Imposter Bride (4 page)

Suddenly the door of the coach opened.

Sophie’s heart jumped into her throat, choking her.
She would be found out in a matter of moments. What then?

“Damnation!” she heard a male voice growl. The word
was laced with a foreign accent, surely American, but with some
other influence as well. And oddly enough, the deep voice sounded
familiar.

“Captain Ramsay!” another voice called as someone
else hurried toward the coach.

“Charles! I told you—”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Captain, but it was miserable
cold out here, and I—”

“Never mind. Take me to the club. I’m late.”

“Of course, sir. Right away, sir.”

The carriage shuddered as the driver climbed aboard
and the captain—surely the same man who had visited Katherine
earlier that day—entered the cab and shut the door behind him. She
heard him sit down and sigh. Not a moment more passed before she
felt a slight nudge of his boot on her flank. Then to her dismay,
she saw the corner of the lap robe lift.

“What have we here?” The man leaned closer for a
better look in the dim light of the coach.

She twisted to glance at his face, and caught a
glimpse of his unpowdered hair, black as coal, a pair of swooping
black brows, and sharp dark eyes beneath the shadow of his tricorne
hat. A serious face. But not a cruel countenance.

“Please, sir,” she whispered. “Do not betray
me.”

Before he could respond, she heard more hurried
steps approaching the vehicle and tugged the lap robe back
down.

“You there!” the constable called. “Driver!”
Keener’s boots crunched the snow as he strode to the coach. “Have
you seen a young woman run by here?”

“No, sir.”

“Brown hair,” Keener continued, “not much over five
feet tall? Wearing a blue dress?”

“No sir. But my master, Captain Ramsay, might have
seen something.”

Sophie heard the captain sigh again, seemingly put
off by the mention of his name.

The constable rapped curtly on the door of the
coach. Ramsay leaned forward and opened it slightly.

“Yes?”

“Good afternoon, sir. I’m Constable Keener.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for a girl, a young woman. She ran into
the square some moments ago.”

“And?”

“I was hoping you’d seen her. She’s very
dangerous.”

“Oh?”

“She killed a man. In cold blood, sir. And now she’s
run off.”

“What does she look like?”

“Middling height. Brown hair. Nineteen years old I’m
told. Has a long knife wound on her right forearm. Cuts a slight
figure.” The constable paused and sniffed, “A nasty-tempered
maidservant. Goes by the name of Sophie Vernet.”

“Hmm.” The captain mused. “Sorry, but I’ve seen no
one fitting that description.”

“She couldn’t have got far.”

“She probably ran into that victualing house.” The
captain’s voice trailed off as he likely pointed out the place to
the constable. “I’d look there.”

“Perhaps.” The constable fell silent and for a
moment Sophie imagined that he was craning his neck to inspect the
interior of the coach where she crouched like an animal. Had he
been alone, he probably would have prodded her with the long
metal-tipped staff he carried.

“If you don’t mind, constable,” Ramsay remarked with
obvious impatience, “I am late for an appointment.”

“Certainly. Thank you for your time, Captain.”

“Not at all. Good day.”

Ramsay closed the door and sank back. Sophie didn’t
move, and waited silently while he tapped the ceiling to signal
Charles to drive on. The coach rumbled down the street, taking her
safely away from her nemesis, but she remained in a huddled ball,
too paralyzed with cold and fright to move.

A few moments later, Sophie felt the lap robe being
slipped off her shoulders.

“You can get up now, Miss Vernet.” Captain Ramsay
reached down for her, and before she could unfold her frozen limbs,
he had lifted her onto the seat. She sank back into the shadows of
the corner of the carriage and shivered.

“Thank you. For keeping my secret.” Her teeth
chattered so much, she had to clench her jaw together, which made
her voice quaver like that of an old woman. What must he think of
her? “But I assure you that—”

“Don’t speak. Cover yourself.” The captain held out
the red and black blanket. “This weather is nothing to trifle with.
And you have no cloak.”

