Imposter Bride (24 page)

A small black carriage waited at the side of the
road. She was thrust inside, where one of the men sat across from
her, and the other jumped on the back. She heard the driver whistle
to the horses and with a jerk, the coach rolled forward.

Sophie knew it was useless to speak to the surly man
sitting on the opposite seat. Shadows bathed his face, and his hat
concealed much of his head. All she could see plainly in the light
of the small carriage lamp was the gleaming pistol perched on his
knee.

For a good half hour the carriage raced through the
streets, but Sophie had no idea in which direction they traveled,
for all the windows were closed and the curtains drawn.

She was taken to a small inn at the end of a long
narrow lane. The man in front of her opened the door and motioned
her inside, while the man at her elbow gave her a cruel shove. She
stumbled forward, over the threshold, and they dragged her down a
cramped hallway to a dark private parlor with a meager fire burning
in the grate. A thin man dressed in black stood beside the fire and
turned when Sophie stumbled into the room, having been shoved once
more by her rough companions.

Sophie wasn’t surprised to see the face of Constable
Keener. He had captured her at last.

“Miss Vernet,” the constable began, rolling off the
syllables of her name as if announcing her to a crowd. He watched
her closely. Did he expect her to blush?

“You have ill-treated me, sir,” she said, refusing
to show her fear of him. She stared at him at him directly.

“Have I?” He stepped behind her, trapping her
between the door and the fire, making it plain that he blocked any
route of escape. “I believe it is you who have ill-treated me,
wasting much of my valuable time all these weeks.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t play games!” he spat. “I haven’t the time
for trifling!”

He glanced at her cloak. “Take it off!” he
demanded.

“I will not.” She fell back a step.

“Then I shall tear it off.” The whites of his eyes
showed in anger. Still, she forced herself to remain calm.

“Sir, when my mistress hears of this—”

“Have off with the charade. Your mistress doesn’t
care if you live or die.”

Sophie raised her chin, trying not to flinch at his
harsh words, however true they were.

“Now for the last time, take off the cloak.”

He glared at her until she knew she must obey him.
Slowly, she unbuttoned her cloak and drew it off her shoulders.

“And the gloves.” He watched her impatiently. What
was he going to do?

Swallowing back her fright, she carefully peeled off
her gloves.

As soon as her gloves were off, the constable
grabbed her right wrist and twisted it until she cried out in pain.
He dragged her to the light of the fire where he satisfied himself
with the sight of the red line that still marked her forearm.

His face and neck puffed with triumph. He threw off
her arm as if she had the pox.

“I didn’t do it!” Sophie cried. “The real murderer
tried to kill me!”

“I’ve no time for your lies, Miss Vernet.”

“I’m not lying! Why would I have killed that poor
man? I didn’t even know him!”

“A witness swears you were there, and that you
robbed Jean Coutain. You are a maidservant, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“And not well treated by your mistress.”

Sophie remained silent.

“You arrive in London, unhappy, frustrated. I’ll
wager you had a few thoughts about starting a new life, escaping
from your servitude, didn’t you? But you needed money.”

Sophie refused to look at him, sure that her burning
cheeks would betray her. He had guessed her very thoughts, but had
misjudged her character. She would never steal to make her way, and
certainly not from a dead man.

What had happened to Jean Coutain was no bungled
robbery, but a twisted fantasy played out to its vicious
conclusion. Who had been in the carriage house that night?

Sophie stood before the fire, lightly rubbing her
skin where the constable’s grip had chafed her, and wondered what
he was going to do to her.

He moved up behind her, nearer this time, his
clothing smelling of fried fish. “You have one recourse in the
matter, Miss Vernet. And that is to hand over the buckle.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Oh yes, you do.”

“I don’t.”

“Then your mistress has it.”

She turned slightly, just enough to see the side of
his face. “What do you mean?”

“I have a report that your mistress visited a shop a
few weeks ago, to have a diamond buckle—very like the missing
one—assessed. What happened, Miss Vernet—did Katherine Hinds beat
the truth out of you?”

