Defiant Impostor (28 page)

"Susanna Guthrie?" he prompted. "Your
father never told me much about her, just her name."

"Yes," she replied, unsettled to hear her
true name on his lips.

"Go on, I'm listening."

"I've . . . I've had nightmares about that story
ever since. I don't know why, maybe because it was so horrible."

"What story?"

Susanna drew a deep breath, realizing she was about to
skirt dangerously close to the truth.

"My waiting-maid had a terrible, wretched
childhood . . . Aunt Melicent and I saved her from London's slums, you know.
Her father, Daniel Guthrie, used to beat her mercilessly. My aunt told me she
had the most awful bruises and lash marks upon her skin when we found
her." She licked her lips as awful memories flooded her mind, unnerving
sights and putrid smells. "One day, Susanna finally admitted to me what
had happened on the night she was almost run over by our carriage. Her father
sold her to a man named Keefer Dunn." She met Adam's eyes. "She was
only twelve, Adam. An innocent young girl. Her father wanted her to . . . to .
. ."

"I understand now, Camille," he broke in
gently, kneeling in front of her and taking her shaking hands in his large,
warm ones. "You don't have to tell me any more if you don't want to."

"She ran away," Susanna continued numbly,
unable to stop, "and her father tried to catch her. She ran into the
street . . . there was a carriage, my—my Aunt Melicent's carriage. Keefer Dunn
pushed her out of the way, rolling with her to the side of the road, but her father
was crushed beneath the wheels. That—that gruesome man would have . . . oh,
Adam, Keefer Dunn would have taken her with him if my aunt hadn't stopped the
carriage . . ."

Tears burning her eyes, Susanna felt his arms go around
her as he pulled her close.

"Shhh, love. No wonder you have nightmares,"
he said soothingly, then his voice fell to a vehement whisper. "God damn
to hell's fire all the bastards like that in the world. Damn them. Damn them
all!"

A weighty silence fell between them as Susanna gradually
regained her composure, the images that had suddenly become so vividly real
retreating once more to a small, locked corner of her mind. Soon she was aware
only of the warmth of Adam's embrace and the strong, steady beat of his heart
against her breast.

"I'll help you chase those nightmares away, my
love," he finally said as he drew back to stare deeply into her eyes. As
he cradled her face in his hands, his voice throbbed with fervent intensity.
"I would die before I let anything or anyone hurt you. I love you,
Camille. Do you hear me? I love you."

Susanna's own heartbeat seemed to stop as she regarded
him, dumbstruck. A stirring memory of sweet contentment, a protective embrace,
a husky whisper flashed through her mind, and stark realization gripped her.

Last night . . . those words . . . they hadn't been a
dream. Adam must have said them . . . he must have said them!

She started when she felt his lips, warm and tender,
shape hers in the sweetest kiss she had ever known. For a long, breathless
moment she gave back to him what he was giving her, surrendering to the wonder
of his mouth upon hers, their breath melding as one. Then something snapped
inside her. She was sure it was her heart breaking.

For even if he loved her, and she was beginning to
believe that he did, in spite of everything her better judgment was telling
her, he was the wrong man.

Even if she loved him, and she knew now that she did,
their situation had not changed . . .
could
not change. Adam Thornton was a hired man, a man who owned nothing, a man who
would never be what Lady Redmayne and Camille had intended as the master of
Briarwood. No matter what lay in Susanna's heart, she could not betray her duty
to them. She had sworn to marry wisely! Tomorrow she would become betrothed to
the right man, a gentleman who would help her fulfill Camille's dying wish. A
man who possessed wealth and prominence. A man she did not love . . .

Adam rose suddenly and, drawing her with him, embraced
her for endless moments before pulling away to search her face.

"Are you happy that we're going to be wed,
Camille?" he asked huskily, his eyes reflecting the same poignant
vulnerability she had seen on the night of her welcome ball. "You accepted
our courtship so readily, I know in part to honor your father's wishes, but I
believe that you truly care . . . about us, about me. Are you happy, my
love?"

