“But I’m good for it! I’m to be married soon—to an heiress.”
Ramsay made no mention of his visit with Miss Hinds. “I put no stock in the outcome of nuptials, Metcalf.”
“All right then, what if I put up collateral?”
“Collateral?” Ramsay kept his tone neutral, pretending to be innocent of the serious game he was playing. “In what form?”
“Property.”
“Not Blethin Hall, surely.”
“Of course not. I’ve got a Scotch estate, up by Lake Lemond. A place called Highclyffe.”
“Highclyffe? I’ve never heard of it.” More innocence.
“It belonged to one of your Bonnie Prince Charlie’s favorites, who unfortunately lost his head over his misplaced loyalties. The king gave it to my family as a thank you for our support.”
“You’d put this estate up as a marker?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it worth?”
“Well over a hundred thousand, I should think.”
“In Scotland? Fifty, maybe.”
“Seventy-five at the very least, Ramsay. I swear.”
Ramsay paused for effect, making the earl wait. Then he sighed. “Very well. You may play tonight. But on one condition. Lose, and you must pay up within a fortnight or the Scotland estate is mine.” Ramsay’s heart skipped in his chest. He hadn’t experienced such a thrill since the time he and his troops had ambushed British General Braddock and his men in the wilderness of Pennsylvania. “And I’ll take care of the debts you owe the others. Win, you are free and clear.”
“Fair enough.” The earl curled his lip. “But don’t cherish any false hopes, Ramsay. You’ll not be getting Highclyffe.”
“We shall see.” Ramsay stepped from behind the desk. “I’ll have Puckett draw up a chit you can sign. And then you are welcome to return to the floor.”
“I leap with joy.”
Ramsay ignored his sarcasm and left the room, hoping he’d concealed his glee, such as it was. Glee was not a usual occurrence in his world. He would withhold all emotion until the earl won or lost at the tables this evening.
Chapter 3
An hour later, Puckett rapped lightly upon the woodwork of the doorway. At the sound, Ramsay glanced up from his desk.
“You rang for me, sir?” Puckett inquired, his face as sober and concerned as the first day Ramsay had hired him five years ago. He thought his secretary would have warmed up over the course of the years, but maybe it was his own doing that Puckett remained formal. Ramsay had been told by various people, especially ladies, that he was a difficult man to get to know, too abrupt, and much too preoccupied with work to foster human relationships.
“Yes, come in.” Ramsay waved him forward.
Puckett flowed across the polished oak floor, his shoulders straight, his back erect, as if he’d practiced walking with a book on his head, much like young women did to improve their posture. His customary gray wig had not a hair out of place, and its queue was neatly tucked inside a black satin pouch.
“Did you take care of the earl?” Ramsay inquired.
“Yes. He’s determined to keep playing.”
“Bad for him. Good for us.”
“Aye, sir.” Puckett managed a small uncharacteristic smile.
“Puckett,” Ramsay reached for a pile of receipts. “I’d like you to look into something for me.”
“Yes?”
“I want you to find out all you can about a young woman named Sophie Vernet.” Ramsay flipped through the receipts as he spoke. “She is reputed to be a murderess. Connected to that Kensington killing. I’m curious as to the details.”
“I’ll begin an inquiry immediately, sir.”
“Good.”
Puckett turned for the door, and then rotated his small frame back to face him again. “And did you find Miss Hinds at the inn?”
“I did.”
“What was she like?”
“Hard to say. I never got much of a look at her. She spoke to me from behind her dressing screen.”
“And may I inquire how you were received?”
“With impatience.” Ramsay lowered the stack of receipts. “She wants to be a countess and doesn’t give a damn about the financial status of her betrothed.”
“She isn’t concerned that he’s in debt?”
“She won’t have to worry about that, not with the fortune coming to her.”
“But the earl will, in all likelihood, gamble that fortune away, too.”