He snickered, and Sophie flushed with anger. She
clenched her fists and her jaw, never before wanting to strike a
human being as she wanted to strike this man. Keener must have
sensed her outrage, for he stepped away from her and began to pace
the floor behind her.

“Once you surrender the buckle, the authorities may
be more lenient toward you.”

“Which means?”

“You may not hang.”

Sophie thought it odd that the buckle was more
important than her capture. Was the constable in on this for more
than the salary he earned from the city? Perhaps he wanted the
buckle for himself. A man could live for a year on the proceeds
from selling the bauble.

“Might I go free if I surrender the buckle?” Sophie
asked.

The pacing stopped behind her, and she slowly
pivoted to look at the constable.

“It’s a possibility,” he answered, his eyes shifting
to the fire, “I might be able to pull some strings.”

“But what if I can’t get it back? What if my
mistress has sold it?”

“You will get it back, Miss Vernet, and relinquish
it to me, or I shall find you again. And the next time you won’t be
going anywhere but to prison, make no mistake.

“What guarantee will you offer?”

“Guarantee?” The constable sneered. “None
whatsoever.”

She studied him. She had little choice in the
matter, just as he said. But without the buckle, she had no way of
raising enough money to leave London. But at least she might have
her freedom—if she could trust the constable. Sophie stooped to
retrieve the cloak he had thrown on the floor.

“No tears?” he chided. “No weeping for mercy? I’m
impressed.”

“I assume I can leave?”

“I’ll have my men drive you home.”

“How generous.”

“You have until tomorrow at noon to return the
buckle.”

“Noon? But my mistress will thrash me if I—”

“Noon, Miss Vernet. Or I pay a visit to the Carlisle
House. I’m certain Lady Auliffe will not countenance dishonest
household help and will toss you out on your ear.”

“Where shall I make the delivery?”

“There will be someone waiting at the spot where you
were detained this evening. Do you recall where that is?”

“Yes.” How could she forget the way she had been
manhandled into the coach on her way to Ramsay’s town house?

“Be there at noon tomorrow, Miss Vernet, or it shall
go hard on you.”

Sophie hurried to the entry of the Carlisle house,
hoping no one would spot the unfamiliar carriage that dropped her
off at the street. She ran down the side drive and let herself in
at the sunroom entrance, where the chances were less likely that
she would be seen. She pushed open the door and stepped into the
quiet house, hastily taking off the mop cap and old cloak before
anyone might see her dressed as a maid.

Quickly, she climbed the stairs to her room and
walked to the chest of drawers where she kept her pockets
containing the buckle stuffed in the back of her lingerie drawer.
While she pulled out the old rumpled pockets, she caught sight of
herself in the mirror. She barely recognized the woman she saw in
the glass, and suddenly realized how much she had changed in the
past few weeks. She had altered not just in her outward
appearance—with her hair arranged in an upswept fashion and her new
finery and cosmetics—but inwardly as well. She was no longer a
girl, having experienced the attentions of two men, in addition to
living through a few traumatizing situations that had smothered the
last vestiges of the child within her.

“Where are you, Sophie Vernet?” she murmured,
tilting her head at her reflection. “And what is to become of
you?”

Worried and feeling very much alone,
s
he
hugged her arms close to her chest. Even if the buckle was returned
to the constable, she would still live under the constant threat of
exposure by him. Even if he kept silent, she would never be able to
let down her guard, and would have to continue as Katherine Hinds
unless she struck out on her own and assumed yet a third
identity.

She could still see only one recourse, that of
asking Ramsay for assistance, though the thought of him made her
stomach burn with bitterness.

Forcing Ramsay from her mind, Sophie shook the
pocket, and the buckle dropped onto her palm. She glanced at it,
realizing immediately that something was amiss. Looking at it more
closely, she noticed the bauble didn’t sparkle in the candle light
as it should. She raised her hand nearer her face, and was
mortified to discover the buckle had been replaced by a pewter
copy.

She gasped out loud and clutched the buckle in her
fist.

