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.
Chapter 2
“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.
As they had to w
ait for Katherine’s grandmother to arrive, and since the Metcalfs were not in London, Katherine was forced to pass the time at the inn. She took a lingering bath, all the while discussing with Agnes the kind of wedding she would have—what kind of gown, what kind of flowers, and what kind of feast. Sophie washed her mistress’ hair and attended to her nails and feet, only half-listening to Katherine’s chatter.
Just after eleven, while Katherine dressed behind a screen, someone knocked upon the door. Concealed behind the screen, Sophie continued to pull at Katherine’s corset ties, while Agnes answered the door.
“Good morning,” a deep voice greeted. “I’m looking for Miss Katherine Hinds.”
Katherine leaned over to look through the crack of the screen. Sophie did the same at the space just above the hinge on the other side, and caught sight of a tall man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in black, with a snowy white cravat tied around his neck and tall black boots. His clothes looked well made and clean, and Sophie found herself trying to make out his features, but the shadow of his hat concealed his face.
“Miss Hinds is not available at the moment,” Agnes finally replied.
“Then may I leave my card?” He reached into the folds of his Brandenburg coat. “It is important that I speak with her.”
Katherine straightened. “Agnes,” she called from behind the screen. “Show the gentleman in.”
Agnes glanced over her shoulder in surprise.
“Show him in.” Katherine continued. “He may state his business while I dress.”
Sophie looked up just in time to see Katherine’s glare and her raised hand, ready to slap her dallying servant. “What are you gawking at?” she mouthed.
Instantly Sophie rose up and resumed the task of cinching Katherine’s waist to a fashionable thirteen inches. Yet she couldn’t resist the urge to stare at the visitor with the deep voice, and managed to get a view of him through the crack in the screen as she worked.
“Thank you.” The man moved forward and politely turned his gaze to the fire instead of the faint silhouettes behind the screen. He gave his hat to Agnes, revealing hair as black as the coal with which Sophie had earlier built the fire. The queue of his hair brushed the tops of a pair of wide shoulders.
“My name is Ian Ramsay,” he began.
Agnes delivered his card to Katherine, bustling more than usual, as the appearance of a man had completely changed the atmosphere in the room. Katherine glanced at the printing on the plain ivory paper.
“Captain Ian Ramsay,” she repeated, reading the card.
“At your service.” He gave a short bow that was neither overly effusive nor awkwardly stiff, but a quick fluid movement of man accustomed to physical activity.
“And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, captain?”
“As to that, Miss Hinds, perhaps it would be better if I came at another time.”
“Not at all. Speak, sir.”
“You are a stranger to London, are you not?”
“Yes, but where do you come by your information?”
The man shifted his weight onto his left foot and clasped his hands behind him. “‘Tis well known that Edward Metcalf awaits his betrothed from the Americas.”
“Really?” Katherine raised her chin and flushed with pleasure. She loved being the center of attention.
“And I have made it my duty to keep informed of all ships arriving from Santo Domingo.”
“To what purpose?”
“To meet you, Miss Hinds, and to suggest that you investigate Edward Metcalf before you enter into any legal arrangement with the man.”
Color flooded into Katherine’s face again, but this time it was a flush of anger. “I beg your pardon?”
“I mean no disrespect, madam, but you are to inherit a large sum of money. There are those so desperate, they would drug you and marry you under false pretenses.”
“Surely not the earl!”
“Surely not. But bear in mind that just because he has a title does not guarantee he has financial security.”
“Sir, I will not listen to such slanderous talk!”
The captain frowned and glanced at the screen for a moment. “I come only as a friend, with your best interests in mind, to warn you.”
“Friend? What kind of friend would say such a thing about my intended husband? You insult me! And you insult his lordship!”
Sophie reached up to drape a petticoat around Katherine, but in her outrage, her mistress drove her away with a harsh smack. At the sound, the captain jerked around and surveyed the screen as if to discern what had just transpired behind it. He had dark features and dark, intense eyes.
Katherine glowered, as if to burn a hole through the screen. “I’ll have you know you are speaking of Edward Metcalf, the Earl of Blethin, peer of the realm!”
“Be that as it may, Miss Hinds, my advice still stands.”
“I won’t even bother to thank you,” she retorted, turning her back, her nose in the air, even though she couldn’t be seen by the man. “Good day to you, sir!”
For a moment, the tall man paused, as if deciding how he could better state his case, and then he reached for his tricorne hat.