Dying inside, Susanna opened her mouth to lie once
again when approaching footsteps sounded upon the parquet floor in the entrance
hall. Before Adam could stop her, she broke away form him, knowing that he
would never again hold her so closely, or kiss her, or say those three words to
her. For if he loved her now, tomorrow he would surely hate her. She would be
betrothed to another man.

The footsteps stopped and when a soft knock came at the
door, she hastened to open it.

"Oh! Forgive me, Miss Camille," Ertha
exclaimed in surprise, stepping back and abruptly pulling her right arm behind
her back, as if to conceal something. Her wide-eyed gaze skipped to Adam and
then back again to Susanna. "I came to talk to Mr. Thornton. Prue told me
I'd find him here, but I thought you had already retired for the night. Prue
said she heard that you were only going to be in the library for a few moments—"

"I was just leaving, Ertha," Susanna broke
in, wondering at the housekeeper's strange behavior. Why was she studying her
face so intently, as if seeing her for the first time?

"You don't have to go, Miss Cary," she heard
Adam say firmly behind her. "I'd like it very much if we continued our
business discussion. I'm sure whatever Ertha has to say can wait until
morning."

"Oh, yes, of course it can wait," the
housekeeper blurted, looking extremely uncomfortable. "I'm sorry I
interrupted you, Miss Camille. Tomorrow morning will be fine . . ."

"That won't be necessary," she insisted,
brushing past her into the hall. "I have to rise early if I'm going to be
ready by the time Matthew and Celeste Grymes arrive."

As Ertha sharply wheeled around so that her back was to
the paneled wall, her arm still twisted behind her, Susanna wondered again what
was the matter with the woman. Then her desire to flee Adam's compelling
presence overcame her. Bidding them both a hasty good night, she escaped up the
stairs.

***

Adam closed the door to the library, his gaze narrowed
as he studied the silent housekeeper. Damn, if he and Camille weren't forever
being interrupted in this house!

He moved to the front of the desk, attempting not to
sound too irritated. He knew the housekeeper had meant no harm. "All
right, Ertha, what did you want to speak to me about?"

"Well, Mr. Thornton, I didn't know if I should
bring this to your attention. It might not mean a thing . . ."

"Bring what to my attention?" he demanded,
watching as she drew what looked to be a rolled piece of parchment from behind
her back.

"This."

As she handed him the cylinder, he saw that it wasn't
parchment at all but stiff, fine-grained canvas such as artists used for oil
paintings.

"It's a portrait, Mr. Thornton," Ertha added
in a nervous rush. "I found it in Miss Camille's closet when I went up
there yesterday to put away the things she bought in Yorktown. I was setting
her new hat up on the shelf when another hatbox fell to the floor. A straw
bonnet tumbled out and along with it came this canvas. I can't say for sure,
but I think this painting was hidden beneath a false bottom."

Adam carefully unrolled the canvas, his breath catching
as the portrait of a pretty, emerald-eyed woman was revealed.

For a fleeting instant he thought it was Camille, but
on a second look, he doubted his initial judgment. The features were similar
but not remarkably so. The main resemblance lay in the color of the eyes and in
the hair, which was honey-blonde and worn in the same style, swept back from
the forehead and tumbling in ringlets over the woman's shoulders and down her
back. Then he wondered if it might indeed be a portrait of Camille, but
executed by an artist who had failed to accurately capture her features.

"I don't understand, Ertha. It looks to be Miss
Cary, not the best portrait of her, I agree, but it is her."

"That's what I thought, but not anymore. Too many
things are different," the housekeeper said, appearing confused herself.
"This woman's expression is calm and peaceful, but Miss Camille's is
always so lively, even on that first day when she came to the house. And look
how this woman holds her hands, so restful-like. I noticed early on that Miss
Camille doesn't seem to like to sit still much. Look at the tilt of this woman's
chin and that gentle smile. Everything's different, I tell you. Don't you see
it, Mr. Thornton?"

