Imposter Bride (12 page)

“Really?”

“Yes. If you had the other one, the set would be
even more valuable.” He rose and let the eyepiece drop into his
hand. “Are you planning to sell it, miss?”

“Perhaps. It holds no sentimental value to me.”
Sophie reached for the buckle. “In fact, quite the opposite.”

“I might have a buyer.” He set the magnifying glass
back upon the velvet. “Would you care to leave the piece with
me?”

“Do you mean to say you can’t buy it from me
outright?” Sophie countered.

“Oh, my dear no.” He stared down at the buckle. “A
valuable piece like this is always sold on consignment.”

She hadn’t thought raising money through the sale of
the buckle would be so complicated. It appeared she would have to
sell the piece on the street, for much less than its real value.
But she couldn’t chance selling the buckle in London, not if
Constable Keener’s agents were out looking for a young lady with a
valuable piece of jewelry for sale. And she couldn’t leave London
just yet, not with Keener checking every highway and dock. She
would have to bide her time at Ian Ramsay’s house.

Sophie glanced at the jeweler, wondering if she
should ask him what he would give her for the buckle, right here
and now. She could take the cash and take her chances in sneaking
out of the city. But such a plan could easily fail, and then where
would she be? She would be a dead woman for certain. Better to lay
low and wait.

She looked across the glass cabinet to the jeweler.
“Thank you for your time, but I would rather keep the buckle in my
possession.” She returned the bauble to her purse. “Until I make my
final decision to sell.”

“Of course.” He smiled but the expression did not
reach his eyes. Sophie felt her suspicions rise. “If you would care
to leave your name and a place where you can be reached, I would be
happy to let you know of any buyer.”

“What if I just came back?” Sophie countered, “Say,
in a few days? I’m in no particular rush to sell, sir.”

“That would be fine.” The shopkeeper pursed his
lips. “But of course the transaction will not be as swift, if the
buyer has to wait to see the item.”

“Still, I will come back. And I will let you know
what date and time, so your buyer can meet me here.”

“Of course.” Again, the jeweler smiled, but didn’t
seem happy about her decision to leave with the buckle.

Could Constable Keener have gone to every jeweler in
London and warned them about a murderer with a buckle to sell? She
was beginning to think so.

“Thank you for your assistance, sir,” she said,
anxious to leave the shop, but hoping the jeweler couldn’t detect
her rising panic.

“You’re welcome, miss. I hope we may do
business.”

She gave him a quick smile and hurried from the
shop, her senses on full alert.

She glanced around, hoping Constable Keener’s
lackeys were nowhere about, and hoping as well that she could make
Blethin Hall in a quarter hour.

Sophie returned from Blethin Hall much later than
she intended. The Metcalfs had kept her far too long, showing her
family portraits, boring her to death with tales of the family
history, which might have been half-interesting if told at more
than a snail-paced speed and with a dollop of humor. Tired of
smiling and nodding, worn out from feigning interest, and wanting
only to fall into bed, Sophie climbed out of the coach and knocked
on Ramsay’s front door.

Mrs. Betrus held her finger to lips as Sophie
stepped into the house.

“What is the matter?” Sophie asked, handing over her
wraps.

“It’s the master. Come home with one of his
headaches. The slightest sound disturbs him.”

“A migraine?” Sophie asked in a hushed voice.

“He gets them often—poor man.”

“A friend of mine suffered from the very same
thing.”

Mrs. Betrus shook her head. “I wouldn’t wish them on
anyone.”

“Where is he?” Sophie quickly glanced down the hall
toward the study and then into the parlor, but all was dark.

“He went up to his chamber a few minutes ago. But he
asked me to convey his regrets at not joining you for supper.”

Mrs. Betrus closed the cloak closet door under the
stairs and turned. “May I fix you something, though, Miss
Hinds?”

Sophie barely heard her as her thoughts shifted to
the captain, who must be in serious discomfort. The cook at the
Hinds plantation had become violently ill with each migraine until
she’d had the good fortune to find a wonderful kitchen servant from
Bombay, who had provided her with a much-welcomed route to
relief.

