Imposter Bride (15 page)

“It
is
a damnable world!” she moaned into the
pillow, squeezing it with all her strength. “Damnable!”

Ramsay set his drink on top of his chest of drawers
and wearily unbuttoned his waistcoat, thinking of Sophie with every
button he unfastened, surprised and alarmed at how thoroughly she
could arouse him, and how easily he had succumbed to her sweet
mouth, her kind eyes, and her quick intelligence. She seemed so
attuned to him. Sometimes he didn’t even have to speak, and she
could read his glance. Not often in his life had he encountered
such a strong connection with another human being, especially with
a woman.

Why the devil had he kissed her? She, like any
female he’d encountered, would want to know the reason for such a
startling turn of events. She would certainly question him at the
first opportunity. What would he tell her? That he had wanted to
kiss her from the moment he’d seen her? Such a response would seem
shallow and self-serving. Should he tell her that he had wanted to
kiss her since she’d convinced him to dance and cajoled him into
enjoying himself, that her lively company was a pleasure he’d never
known in his life, that he didn’t quite know how to react? Such an
explanation would seem unlikely coming from a man of his
experience. She’d laugh at him, might accuse him of lying.

Would she believe him if he told her that he had
wanted comfort this evening, that more than anything he had wanted
to be held in someone’s arms, to assure him that things
could
go right in the bloody damn world they lived in?

But that wasn’t altogether true either. He had
wanted to embrace Sophie long before Molly MacRell had appeared
this evening.

Would Sophie believe that it had seemed right to
kiss her, even though they had known each other only a handful of
days? That it had seemed the perfect thing to do? And that it had
felt just as perfect?

Yet he had shocked her. It had been obvious by her
reaction. Ramsay scowled and finished his drink. He had taken a
grave misstep, whatever his wants and desires. Sophie was a guest
in his home, off limits to him and far too innocent. He could just
imagine introducing himself to her grandmother, saying, “Yes,
madam, I’m Ian Ramsay, the nice gentleman who ravished your
granddaughter while she stayed in my home.” He should have
practiced better self-control, no matter the reasons for his kiss,
and would tell Sophie as much should she inquire.

He prayed she would say nothing. Perhaps if he made
himself scarce, she would let his indiscretion pass. Ramsay
unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt. He could make himself scarce by
spending all his time at the club. He could return to his old
routine. Easily.

Ramsay threw his shirt on a chair and frowned at
himself in the nearby looking glass where evidence of his arousal
was still plain to see, now that he’d removed his long waistcoat.
What a bastard. He couldn’t stay away from Sophie Vernet any more
than he could bow to the English. Who was he trying to fool? But
somehow, he must.

Ramsay made certain he vacated the premises in short
order the next morning, and even earlier than usual. Mrs. Betrus
had not yet risen, and darkness still shrouded the streets as he
set off for Maxwell’s, intending to fill his day and most of the
night with profitable work. He forced himself to keep his mind
occupied with business and not the image of the tousled-haired
beauty he had left behind sleeping in his house.

His blood rose at the mere thought of Sophie. Ramsay
slapped his horse to a canter, trying to outdistance the images of
her that hung in his mind. He rode through the slush, unmindful of
the muddy drops kicked up that splattered his boots and cloak.

For hours he worked at the club, a cup of coffee
near at hand, until Puckett showed up at nine. He heard his
assistant clatter by his doorway and hailed him.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Come in for a moment, Puckett.”

“Sir?”

“Whatever happened to the investigation you were
conducting on that murderess?”

“The Sophie Vernet character?”

“The same.” Ramsay lifted his cup, determined to
appear nonchalant. He took a drink, although the coffee had lost
much of its delicious heat.

“I shall need to get my notes, Captain.”

“Do so and return at your earliest convenience.”

Puckett came back in a few minutes with a sheaf of
papers in his hand and a pair of spectacles perched on the end of
his thin nose. Ramsay gazed up at him, marveling at how large
Puckett’s eyes looked behind the small rectangular lenses, while
the slight man reviewed the information in front of him.

“Well?” Ramsay prodded, trying not to betray his
impatience.

