Imposter Bride (16 page)

Sophie couldn’t help but turn over the large bowl
and look at the silversmith’s name. It was a fine piece, very
plain, but flawless in design and turn. She didn’t recognize the
name of the silversmith, for the bowl had been made in Boston. She
set it in the middle of the table, center stage.

“My sakes!” Mrs. Betrus exclaimed, clasping her
hands together in amazement. Her glance darted around the room. “I
can’t believe it! It looks so different!”

Charles set the fire ablaze, Sophie lit the candles,
and the parlor was reborn into a homey, welcoming chamber as night
fell around them.

“Oh, let’s have tea in here!” Sophie exclaimed with
a grin. “Shall we? Charles?”

“I couldn’t possibly, miss.” He ducked his head,
embarrassed to be the center of attention.

“Yes you could. Go wash your hands now. Let’s
celebrate a job well done.”

After tea was cleared away, the women retired to the
kitchen to fix the evening meal. A couple of hours later, as the
meat pie and custard baked in the oven, Sophie returned to the
parlor, just to have another look. Mrs. Betrus, as starved for
female company as Sophie had been, followed at her heels.

“I still can’t get over it,” she said. “I wonder
what Captain Ramsay will say.”

Sophie wasn’t worried. She gazed at the
harpsichord.

“Does he play”

“Play?”

“The harpsichord.”

Mrs. Betrus broke out in a short burst of laughter
as if the question were the most ludicrous thing she’d ever heard.
“My heavens, no!”

“Why does he have it then?”

“I believe it was here when the master bought the
property.”

Sophie wandered closer and raised the cover of the
keyboard. She pressed one wooden key and the sound rang through the
quiet house. She played a chord. “It’s fairly in tune for having
sat around unused.”

“Do you play, Miss Hinds?”

“A little.”

“Oh, do play something then, while I do my mending.
I would enjoy it so much! Would you?”

“All right.” Sophie pulled out the short wooden
bench and sat down. For a moment she considered which song she
would like to play first, and settled on a piece she had learned
just before she’d left Santo Domingo,
Air on a G String
by
Bach. Her burned palms hurt a little when she moved her fingers,
but not enough to impede her progress. In fact, the more she
played, the less she thought of her injuries.

Mrs. Betrus hobbled quietly to a chair by the fire,
and drew out her mending, careful not to make a sound, obviously
grateful to be entertained while she worked.

Sophie finished the short piece and played another,
thankful to be warm and rested and enjoying a moment’s pleasure as
if her life had never changed.

Ramsay let himself in at the front door, amazed to
hear music tinkling inside his house, and music played by a
sensitive hand. Who was here? Was Sophie playing? And what was that
delicious aroma? The air was full of the fragrance of nutmeg and
pastry baking.

Surely Sophie had been cooking. His stomach growled
in anticipation.

Quietly, he closed the door and brushed the snow
from his shoulders and boots, and then stood without moving,
listening. His mother had played the harpsichord, but not nearly as
well. Still, the nights spent nodding off to sleep with music
drifting up the stairs was one of the better memories of his
truncated childhood. For the second time that week, Ramsay felt his
heart swell inside, and he had to fight off a great wave of grief.
What was coming over him? It was unlike him to give in to maudlin
thoughts.

Startled at the precarious state of his emotions,
Ramsay took off his hat, hung up his wraps, ran his hands over his
dark hair to smooth it, and then walked down the short corridor
that led to the dining room on the right and the parlor on the
left.

He paused in the doorway of the parlor and let his
gaze travel across the room to the young woman at the harpsichord,
busily playing with her eyes closed and obviously unaware that he
had come into the house. Someone had moved things around in the
parlor, including the heavy harpsichord, which allowed for the
light from the fire to play across Sophie’s face and hair.

She was attired in an amethyst-colored wrap, with
her disheveled auburn curls cascading down her back, nearly to her
waist. She moved her body as she played, letting the music weave
through her slender figure as it ran through her hands. A woman who
could resonate so gracefully to music would be a poetess in bed, he
was certain of it. He could imagine taking that slender body of
hers in his arms and—

He broke off the thought. Immediately. Sophie was
the last person who should inhabit his fantasy—a fantasy he had
lapsed into all afternoon during his ride to Hampton Court and
back. The vision of Sophie in her night rail had emblazoned itself
on his mind, and he was having a difficult time not recalling it
over and over again.

