Imposter Bride

by Patricia Simpson

  “Miss Vernet?” the constable called out.

  Mesmerized by his eyes, she didn’t answer. Then he took a step toward her, and the movement broke the spell, crashing through the storm of panic whirling inside her head. Frantic, she hurled the tray of food at him and heard the thunk of the bottle upon the floor, the clatter of pewter, his gasp of outrage, and shattering glass. Then she swept aside her skirt and petticoat in one fist, and raced down the stairs.

  As the long winter night closed in upon London, Sophie was still running. Her shoes were soaked through, her hair was matted with snow, and her breath dragged through her parched throat, as she paused in her race to outrun the constable.

  Sophie peered around the back of an empty carriage, only to see Constable Keener stride around the corner at the far end of the block. His tattered lackeys—homeless street boys he employed for such things—fanned through the crowds like hounds after a fox. She glanced in the opposite direction, desperate for an avenue of escape, and it was then she realized she had made a fatal mistake. She had run into a busy square, with a fountain in the middle and tall stone buildings all around—and no way out but past the advancing constable.

  The thought of capture scared Sophie witless. She’d heard what became of female criminals at Tyburn Tree. There, condemned women were hanged while thousands of Londoners looked on. Such an end was not for her, not as long as she had the power to keep running.

  Warmly dressed couples stared at her in alarm as they hurried by on their way to roast-beef dinners, to games of whist, to cigars and cognac. She couldn’t meet their glances, and gripped the carriage wheel with fingers numbed by cold. She forced herself to keep thinking, to keep trying, to come up with a way to outwit Keener.

  How close was he? She dared not peek around the carriage again. The smell of the Thames hung in the gray light of the dying afternoon, filling her bursting lungs with dank, musky air. She dared not breathe too heavily in case the constable should hear her or spot the telltale cloud of her strident respiration.

  “Find her!” she heard him bark. “She can’t be far.”

  His harsh voice spurred Sophie to action. She unlatched the door of the vacant coach, swept up her skirts, and scrambled into the cab, thankful that her slight frame and the heavy construction of the vehicle kept the coach from swaying beneath her weight. A neatly folded plaid lap robe lay on one seat. She dropped to her hands and knees and pulled the warm folds of the blanket over her, making sure to hide every trace of the muddy hem of her blue dress and quilted petticoat, and hoped the blanket would hide the silhouette of her pocket panniers. There in the darkness of the coach she huddled, smothering her own breath for fear of being discovered.

  The coach smelled of lamp oil, leather and horseflesh, and a faint pleasant fragrance she thought might be the cologne of the owner of the vehicle. Under the blanket, she made herself as small as possible, while her ears felt as if they grew larger and larger, the harder she strained to hear what was going on outside.

  Muffled footsteps ran past on the street side of the coach. She heard a boy yell, and then the constable shouting out for them to look harder. Sophie held her breath, praying her pounding heart couldn’t be heard over the noise in the street.

  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 coul
dn’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.”

  “Says who? I could win back the sum in one evening!”

  “Spoken like a true gambler.” Ramsay laughed dryly, egging him on. “Or a fool.”

  “No one calls me a fool!”

  “No one could win that amount back in a single evening.”

  “You’ve not seen me in top form then.” Metcalf raised his chin, which Ramsay doubted he had to shave more than once or twice a week. Edward had once been taller and seemingly much older than Ian, but that had been long ago. A lifetime ago. “I’ll have you know I am a master at hazard!”

  “Unfortunately, you shall not have the opportunity to prove your claim.” Ramsay drained his glass, well aware that Metcalf stared at him, outraged. “I must ask that you leave.”