Imposter Bride (2 page)

Sophie stopped in the street and looked up at the
unfamiliar English sky. The blackness above was so different than
the star-sprinkled indigo of Santo Domingo. Here the stars seemed
to be falling all around her in floating white shapes. She’d never
seen snow before, and for a moment she let the soft white flakes
land on her nose and cheeks and marveled at the unusual sensation.
The snow upon her skin was a wondrously delicate sensation—like
fairy kisses.

She didn’t indulge herself long. She knew she must
plod onward through the dank London streets. She lowered her gaze
to the city around her and set off once more. Her shoes sloshed
with every step on the uneven cobblestones, and she soon she lost
all feeling in her toes. She blotted out the discomfort and focused
solely upon her objective: reaching the Metcalf House, which she
had been told was just around the corner.

A lump stuck in her throat, but Sophie reminded
herself not to panic. Had she been this way before? Why did all the
tall shops and townhouses look the same in the dark? She fretted
that she might have once again lost her way. And now, as the
streets grew ever darker, she was reluctant to ask passers-by for
directions for fear of drawing attention to herself as prey for
thieves or murderers.

Before night had fallen, she had stopped a half
dozen people to ask for directions to the Metcalf’s home. Many had
assured her that she was only blocks away. She must have circled
the place countless times without seeing it.

“It’s the house with the gate in front, a gate with
a lion’s head on it.”

Nearly everyone had mentioned the lion head. In vain
she searched for the gate and was just about ready to give up and
turn back, when she saw a carriage come around the corner and roll
her way. As it jingled past, the coach lights glowed through the
falling snow and cast faint shadows upon the walls and windows
along the street. Sophie stepped against the dark wall of a private
garden, out of the way of the carriage wheels and their muddy
spray. The last thing she wanted to add to her misery was a wet
cloak and skirt.

Just as the coach passed, its lights reflected on
the property across the narrow street, and Sophie caught sight of
the outline of a cat’s head as it appeared and then vanished in the
darkness.

“Thank you, Lord,” she murmured. She waited for the
coach to rumble by and then skittered across the lane.

Oddly enough, the lion-head gate was not locked, nor
was there a guard in the little gatehouse beside it. Sophie pushed
at the black iron bars, and the gate swung open easily, being well
cared for and well-oiled. She squinted, trying to make out the
path, as the grounds were not lighted, but couldn’t see much
through the snowfall. A hundred feet ahead of her rose the outline
of a tall, stone house, much grander than any she had seen during
the last hour and a half. She headed for the front door, tucking
the stray tendrils of her hair back beneath her bonnet so she would
be presentable to whoever opened the door.

Her knock was answered by a manservant dressed in a
banyan wrapped over his small clothes and a turban perched on his
shaved head.

“Yes?” His terse tone made it clear that he had
better things to do than open the door at such a late hour.

“I’m looking for the Metcalfs,” Sophie
explained.

“This is the Metcalf residence.”

“Wonderful!” She smiled, happy to have found the
house at last.

The butler surveyed her dourly, unaffected by her
grin. “And you are?”

“
Sophie Vernet, maidservant of Miss
Katherine Hinds.” She drew the letter from the cuff of her
traveling gown. “I have a note for the Metcalfs, written by my
mistress.”

“I’m afraid the family is away on holiday.”

“They are?” Sophie’s voice cracked with
disappointment. Katherine would be very upset to hear such news and
would probably punish her for bringing bad tidings.

The old man tilted his head. “They shall be back in
a few days. If you care to leave the note, I will make sure they
get it.”

“Thank you.” She held out the folded paper, and he
snatched it out of her hand, obviously anxious to be rid of her and
get out of the cold.

“Thank you, sir.”

Without another word, he closed the door in her
face, snuffing away all the light that had streamed from the house
and leaving Sophie in darkness that seemed blacker and colder than
before.

She trudged to the gate, counting on her good memory
to get her back to the Queen & Cross where Katherine and Agnes
waited for her. She wondered how angry they would be when she
arrived with her bleak news.

