And he certainly didn’t love her, Susanna reminded herself for the hundredth time as he moved in front of her to open the library door and then closed it behind them. He simply wanted her for her money. All of his kisses, cajoling, gallantry, seeming patience and understanding, and his unwanted caresses had been directed toward that end.
Her stays must have been laced too tightly the night of her welcome ball and she’d been suffering from lack of air to think he might be falling in love with her. Not that it would make a difference anyway. She meant nothing to him. Nothing. He was a coldhearted, mercenary bastard—
“Your wine,” he said, his husky voice startling her.
She took the goblet, murmuring “Thank you” as he went about the room lighting candles. Feeling suddenly as if she needed extra fortification just to survive the next moments, she raised the glass to her lips and drank deeply, the fragrant red liquid warming her throat. Then, thinking what the hell, she drained the goblet.
“Would you like mine, too?”
Embarrassed, she set down the empty glass and shook her head. To her added discomfort, the wine only heightened the effect of his smile upon her. She felt warmed by it all the way to her toes.
“You’ve been tense all night, my love,” he said, coming to stand in front of her. He reached out to stroke her hair. “Are you sure there isn’t something wrong? In fact, you’ve been like this since you got back from Yorktown.”
“No, no, I’m fine,” she insisted, fixing her gaze upon the sensual curve of his lips so that he couldn’t read the lie in her eyes. She started slightly when he gently touched her cheek, but she didn’t look up. She couldn’t help thinking that they hadn’t been so close together since …
“But you’re so pale, Camille. That concerns me. Perhaps you’ve been doing too much lately—too many parties, too many outings. If you’d like, I could send a message to the Tates and tell them you won’t be able to make it tomor—”
“No!” she cried. When his deep brown eyes darkened, she struggled to get a tight grip on her emotions. If she continued like this, he would surely begin to suspect that something was amiss. “No,” she repeated softly. “I want to see the races. I know I’ve accepted a lot of invitations lately … but after tomorrow, I promise I’ll stay home and rest.” She willed herself to smile and ask lightly, “Would that please you?”
To her relief his expression relaxed. “And have you all to myself for a while? How could it not please me?”
He appeared about to kiss her then, and not thinking her frazzled, increasingly wine-befuddled wits could bear it, she deftly sidestepped him and added flirtatiously, “You said you had something to show me, Adam. What is it? A gift, perhaps?”
He turned, following her feigned search about the library as she peeked beneath brocade pillows and behind bric-a-brac. “No, my love, I have no gift,” he said with sincere apology. “I only wanted to get you alone so we might talk.”
“Talk? About what?”
“Last night.”
Susanna stopped, her cheeks firing hotly, cursing the wine she had drank so quickly as she swayed just a little.
“Perhaps you might want to sit down,” he suggested with a hint of amusement.
She obliged him, sinking gratefully into a comfortable stuffed chair he shoved behind her. As he leaned against the massive mahogany desk that dominated the room, she waited for him to speak. She certainly wasn’t going to initiate this conversation, and she would do her best to keep it as short as possible. She began to grow apprehensive when his expression sobered, his eyes searching her face. He seemed almost tense.
“I want you to tell me about your nightmare, Camille.”
“My nightmare?” She was stunned yet relieved that he hadn’t brought up what had happened after he woke her from her bad dream.
“Yes. You said some names last night … Keefer Dunn, Daniel. Were they people you met aboard the Charming Nancy? Or were they acquaintances from Fairford?”
Susanna almost choked, and she wondered if her face had gone chalk-white. Never in a thousand years would she have expected to hear those names mentioned by anyone in the same breath, and certainly not by Adam. If she had said them last night during her nightmare, God only knew what else she had given away about herself.
“You screamed out that this Keefer Dunn was hurting you, beating you,” he prodded gently, although his voice was grim. “Did someone hurt you aboard that ship or in England? You must tell me, for if so, I swear those men will be punished.”