“She doesn’t see that far, Puckett. She sees only the title. She sees becoming a member of London society, and that’s the extent of her plan for the future.”
“Perhaps she is a good match for Lord Metcalf, then.”
“You have a point.” Ramsay thought back to the memory of the woman’s pouting tone, her prideful comments and the cruel way in which she had struck her maid, all of which had set him on edge. A woman such as Miss Hinds would drive a man to drink in a fortnight, perhaps even goad Lord Metcalf out of his ennui.
“So what do you intend to do, sir?”
“I’m going back there tomorrow morning for another try. I’ll offer to find another more suitable husband. Anything to thwart Metcalf. I intend to keep him desperate for money.”
“I wish you luck.”
“Thank you.”
Puckett turned for the door again.
“Oh and Mr. Puckett, find me some supper, will you? I haven’t eaten all day.”
“Of course, sir.”
Ramsay gazed down at the sheaf of papers in his hands, but all he could see was a vision of Highclyffe—a cluster of granite towers standing sentinel in the mist above Loch Lemond. He could picture the winding lane that curved up to the main gate, the courtyard, and huge double doors under the archway entrance. So many times in his life he thought he’d never walk through those doors again. And now he was close enough to contemplate a return to the place as lord and master. His heart suddenly seemed too big for his chest, and he had to close his eyes against the burning ache inside.
Since he was ten years old, orphaned and sent to sea, he’d worked for this moment, planned every step, plotted each movement of a complicated game. After twenty long years, he was close to his goal. And he would let nothing stand in his way.
Sophie huddled behind four stacked barrels while she stopped to consider her next move. She simply had to obtain a cloak if she were to survive the night after all the shops closed and forced her to face the elements. She had to find something to eat as well. As she crouched in the cold, she suddenly recognized her surroundings, and realized that in her wanderings during the evening, she had made a large circle and had come back to the Queen & Cross Inn where her mistress lodged.
Fortunately, the constable was nowhere in sight this time. Perhaps it was best she bided her time here for the night. After all, why would the constable return to a location he had already searched? And who would be fool enough to return? With any luck, Constable Keener was in another part of the city or even abed by now. Yet Sophie doubted the man ever slept, judging by the way he had doggedly pursued her. The price for her head must be astronomical.
She straightened and glanced at the side door of the inn, wondering if she could slip inside while Katherine and Agnes slept, and retrieve her cloak. She should have taken the captain’s lap robe when she jumped from his coach, but her nature was not that of a thief, and she had chosen to leave the blanket behind.
Quietly, she edged out from behind the barrels and crept toward the door. She could hear people laughing and talking in the public room on the ground floor of the inn. Perhaps they’d be too busy to catch sight of a poor soul slipping through the shadows. Sophie opened the door and stepped in, not looking right or left in case someone might catch her eye and challenge her. Ahead of her the stairs rose to the first floor. She scampered up them, her numb hands and feet barely registering the rail beneath her palm and the steps under her sodden shoes. The inn was none too warm on the firs
t floor, but what heat there was made the tips of Sophie’s fingers and toes burn. Chafing her hands together, she walked down the corridor that was flanked on either side by closed doors.
All of a sudden she heard a familiar high-pitched laugh coming from the direction of the stairs. Sophie flattened against a door, hoping the inset doorway would hide her from her mistress’ sharp regard. She heard the low tones of a man’s voice say something.
“Why, I am appalled, sir!” Katherine tittered, her words slurred by too much drink. Sophie could see her now, walking with a tall man dressed in a dark brown coat. He bent toward her as she put the key to the lock, and she glanced over her shoulder, her face flushed and her eyes dancing merrily. “That you should suggest such a thing!”
“Why would I not?” he responded. “You’re lovely, the loveliest creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“But we just met.” Katherine pushed open the door to her room but leaned against the doorway, one hand behind her skirts and the other twirling the locket she always wore around her pale white throat. Her body bowed coquettishly in his direction. “Besides, I’m engaged.”