“Thank you.” She pulled the fine wool blanket up to
her ears, grateful to conceal her figure from his inspection,
though she doubted he could see much of her in the encroaching
darkness. Truth be told, she couldn’t see all that much of him
either, only the glint of his sharply ridged nose and the side of
his left brow and cheekbone. It was difficult to guess his age or
temperament, especially when his words were so brisk, bare of all
amusement. Yet, what would he find amusing about sharing his
carriage with a suspected murderess?

“I want to assure you, sir,” she continued, her
entire body quaking now that she was out of imminent danger, “I did
not kill anyone or steal anything.”

“That may be true.” He put his hand to the door as
the carriage drew up in front of Maxwell’s, one of the newest and
most fashionable clubs in London, a three-storied building made of
buff-colored sandstone.

“However,” The captain rose, stooping to keep from
brushing the ceiling. “I have no time to hear your story at the
moment.” He stepped out of the carriage, and was so tall he could
easily view her through the open doorway when he turned back
around. “I shall instruct Charles to see to your needs. Then later
this evening, you may tell me what trouble you are in.”

Did he expect her to linger in his home while the
constable prowled the streets, looking for her? Better to keep
moving than to stay in one place for long. “I appreciate what you
have done, sir, but I have no intention of presuming upon
your—”

“Do you have an alternative plan, Miss Vernet?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Done then. Good evening.” He touched the brim of
his tricorne and closed the door. Then he said something to
Charles, and the carriage lurched into motion once more. Sophie
wrapped the top of the robe around her cheeks and drew her knees up
to her chest, trying to get warm. Charles would see to her needs?
How wonderful that sounded! A meal would do her good, a warm bath
would be heavenly. She hadn’t been really clean or warm in weeks.
And she hadn’t eaten for two days. Perhaps she would take advantage
of the captain’s kindness, and then with a clearer head, make a
real plan of escape.

On the other hand, what if his kindness included
repayment of the sort expected from desperate women? No matter how
cold and hungry she was, she would never compromise her virtue for
a bowl of soup.

Why should she trust this Captain Ramsay anyway?
What if he inquired about her at Maxwell’s and heard what people
were saying about her, or saw one of the handbills about her being
circulated by money-hungry thief-takers? The gossip and the leaflet
would surely make her out as a blood-thirsty killer. A man of
quality—which Ramsay obviously was—surely would not imperil his
good name by harboring a murderess. Most likely after making
inquiries, he would return with a constable and have her
arrested.

Sophie knew what she had to do, no matter how hungry
she was, how cold, or how tired. She had to slip out of the
carriage at the first possible chance and vanish into the freezing
darkness.

Ian Ramsay strode through the double doors of
Maxwell’s which were regally opened for him by two attendants
attired in red and chestnut livery. Each time he crossed over the
threshold of the club, he felt a flush of pride in all he’d
accomplished in thirty years. Single-handedly, he had built up a
business in the colonies that had prospered enough to allow him to
construct this luxurious gambling club in the heart of London. Yet,
the club was a mere stepping stone, a trap for dissolute Englishmen
whose money would be the means toward an even more important
end.

“Good evening, Captain Ramsay,” the doormen both
greeted.

He nodded at the older gentlemen and passed into the
huge glittering hall ablaze with chandeliers reflecting on the
polished marble floors. The hall and surrounding salons were like a
garden full of silk and satin bees, the crowd buzzing—just the way
he liked it, for the more laughter he heard, the fatter his purse
grew. He glanced around, barely conscious of the luxurious scarlet
drapery of the salons, the imported Chinese paper on the walls, or
the Bernini angel that blew a silent fanfare to everyone who
noticed her. Ramsay’s eyes took in a far more different territory:
the posture and rank of every man in sight. From what he could see,
the cream of London society sought their pleasure here tonight.

Almost immediately, a footman appeared at his
elbow.

“May I take your things, Captain Ramsay?”

“Yes, thank you.” He gave over his heavy woolen
great-coat and his hat, into which he had stuffed his gloves. Then
he took three flights of stairs at a good clip, without a change in
his respiration.

Puckett, his secretary, met him at the top of the
staircase, his short wiry body more agitated than ever.

“The Earl of Blethin is here,” he said, indicating a
closed door with a quick sweep of his hand. His dark frock coat and
breeches reflected the conservative taste of his employer.

