The clock at the foot of the stairs had just chimed eight when Captain Ramsay returned, calling for his housekeeper. An unfamiliar girl in an apron and mobcap helped him off with his cloak and hat. She had to be the new ladies maid. What was she doing downstairs? An equally unfamiliar savory aroma drifted upon the air. Ramsay’s stomach growled in response, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
“Where is Mrs. Betrus?” he asked the girl.
“Seeing to her ailing sister, sir.”
“And you are?”
“Maggie, sir.” She dropped a shy curtsy.
“Mr. Puckett hired you?”
“Yes, sir. For Mistress Hinds.”
“And why aren’t you attending her?”
“She’s busy, sir, cooking, sir.”
“Cooking?”
He sniffed the air again, and his stomach overrode any objection his mind could think to make about Miss Hinds performing domestic chores. He walked forward, expecting the dining room to be alight with candles and overly decorated, which would involve a weighty and unwelcome responsibility to entertain after such a long day. Miss Hinds would expect him to linger over her dinner, to congratulate her on a job well done, to discuss the weather, to chat…all of which he had no patience for tonight—or ever.
A lingering and all-too-familiar throb burned in his temples. Tonight was a night for grabbing a plate of victuals, downing the food with a glass of ale, and falling into bed. Instead, he would have to endure at least an hour of polite repartee. His head pounded at the thought.
Scowling, he stomped to the dining room, only to find it dark and bare. A small hope fluttered to life in his chest. He continued toward the back of the house, deciding at the last moment not to make an appearance in the kitchen. Miss Hinds would likely be bending over pots, her hair wrapped in a turban, her yellow dress swathed in an apron, her face wet with sweat—not an image he wished to validate.
Perhaps if he collapsed in his study, she would never learn of his arrival, and he could escape her attentions. Missing supper would be worth the solitude. He slipped through the door and headed for his favorite chair, where he was surprised to find a small glass of sherry on a salver, waiting for him. He sat down and raised his feet upon the ottoman, for a moment ignoring the tiny glass at his elbow. Nice touch, though, to provide him a small libation after so difficult a day.
He sank his head back, grateful for the peace and quiet of his study, marveling that his respite hadn’t been violated by the female who had virtually taken over his townhouse.
After a few minutes, when his head throbbed less fiercely, he reached for the sherry and took a sip. On the lower level beyond the study, he could hear the soft clank of pans and the clatter of dishes. Perhaps he’d been fortunate and Miss Hinds had already dined and was cleaning the dishes. Yet the savory smell made him wish he had arrived a few minutes earlier.
A soft rap on the door broke the silence. “Captain?”
He hadn’t escaped after all.
“Come,” he barked. The sherry at least had kept his migraine at bay.
She stepped in, wearing his silk banyan of all things, which displayed a provocative expanse of ivory bosom—a far cry from the unattractive culinary costume he’d envisioned. He caught himself staring again.
“Have you eaten?” she asked.
“No.” He dragged away his stare and reached for the news sheet Mrs. Betrus had left on the side table.
“Would you care to?”
How could he refuse? He didn’t purposefully wish to hurt her feelings. Besides, he couldn’t deny the fact that he was hungry, now that his headache had abated. “Yes, if it’s no trouble.”
She disappeared and returned with a tray. A delicious fragrance of rosemary and thyme wafted around her, and he felt his mouth water as she offered him the tray.
“Bon appetit,” she said, straightening and turning to leave.
“Wait a moment,” he stared down at the dishes. “What is all this?”
“My thanks for opening your home to me, Captain.”
“You cooked this?”
“Yes. I enjoy cooking.”
“Chicken?”
“In a special rosemary butter sauce.”
“It smells good.”
“I hope you like it.”
He lifted the lid from the plate and she backed away, and he suddenly realized he did not want her to leave after all.
“You are wearing a fetching outfit there,” he remarked.