"Yes, I suppose I do, but I still don't understand
what you're trying to say—"

"This is my baby! I know it! I remember her as
clear as the day she left for England. My little Camille was always a quiet,
reserved child, and this portrait shows that the years hadn't changed
her." Ertha sighed with exasperation, as if knowing she was making little
sense. "I didn't realize how completely different Miss Camille was until I
saw this picture."

"Ertha . . ." Adam began, his head beginning
to hurt. What the hell kind of nonsense was she uttering?

"Please hear me out, Mr. Thornton," she
insisted, her deeply lined face anxious. "I don't know what all of this
means and, God knows I could be wrong, but I believe there's something strange
afoot here at Briarwood. Something in my bones is telling me that the young
lady upstairs is not the rightful Miss Camille Cary."

Now Adam's head was actually pounding. He wondered if
the frantic preparations for Camille's welcome ball had pushed the housekeeper
into hysteria.

"You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"Not crazy, Ertha. Just overtired." Adam
chose his next words carefully. He didn't want to offend her. He knew there
wasn't a more faithful servant at Briarwood than this woman.

"We've had a lot of upheaval here during the past
months," he continued. "Mr. Cary's death and then Miss Cary's arrival
home. I'm not saying you're imagining things, Ertha. You've a right to your feelings.
But this idea of yours is impossible. The portrait is a bad one, it's as simple
as that. I suggest you have the other maids take on some of your duties for a
few weeks so you can get some extra rest."

The housekeeper heaved another sigh, suddenly looking
much older than her years as she shrugged wearily. "Lord help me, maybe I
am overtired, saying such foolish things," she muttered almost to herself,
then she met Adam's eyes. "I'm sorry, Mr. Thornton. Must be my age finally
catching up with me." She glanced at the partially rolled canvas in his
hands. "I'll put the painting back in the bottom of that hatbox tomorrow
morning after you both leave for the Tates'. If Miss Camille wants it there,
then it must be for some good reason."

"Leave it in here for the night," Adam
suggested gently. "There's no sense in taking it all the way to your cabin
and then bringing it back again." He nodded at the desk. "I'll put it
in the top left-hand drawer."

"As you say, Mr. Thornton. I'm sorry to have
troubled you."

As Ertha left the library, Adam sat down behind the
desk and, shaking his head over everything he had just heard, he unrolled the
painting again.

After studying it carefully, he came to the same
conclusion. Whatever artist had done the work certainly didn't deserve the
money he must have been paid for it. Camille's true likeness hadn't been
captured at all. He turned over the canvas, looking for the name of the
incompetent portraitist since none was visible on the painting itself.

His heart lurched painfully in his chest when he saw an
inscription in the lower right corner, written in a skillful, feminine hand. It
wasn't the message itself that had caught him by surprise, making him feel a
little sick inside. It simply read
To my
dearest father, a gift with all my love.

He traced his finger in disbelief over the closing,
Your beloved daughter, Camille
, then
quickly pulled from his coat pocket the note Camille had left for him that
morning. Laying the paper next to the inscription, he felt an eerie intuition in
the pit of his stomach.

The handwriting was similar, neat and delicate, almost
as if taught by the same teacher. But the two signatures were different, one
smoothly executed while the other appeared awkward beside it.

Something told him that they could not have been
written by the same hand.

Chapter 16

"Here's the apple cider you wanted, Miss
Cary."

Susanna smiled brightly as Matthew Grymes handed her
the brimming cup, although inside she was a bundle of raw nerves. Scarcely
listening as he joined with the other young men seated around her in animated
conversation about the races that would begin shortly, she glanced out over the
crowded side lawn of the Tates' Georgian mansion.

Where was Dominick? she wondered with growing
agitation. It had taken the Grymes's carriage only an hour and a half to reach
this plantation, situated on the James River a few miles south of Williamsburg.
She knew Dominick had a greater distance to travel from his home, but he had
said he was also planning to leave at nine o'clock, which should have ensured
his arrival by now. It was almost noon.

Could it be that some unexpected business at Raven's
Point had prevented him from leaving on time? Maybe he wasn't going to make it
at all. That would mean their betrothal announcement must wait until another
day. Oh, bloody hell, she hoped not!