Much to Sophie’s mounting dismay, she found the
lions-head gate had swung shut behind her and trapped her inside
the grounds of the Metcalf House. Frowning at her bad luck, she
glanced down the wall that held the gate. Instead of bothering the
crabby butler again, she decided to cross the property and try her
luck at locating an exit along the rear wall.

Most grand houses had a back entrance or an alley of
some kind, designed to allow tradesmen to pass in and out. With any
luck, that gate might be unlocked or scalable.

While Sophie searched for a way out, she felt her
spirits flag. She had endured a long day spent without food or
drink or proper winter attire. Tired and hungry and cold, she
wandered toward the back of the estate, feeling more and more
confused. Soon she found herself hopelessly lost in the rear
gardens. The hedgerows, now white with snow, were too tall for her
to see above, and she mistook an interior wall for the larger one
that ringed the estate.

Close to tears, but refusing to knock again upon the
door and admit to her foolishness, Sophie plunged down a garden
path. She could see the wall looming beyond an outbuilding, but
heavy shrubbery barred her from going around the structure.
Guessing the building was a gatehouse or carriage house of some
kind, she knocked and then opened the narrow door and slipped
inside.

“Hello?” She guessed that since the Metcalfs were on
holiday the carriage house was as deserted as the front gatehouse.
Still, she thought it best to be safe and announce her
presence.

Off to her right and up some stairs, she heard a low
moan, and then something fell to the floor with a metallic clank.
The hair on her forearms rose, as alarm shot up her back and into
her scalp. Light flickered through the doorway of a room at the top
of the stairs. She paused, wondering whether to bolt forward, run
back into the garden, or see if someone was hurt or ill on the
upper floor.

“It’s Sophie Vernet, maidservant,” she called. She
couldn’t take the chance of being suspected as an intruder or
thief. “Is anyone there?”

Silence answered her, a silence too intense to be
genuine. “Is anyone hurt?” she asked, raising her hand to the stone
wall of the stairwell.

No answer.

“I’m coming up,” she called.

Carefully she climbed the stairs, her heart
pounding, but knowing she could never turn her back on a person in
trouble. Just as she got to the top of the stairs and reached for
the half-open door, she saw a blur of blue satin in front of her.
The latch was yanked from her grip. A tall figure burst through the
doorway and shoved her against the wall, knocking the wind from
her.

She gasped for breath and gaped at the tall, thin
man. He turned toward her. He wore a half-mask around his eyes and
held a knife in his hand. Flickering light from the fire glinted
off the blade. Sophie’s heart plunged to her feet. Was he going to
kill her? Instinctively, she threw up her arms to ward off the blow
she knew was coming.

The man swiped at her, cutting through the sleeve of
her dress and slicing her forearm. Sophie cried out and fought
back, scratching at his head and pulling at the mask to get at his
eyes. For a moment they struggled, until she managed to snatch away
his mask.

Instantly, he leapt away from her and scrambled down
the stairs, obviously more concerned with concealing his identity
than taking her life. In the darkness and her blinding fright, she
had seen nothing of his face.

Sophie’s chest heaved as she clutched her forearm to
her breast and glanced around for a way to escape. At the same
moment, she heard the clatter of horse hooves outside as her
assailant rode away. At least he wouldn’t be lying in wait for her
in the garden. For that she was profoundly grateful.

With shaking hands, Sophie lifted a portion of her
ruined sleeve, enough to glance at her wound. From what she could
see in the dim light, the wound wasn’t bleeding very much. The
knife had scratched her more than sliced her flesh, thanks to the
sturdy wool fabric of her traveling gown.

She stepped away from the wall, her legs trembling,
and stumbled into the room at the top of the stairs. She hadn’t
taken more than two steps, when she lurched to a stop, too
horrified to go any farther.

Blood pooled on the floor around a man’s body, naked
from the waist down.

“Dear God!” she gasped.

“I’ve had enough of your preposterous nonsense!”
Katherine shouted hours later. She was wild with disappointment at
the realization that she would have to spend the night at the Queen
& Cross after all.

