The Reading Garden - Regency
Important notice: All excerpts have been submitted by the author.
Author: Jo Ann Ferguson
CHAPTER ONE
"Why me? I have just returned from the Continent." Creighton
Marshall took a glass of wine from the tray held out to him by one of the
club's silent menservants. "Find another volunteer, Colonel."
Colonel Samuel Carruthers smiled while he appraised his friend
who was sipping the wine with a frown. Creighton Marshall, Captain, had
recovered well from his year of chasing the Frogs across the Continent.
The gaunt shadows had receded from beneath his brown eyes, and his cheeks
were no longer shadowed by a ruddy beard. Clean-shaven, dressed à la
modality in a dark-brown velvet coat and pale breeches separated by a
gold waistcoat, he seemed perfectly at ease in the glossy leather chair
by the hearth here at White's. Only because Colonel Carruthers was so
well acquainted with him did he realize what had been suffered by Captain
Creighton Marshall, once again better known to the Polite World as Lord
Ashcroft.
"But you have all that room in your townhouse on Berkeley
Square," the colonel said, watching his young friend's face for any sign
of softening.
There was none. "Damme, Colonel! I've done my duty for God,
king, and country."
"This is for the Regent."
A smile tugged at Creighton's lips, and the colonel recalled his
sister's reaction to the handsome viscount. Although she was older than
Creighton by nearly a decade, she had complained of a delightful flutter
in her stomach each time the viscount turned his glittering eyes in her
direction. That charm had served Creighton well before he left for
France. There were whispers of several young women who had vowed never
to marry if they could not be Lady Ashcroft. Although he discounted such
outrageous tales, Colonel Carruthers knew Creighton's auburn hair and the
kohl eyes he had inherited from his mother would be as enticing to a
young miss as the title and wealth bequeathed to him by his late father.
"Colonel, save your arguments for someone who must heed them."
"May I remind you, Captain Marshall, that you have not yet sold
your commission to that eager young cousin of yours?"
Creighton did not answer as he took another sip of wine.
Madeira. Once it had seemed too sweet for his palate, but he had come to
appreciate the finer aspects of life after being denied them for so many
months. France might be famed for its excellent vintages; however, he
had had no chance to sample anything but wormy bread and mud during his
time on its shores.
True, Gregory was anxious to buy the captaincy. True, Creighton
was anxious to be rid of it. True, he wanted to spend all his time in
the stylish clothes he had had made by his favorite knight of the cloth
instead of the uniform that thrilled Gregory. Yet Creighton resisted
making the final arrangements to sell his commission to his cousin. The
idea of sending that idealistic young man into the maw of war disturbed
him.
But the war with France was over! Looking down into his glass,
he sighed. The ending had come without the sense of triumph he had
anticipated through the torment of those months in France. Napoleon had
been banished to Elba, but the rest of Europe was left to try to
resurrect what remained after the fighting. Old alliances had faltered,
and new ones were as uneasy as a Charley patrolling unfamiliar streets on
a dark night.
"Shall we pretend, only for the sake of argument," Creighton
asked, "that I am agreeable to your plan? For whom am I to play the
congenial host?"
Colonel Carruthers linked his fingers over his generous expanse
of belly. The garish stripes of his silk waistcoat matched the bright
shade of his blue coat, but his eyes were serious beneath the silver hair
brushing his thick, black brows. Signaling to a servant to refill his
glass, the colonel asked, "You know the Czar of All Russia will soon
disembark on our shores?"
"Of course. I do not read the Morning Chronicle only for the
news of the élite."
He smiled at Creighton's sarcasm, which had brought common sense
to many staff meetings when their fellow officers thought more of absurd
honor than the needs of the men serving with them. "Then you may also
realize Alexander's well-decorated General Miloradovich, who is already
in town, has brought with him one of Russia's greatest heroes in the
campaign against the French."
Creighton sighed. He was not sure why he had answered this
invitation to join the colonel at White's today. How much more easily
the time could have been spent with a ride in the park or with brandy and
conversation in his book-room. His lips tightened. It would have been
easier, but then he would have had to acknowledge the memories he had
hoped would be forgotten by the time he returned home. Nearly every room
of his home brought to mind a scene of him and Maeve. Even in his
bedchamber, he could not escape the memory of her.
Damme! She had been the one who was carrying on an affaire with
another man even while Creighton was speaking to her family of marriage.
"Which great Russian hero are you going to drop on my doorstep?"
When the colonel smiled at his sour tone, Creighton shook his head and
grinned. "Listen to me. I have agreed to your request without debate."