“Good.”

“He’s upset, sir.”

“Good.” Ramsay tugged down the tails of his
waistcoat to make certain he looked presentable, and then pushed
through the door.

Edward Metcalf, the Earl of Blethin, looked up as
Ramsay passed into the room, and did not rise to his feet. Ramsay
was certain the earl did not recognize him as the half-starved boy
in Scotland he’d teased so many years ago, as Ian had grown
considerably and assumed a different last name. But Ramsay
recognized the youth who had completely humiliated him once by
making him strip off his clothes and swatting his wedding tackle
with his riding crop. Edward hadn’t changed much from the slender,
blond-haired boy of twelve. He’d just grown a bit taller and there
were small wrinkles about his cool blue eyes now.

Slowly, almost insolently, Lord Metcalf straightened
in his chair. His plum-colored coat shimmered in the candlelight.
The insolence of his posture was repeated in the curl of his lip
and the languid gaze in his blue eyes. Ramsay might have considered
the earl handsome—and he probably was to the ladies—except for the
careless slouch to his frame and his tiresome air of ennui. Ramsay
had never cared for the bored look, in either men or women. In
fact, he had no patience for affectations of any kind.

“Metcalf.” Ramsay greeted, slightly inclining his
head, the most deference he would muster for any member of the
English nobility, especially a member of the English family who had
annihilated his clan and stolen his birthright. But the earl made
no mention of his lack of respect, for Ramsay’s adopted American
background afforded him many freedoms and indiscretions prohibited
to the average Englishman. Slowly, he lifted a decanter at a small
cabinet, refusing to hurry any of his movements. “Would you care to
join me in a whisky?”

“No thank you. I wish to return to my game. And I
must tell you, I do not take kindly to this delay.”

“Have you been waiting long?” Ramsay drawled,
deliberately pouring his drink. “I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you will be, if you don’t tell me
what this is all about, Ramsay.”

The earl had dropped Ramsay’s customary title of
captain in an obvious effort to put him in his place. Ramsay turned
and leveled his stare upon the slender earl until the Englishman
sniffed and switched his gaze to a window across the room.

Still Ramsay made no effort to hurry or to meet the
other man’s demands. He placed the whisky glass on the desk between
them and sat down. As the earl silently fumed, Ramsay sat back,
raised the glass and took a sip of the amber liquor. He smiled
mirthlessly as he gazed at the sparkling crystal.

“You’ve got to love the Scots,” he remarked, “For
making such a fine, fine drink.”

“The Scots be damned,” Lord Metcalf retorted. “And
you’d best watch what you say in the presence of an
Englishman.”

“Is that a threat, Metcalf?”

“Advice. This isn’t the place to be praising that
bastard Prince Charlie and his pack of traitors.”

“I was under the impression he was called
Bonnie
Prince Charlie.”

“Maybe by provincials such as yourself. And savage
Highlanders.”

Ramsay took a gulp of whisky to douse the urge to
lunge across the desk and grab the earl by the throat. The liquor
burned all the way down, cutting through his anger like fire. After
a moment, when he was certain of his ability to control the tone of
his voice, he looked up, wondering if Metcalf had any idea how
close he’d just come to bodily injury.

“As to the reason I requested this audience,” Ramsay
began evenly, every syllable grating up his throat. “I have no
recourse but to bar you from my tables.”

“Bar me?” Metcalf jumped to his feet. “What do you
mean?”

“It has come to my attention that you owe a
considerable debt here at Maxwell’s, and that you have no funds
with which to cover it.”

“That’s preposterous!”

“I’ve also been informed that you are indebted to
White’s, Almack’s, and Boodles.”

“How dare you pry into my affairs!”

“Some think to cheat businessmen of their just due,
attributing it to poor service or a poor memory, but I have such
men thrown into Newgate if they do not cover their debts to
me.”

“Is that a threat, Ramsay?”

“Friendly advice.”

“This is outrageous!”

“I find a debt of a twenty thousand pounds
outrageous.” Ramsay slowly got to his feet. “Perhaps hazard is not
your game.”