Understanding dawned upon Susanna, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God she hadn’t obviously implicated herself in some way. He didn’t seem to have any idea how these people were connected to her real identity, and she would do everything in her power to see that he never did.
“Camille, answer me.”
“No, Adam, no one hurt me,” she finally replied, her voice sounding shaky to her ears. “I never knew those men.”
“But your nightmare, my love—it sounded so vivid. Almost as if you were living it. You were calling on your papa—”
“It wasn’t me,” she blurted out, perhaps a bit too hastily. When he frowned, she added, “It was a story told me years ago by my waiting-maid … the one who died from the fever before we reached Virginia.”
“Susanna Guthrie?” he prompted. “Your father never told me much about her, just her name.”
“Yes,” she replied, unsettled to hear her true name on his lips.
“Go on, I’m listening.”
“I’ve … I’ve had nightmares about that story ever since. I don’t know why, maybe because it was so horrible.”
“What story?”
Susanna drew a deep breath, realizing she was about to skirt dangerously close to the truth.
“My waiting-maid had a terrible, wretched childhood … Aunt Melicent and I saved her from London’s slums, you know. Her father, Daniel Guthrie, used to beat her mercilessly. My aunt told me she had the most awful bruises and lash marks upon her skin when we found her.” She licked her lips as awful memories flooded her mind, unnerving sights and putrid smells. “One day, Susanna finally admitted to me what had happened on the night she was almost run over by our carriage. Her father sold her to a man named Keefer Dunn.” She met Adam’s eyes. “She was only twelve, Adam. An innocent young girl. Her father wanted her to … to…”
“I understand now, Camille,” he broke in gently, kneeling in front of her and taking her shaking hands in his large, warm ones. “You don’t have to tell me any more if you don’t want to.”
“She ran away,” Susanna continued numbly, unable to stop, “and her father tried to catch her. She ran into the street … there was a carriage, my—my Aunt Melicent’s carriage. Keefer Dunn pushed her out of the way, rolling with her to the side of the road, but her father was crushed beneath the wheels. That—that gruesome man would have … oh, Adam, Keefer Dunn would have taken her with him if my aunt hadn’t stopped the carriage …”
Tears burning her eyes, Susanna felt his arms go around her as he pulled her close.
“Shhh, love. No wonder you have nightmares,” he said soothingly, then his voice fell to a vehement whisper. “God damn to hell’s fire all the bastards like that in the world. Damn them. Damn them all!”
A weighty silence fell between them as Susanna gradually regained her composure, the images that had suddenly become so vividly real retreating once more to a small, locked corner of her mind. Soon she was aware only of the warmth of Adam’s embrace and the strong, steady beat of his heart against her breast.
“I’ll help you chase those nightmares away, my love,” he finally said as he drew back to stare deeply into her eyes. As he cradled her face in his hands, his voice throbbed with fervent intensity. “I would die before I let anything or anyone hurt you. I love you, Camille. Do you hear me? I love you.”
Susanna’s own heartbeat seemed to stop as she regarded him, dumbstruck. A stirring memory of sweet contentment, a protectiv
e embrace, a husky whisper flashed through her mind, and stark realization gripped her.
Last night … those words … they hadn’t been a dream. Adam must have said them … he must have said them!
She started when she felt his lips, warm and tender, shape hers in the sweetest kiss she had ever known. For a long, breathless moment she gave back to him what he was giving her, surrendering to the wonder of his mouth upon hers, their breath melding as one. Then something snapped inside her. She was sure it was her heart breaking.
For even if he loved her, and she was beginning to believe that he did, in spite of everything her better judgment was telling her, he was the wrong man.
Even if she loved him, and she knew now that she did, their situation had not changed … could not change. Adam Thornton was a hired man, a man who owned nothing, a man who would never be what Lady Redmayne and Camille had intended as the master of Briarwood. No matter what lay in Susanna’s heart, she could not betray her duty to them. She had sworn to marry wisely! Tomorrow she would become betrothed to the right man, a gentleman who would help her fulfill Camille’s dying wish. A man who possessed wealth and prominence. A man she did not love …
Adam rose suddenly and, drawing her with him, embraced her for endless moments before pulling away to search her face.