“Betrothed, I thought you said at dinner.”
“Betrothed, then.”
Sophie watched, amazed that her mistress would endanger her reputation by dallying with a stranger.
He stepped closer and touched her cheek, allowing the tip of his finger to trail down her jaw and then her throat.
“All the more reason to take pleasure while you can, Miss Hinds.” His finger traced the edge of her plunging décolletage. “You’ll soon be bound to one man. Do you know how tiresome that will be?”
“You provoke me, Mr. Giles.” Her breathing increased so much that Sophie could hear her agitated little breaths from where she stood down the hall.
“Such is my intent.”
“But my governess will be here any moment!”
“Then go back downstairs and tell her that you have the headache and do not require her company. She can enjoy the rest of the evening with her furniture maker.”
“I don’t know, sir—”
“She’ll be grateful. You see how she lingered for just a moment more, letting you go on ahead. Women of her station rarely have a chance to enjoy the company of a man.”
“You’re right. She doesn’t.”
“After you speak with her, dear lady, come to my room.”
“And how would I know where that is?”
“It’s the first one on the right at the top of the stairs.” He stroked her cheek again. “We can have a glass of claret to toast our evening together. Nothing more if you don’t wish it. I only want to share your company, as much as you will let me.”
“It does sound lovely—”
“It will be my pleasure and my honor to entertain you.” He touched her lips with his finger. “I shall wait for your knock.”
He turned on his heel and walked back toward the stairs. Katherine lingered until she saw him disappear into his room, and then she picked up her skirts and hurried toward the stairs and Agnes down below, forgetting to close the door.
Not a moment later, Sophie heard voices approaching from the other end of the corridor, from a direction where she would surely be seen. She dashed for the chamber left open by her giggly mistress and slipped inside, softly shutting the door behind her. She gathered up her cloak from the chair Agnes had thrown it over and stood up, looking around for the small travelling bag that held her few possessions.
Suddenly, the harried hours of the last two days overtook her, and a dreadful weariness weighed down her limbs and eyelids. All she could think about was sitting down to rest. A small fire glowed upon the grate, and she ambled closer, holding out her hands to the heat. She glanced around the dark threadbare room, the only familiar place she knew in the whole of London.
While Katherine and Agnes dallied with their admirers, she could catch a few moments of much needed sleep and stay warm at the same time. What could it hurt? Even if Katherine returned later, the young woman would likely have imbibed a fair portion of claret and would be in no condition to pose any danger to Sophie.
Sophie retrieved a blanket from the end of the bed, and folded it into her makeshift pallet. Then she piled a modest portion of coal on the fire. She stretched out upon the course wool of her mattress, tugging her cloak over her shoulders. Almost immediately, the air beneath the wool fabric began to heat. She sighed.
There in the darkness and the blessed warm space, she closed her eyes. Only a few minutes of rest. That’s all she needed to give her the strength to keep running. A few moments of warmth and rest.
Ramsay could tell by the pattern of bumps that his coach was close to his town house. He sat back and closed his eyes against a slight headache that he hoped wouldn’t flare into a migraine. The day had been long and the night had been stressful, involving the intervention between two gentlemen who had come to blows over a young baroness. The saving grace of the day had been Lord Metcalf’s failure to recoup his losses at hazard.
Ramsay turned his thoughts from the events at Maxwell’s to the prospect of a few quiet minutes by the fire with his feet up and a nip of brandy in a glass. He’d been reading an intriguing novel, Joseph Andrews, and thought he might finish it before the night was out if his headache didn’t grow any worse.
His housekeeper, Betty Betrus, would be long since in bed, as per the agreement that she need never wait up for him. She likely thought he made such an arrangement to facilitate the easy transport of young women to his bed, when in fact he required more solitary hours than most people and liked being alone and uninterrupted, especially when absorbed in a good book.