Sophie finished a piece by Haydn and paused. Ramsay
hesitated, undecided whether to call out to her, linger quietly and
keep listening, or turn on his heel and leave—which he knew would
be the most prudent course. He could easily spend the night at
Maxwell’s, as he did often enough, and allow Sophie’ charms to fade
from his mind, just as the charms of all other women had faded
given the benefit of time.

But not before supper. He wasn’t going to miss that.
He could hear Mrs. Betrus in the kitchen, and decided he would
inquire about a plate of food.

He was just about to turn around and leave, when
Sophie rotated slightly on the bench and caught sight of him.

“Captain Ramsay.”

“Good evening.” He took a step forward as she slowly
rose from her seat. He held up his hand. “Please, don’t stop on my
account. I was quite enjoying your concert.”

“Have you been standing there long?”

“Only a moment.”

She sank back to the bench, her stare never leaving
him, which had a profound effect on him. It was as if her eyes were
in direct contact with his skin, awaking every particle underneath.
He saw her lips open as she continued. “Mrs. Betrus is just about
to put supper on the table, I believe.”

“Then play on until she does.” He sat down on the
settee and picked up the
Times,
which Betty had ironed and
laid out for him, just the way he liked it. He hadn’t read the
newssheet in the parlor before, because the light was so poor in
the room. But since the settee had been dragged closer to the fire,
he could see the words well enough.

“I will not bother you?” Sophie put in.

She had no idea of her effect upon him, the little
innocent. She bothered him immensely, but not with her music. “Not
at all. Please continue.” He opened the newspaper as she resumed
playing.

Ramsay read a few articles but couldn’t concentrate.
His thoughts kept straying to the woman at the side of the room.
He’d never been married, never lived with a woman, or asked a lover
to stay in his house. The presence of Sophie in his home should
feel strange to him. He had expected to view her as an imposition,
an annoyance. Yet, there she was, sitting in her casual attire,
playing his harpsichord while he read the paper, and it seemed the
most natural occurrence in the world. In fact, one might say it
felt comfortable.

Comfortable
. There was no place for comfort
and safety in his life—never had been and perhaps never would
be—not until he had the deed to Highclyffe in his hands. Ramsay
clenched his jaw and forced his attention to an article about a
food riot in Somerset.

He had only to endure a few more days. In a few more
days, Ms. Hinds’ grandmother would swoop down and carry off her
supposed heir to introduce her to London society and make her ready
for her upcoming wedding. Surely he could see them both through a
few days more without crossing over the line of impropriety
again.

He glanced at her once more and was struck by the
way she closed her eyes while she succumbed to the music. Something
inside him twisted painfully at the sight of her profile, with her
full pink lips and long white neck. What would it be like to kiss
that supple white throat, to fully embrace her, to make her look
just that way, filled with ecstasy and pleasure, but at his own
hands?

Ramsay scowled and forced himself back to the news.
He should never have returned to the house. Never.

After a succulent meat pie and equally succulent
custard, Ramsay quit the table, using a business meeting as an
excuse. He thanked Sophie for the excellent dinner and told her he
was off to inquire about Molly MacRell’s welfare.

It wasn’t a lie. He did meet his cronies at a local
coffee house, but he lingered long after they had all left for
their own homes. Ramsay remained behind, drinking dark ale and
watching the crowd, until he was certain all would be safely asleep
at the townhouse.

What he needed was to bed a willing woman and get
Sophie Vernet off his mind. But none of the women he saw that
evening appealed to him, and he knew in his heart that his thirst
would not be so easily slaked as to drink from just any cup. He had
never truly enjoyed taking a woman to bed just to relieve himself
and had quit the practice years ago. Such sport left him more
dissatisfied in the end than he’d been at the outset. Besides, the
disquiet he was suffering stemmed not from a need to relieve
himself, but from a need much more intense, something he’d carried
with him since childhood, a black hole of loneliness he never let
himself look at for more than an instant.