"You know I appreciate volunteers."
"I recall your idea of a volunteer is anyone who happens to be
within earshot of your bellow."
"This is a request only." Colonel Carruthers became suddenly
serious. "I know you wish to immerse yourself in the whirl of the
Season. Why not take this Russian officer with you? You will entertain
him and solve my problem at the same time."
"I don't speak Russian."
"I understand the count speaks excellent English." He picked up
his pipe. Taking a deep draught on his pipe, he blew smoke toward the
ceiling. "From what I have heard of the count and his exploits, I think
you shall find him extraordinary company. I believe you two have a great
deal in common."
Creighton recognized defeat. Colonel Carruthers had the
disagreeable habit of accepting no answer but the one he wanted and
badgering a man until he got it. After months under his command,
Creighton had learned that. He had learned as well that the colonel
always had a reason for what he did.
"So what is the name of this count?"
"Count Dmitri Dmitrieff." He leaned back in his chair, but
Creighton was not bamboozled by his nonchalant pose. "The count holds
the rank of captain. I speculate that will change, for the czar himself
arranged for the count to come to England with General Miloradovich on
this visit, if the gossip-mongers are to be believed. Dmitrieff is a
cavalryman. I am sure he will enjoy the hunt of the fox as well as the
entertainments of Town. You two could be living in one another's pockets
by the time this visit is over."
Skepticism crept into his voice. "I doubt that, Colonel."
"But you shall host Count Dmitrieff?"
"Yes," Creighton answered, hoping he would not come to regret his
acquiescence more than he did at this moment.
*** *** ***
One thing remained the same as his days before the war.
Creighton Marshall hated the strictures of protocol. They were a waste
of time — time that could be better spent with a hand of the devil's
books and the company of good friends whose pockets were filled with
gold.
Mist off the river brought the scent of rain, but he ignored it
as he edged his horse through the maze of carriages clogging the street
in front of the deceptively plain townhouse. Holding the leading rein of
another horse, he listened to the prattle of the people filling the
street and craning to see the house at its end. Everyone wanted to be
the first to see the Russians, although twilight was thick along the
cobbles.
Creighton considered telling them to go home. The czar would
probably be busy, as soon as he arrived, plotting mischief with his
sister, the Grand Duchess Catherine of Oldenburg, at the Pulteney Hotel.
Rumor suggested the Regent was insulted because the czar had turned down
an invitation to stay at St. James's Palace and planned to install his
retinue in the hotel, save for a few who would be billeted with Colonel
Carruthers's soon-to-be retired staff.
He chuckled to himself as he swung out of the saddle and handed
the reins to a servant in a livery that glowed a brilliant red in the
light from the streetlamp. Behind him, whispered supposition filled the
air. His black coat and white breeches were fine enough for an evening
at Almack's, but gave no clue to his identity. He heard the questions.
Was he a Russian or an Englishman? He did nothing to satisfy the
curiosity as he climbed the trio of steps. He adjusted his perfectly
tied cravat and took a deep breath as he recalled the phrases he had
spoken so many times in the past, the trite words of strangers who did
not expect to see each other again.
The door opened, and he entered. Handing his tall beaver hat and
a carte de visite to the footman, he glanced around the foyer. It was
surprisingly empty. Straining, he could hear no sound of conversation.
This was the correct evening and hour for his call, and the colonel had
told him there would be a gathering of those who would be hosting the
Russians.
The foyer was gaudy with gilt. Gold decorated the plaster
friezes on the ceiling, the metalwork of the balusters rising along the
curving staircase, and the tables set on either side of the door. Only
the black marble floor offered a rest for his eyes.
When the servant returned, moments later, Creighton was escorted
up the stairs and through double doors to the right. The room was
choke-full, but the conversation rose barely above a whisper. What
furniture remained had been pushed back against the red silk walls. No
light filtered past the lace curtains set between gold brocade drapes at
both of the windows.
As he entered, Creighton saw Colonel Carruthers signal to him.
He crossed the parquet floor to where the colonel was involved in an
intense conversation with a squat, bearded man Creighton did not know.
Resplendent in his dress uniform, Colonel Carruthers emphasized every
word with a broad gesture.
"And this is my aide-de-camp, Captain Creighton Marshall, Lord
Ashcroft," the colonel said as he welcomed Creighton into the
conversation.
"Gentlemen," Creighton said quietly. To speak louder than a
murmur would shatter the smothering hush.
The colonel continued, "'Tis my pleasure to introduce General
Miloradovich."