She flushed and looked down. “Mrs. Betrus claimed you never wear this—that you wouldn’t mind if I did.”
He drank in the vision of her in the maroon and emerald silk banyan, from the hint of cleavage at the top to her trim white ankles near the hem.
“You do it far more justice than I,” he commented with a quick genuine smile that felt foreign on his lips.
”Would you like something to drink?” She nodded toward the tray. “I wasn’t certain what you would prefer.”
“There should be a Bordeaux on the sideboard in the dining room—if you will join me.” He couldn’t believe he’d just blurted out a request for her to sit and talk. What was coming over him?
A light glowed in her eyes. “Thank you.” She turned for the door. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
When Miss Hinds left, Ramsay turned his attention to the food: mouthwatering chicken that fell off the bone in succulent mouthfuls, clouds of warm creamy potatoes flavored with garlic, some kind of greens done with bacon and bits of boiled egg, with pickled preserves that set off the herbs in the sauce. Ramsay caught himself wolfing down the food. It was a better meal than he’d had in recent memory.
By the time she’d returned with two goblets of wine, he’d nearly cleaned his plate. She grinned as she handed him a glass.
“Shall I get you more?” she asked.
“Is there more?”
“There is plenty.”
“But what about you? Have you eaten?”
She nodded and reached for his plate before he could protest that it wasn’t necessary to serve him like this. She disappeared quickly, her movements efficient yet graceful. As he waited for her to return, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, expecting the telltale beat of his headache to resume. Amazingly, he felt nothing but a strange satiated sensation that permeated his entire being—almost as satisfying as a good round in bed—but from this woman’s cooking! Ramsay couldn’t believe it, and realized he was smiling.
He managed to resurrect his usual inscrutable expression as she whisked back into the room.
“Thank you,” he said as she set another steaming plate of food on the tray. “The chicken is delicious.”
“It’s a dish I concocted myself.” She sank to the small chair which she’d moved closer to the fire the previous evening, and tucked her small feet under her. The tasteful informality of her dress and behavior had the odd effect of setting him completely at ease.
He sipped the light wine. “And did the seamstress come this morning?”
“Yes. She promised to have some things ready for me by tomorrow at two.”
“Good. Lord Metcalf cornered me at the club this evening and insisted that you take tea with his mother and sister tomorrow at four.”
“Will you be accompanying me?”
“I was not invited.”
“That seems rude.”
He was sure the light in her eyes darkened slightly, or perhaps he only wished it so.
“Does the earl not like you?” she added.
“Of course not.” He raised a forkful of the succulent meat. “I am not English.”
“Surely there is more to it than that.”
“I also do not defer to men on the basis of their social standing.”
She gazed at him evenly, her chin cupped in her palm. “I imagine you do not defer to any man, Captain.”
Ramsay paused, the glass at his mouth, and studied her over the rim. Who was this woman who could captivate him so
easily with her words and eyes? She continued to gaze at him, the look in her eyes not nearly as empty as he had imagined the expression of the real Miss Hinds would be. Intelligence and perception glinted in her eyes.
“And this American habit of yours—this lack of deference—has it made your life difficult here in England?” she asked.
“At times.” He returned the wine glass to his tray.
“And you’re a captain. Are you a seafaring man?” she inquired, “Or did you acquire your rank on the battlefield?”
“Both.” She was back to asking personal questions. Instantly his guard rose into position. “And you, will you keep the plantation in Santo Domingo?”
“I haven’t decided.” She sipped her wine and turned her gaze toward the fire, hiding her expression from him, as well she should. He was not the only one with a past to conceal. “I’m not certain I want to return to that life.”
“I see.” Why would she want to return? She was nothing but a maidservant in Santo Domingo. He studied the side of her face. “It is likely your grandmother will want to be assured of your identity in some way, seeing that she’s never met you before.” He waited for a telltale blush, a momentary flutter of lashes—but saw nothing to betray her as an imposter. What a gifted little actress! “Do you have a birthmark or some such thing?”
