Imposter Bride (34 page)

“He didn’t find anything?”

“Nay, sir,” MacEwan replied.

Holding their lights high, they walked along the
narrow strip of rocky shore closest to the cliffs where Sophie
would have crawled out of the water, had she survived. They found
no sign of her. “She never came up,” MacEwan explained. “Poor thing
was driven to it by the two of ‘em. They chased her all through the
place before she jumped.”

Ramsay made no reply. He had known grief before. But
no amount of experience with death and loss could have prepared him
for the agony that descended upon him now. In the dark, in the rain
that fell, he felt scalding tears burn from the corners of his eyes
and course down the lines around his nose and in front of his ears.
He couldn’t stop them. He couldn’t stop the hot heaving feeling in
his chest, either. Soon, he couldn’t take another step.

Never in his life had Ramsay let another human being
see him cry, but this time he couldn’t hold in the tears. He sank
to a boulder, dropped his lantern and hunched forward, doubling
over with grief, while huge sobs rocked him.

The old servant stood at his side, silent, looking
at the lake, standing in the rain.

Eventually, Ramsay regained control of his senses,
and heaved a heavy sigh. His gaze locked blindly on the water
before him.

It was then the old manservant broke the
silence.

“The bastard must have killed my son,” MacEwan
commented beside him.

At first Ramsay thought he’d misheard what the man
said. He glanced up. “Pardon?”

“The earl.” MacEwan clenched his jaw. “The bastard
must have killed my son.”

“What would you think that?”

“I found the ring my son wore. There, in the earl’s
room. On the floor.”

Ramsay stood up, his grief abating slightly with
this new revelation. “From the baubles in that box?”

“Aye. I just happened to see the ring lying on the
floor.” MacEwan plunged his fingers into his waistcoat and pulled
out a gold band set with a red carnelian. He held the lantern close
and showed it to Ramsay. “This was missing from my son’s body the
night we found him.”

Ramsay took the ring and looked at it more
closely.

“My boy always liked nice things,” MacEwan
continued. “That ring was his pride and joy. He would have never
parted with it. Never.”

“When did your son die?”

“Two years past.”

“How, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Strangled, sir.” MacEwan shifted his weight,
uncomfortable with the topic. “And cut with a knife in a funny
way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone had used a knife, sir, in a sexual
way.”

Ramsay scowled as a dark coil uncurled in his guts.
The story sounded all too familiar to him. “Was the earl at
Highclyffe at the time?”

“Aye, that he was.”

Ramsay gave the ring back to MacEwan, and the older
man stuffed it back into his pocket. “The bastard! And I’ll not say
what I suspect of the man.”

“That he prefers young men?” Ramsay stood up.

“Oh, aye. And brutally.” MacEwan looked up at him,
his eyes glittering with hatred. “I’m going to the authorities, Mr.
Ramsay. I dinna care if it costs me job. The earl is going to
pay.”

“Don’t. You won’t find satisfaction, not with your
word against his.”

“But I have proof! The ring—”

“Metcalf will slither out of any accusation you
bring against him, MacEwan. He’s an Englishman.” Ramsay put a hand
on the older man’s shoulder. “Listen, I have a better idea.”

Hours later, Ramsay returned to Lady Auliffe’s
estate, barely able to keep in the saddle. He stumbled to the door,
waking the butler and demanding to see the mistress of the house.
He was shown to the drawing room, and Ramsay trudged after the
disgruntled servant, feeling as if he had aged a hundred years in a
single night. A few minutes later, Lady Auliffe swept into the
room, dressed in a pale blue wrap with a huge mobcap covering her
hair.

“Captain Ramsay!” Lady Auliffe exclaimed when she
caught sight of him. “What is going on? You’re soaked to the
bone!”

Ramsay raised his head and stared at her, hardly
hearing the words she spoke, although he could see her lips moving.
He stood at the fire, too grief-stricken and stiff with cold to
make a proper bow. It was close to dawn. He and MacEwan had been
out all night searching for Sophie and had found nothing. No trace
of her.

“What’s happened?” she demanded, hurrying to his
side. “You look horrible!”

“It’s Sophie.” His lips felt swollen, almost too
numb to form words.

“Did she refuse you?”