“Are you happy that we’re going to be wed, Camille?” he asked huskily, his eyes reflecting the same poignant vulnerability she had seen on the night of her welcome ball. “You accepted our courtship so readily, I know in part to honor your father’s wishes, but I believe that you truly care … about us, about me. Are you happy, my love?”
Dying inside, Susanna opened her mouth to lie once again when approaching footsteps sounded upon the parquet floor in the entrance hall. Before Adam could stop her, she broke away form him, knowing that he would never again hold her so closely, or kiss her, or say those three words to her. For if he loved her now, tomorrow he would surely hate her. She would be betrothed to another man.
The footsteps stopped and when a soft knock came at the door, she hastened to open it.
“Oh! Forgive me, Miss Camille,” Ertha exclaimed in surprise, stepping back and abruptly pulling her right arm behind her back, as if to conceal something. Her wide-eyed gaze skipped to Adam and then back again to Susanna. “I came to talk to Mr. Thornton. Prue told me I’d find him here, but I thought you had already retired for the night. Prue said she heard that you were only going to be in the library for a few moments—”
“I was just leaving, Ertha,” Susanna broke in, wondering at the housekeeper’s strange behavior. Why was she studying her face so intently, as if seeing her for the first time?
“You don’t have to go, Miss Cary,” she heard Adam say firmly behind her. “I’d like it very much if we continued our business discussion. I’m sure whatever Ertha has to say can wait until morning.”
“Oh, yes, of course it can wait,” the housekeeper blurted, looking extremely uncomfortable. “I’m sorry I interrupted you, Miss Camille. Tomorrow morning will be fine …”
“That won’t be necessary,” she insisted, brushing past her into the hall. “I have to rise early if I’m going to be ready by the time Matthew and Celeste Grymes arrive.”
As Ertha sharply wheeled around so that her back was to the paneled wall, her arm still twisted behind her, Susanna wondered again what was the matter with the woman. Then her desire to flee Adam’s compelling presence overcame her. Bidding them both a hasty good night, she escaped up the stairs.
***
Adam closed the door to the library, his gaze narrowed as he studied the silent housekeeper. Damn, if he and Camille weren’t forever being interrupted in this house!
He moved to the front of the desk, attempting not to sound too irritated. He knew the housekeeper had meant no harm. “All right, Ertha, what did you want to speak to me about?”
“Well, Mr. Thornton, I didn’t know if I should bring this to your attention. It might not mean a thing …”
“Bring what to my attention?” he demanded, watching as she drew what looked to be a rolled piece of parchment from behind her back.
“This.”
As she handed him the cylinder, he saw that it wasn’t parchment at all but stiff, fine-grained canvas such as artists used for oil paintings.
“It’s a portrait, Mr. Thornton,” Ertha added in a nervous rush. “I found it in Miss Camille’s closet when I went up there yesterday to put away the things she bought in Yorktown. I was setting her new hat up on the shelf when another hatbox fell to the floor. A straw bonnet tumbled out and along with it came this canvas. I can’t say for sure, but I think this painting was hidden beneath a false bottom.”
Adam carefully unrolled the canvas, his breath catching as the portrait of a pretty, emerald-eyed woman was revealed.
For a fleeting instant he thought it was Camille, but on a second look, he doubted his initial judgment. The features were similar but not remarkably so. The main resemblance lay in the color of the eyes and in the hair, which was honey-blonde and worn in the same style, swept back from the forehead and tumbling in ringlets over the woman’s shoulders and down her back. Then he wondered if it might indeed be a portrait of Camille, but executed by an artist who had failed to accurately capture her features.
“I don’t understand, Ertha. It looks to be Miss Cary, not the best portrait of her, I agree, but it is her.”