Who had taken her buckle? The thief who had stolen
into Ramsay’s town house? No, she had made sure the buckle was safe
that night. Who else would have had access to her things? Mrs.
Betrus? She couldn’t believe the housekeeper would have taken the
buckle, not after having foregone a good opportunity to steal it
the first night. Charles? He was never upstairs. What about Maggie?
Maybe. But the maid had seemed like a decent girl.

That left Ramsay.

Sophie splayed her fingers and stared down at the
buckle on her palm. Ramsay must have made the substitution the
night he’d left her in his bed—but why?

She frowned and heaved a frustrated sigh. With his
meddling, Ramsay had unknowingly jeopardized her life. It was
imperative now that she call upon him for more than just his help.
No matter how late it was, she would have to repeat her journey of
the evening to retrieve the missing buckle.

Just after nine o’clock, Sophie slipped out of the
house again, but this time because of the advancing hour and a
healthy concern about being abducted again, she hailed a cab when
she was well away from the Carlisle house. She instructed the
driver to take her to Ramsay’s townhouse. As the coach rolled
toward Front Street, she rehearsed what she would say to the
captain. She was extremely angry with him, but knew that anger
would not serve her well this night. As the carriage rolled closer
to the town house, she found herself growing more and more
agitated, and wondered how she would ever control herself when she
caught sight of his smug American face.

A good half hour later, the driver pulled up at the
door of the townhouse, which appeared ominously dark. Was the
captain already asleep? Or was he not at home? Surely Mrs. Betrus
must be in the house.

Sophie hurried to the door, struck by a sudden and
unexpected pang of homesickness for the place where she’d spent
some wonderful moments. She rapped on the door. No one answered.
She rapped again and listened for the sound of footsteps in the
short hallway on the other side of the entry. The house was
silent.

Perhaps Mrs. Betrus was visiting her sister and the
captain was out or still at his club. She turned, and instructed
the driver to take her to Maxwell’s.

Though she should not enter such a place unescorted,
she had no choice but to look for the captain at his club. If she
didn’t deliver the buckle tomorrow, she would face certain
ruination, a trial, and probably the gallows.

Maxwell’s was another quarter hour away. The closer
they got to the club, the tighter grew the pinched feeling in
Sophie’s stomach. Meeting Ramsay at his house was one thing,
seeking him out at his place of business was quite another. If
people saw them together, what gossip would fly? It was bad enough
that she’d slapped Edward in the park. What would he think if he
heard she had made a rendezvous with the captain?

She forced herself not to think of the social ruin
she might bring down upon herself. Besides, if all went as she
hoped, she would soon be far away from London, without a care to
what the Metcalfs thought of her.

The coach pulled to a stop in front of the
three-story building, with its symmetrical facade of twelve windows
and two graceful columns on either side of the double entry.
Liveried attendants waited at the door and were kept busy by a
constant stream of people. Light poured from every window, and even
in the street she could hear the loud hum of a crowd.

The driver came around to open her door and assist
her to the footpath.

“Welcome to Maxwell’s,” he announced.

Sophie glanced up at the lighted windows, heard the
laughter of a woman as she glided toward the entrance on the arm of
a well-dressed man, and changed her mind.

“I will not be going in,” she decided. “Would you
find the owner, Captain Ramsay, and ask that he meet me
outside?”

“Shall I use your name, Miss?” he asked.

“It’s Katherine Hinds.”

“Beware of footpads, miss. If you so much as suspect
mischief in the making, you run inside.”

“All right.”

More at ease with her decision to remain outside,
she sat back to wait. Still, the tightness in her stomach did not
dissipate. No matter where she was meeting Ian Ramsay and how angry
she was with him, she was nervous in anticipation of seeing
him.

Time dragged on, and Sophie began to wonder if the
driver had run into trouble. Again and again, she watched the door
open, but no Ian Ramsay exited the building. The tension became
unbearable, and she was just about to burst out of the coach and
march into the club, when she saw the driver come down the footpath
from a side entry, walking with a small, slight man.