The Counterfeit Count by Jo Ann Ferguson Read Free Book Online Page B

of gambling to intrude on his thoughts. Going to a wing chair, he dropped into it and glowered at the unlit fire in the hearth.
    He had been a cabbage-head to agree to do nothing to expose Natalya Dmitrieff as the liar she was. His jaw clenched as he wondered if he could believe her, even now. Her story seemed a bit too pat. After she had spent years in service to Czar Alexander, it was unlikely no one knew the truth of her identity, save for Zass. Could everyone be blind?
    He had thought something was wrong from the moment he met Count Dmitrieff. Were all the Russians stupid that they had failed to take note of her unshaven cheeks and feminine features? No man had ever had such soft hair and inviting lips and her eyes … Those exotic eyes had burned into his brain last night and refused to be dislodged.
    Damme! Why had the chit been foisted off on him? Colonel Carruthers! Creighton’s brow furrowed with fury, then he warned himself that jumping to conclusions would prove he wanted for sense. Until he had a chance to question his colonel—obliquely, of course—he must assume that no one knew Natalya’s secret except for him and Zass.
    The sound of the latch lifting brought another curse to his lips, but it went unspoken as he recognized the man in the doorway. Barclay Lawson was as thin as an anatomy and had no more hair than a streetlamp. Wisely, in Creighton’s estimation, Barclay never had heard the summons to duty to protect England. Mayhap because he never had suffered the pain that had stalked Creighton during those last months before he sailed for the Continent. Barclay, the younger son of a baron who sat on a penniless bench, enjoyed the benevolence of his friends who were more plump in the pocket. His repartee and ability to drink all night and still play an intimidating game of cards endeared him to the ton .
    â€œCreighton! Enright told me he had seen you racing up the stairs as if all the dogs of hell were nipping at your heels.” He handed Creighton a glass of wine and sat in the chair across from him. “What is bothering you? I have seen a man on his way to die of a hempen fever with a more cheerful countenance.”
    Tapping the side of his glass, he took a reflective drink. “It is nothing of import.”
    â€œNothing?” Barclay perched on the edge of his chair and clenched his fists on his knees. “Can this be the same man who announced to all who would listen that he was done with dreary thoughts of faithless Maeve Wilton and wished only to enjoy the pleasures of the Season?”
    â€œI did say that, but—”
    â€œNo buts. How can you be so glum when we have been invited to Lady Eltonville’s hurricane tonight?” Putting his glass on the table next to his chair, he rubbed his hands together and laughed. “I have vowed to lighten John Hotz’s pocket of a few centuries before dawn. If you are to be my partner, Creighton, I need you to be in the proper state of mind.”
    Rising, Creighton walked to the window that overlooked St. James’s Street. Cheerless rain splattered at the window, but that did nothing to curtail the traffic below. Carriages rolled up to the door of the clubs, and men scurried through the downpour to pass the day with their comrades.
    With his hands locked behind him, he continued to stare out the window as he said, “I am obligated to play host to Count Dmitrieff.”
    â€œWho in the devil is that?”
    Creighton did not pretend to smile as he faced his friend. “Count Dmitrieff is my guest.”
    â€œDmitrieff?” He nearly choked as he gasped, “But that name is—”
    â€œRussian.” He laughed without humor. “Colonel Carruthers took it into his idea-box to foist one of the officers in the Russian delegation into my house, so Dmitri Dmitrieff is my guest.”
    â€œYou need to rid yourself of that commission with all due haste.”
    â€œTrue, but even if I