“The weather has impeded our progress somewhat,”
Puckett began, “But this is what my agents and I have managed to
uncover.”

“Sit. And continue.”

Puckett sank to the seat of a wingback chair
upholstered in maroon leather near Ramsay’s massive desk and held
the papers in front of his face.

“Sophie Vernet, maidservant of Katherine Hinds, has
no apparent family or connections in England. There’s not much
information on her background.”

Ramsay frowned and shook his head. “What about the
murder? What transpired?”

Puckett shifted the papers to the next page. “Well,
that involved an actor by the name of Jean Coutain, a young and by
all reports, quite attractive man.”

“Found where?”

“In a carriage house on the Metcalf property in
Kensington.”

“His residence?”

“Apparently not. Just a place of assignation.”

“For whom?”

“Not for Miss Vernet. Or for any woman,” Puckett
stared over the tops of his thick lenses, “If you get my
meaning.”

Ramsay nodded.

“This Coutain character had quite a following and
ran with a wealthy crowd. Very select.”

“What was his connection with the Metcalfs?”

“No one knows. None of the Metcalfs were at home the
night of the murder.”

“And what is Miss Vernet’s connection in all of
it?”

“Sophie Vernet called at Blethin Hall to deliver a
note that very same evening. Apparently she was spotted going into
the carriage house by one of the servants, just before the murder
took place.”

“Back to the victim. How was he killed?”

“Strangled by a silk scarf. And apparently there
were some knife wounds in an indiscreet location.”

“Indiscreet location? Speak plainly, man.”

“It’s indelicate, sir.”

“Sweet Jesus!” Ramsay swore, jumping to his feet.
“So the authorities say an innocent nineteen-year-old lass, barely
over five feet tall, strangled a man in his prime and shoved a
dagger up his ass—all for a diamond buckle?”

Puckett stared at him, two patches of color flaring
on his cheeks. “Yes, sir. That’s what they’re saying.”

“And I’m Betty Martin.” Ramsay paced to the fire and
back, more agitated than he’d been in years, made more frustrated
by the fact that he could do nothing for Sophie without endangering
his own agenda.

“Is there more?” he inquired, running his hand over
his hair.

“I’m afraid not.”

“She did the only logical thing,” Ramsay mused. “She
went into hiding.” Good for Sophie. He was glad she had fallen into
his hands. He looked down at his assistant. “Any information
regarding the real killer?”

“None. No one saw a thing. Coutain was
discreet.”

Ramsay nodded and rubbed his jaw. “Very good,
Puckett. Keep at it.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And Miss Hinds’ governess?”

“Still nothing. We are assuming she perished in the
fire.”

“But no proof of that.”

“None to speak of.”

“Well, have done with that, then.” Ramsay sank back
down in his chair. “Miss Hinds’ grandmother should arrive in London
soon anyway.”

Puckett stood and cleared his throat. “May I comment
on Miss Hinds, sir?”

Surprised, Ramsay glanced up at him, “Yes?”

“Are you certain you wish to see her married off to
Metcalf, sir? She’s such a lovely young lady. Surely you must
realize the wedding will be no more than throwing a lamb to the
lions.”

“It has been arranged already,” Ramsay said,
clenching his jaw. “And is out of my control.”

“But, Captain Ramsay, surely you could—”

Ramsay cut him off with an impatient wave of his
hand. “I will not intervene further. I tried and was flatly
refused.”

Puckett bowed slightly, chastened into a disgruntled
silence.

“That will be all, Mr. Puckett.”

Ramsay watched his assistant walk to the door, his
back stiff, his heels ringing on the wood floor, the staccato of
his steps relaying his displeasure. In spite of himself, Ramsay had
to smile. Sophie had unknowingly won over the tight-lipped, ever
proper Mr. Puckett, which was no small feat. Had she any idea the
power of her charms?

That was the most engaging aspect of her
personality. Her absolute ingenuousness. How he wanted her soft
smile to continue to light up his too dark evenings and his too
serious life.

Ramsay’s smile faded as he reached for his quill. It
was not half past nine, and he was thinking already of the night to
come.