"Miloradovich, Karl Miloradovich," the short man said, smoothing
his thick beard. His arrogant tone warned that he expected Creighton to
be impressed.
Creighton was impressed with the boorish man's girth. He
struggled not to smile as he wondered if the general had a horse strong
enough to support him or if he must be pulled to the vanguard of his
troops in a cart. No doubt Miloradovich spent most of his time close to
a laden table.
"An honor, General." He said nothing else as he scanned the
room. Which one of these Russians was the count?
"You were with Colonel Carruthers in Paris?" asked Miloradovich
in his thick accent. "How did you find the city?"
"In dire need of a sane leader."
"It has one now."
"At least temporarily."
"Do you expect Napoleon to escape his island prison?" The
general boomed a derisive laugh that caused heads to turn throughout the
room. "I can reassure you, Captain Marshall, you need not trouble
yourself on that. Napoleon Bonaparte will cause us no more problems."
"I wish I could share your complacency."
Colonel Carruthers intruded to say, "Complacency is not a fault
of the general's." He flashed Creighton a disapproving frown.
Creighton swallowed his irritation as he bowed his head in the
general's direction and said, "Gentlemen." He had no interest in staying
and listening to the rotund man's opinions. Diplomacy was just a
different sort of battle, and he did not want to be embroiled in a war of
words this evening.
As he turned, he nearly bumped into a man who wore the uniform of
an English infantry corporal. Creighton nodded when the corporal asked
if Captain Marshall would come with him. Looking wistfully at the table
where wine waited, Creighton followed.
The corporal stopped suddenly and, snapping to attention,
intoned, "Dmitri Dmitrieff."
Creighton's eyes widened as he looked at the man coming to his
feet. This was not the hulking bear of a man he had expected. Above a
red coat garishly decorated with gold trim, blond curls surrounded a
slender face and accented almond- shaped blue eyes. Dmitrieff might be a
superb commander and an unparalleled master with the sword he wore hooked
to the crimson sash at his waist, but the top of his head barely reached
past Creighton's chin.
The count nodded ever so slightly toward Creighton. Only the
arch of a single eyebrow suggested the count was amused by Creighton's
reaction.
Determined not to give away any of his other thoughts, Creighton
said formally, "Welcome to London, Count Dmitrieff. I am your host,
Creighton Marshall, Captain."
"You are Lord Ashcroft as well, I believe," he replied in nearly
perfect English. His tenor voice suggested he was a lad as lief a
well-tried warrior.
"I prefer informality in my household."
"Then Marshall it shall be."
He thought he heard a hint of humor in the count's voice, but the
shorter man's face remained somber. Noting that the man wore his riding
gloves, he said, "I would be glad to escort you to Berkeley Square at
your leisure."
"Then let us take our leave. I have suffered enough of these
stilted proprieties for today. I trust my comments bring you no insult."
"None. I learned many months ago that I would be wise to leave
politics and its intricacies to those who delight in them. I have brandy
and cigars waiting at my home. Let us enjoy them instead."
The count turned, and a man, who was even taller than Creighton,
appeared out of the shadows. This man matched Creighton's image of a
Russian count. He wore a full brush of beard, and he was as muscular as
a bear. His uniform was a quiet version of the count's.
"My aide, Sergeant Zass," the count said. "He, of course,
travels everywhere with me."
"Of course."
Creighton motioned for the count to lead the way to the door but
glanced at Colonel Carruthers, who flashed him a grin. The colonel had
been right. The count and he had something in common already, for they
both looked upon functions such as this with distaste. Colonel
Carruthers was going to be even more insufferable now as he crowed about
how correct he had been.
*** *** ***
With an ease that bespoke his reputation as a cavalryman, Count
Dmitrieff mounted the extra horse Creighton had brought. "An excellent
animal," he said, patting the chestnut's neck.
"He is yours to use as you wish during your stay."
"I am even more in your debt."
Creighton thought he saw a twinkle of delight in the count's
eyes, but the shorter man's face remained impassive. Behind them,
Sergeant Zass swung onto a black horse brought to him by a stableboy.
The large man, whose face was nearly hidden in that untrimmed hedge of
beard, had said nothing. Creighton wondered if he understood English.
Although he waited for Dmitrieff to speak again, the ride back to
Berkeley Square passed in silence. The street was far from quiet with
the rattle of wagon wheels and all the hubbub of Picadilly Street. Even
when they turned onto Berkeley Street and rode around the square to the
west side, the count said nothing.
The silence began to vex Creighton as he escorted his guest
through the wide foyer of his townhouse and up the stairs. Zass followed
like a malevolent shadow. Creighton saw the household turn to watch the
two strangers with disquiet straining their polite smiles.