“The address to my club is on the card,” he said. “Should you desire more information. Or should you need my assistance.”
“You flatter yourself, sir!”
“Good day then,” he replied, his voice brusque. He nodded at Agnes, “Good day,” he said again, and ducked out of the room.
Sophie watched him go and wondered what would induce a complete stranger to warn Katherine about Edward Metcalf.
A few minutes later, Sophie was sent downstairs for bread and meat and a bottle of cider. She sat in the smoky, noisy common room of the inn, grateful to be off her feet for a few minutes, as she waited for the victuals to be prepared. Everyone was talking about a murder in Kensington, a crime so heinous that the details had been left out of the morning newssheet. Sophie clasped her hands together in her lap and forced herself to remain calm. Surely they spoke of the murdered man she had seen in the Metcalf’s carriage house, his handsome young face frozen into a mask of agony by death, his thighs covered in blood. In no way did she wish to be associated with such a crime or to discuss it with anyone either.
Still, she couldn’t help but listen to the buzz of voices while she kept her head down and fussed with the ruined sleeve of her dress where the murderer had struck out at her. Was that detail known as well—that a young woman had been at the scene of the crime and had suffered a knife wound? With trembling fingers, Sophie brought the two edges of her sleeve together, and when she did so, something dislodged from her cuff, fell to the slate floor, and bounced under the bench where she sat.
Sophie bent down and looked beneath her seat, surprised to spy a small buckle glittering in the dim light. She snatched up the bauble and glanced at it briefly. Were those diamonds flashing back at her or pieces of cut glass? She couldn’t tell. Where had the buckle come from? How had it lodged in the cuff of her sleeve? Could this buckle incriminate her by linking her to the murder?
“Your order, miss,” the innkeeper called, sliding a metal tray across the bar toward her.
Shaken, Sophie reached for her pockets and deftly dropped the buckle in before she selected a copper to pay for Katherine’s meal. She would deal with the bauble later, when she had more time to think.
“Thank you.” Sophie paid with the coin and then glanced down at the thick slices of bacon. She’d been ravenous when she’d entered the common room, but after hearing the talk around her and discovering the buckle, she’d lost her appetite. In fact, when she looked again at the thick slabs of meat piled next to the bread, she had to force back a wave of nausea.
“Are you all right, miss?” the innkeeper asked, leaning closer and tilting his head. “You look as pale as a sheet.”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
She gave him a weak smile, grabbed the tray without letting her gaze drop to the pla
te of food, and carried it up the stairs.
Sophie was surprised to see the door to their room open, and a man’s figure standing at the threshold. Had Captain Ramsay returned? On second glance, she realized the visitor was not their former visitor. This man wore a black cloak, not a coat, carried a long black staff, and was much shorter than Captain Ramsey. Sophie paused in the hallway a few paces from the door. Her intuition urged her to be wary. She could hear the caller’s voice, a nasal drone that betrayed a lack of spirit in the man or a lack of imagination.
“—in Kensington, miss. Last night.”
“‘Tis absurd,” Katherine answered. “What reason would she have?”
Sophie froze. They were speaking of her, she was sure of it. But how could she possibly be connected to the murder?
“Theft.”
Sophie thought of the buckle in her pocket, and her blood ran cold, slicing through her veins. She glanced again at the man and guessed he might be an officer of the law, a constable perhaps, or a hired investigator.
“And how can you be certain, Constable Keener?”
“The victim was missing the buckles of his knee breeches, madam. Very expensive buckles. Fashioned in silver and diamonds, I’ve been told.”
“Surely, my maid servant did not steal anything—”
“She was there last evening, according to the butler.”
“And gone a long time,” Agnes put in, never missing a chance to discredit Sophie. “Only to come back with that cut on her arm and a tall tale!”
Sophie felt her heart sinking to her tattered shoes.
“Really?” The constable’s voice plumped with a pleased smile. “Interesting.” He craned his neck to take in a full view of the room. “And where is she now?”
“Downstairs,” Katherine answered. “Supposedly buying our midday meal.”
The constable turned his head in the direction of the stairs and for a long, awful moment his cool gray eyes locked upon Sophie’s, imprisoning her entire body in his hard stare. He realized instantly who stood in the hall behind him, and she knew she must act. If he so much as searched her pockets, he would find damning proof of her culpability, and she knew she could not count on Katherine to protect her.
Imposter Bride Page 2