

  The shopkeeper gave a disappointed grunt. “Well, what can I do for yer then? You want some nice fabric for a dress?” He pulled forward a thick roll of scarlet cloth. “I got twenty yards of the best sarsenet, ’ere. For you, sixpence a yard.”

  Sabine shook her head. “No, thank you. I am here because we have an appointment. You wished to meet Philippe Lacorte.”

  Skelton stilled. “Maybe I did,” he hedged. His squinty eyes flicked to Richard. “That ’im?”

  Sabine smiled and brought all her acting skills to bear. She was Philippe Lacorte. She could do anything.

  “Oh, goodness, no. That’s just a friend of mine, Jacob.” She waved a dismissive hand at Hampden and shook her head in mock sorrow. “He was hit on the head by a falling branch when he was a little boy. The blow left him an idiot.” She gave a gusty sigh. “He hardly talks. I’ve barely heard him do more than grunt.”

  Skelton shot Hampden a suspicious glare. Hampden, to his credit, took her cue and stood staring vacantly ahead like the big dumb brute he was supposed to be, playing the part of village idiot to perfection.

  Sabine suppressed a grin. Oh, this was going to be fun. A faint wicked smile curved her lips as she swept him with a slow, head-to-toe appraisal, just like the ones he’d given her.

  She leaned toward Skelton and tried not to breathe in his repellent body odor as she pitched her voice to a conspiratorial whisper still loud enough to carry back to the door.

  “He has a magic way with horses, though.” She gave a little, feminine sigh. “I think it must be those hands. They’re so very…capable.”

  She shot Hampden a cheeky glance and enjoyed the way his eyes widened slightly in shock. “He’s as thick as two short planks, bless him, but I like to keep him around. He’s so decorative. And brawny. Just look at those arms. I vow, it makes me positively dizzy.” She fanned herself with her hand. “He’s very popular with the ladies. All that manly exuberance.” Her smile was thoroughly wicked. “They don’t seek him out for stimulating conversation, if you know what I mean.”

  Skelton grunted, apparently unimpressed by Hampden’s magnificent physical attributes.

  “I brought him along for protection,” she continued. “In these parts you can never be too careful.”

  Skelton sniffed. “I can see why. He’s a brute.”

  She pressed her hand to her chest as if to contain her beating heart. “Isn’t he, though?”

  Skelton narrowed his eyes. “So where’s Lacorte, then?”

  Sabine shot him her best, most dazzling smile. “You’re looking at him, Mr. Skelton. I’m Philippe Lacorte.”

  The pungent phrase Skelton uttered expressed his profound disbelief.

  Sabine sighed. So it began. “No doubt you were expecting a man, but I can assure you, I am the forger you’re looking for.”

  Skelton made another dismissive sound.

  “I’m quite prepared to prove my skills,” she said bullishly.

  H
e shrugged, but gestured for her to come around the other side of the counter. “All right.” He tilted his head at Richard. “ ’E can stay right there and guard the front door. Don’t want no hinterruptions now, do we?”

  He slid his fat body along the counter to make room for her. Sabine half expected him to leave a greasy trail on the glass top.

  —

  Richard stationed himself by the door, legs apart, and tried to compose his features into something resembling deaf and dumb.

  He could still feel the heat of Sabine’s cheeky glance on his body. He’d had to hastily fold his hands in front of his breeches to hide the humiliating evidence of his reaction. And he couldn’t even retaliate.

  Her shameless ogling had been clever, though. No well-born lady would exhibit her desire in public. Her bawdy appreciation of him neatly aligned her with Skelton as his social equal, a member of the lower orders. Someone who could be trusted.

  Richard suppressed a grin as she turned her shoulder and dismissed him as casually as if she were rejecting a misshapen pastry from the baker’s tray.

  “Let’s get down to business, shall we, Mr. Skelton?” she purred.

  Chapter 21

  “You know anything about jewels?” Skelton asked slyly. “What do you think of this lot? Just came in today.” He pointed to a small pile of heaped jewelry on the counter.

  Sabine gave it a desultory glance and pointed to a ring with three glittering stones. “I hope you didn’t pay much for that.”

  “Why?” Skelton glared at her.

  “Because the left-hand diamond has been replaced with paste.”

  He scowled, and fumbled in his waistcoat pocket. The fabric was stretched so tight against his belly he had a hard time getting his fingers into the opening, but he finally withdrew a jeweler’s loupe. The magnifying eye glass had the unfortunate effect of grossly enlarging his eye; the sagging skin and bloodshot white appeared even more grotesque under strong magnification. Sabine suppressed a shudder.