Just after midnight, nearly drunk, Ramsay slowly
rode home, chiding himself for letting the presence of a female
alter his routines. The house was dark when he arrived, and
Sophie’s chamber door was safely closed. He walked past it,
unbuttoning his waistcoat as he went, pushed open his door, and
fell into bed, still in his shirt and breeches.

Not long afterward, a loud crash awakened him. He
sat up with a start, and heard pounding feet running toward his
room. Alert in an instant, he yanked open the drawer of his night
stand, pulled out a pistol, and primed it expertly, even though he
had no light to guide him. He jumped to his feet as his door burst
open.

“Ian!” Sophie called, her voice sharp with terror.
She stood in his doorway, barefoot. “There was a man!”

“Where?”

“In my room!”

He ran past her, the pistol ready, as Mrs. Betrus
came hobbling down the stairs from the third level, tying the belt
of her robe.

“Stay back!” he barked, and kicked open Sophie’s
door. He burst into her room, surprised to find her clothes
scattered upon the floor and the wardrobe doors hanging open. He
scanned the room for movement and saw nothing but the drapery
blowing in a breeze. The window was open.

Ramsay stepped forward, his senses on fire, ready to
shoot anything that moved. Slowly he advanced to the window,
startled to see a grappling hook with a rope attached to it,
hanging from the window nearly to the ground. He glanced up and
down the street, looking for the intruder, but saw nothing.

Sophie and Mrs. Betrus huddled in the doorway of the
room, their eyes as round as saucers. Ramsay dashed past them, down
the stairs and out the back door, not stopping to put on shoes. He
splashed through the slush, all the way to the mews and back, but
didn’t see a soul. Could the intruder still be in the house?

Frantic, he returned to the townhouse, running on
numb soles covered by sopping wet stockings. He didn’t stop running
until he had searched every room, and returned to Sophie’s chamber
for a second look.

Mrs. Betrus paced the hallway, wringing her hands,
while Sophie came up behind him.

“Did you see anything of the man?” he asked, turning
to glance at her. Her face was whiter than he’d ever seen it.

“Just a silhouette.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was short and slight.”

“What happened?”

“I heard something and woke up. He was standing in
front of the armoire,” She pointed at the wardrobe. “Pulling out my
things.”

“What did you do?”

“I must have gasped. He looked at me, paused for a
moment, and then ran over to the window. He must have jumped
out!”

“He had a rope ready. A professional.”

“Dear Lord!” Mrs. Betrus wailed from the
hallway.

“Why your room?” Ramsay mused, handing her the gun,
assuming she was capable enough to handle it safely. He stripped
off his wet stockings. “Two levels up is a lot of trouble to go to
for a glimpse of ladies undergarments.”

His sardonic remark was intended to dispel some of
Sophie’s fright. But it seemed to have the reverse effect. He was
distressed to see her face blanch even more. Her gaze darted past
him to a pile of clothing on the floor. Was Sophie hiding
something?

“I’ll take those, sir,” Mrs. Betrus said, hurrying
forward to get the stockings. “And should I send Charles for the
constable?”

Ramsay watched for Sophie’s reaction, and wasn’t
surprised to see alarm flash through her eyes.

“Don’t trouble him, Mrs. Betrus. I believe the
danger is over.”

“But somebody just broke in. Robbed us!”

“I’ll make a report of it in the morning.” Ramsay
held his hand out for the gun. “In the meantime, let’s get this
room back in order and see if anything has gone missing.”

He made a show of removing the grappling hook and
rope and shutting the window, while all the time he watched Sophie
out of the corner of his eye. The first thing she did was sort
through the clothing until she found a pair of linen pockets. She
picked them up, and her shoulders relaxed at once. Whatever she had
feared was missing was still in her possession.

What was in the pocket? Something so valuable a
thief would chance a second-story fall? Something to do with Jean
Coutain’s murder? Ramsay was certain Sophie was not a killer. But
could she be a thief? His mind told him that since she was such an
artful liar, she could be capable of any duplicity, but his heart
told him that she could not have perpetrated a crime. Whatever hung
in that linen pocket had a very good reason to be there, if he knew
Sophie Vernet.