“Do you have any oil of peppermint? Sophie
asked.

“For supper?” Mrs. Betrus stared at her.

“No, for the captain.”

“I believe I do—in the pantry.”

“Would you bring it up to his room, along with some
warm cloths?”

“I wouldn’t dare enter his room, Miss!” Betty
Betrus’ eyes grew round with alarm. “Not when he has a migraine.
He’ll snap your head off!”

“I’ll risk it.” She grabbed a brace of candles,
picked up her skirts, and climbed the stairs, glad to be useful
after an entirely useless afternoon full of china cups, name
dropping and meaningless gossip.

Though she had never seen Ramsay come or go from the
chamber at the end of the hall, she surmised the large room was the
master bedroom. Lightly she rapped on the door and bent close to
listen for a reply. None came. Surely he would not be sleeping, not
if his attacks were similar to those of the Hinds’ cook. Determined
to help him, Sophie placed the candles on a table in the
hallway.

Quietly she unlatched the door and slipped into the
room, allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom before she ventured
forward. She could see a dark shape against the light counterpane
of the bed.

“Leave me be,” the dark shape growled.

“I can help you,” she replied, still standing at the
door. She’d never been in the bedchamber of a man before. This
room, even in darkness, was full of Ramsay’s male presence, scented
by the same clean fragrance she’d smelled in his coach under the
plaid blanket. It must be a particular soap he used, or a subtle
cologne, but whatever it was, she found it pleasant and drew in a
deep appreciative breath.

He didn’t stir, which revealed just how sick he
felt.

“I said leave.” His voice was gruff, forced, as if
it hurt to speak. “Leave me alone.”

“Not yet.”

He sighed and she took the sound as a sign of
acquiescence. A soft rap behind her broke the tense stillness, and
Sophie turned to take the tray Mrs. Betrus had brought
upstairs.

“Shall I stay?” the housekeeper whispered, aware of
the impropriety of the heiress being alone with a man in bed, but
at the same time fearful of remaining in the room.

“I hardly think it’s necessary,” Sophie replied.
“Not in his condition”

“Ring if you need me.”

“Thank you. I will.”

The housekeeper closed the door, and Sophie flowed
forward, careful not to make any noise. She put the tray on the
seat of a wingback chair and picked up the small vial of oil.

“You should not be here,” he rasped as she moved to
his side.

“You should not be suffering so,” she replied.

She could see now that his large frame sprawled
diagonally across the bed, that his shirt was half-buttoned and
free of his breeches. His shoes were off, but he’d left his hose
on. Through the open placket of his cambric shirt, she could see
the sheen of his perspiring but well-muscled chest. Sophie tried
not to stare.

“There is an East Indian cure that worked wonders
for a friend of mine,” she explained.

He didn’t answer. She hoped he wouldn’t be sick
enough to lose what he’d eaten that day.

“I’m going to put peppermint oil on your temples,
and then give you a light massage.”

She pulled out the cork of the tiny amber bottle,
overturned the bottle onto the tip of her index finger, and leaned
forward to lightly dab the mint onto his skin. He lay there,
breathing shallowly, his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted as
she reached over him.

Then she felt the puff of his breath on her
throat.

A swell of desire bloomed in her breasts,
overwhelming her. She paused, hovering over him, filled with
longing and wanting him to rise up to her breasts and kiss them as
she sank down upon him. Her breasts ached to be touched by his
mouth, her neck ached for the soft rasp of his beard, the delicious
tickle of his hair. The aching sensation swept through her,
weakening her knees, until she caught herself and straightened,
ashamed that she could indulge in such a fantasy while the poor man
suffered.

She realized now how dangerous it was for her to be
alone with this man, because all she had been taught about proper
conduct and moral behavior disappeared the moment she was anywhere
near him. It was if the rules did not pertain to her when she was
with Ian Ramsay.

After applying the oil, she carried the tray around
the foot of the bed, where his long legs spread wide. Forcing
herself not to contemplate the lean lines of his thighs, she
reached over to his left knee and unbuttoned his breeches
there.

“What are you doing?” His tongue sounded
swollen.

“I’m going to take off your hose.”