Creighton led the way into his book-room. The mahogany furniture
was covered with heavy, dark green fabric that was intended to invite his
guests to relax and enjoy some cordial conversation. He waited for the
shorter man to select a chair. Creighton kept his smile in place, but
annoyance pinched him when Count Dmitrieff took Creighton's favorite
chair as Zass went to sit in a corner. Shadows seemed to be his
preferred milieu.
Selecting a seat opposite the count's chair, Creighton stretched
out his feet on a stool. He shifted irritably. This was definitely not
as cozy a chair as his own. When Mrs. Winchell bustled in with a tray
holding glasses and a bottle of Creighton's best brandy, he saw the
housekeeper was trying not to stare at his guests. He thanked her and
waited until she backed hastily out of the room, clearly intimidated by
the odd quiet.
Pouring two glasses, Creighton held out one to the count. The
man turned to pass it to his sergeant. Creighton hid his surprise. He
had heard tales of how cruelly Russian officers treated their men, but
Dmitrieff must not fit that mold. Offering the other glass to the count,
he rose to get a third glass from the sideboard by the hearth.
"So what do you think of London?" he asked, determined to put an
end to the silence.
"I have seen little of it," the count replied, "but it seems a
fine city. I must express my thanks to you, as a representative of
England, for hosting us."
"Your czar will be a guest of my Regent." He added a bit more
brandy to the glass he had poured for himself. He suspected he would
need it to get himself through this conversation. Taking a deep drink,
he said, "It is time to celebrate the war being over." He splashed more
brandy into the goblet and raised it. "To peace."
The count lifted his glass to his lips, then lowered it.
"England is fortunate to have been spared the destruction that was left
after we tossed the French out of Russia."
"Winter did more to defeat Boney than the czar's army." He
opened a box of cigars and offered it to the count.
Dmitrieff took one and sniffed it. With a hint of a smile, he
passed it to his sergeant.
Creighton forced his smile to remain in place. Blast this
Russian count to perdition! These cigars were too costly to be wasted on
the palate of a Russian bear who could hardly appreciate their fine leaf.
When Dmitrieff waved aside the box, Creighton wondered if the count
deemed the cigars beneath his touch.
He cursed silently as he stuck a twig in the fire and used it to
light a cheroot. Puffing thick smoke, he tossed the kindling back onto
the hearth. His irritation crept into his voice. "If summer had been
upon Russia when Boney's men arrived, the ending might have been far
different. Snow makes a hero of any man."
The count motioned for Zass to light his own cigar before saying,
"Odd, for there were no heroes among the French."
"Touché, if I may use that Froggish term." He smiled in spite of
himself. "I withdraw my comment."
"Do not." The count hesitated, as if searching for the words he
wanted in English. A hint of a smile brightened his serious face, but it
was gone so swiftly Creighton wondered if he had seen it. "You are
correct, Marshall. If it had not been for the blessing of Russia's
fearsome winter, I fear we might, even now, be bowing our heads to a
French emperor."
"The Allies would not have allowed that."
"The Allies were distant when the French marched across my
homeland."
Creighton had no quick answer. It was true. For most of the
campaign, the Russian army had stood alone against the French scourge.
The Allies had harried Boney's army's flank, but their efforts had been
no more effective than a terrier teasing a maddened bull. "The war is
over now," he said, then wished he had not uttered the trite words.
"I find that unlikely."
"Do you?"
Dmitrieff did not recoil from his sharp question. "Napoleon had
ambitions to meld all of Europe into his empire. Do you think he will be
happy with a mere island?"
"Your general does not share your convictions on this subject.
He would as lief say that Napoleon has little choice."
"There are always choices, Marshall, although we may wish to
think otherwise." He put his brandy down, unfinished. "I hope General
Miloradovich is correct. Let the rest of our battles be fought by
diplomats."
Creighton considered asking the count if he found the brandy not
to his taste, but refrained. "I think you shall find London has many
entertainments planned in preparation for your czar's visit. For
example, tomorrow evening there will be a gathering at Lady Eltonville's
townhouse on Soho Square. Her hurricanes are always amusing, with music
and conversation."
"Dancing is a skill I have never mastered."
For a moment, Creighton thought his guest was jesting, but no
smile eased the stern lines of the count's face. He never had met such a
controlled man. The only time the count's face became animated was when
he spoke of the war. Creighton had thought he was done with zealots, but
Dmitrieff was the worst he had met. The damned war was over! Let it be
buried as the dead had been.