After an afternoon nap, Sophie ventured out of her
bedchamber and walked down the stairs, realizing that her burned
feet were much better and hardly hurt at all. Except for the ugly
line on her arm, she was almost as good as new.

“There you are,” Mrs. Betrus called from the parlor,
where she dusted the furniture with an oiled cloth. “Did you have a
nice rest, Miss Hinds?”

“Yes, thank you.” Sophie wandered across the hall to
the parlor doorway, taking in the sparse furnishings, and wondering
why no one ever spent any time in the room.

Captain Ramsay certainly didn’t believe in homey
surroundings. A settee and two chairs made up the main elements of
the room, along with the harpsichord in the corner. Not one
painting or print graced the walls. The mantel was a bare expanse
of polished mahogany, and the floor was gleaming expanse of planks
unadorned with carpets. Mrs. Betrus’s job wouldn’t take long to
complete in such Spartan quarters.

“The earl called and left his card while you were
sleeping.”

“Oh.” She was glad to have missed him.

“He seemed put out that you weren’t available, and
said that he would call again at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.
He requested quite sharply that you make yourself available.”

Sophie frowned. She didn’t care for Lord Metcalf’s
impatience. He seemed spoiled and pampered, and acted as if the
world had been created to please him. She felt no compulsion to
prove him right.

“Do you have any requests for supper?” The
housekeeper hobbled toward the harpsichord. “That fowl you made was
such a delight. And I had merely the left over bits. I can only
imagine what the dinner was like.”

“I was thinking of a meat pie,” Sophie’s replied.
“Perhaps with a custard for dessert. What do you think?”

“My custards are like paste,” Mrs. Betrus admitted,
shaking her head.

“I know of a recipe for a custard that melts in your
mouth.” Sophie walked to the settee. “If you’d like, I’d be happy
to help with dinner. I would love to have something to do.”

“Getting bored, poor dear?” Mrs. Betrus asked.

“A little,” Sophie lied. She hadn’t been bored since
she’d stepped foot in the townhouse. Having kind people around and
time on her hands was a luxury she had never known. After having
spent her entire life doing Katherine Hind’s bidding, she now felt
as if she were on holiday. She enjoyed her stolen moments at the
townhouse, and the captain’s mysterious and provocative company
made it all the more stimulating.

“Well, I can always use help in the kitchen, as long
as the captain don’t complain about it.”

“I don’t think he will.” Sophie smiled to herself,
certain that he would appreciate a different menu than the one to
which he was usually subjected.

She glanced from the settee, pushed against the wall
opposite the fireplace, to the harpsichord and back.

“I know why this room is never used,” she began.

Mrs. Betrus stopped dusting and straightened.
“Why?”

“Has the furniture always been positioned like
this?”

“It’s the way it was when I came here.”

“Well, it’s not very inviting.” Sophie put a finger
to her lips, imagining how the room would look with a more intimate
grouping, a carpet, a case of books.

Mrs. Betrus hobbled up beside her. “I don’t think
the captain cares how it looks.”

Sophie shook her head. “I don’t think he
notices
.” She walked briskly to the doorway. “I’m going to
have Charles help me move things.”

“What? And change the room?”

“It will be a vast improvement, Mrs. Betrus. Just
you wait.”

“But what’ll Captain Ramsay say? What if he don’t
like it?”

“I’ll worry about that.”

She left Mrs. Betrus clucking her tongue and
clutching the dusting rag as if for protection.

By teatime, the parlor was transformed. The settee
and chairs were pulled into a cluster before the fire, all sitting
upon a slightly worn but still serviceable oriental carpet they had
found rolled in the attic. Charles had been sent to fetch a book
cabinet, which they loaded with the books from Sophie’s chamber.
The secretary, whose high shelf had blocked the light from the
window, was moved to a corner of the room beneath a wall sconce,
where it seemed more logical to retire and write. The harpsichord
was carefully rolled out of the shadows to a more prominent
position near the window. The extra side table from the hall
upstairs was brought down, topped with a linen cloth, and a
collection of silver that Mrs. Betrus had been storing in the
pantry for lack of a place to display it.