Still in a numb state, Sophie stood near the door,
wet and disheveled, her sleeve torn, her body physically drained
from hours of walking and her emotions frazzled from her close
brush with death. She wanted nothing more than to sink into a chair
and collapse. But Katherine was in one of her states and would not
listen to reason. She had even cut off Sophie’s recounting of what
she’d seen in the carriage house with an imperious wave of her
hand.

“Enough! You have some nerve to come back here,
telling me a pack of lies. Do you think I’m an idiot?” Katherine
threw a slipper at her. Sophie let it strike her in the shoulder
and barely flinched. She was simply too tired to react. “Murdered
man, path! We both know ‘tis a smoke screen to disguise your
dawdling!”

“Did you even find the Metcalf’s house?” Agnes
inquired, brushing her black hair as she did every night before
retiring. Her cold eyes glowered at Sophie, and her brush strokes
were short and angry gestures, relaying her peevishness.

“Yes, I found it!” Sophie hadn’t the strength to
choke back the sharpness in her voice. She was beyond fatigue. “I
told you I did!”

“Don’t use that tone with Agnes!” Katherine
snapped.

“Sorry, miss.”

“Gone for hours!” Katherine walked around her,
glaring at her sodden clothing. “Up to no good, I’ll wager.”

“Probably eating meat pies,” Agnes put in. “Flirting
with coachmen—”

“While we had to wait here in this hell hole.”
Katherine planted herself in front of Sophie and braced her fists
on her hips. “Did you ever think of us? Did you ever think we might
have better things to do than wait around while you dilly-dallied?
Do you realize we were waiting for four hours?”

“The Metcalf house was in Kensington, ma’am. Miles
away!”

“I have a mind to turn you out! Right now! This
instant!”

Sophie raised her chin. She wouldn’t beg, but she
prayed her mistress would not turn her out on such a cold night
when she was in no condition to survive the elements.

“‘
Twould serve her right,” Agnes
grumbled, “the lying little twit.”

“I’m not a liar!” Sophie turned, her patience
snapping. The mean-spirited governess had no business making
comments about her performance or her character. She wanted to
wring the older woman’s neck. From the time Agnes had arrived seven
years ago to teach Katherine, the governess had belittled and
antagonized Sophie. She had taken every opportunity to discredit
her, to tease her, and to make her life more difficult than it was
already.

“I’m
not
a liar!” Sophie repeated, stepping
toward Agnes, her arms stiff at her sides. “I saw what I saw!”

The harsh brushing stopped in midair as the two
women glowered at each other.

“See? The murderer cut my arm!” Sophie held out her
wounded forearm.

“Be that as it may,” Katherine’s cold voice said
behind her. “We are hungry and tired. Get down to the kitchen and
bring us something to eat, while I consider what to do with you.
I’ll have you know I’m quite vexed, Sophie. I’m quite vexed with
you!”

“Yes, miss.” Sophie bit back a wave of resentment
and turned for the door. More than ever, she wanted to run away but
knew she must choose her own time. Now was not the moment to flee,
not when she was wet and cold and starving. Tonight, she would bow
her head and do her mistress’ bidding. She would set her sights on
tomorrow for her escape.

Morning arrived all too soon, with a harsh kick from
Agnes.

“Get up,” the governess barked. “The fire’s nearly
gone out.”

Sophie rose on one elbow, her ribcage and hipbones
stiff from her makeshift bed on the floor, which was comprised of a
folded blanket for a mattress and her cloak for a covering. Her
fingers and toes were blocks of ice, and her entire body creaked in
protest as she slowly clambered to her feet. She’d never been
colder in her life, even aboard the
Hesperian
.

Katherine lay in the bed fast asleep, snoring
softly, the bedcovers pulled to her chin and her mobcap pulled down
over her ears.

“Hurry up!” Agnes rubbed her elbows. “I’m frozen to
the bone! Lord!”

“It was snowing last night,” Sophie reached for the
coal bucket. “Did you see it? I’ve never seen snow before.”

“As if I should care!” Agnes hobbled to the wardrobe
and dug through it for something to wear.

So began Sophie’s day: harsh words from Agnes and a
continual string of petty demands soon to come from Katherine.