He downed his brandy, then said, "There are other choices of how
to pass the evening. Cards, if you prefer a quieter entertainment."
"Then you English are unlike us Russians. Gambling is not a
'quiet' pastime for us. We roar when we win and roar when we lose."
"Mayhap I should have said a less complicated entertainment, for
there is no worry if you have complimented your lady companion or the
need to speak with the dowagers."
"I shall leave such obligations to my superiors." The count
smiled, astounding Creighton. "General Miloradovich is a fool. He
thinks himself a great favorite with the ladies, but, in truth, he cannot
see his own faults. That may be the reason he was such a dreadful
presence during battle. He could know no fear when he never considered
he might lose. So he is a hero."
"As you are."
"And you." Dmitrieff leaned forward and asked, "What deeds did
you do to win that title?"
Creighton put his glass on the sideboard. No matter what he
said, the count turned the conversation back to the war. The Russian had
avoided answering any direct question he had asked. Instead, Dmitrieff
preferred speaking of battle and diplomacy — two topics Creighton
wished to hear no more of.
His silence must have been colder than he had thought because the
count set himself on his feet and said, "I believe it is time for me to
retire."
At the same time, Sergeant Zass stood. Creighton had forgotten
the man was sitting in the corner. "I shall have you shown to your
rooms. Your sergeant is welcome to stay with my servants on the top
floor."
"Thank you," the count replied.
Creighton dropped into his own chair as soon as Mrs. Winchell had
led his guests out of the book-room. What a bumble-bath! This was going
to be worse than intolerable. He had changed his mind. He had very
little in common with that blasted count!
Silence threatened to suffocate him again. Usually he enjoyed
the serenity of his house, but he could not when he should be acting a
good host to his guest.
With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet. He stubbed out what
remained of his cigar, then went into the hallway. Seeing Mrs. Winchell
scurrying toward him, he asked, "Are they settled?"
"Yes, my lord." When she added nothing else, he knew she was
disturbed by their guests, too.
"You put the count in the blue room?"
"Yes, my lord. The other one is using James's room."
He nodded. It was appropriate for the footman to give up his
room for the servant of a guest. "Very good, Mrs. Winchell."
"My lord?" she called as he turned to climb the stairs. "He's a
strange one, isn't he?"
"Sergeant Zass?"
She shook her head and brushed her hands nervously against her
dark gown. "No, my lord. The other one. Not at all like I'd thought a
Russian to be. Kind of puny and..." She paused, her mouth twisting
before she added, "He is strange. Something is not right with him."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean no disrespect," she said, and he knew his tone had been
too sharp.
"Of course not. Just say what you wish to say, Mrs. Winchell.
You know I trust your judgment."
"I don't know what I want to say." She shrugged, and a sheepish
smile brightened her thin face. "Just something peculiar about him."
Creighton wanted to agree, but he should not be speaking about
his guest like this. Bidding Mrs. Winchell a good evening, he went up
the stairs. He strode along the Persian runner on the floor, which shone
in the candlelight from sconces by each door.
Taking off his coat, he loosened his cravat. He stuffed it and
his stiff collar into his pocket and undid the top buttons on his shirt.
A good night's sleep should prepare him for another day of hosting these
odd Russians.
As he passed the door to the blue guest room, he hesitated. A
good host would be certain his guest was settled well for the night.
With a sigh, as he hoped this would not turn into another conversation
about the damned war, he rapped and swung the door open. "Dmitrieff, if
— "
Creighton choked as he stared at the slim silhouette by the bed.
The gentle curves belonged to no man or boy. He wanted to deny the
truth, but it was impossible.
Count Dmitri Dmitrieff was a woman!© 1997
***
*About the author: The Counterfeit Count is Jo Ann Ferguson's 11th title for Zebra Regency. She has also sold historicals to Harper and Tudor and a romantic suspense
to M. Evans. Her books have been nominated for awards from Romantic
Times, Rom/Con, and Romy as well as appearing on best seller lists in the
US and abroad. Her western historical, Under the Outlaw Moon, has been
optioned for theatrical release by Paramour Productions. She has served
Romance Writers of America on the national board for 4 years. Her next
releases are "Spellbound" in Spellbound Hearts (October 1997 -- Zebra
Regency Halloween Anthology), Rhyme & Reason -- Zebra Regency 2/98 and A
Model Marriage -- Zebra Regency 8/98. She also has received a
Massachusetts Arts Grant to teach creative writing and taught "How to
Write the Romance" at Brown University. Write to Jo Ann Ferguson
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