“No. Nothing. I hadn’t thought she would want proof.”
“When a fortune is at stake?” He raised his glass in a silent toast to her. “In fact, you will have to prove yourself a bit to these Londoners, too. Anyone who comes from the hinterlands such as ourselves, must work extra hard to earn their stamp of approval.”
“That is,” She arched a brow. “If one desires to be stamped.”
Her wry reply caught him off guard. Ramsay nearly sputtered wine over his empty plate. He grabbed his napkin and covered his mouth to smother his grin. Did she know how utterly sexual was the undertone of her remark—at least to him?
Miss Hinds’ brows drew together and she leaned toward him. “Are you all right, sir?”
He nodded, his shoulders still shaking with laughter. She would have to learn to curb her tongue when speaking to Metcalf and his crowd, or she would be shunned in all the salons. Women with clever minds and unbridled tongues did not fare well in this society. And he should not encourage her by displaying his amusement.
“Still,” he remarked, coughing behind his fist. “You must learn to dance to their tune.”
“Why? I doubt you do.”
“Yes, but I am not marrying a peer of the realm.”
“Oh yes. That.”
He watched her, a slight smile on his lips, immensely enjoying the way her emotions played freely across her face when she allowed it.
“And do you dance, Miss Hinds? The minuet? The quadrille?”
She shrugged prettily and the banyan slipped dangerously low on her right shoulder. “I’m afraid not.”
“You must. Your grandmother will want to take you to a score of parties while she’s in town. That’s how it is done around here.”
“What if I cannot?”
“I will hire a tutor to refresh your memory. You must show no lack of accomplishment.”
She took a sip of wine and slipped her fingers around one bare ankle, seemingly unaware of how provocative she appeared in the overlarge robe. “Why are you so kind to me, Captain? Why is it so important to you that I succeed?”
He swallowed, knowing he must never reveal the selfish reason for his aid, but suddenly unwilling to lie to her either. What could he tell her that wasn’t a falsehood? What could he say that wouldn’t show him for the selfish driven bastard he actually was?
Ramsay rose. “Because you’re an outsider,” he replied brusquely. “Like myself.” He gave a curt nod in her direction, cutting short their conversation again. “Thank you for dinner, Miss Hinds. Goodnight.”
The French modiste had worked miracles in assembling a make-do wardrobe for Sophie. She’d found three dresses that were easily altered to fit, a variety of undergarments, two nightgowns, a robe, a warm wool cloak, gloves, muff, slippers, lace bonnet, and a beautiful silk shawl, all of which she delivered promptly at 2 pm.
The modiste had done an excellent job, and Mrs. Betrus insisted upon giving her a generous tip, assuring Sophie later that the master always rewarded good work. Whenever she spoke of Ramsay, she did so with pride, which Sophie took as a mark in the man’s favor. If household servants were loyal to the master, it spoke not only of his generous purse but also to the man’s character.
Not that Ramsay must prove himself to her. After all, he was but a wayside inn, a stopping place on her flight from the law. She had to admit, though, that she could have done far worse than to land in Ramsay’s household. He was a man of simple tastes, with a house that was warm and comfortable but in no way ostentatious. She enjoyed talking to the captain, too, for she had discovered a certain dry humor in his curt conversation, which hinted at an equally wry intelligence. She also enjoyed looking at him. Though some might think him too grim and dark to be handsome, she found a harsh beauty in his sharp features and stern set of his jaw. Something about him reminded her of a watch spring a tinker had shown her once—a plain coil of metal that could power a timepiece for hundreds of years, if cared for properly, but if set askew could whip out of its bindings and cut a man’s finger to the bone.
Sophie guessed Captain Ramsay was much like the watch spring: steady, powerful, biding his time. But once that dark power was set off—he would make a deadly enemy.