“Not as such.” He swiped his dripping bangs back as
Lady Auliffe inspected him, her eyes hard with worry.

“Barnes!” she barked, and her butler bustled into
the parlor. “Get Captain Ramsay something dry to wear and a cup of
strong coffee.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ian, sit down before you fall down.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not!” She took his elbow and he let her pull
him to a nearby wingback chair. He collapsed into it, and his blood
seemed to run down his frame, into his feet. He felt more tired and
more immovable than he had ever been in his life.

“I had to come,” he mumbled. “I know it’s
early.”

“Never you mind about that. What happened?” She
crossed her arms over her wrap and bent toward him. “Did they
surprise you and marry last night?”

“No.” He pressed his lips together, finding it
impossible to blurt out the truth. How could he put words to the
awful truth? If he declared it, it would be so. If he heard his own
voice speak the words, he would have to believe them. Much to his
chagrin, he felt new tears springing to his eyes.

“Oh God,” he gasped and covered his eyes with his
hand, weeping uncontrollably again.

Lady Auliffe sank to her knees at his side. “My dear
boy,” she cried, reaching for the side of his face. “Whatever has
happened?”

She stroked his cheek and his hair, and before he
knew it, he was in her arms and burying his face in the soft collar
of her wrap, clinging to her as if she were his own mother, sent to
comfort him on the day he needed it the most. She held him tightly,
and murmured in his ear, encouraging him that whatever had
happened, things would be all right.

Then Barnes returned with a robe and slippers, and a
cup of coffee. Ramsay pulled out of her embrace and sat back,
closing his eyes, wishing himself back a day—just one blessed
day—so that he could set everything right, so that Sophie would
still be alive, smiling and vibrant, and gazing with love at
him.

Lady Auliffe pressed the mug of coffee into his
hands, bringing him to his senses.

“Now will you
please
tell me what is wrong?”
she asked.

Ramsay nodded and sat up. He had to tell her. There
was no escape from the shattering truth.

“Sophie’s dead.”

Lady Auliffe stared at him, her mouth falling open.
She blinked twice, and her hand crawled up the front of her robe to
her throat. “Sophie’s what?”

“She’s dead.”

“How?”

“She jumped from a tower at Highclyffe?”

“Dear God, why?”

“To escape. The law had caught up with her.”

“She jumped? I can’t believe it!”

“Into the lake apparently.” Ramsay took a ragged
breath and lifted the mug to his frozen lips. His hands were
shaking. He knew he was a wreck, but Lady Auliffe was one of the
few people he would allow to see him like this.

“Where was Metcalf?”

“Standing aside apparently. He had discovered her
true identity.”

“And he didn’t try to stop her?”

“No.” Ramsay swallowed, fighting down a wave of
nausea. “He did nothing to help her. He laughed about it.”

“That bastard. That cold-hearted bastard.”

“It’s all my fault.” He set aside the coffee, losing
interest in it. “I’m the bastard. I never should have—”

“You stop that kind of talk right now!” Lady Auliffe
stood up. “You had nothing to do with her legal situation. She was
running for her life because of someone else, not you.”

Ramsay couldn’t speak. His heart and mind were
numb.

“You aren’t the killer, Ian,” Lady Auliffe continued
in disdain. “You aren’t the coward hiding behind a woman’s
skirt.”

“No, I am not,” he growled. Ramsay glared at the
fire as the small flame of determination continued to grow inside
him. He was miserably inept in the ways of the heart, but he was a
master at revenge. The one thing he could do for Sophie was to
avenge her death. He had thought of little else for the past few
hours. “And I shall see the real murderer dead.”

Lady Auliffe sank to the settee beside him. “Do you
even know who it is?”

“Yes.”

“Who is it? I will help you bring him down.”

Ramsay looked into her eyes, marveling at the older
woman’s loyalty to a mere maidservant, and falling in love with her
for it, but certain her help would not be offered once she learned
the killer’s identity.

“You won’t help once you find out who it is.”

“Tell me.”

“He’s a fellow Englishman,” Ramsay watched her
closely. “A peer of the realm. Edward Metcalf.”

“You are mistaken,” she replied.

“I am not wrong in this.”