“That’s what I thought, but not anymore. Too many things are different,” the housekeeper said, appearing confused herself. “This woman’s expression is calm and peaceful, but Miss Camille’s is always so lively, even on that first day when she came to the house. And look how this woman holds her hands, so restful-like. I noticed early on that Miss Camille doesn’t seem to like to sit still much. Look at the tilt of this woman’s chin and that gentle smile. Everything’s different, I tell you. Don’t you see it, Mr. Thornton?”
“Yes, I suppose I do, but I still don’t understand what you’re trying to say—”
“This is my baby! I know it! I remember her as clear as the day she left for England. My little Camille was always a quiet, reserved child, and this portrait shows that the years hadn’t changed her.” Ertha sighed with exasperation, as if knowing she was making little sense. “I didn’t realize how completely different Miss Camille was until I saw this picture.”
“Ertha …” Adam began, his head beginning to hurt. What the hell kind of nonsense was she uttering?
“Please hear me out, Mr. Thornton,” she insisted, her deeply lined face anxious. “I don’t know what all of this means and, God knows I could be wrong, but I believe there’s something strange afoot here at Briarwood. Something in my bones is telling me that the young lady upstairs is not the rightful Miss Camille Cary.”
Now Adam’s head was actually pounding. He wondered if the frantic preparations for Camille’s welcome ball had pushed the housekeeper into hysteria.
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
“Not crazy, Ertha. Just overtired.” Adam chose his next words carefully. He didn’t want to offend her. He knew there wasn’t a more faithful servant at Briarwood than this woman.
“We’ve had a lot of upheaval here during the past months,” he continued. “Mr. Cary’s death and then Miss Cary’s arrival home. I’m not saying you’re imagining things, Ertha. You’ve a right to your feelings. But this idea of yours is impossible. The portrait is a bad one, it’s as simple as that. I suggest you have the other maids take on some of your duties for a few weeks so you can get some extra rest.”
The housekeeper heaved another sigh, suddenly looking much older than her years as she shrugged wearily. “Lord help me, maybe I am overtired, saying such foolish things,” she muttered almost to herself, then she met Adam’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr. Thornton. Must be my age finally catching up with me.” She glanced at the partially rolled canvas in his hands. “I’ll put the painting back in the bottom of that hatbox tomorrow morning after you both le
ave for the Tates’. If Miss Camille wants it there, then it must be for some good reason.”
“Leave it in here for the night,” Adam suggested gently. “There’s no sense in taking it all the way to your cabin and then bringing it back again.” He nodded at the desk. “I’ll put it in the top left-hand drawer.”
“As you say, Mr. Thornton. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
As Ertha left the library, Adam sat down behind the desk and, shaking his head over everything he had just heard, he unrolled the painting again.
After studying it carefully, he came to the same conclusion. Whatever artist had done the work certainly didn’t deserve the money he must have been paid for it. Camille’s true likeness hadn’t been captured at all. He turned over the canvas, looking for the name of the incompetent portraitist since none was visible on the painting itself.
His heart lurched painfully in his chest when he saw an inscription in the lower right corner, written in a skillful, feminine hand. It wasn’t the message itself that had caught him by surprise, making him feel a little sick inside. It simply read To my dearest father, a gift with all my love.
He traced his finger in disbelief over the closing, Your beloved daughter, Camille, then quickly pulled from his coat pocket the note Camille had left for him that morning. Laying the paper next to the inscription, he felt an eerie intuition in the pit of his stomach.
The handwriting was similar, neat and delicate, almost as if taught by the same teacher. But the two signatures were different, one smoothly executed while the other appeared awkward beside it.
Something told him that they could not have been written by the same hand.
Chapter 16
“Here’s the apple cider you wanted, Miss Cary.”
Susanna smiled brightly as Matthew Grymes handed her the brimming cup, although inside she was a bundle of raw nerves. Scarcely listening as he joined with the other young men seated around her in animated conversation about the races that would begin shortly, she glanced out over the crowded side lawn of the Tates’ Georgian mansion.
Defiant Impostor Page 21