“No need. Nothing helps.”

“This will.” She rolled down the thin knitted cotton
and pulled it off his foot. He had strong, long feet with long thin
toes. Sophie had never massaged a male foot before, but guessed it
couldn’t be much different than the cook’s.

She wrapped his foot in the warm cloth, and the
captain let out another sigh.

“The Indian man who taught me this cure claimed that
every part of the body is connected to certain places in the human
foot.”

“Quackery,” Ramsay croaked.

“I disagree.” She removed the towel and placed it on
the tray. Then she perched upon the side of the bed and lifted his
foot onto her lap. Though his foot was much harder and muscular
than her friend’s—and a good deal larger—she found the spot the
Indian man had shown her, and slowly began to knead it with her
thumbs. She was careful not to apply too much pressure, and she
drew out the pain by slowly pulling his toes, one by one.

Soon she heard him sigh again, felt a shift in his
posture, a shift in the room. Odd, how a person in pain could
infuse a room with tenseness, and when the pain lifted, so did the
heaviness in the air. Sophie felt the atmosphere changing for the
better.

After an extensive massage of Ramsay’s left foot,
she repeated the process with his right. Not a sound came from the
captain now, and she was certain she was easing his pain. From
downstairs came the chime of the clock as it rang out nine times.
She’d been with Ramsay for an hour and was very tired.

Rising, she picked up his hose and put them on the
floor near the wardrobe. Then she found a blanket to cover him,
since she was not nearly strong enough to get the heavy limbs of
sleeping Captain Ramsay between his sheets. She pulled the blanket
up to his wide, muscular shoulders.

With a glance at his now calm face, she smiled in
relief and picked up the tray. As she opened the door to leave, she
heard him stir behind her.

“Angel,” he murmured.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, not certain if
he was awake or dreaming. He said nothing more, however, so she
closed the door and softly walked away. She was glad she had helped
him. Relieving his pain was the least she could do for taking
advantage of his kindness. Perhaps one day he might remember her
for her care and not her chicanery.

The next morning, Sophie awoke to a world of white,
oddly muffled and quiet. She looked out the window to discover two
feet of snow had fallen during the night. The street below was an
unmarked expanse of white, spilling against doorsteps and
swallowing up hitching posts at the side of the road, until only
the iron rings at their tops showed above the snow.

This was no day to run from the townhouse. Perhaps
when the snow melted in a few days, so would Constable Keener’s
zeal to find her fade enough to allow her to sell the buckle and
slip out of London. Sophie let the curtain fall back into place,
telling herself her reasons for staying in the home of Captain
Ramsay were logical ones and had nothing to do with her feelings
for the man. She had no right to engage the man’s regard, and yet
she didn’t seem to have complete control of the situation, as if
she had begun a carriage ride with a horse too swift and headstrong
for her to manage. The sensation frightened her and worried her,
but carried a sweet thrill with it that she did not altogether wish
to relinquish.

Maggie knocked on the door a few minutes later,
carrying a tray of tea and bread and helping her dress for the
day.

“Is the captain still here?” Sophie inquired, hoping
he had fully recovered from his headache.

“Oh, yes, miss. The whole of London is behind doors
this morning. Didn’t you see the snow?”

“Yes, but—”

“No one would venture out in such a snowfall. Have
you ever seen the like?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yes, but no milk this morning. No eggs. No news
sheet for the master.”

“Does he seem well this morning?”

Maggie shrugged her plump shoulders. “I don’t quite
know, miss, from one minute to the next.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He always looks so angry, miss. That scowl, you
know. He frightens me!”

Sophie nodded and smiled. She’d seen through that
scowl of Captain Ramsay and recognized it for what it was—a mask to
distance himself from other people. She’d seen him smile, heard him
laugh, and the transformation in his face had been marvelous. That
she had the power to affect such a man made her flush with
pleasure, especially in anticipation of seeing him again and
eliciting a smile from him. Such an odd goal, really, but one that
brought her much gratification, knowing she could provide a few
moments of lightness to Ian Ramsay’s serious life. Perhaps one day
she would discover what made the man so serious and so closed
off.