While he thought of his precious solitude, the coach hit another bump, and the lap robe nearly fell off the opposite seat. He pushed it back into place, and at the touch of the soft fabric, he was reminded of the events of the late afternoon and the last time he’d touched the robe, when he’d given it to Miss Vernet and told her to cover herself. Damn. He was not returning to a quiet house after all, but to an awaiting Miss Vernet and the prospect of interrogating a murderess.
The coach rolled to a stop, and Ramsay climbed out, feeling the familiar stiffness in his left thigh where he’d suffered a saber wound seven years ago at Montreal. He ignored the twinge.
“‘Night, Captain,” Charles tipped his hat.
Ramsay looked up at him. “Just a moment, Charles. What about the young woman?”
“The young woman, sir?” Charles twisted nervously, and the long whip he dangled above the backs of the horses jiggled at the end.
“Yes, the one I asked you to take care of.”
“I never saw her, Captain.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Ramsay replied, grateful for the loyalty of his servants, however misdirected this time.
“But it’s what I meant, sir. I never saw her.”
“What are you saying?”
“She must have slipped away.” He shrugged. “When I got here, she was gone. The coach was empty.”
“She ran off?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Hmm.” Ramsay glanced up and down the street, as if expecting to see tracks in the snow. A slight feeling of disappointment passed through him, but he ignored it as easily as the catch in his thigh.
“Very well.” He waved his driver on. “Good night, Charles.”
Dreams darkened Sophie’s light sleep by the fire, dreams of her terrifying last few days and of the murder scene she’d stumbled upon. Once again in her dream she looked up at the light at the top of the stairs and called out, “It’s Sophie Vernet, maidservant.” She climbed the stairs, knowing in the dream what she would find but climbing upward just the same. In the dream, she didn’t meet a man with a knife, but instead found the door ajar. She stepped into the room, her heart pounding, afraid to look but irrevocably drawn to the sight. There, in complete and horrifying detail was the young man, lying on his stomach, naked in front of a fire, with a length o
f silk tied around his throat and crimson blood staining his thighs, his beautiful young face contorted by the cruel final moments of his life.
“Captain Ramsay!”
A loud pounding woke Ramsay from his customary light sleep. He sat up, his chamber chilly in the early morning, the way he liked it. The fire in his grate had long since died.
“Yes?” He had no trouble making the transition from sleep to complete awareness and no difficulty in recognizing the worried voice of his housekeeper. In the distance, church bells rang, alerting the townspeople to an outbreak of fire.
A century had gone by since the Great Fire had destroyed most of London, but townspeople still told tales about the blaze that had raged for four days in 1666. He’d fought a few fires in Boston as well, and had nearly lost his life once. His heart skipped a beat at the prospect of disaster.
“Captain, I’m sorry to wake you, but Mr. Puckett insisted.”
“What’s on fire?” Ramsay was already on his feet, reaching for his breeches. He could see the puff of his question hanging in the cold air near his head.
“The Queen & Cross! Mr. Puckett said you’d want to know.”
“Good God! Miss Hinds is there!”
“Mr. Puckett happened to be driving home from the club and has come to fetch you.”
“Good Lord.” Ramsay pulled on a shirt and snatched the nearest frock coat out of his wardrobe, and ran down the stairs in a matter of seconds, with Betty at his heels.
“Captain,” Puckett greeted tersely, still dressed in the same clothes he’d worn at Maxwell’s. “I’ve taken the liberty of bringing the coach around.”
“Excellent.” Ramsay grabbed the coat and tricorne that Betty held out for him and dashed out to the street.
“Do be careful, sir!” she called after him.
A scream startled Sophie awake. She sat bolt upright, her heart pounding from her dream, with no idea where she was or what the horrible smell was that enveloped her. The choking odor brought her to her senses immediately, and she struggled to her feet, coughing and gagging. Something was not right. The darkness in the room was very different than it had been when she’d settled down to sleep. This darkness was opaque and acrid and stung her eyes. Smoke!
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