“No, you are mistaken that I will not help you.” She
reached for the untouched coffee, and raised the delicate china cup
to her lips. “I have never trusted that man and liked him even
less.”

The next morning, after a fitful few hours of sleep,
Ramsay rode back to Highclyffe. The day should have been Sophie’s
wedding day, but instead, it was the day to mourn her. Yet because
of the circumstances of her death and her assumed identity, there
would be no funeral service for the false Katherine Hinds.

His head throbbed with every step his horse took
upon the road, and he realized he hadn’t eaten a decent meal for
days. Maybe when this was all over, he would have the stomach for
food again, but until then he was like the walking dead, with the
little strength he possessed fired solely by nerves and
determination.

Just before noon, he pounded on the front door of
Highclyffe. MacEwan opened the massive oak door and motioned him
inside.

“Mr. Ramsay,” he said, his face grim.

“MacEwan,” Ramsay answered, his expression equally
serious.

“He’s in the parlor with the constable.”

“Thank you.”

Without waiting for the manservant to announce him,
Ramsay strode forward, while everything to the right and left
blurred, as if he walked too swiftly for his weary faculties. He
threw open the walnut door to the parlor and kept walking,
surprising Metcalf and Keener, who sat in an heavy-timbered
old-fashioned settee and chair with saucers of tea in their hands.
Edward looked up, too surprised to assume his usual air of
ennui.

Ian noted with satisfaction that Edward’s nose was
bruised from their scuffle of the previous night.

“Ramsay,” he blurted. Fear glinted in his eyes.

Ian walked up to him and threw a riding glove upon
the earl’s right knee, barely missing the saucer perched on his
left.

“Dawn,” Ramsay stated tersely, while the constable
rose to his feet.

“What are you talking about?” Edward set aside his
china cup and saucer.

“I’m calling you out, you bastard.”

“I beg your pardon?” He gave a funny little high
pitched laugh.

“For the murder of Jean Couteau.”

Edward quickly stood up, his face pale. “Who?”

“You know who I’m talking about. The young actor
found in Kensington—in your carriage house.”

The constable glanced at Edward and back to Ramsay.
“You are accusing the earl of murder?”

“That I am. And indirectly for the murder of Sophie
Vernet, whom he drove to her death last night.”

“This is preposterous!” Edward sputtered.

The constable raked Ramsay with his eyes. “What
proof do you have?”

“Proof?” Edward waved him off impatiently. “The man
has no proof! He merely wants revenge!”

“I have proof, sir,” Ramsay ignored Metcalf’s
outburst and addressed the constable, “of a similar killing here at
Highclyffe, which will be enough to implicate him in the other
murder.”

“You’re mad!” Edward strode to the fireplace and
turned. “And I want you out of here. At once!”

“May I remind you, Mr. Ramsay,” the constable
crossed his scrawny arms, “that dueling is illegal in Great
Britain?”

“Then you may arrest me on the green, after I commit
the crime.”

“And that carrying a pistol in Scotland is an
offense against the Crown?”

“I repeat, you may arrest me tomorrow morning.”
Ramsay turned his glare upon Metcalf. “Until that time, I have the
reputation of an innocent young woman to restore.”

Edward curled his lip. “Innocent, my eye.”

“Should you refuse to meet me tomorrow, Metcalf, I
shall go to every paper in London with a story that will clear Miss
Vernet’s name. But you,” he paused, barely able to contain his
rage,“–you will be ruined.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Name the weapons, Metcalf.”

“This is outrageous!” Edward swept the air with both
hands and paced the floor in front of the fire. “This is truly
outrageous!”

“Swords or pistols?” Ramsay pressed him further. “Or
dirks?”

“You shall be thrown in prison for this,
Ramsay!”

“If your blood is on my hands, ‘tis all that will
matter to me.” Ramsay’s eyes felt like burning holes in his skull.
Why was it that everything in his life that meant anything to him
at all was so quickly and violently taken from him? Why hadn’t he
learned his lesson? He had fallen in love with Sophie, knowing his
affections would mean the kiss of death for her. “So what will it
be, Metcalf, swords or pistols?”

“Pistols then!” Edward threw back his head. “This
should be easy. Look at the state of you, man!”