A thrill passed through her as she thought of another facet of Ramsay that could possibly be set off—his simmering, pent up passion. She could read it in his eyes, the way he would glance at her, his eyes feasting on her, and then would quickly avert his gaze. The very thought that he found it difficult to look at her made her heart race, because she knew she possessed a slight bit of power over the man. She’d never met a man quite like Captain Ramsay—and wished she had made his acquaintance before all the trouble had begun.
Now it was too late. It was useless to consider the possibility of getting to know him more. If he ever found out she was an imposter, and that she was taking advantage of him, she was sure those dark eyes of his would turn as black and cold as obsidian. The thought made her flush with shame. She couldn’t allow that to happen. She would never let Captain Ramsay know the truth about her. Yet the more she got to know him, the more she wished she could confide in him—tell him everything. Confess.
Shortly after the modiste left, Maggie appeared upstairs to help Sophie dress for afternoon tea at Blethin Hall. First came a bath, then the preparation of her hair. Since tea was not a formal evening affair, Maggie swept up Sophie’s chestnut curls into a simple roll, leaving a few strands to fall upon one shoulder, which she curled with hot irons. Then came a lace cap, which she pinned into Sophie’s auburn locks.
Sophie held out her arms and watched in a mirror as Maggie carefully dressed her in the blue and white striped bodice and skirt, a very smart gown that fit her tiny waist, which had been cinched to even smaller dimensions by a tight corset. She could not believe she was wearing such a gorgeous gown and that someone else was waiting upon her, seeing to her every need. In fact, she’d been surprised to be informed that another delivery had been made that morning, slippers and shoes for her, compliments of Ian Ramsay. Being cared for like this made her nervous and accepting such luxuries made her uncomfortable. For a decade she had done nothing but care for other people, and it was difficult to switch to the role of mistress.
Sophie reminded herself that she was playing a part and that it was imperative she accept the maid’s attention without pause, or she would reveal her real nature to the world.
She caught a glimpse of her drawn face in the mirror and tried not to worry about the endurance test ahead, where she would have to meet a bevy of future in-laws who would be assessing her every word and judging her every movement. She had always considered herself an equal or better
than Katherine in everything but social standing. Soon would come the moment of truth, when she would have to prove her claim.
Vaguely she wondered if she would be attracted to the earl—though it wasn’t important because she wasn’t really going to marry the man—and doubted she would find anyone as attractive as Captain Ramsay. Something about that man had struck her more than anyone she had ever met, including the young men the household servants had pushed her way. They had seemed silly and immature back then, and even more so now that she had met the captain.
She must stop thinking of him. What good would it do? Instead, she turned her thoughts to a more important goal of her afternoon, that of visiting a jeweler and finding out if she could sell the buckle, and if so, how much it would raise.
She had already concocted a plausible excuse for telling Charles to stop along the way, that she wished to buy a gift for her betrothed. She was just pulling on her gloves at the door, ready to depart, when Captain Ramsay arrived on horseback, his shoulders and hat covered with snow, his cheeks rosy with cold.
“Good afternoon, Captain,” she greeted, wondering at his sudden appearance, and trying to hide her dismay that he would arrive at the last minute to detain her.
“Miss Hinds.” He swept off his hat in greeting and quickly replaced it. “I didn’t think I’d make it.”
“Make it?”
“In time to accompany you.”
“I thought you weren’t invited.” She tried to conceal her disappointment.
“Yes, but I thought I could at least provide protection along the way.” He seemed surprised at her reaction and glanced once at Charles and then back at her. “The streets are treacherous in a storm like this.”
“I shall be fine, Captain.” She drew up the hood of her cloak and stepped toward the coach. “But thank you for the offer.”
“Nonsense. You are from Santo Domingo. You can’t begin to know what it’s like here in winter.”
“Charles shall see to my safety, won’t you, Charles?”
“Of course, miss.” He touched his hat.
“But what if you get stuck? Caught in the cold?”
Imposter Bride Page 8
