“I am warmly dressed, thanks to you.”
His gaze traveled over her from her booted feet up to the metal supports of her calabash, and she suddenly realized he was disappointed in not being welcomed to serve as her companion, as her protector. He had wanted to go with her? She wondered if he had made a special trip just for her.
Any other time she would have been flattered by such a gesture and would have desired the opportunity to talk with him, to sit in the intimacy of the coach and exchange conversation. But not this time. It was imperative that she make her inquiry at the jeweler’s. The sooner she rid herself of the buckle, the better.
“Really, Captain. I shall be fine.”
“So be it. Then I wish you luck, Miss Hinds.” He held out his hand and she raised hers in response. His gloved fingers gently grasped hers at the tips, and then he drew her hand to his mouth. She watched him, unable to disengage from his dark regard as she felt the warmth of his lips permeate the thin fabric of her kid glove. The heat of his mouth coursed all the way through her.
“You will entrance him,” he remarked, his expression unreadable.
“Then I look presentable?”
“More than presentable.” Their gazes held, their hands lingered together, and she felt her pulse race from being this close to him, this connected. She could barely take a breath.
All too soon he released her hand, and she turned for the waiting coach, knowing her cheeks were aflame. Still, she paused and looked back, reluctant to leave him now.
“Will you be home for supper?” she asked. A quiet evening with the captain waiting for her at the end of the day would be enough to get her through the upcoming trial by fire.
“Yes,” he replied. “Will you?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll bring something special to drink from the club then. And you can tell me all about the Metcalfs.”
“I shall look forward to it.” She smiled and waved, and then Charles helped her step into the coach. She looked out the window and watched Ramsay standing there with his horse, observing her departure for the house of a great lord—the snow swirling around his broad shoulders, his cloak flapping around his tall shining boots, but his face lost in shadow.
She was certain he had ridden from his club just for her sake, and that when she disappeared from view, he would ride back again in the blinding snow.
His gallantry touched her.
A bell tinkled at the door of the small glittering jewelry shop, alight in the storm with clusters of candles reflecting upon the glass-fronted cabinets and a huge chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. No one else was in the store, probably due to the inclement weather.
“Good afternoon, miss,” the shopkeeper greeted, assessing Sophie instantly as a person of quality and a potential sale, something she had never before experienced. She flushed. It was wonderful to enjoy the respect she was afforded as Katherine Hinds, and would be even more wonderful to be treated this way for the rest of her days. But this new life she led was fashioned of lies. In fact, she had told Charles she wished to buy a present for her betrothed, when she had no intention of purchasing anything.
Lying did not sit well with her conscience. She worried that after a few more falsehoods, her shaky new identity would come crashing down around her, as punishment for her many fabrications. Still, she had a few more tales to tell before she could escape London.
“Good day.” Sophie swept forward, trying her best to disguise her slight West Indies accent. “How do you do?”
“Very well, miss, thank you.” The man bowed slightly and swept his arm out toward his wares. “May I show you something?”
“Actually, I have a piece of jewelry I would like assessed.”
She saw his eyes flick to the small reticule she carried. “Oh?”
“It’s something I was given by a former admirer.” She opened her bag and fished out the buckle. “And I have cause to suspect its true value, knowing what I know of the man now.” She gave him what she hoped was a pretty frown, and he seemed to accept her story as truth.
“Not exactly a genuine character was he, miss?”
“One might say that.”
The man skittered sideways like a crab at the beach, and stopped behind a table upon which sat a lamp and an eye glass upon velvet cloth. He held out his hand. “May I?”
She dropped the bauble in his hand. He looked at it and then shot a quick glance at her. For a moment she froze in alarm, wondering if news had spread that quickly about the missing buckle and the woman who had stolen it.
“Where did you come by this?” he asked, sticking the small magnifying glass to his right eye and bending over to the light of the oil lamp.
“My former fiancé. Very former, I might add.”
“It’s genuine. In fact, of very high quality.”
“How much is it worth, would you say?”
“Hmm. Perhaps a hundred pounds.” He titled the buckle and looked at it again, turning it over to look at the back. “Yes, I would venture to say about a hundred pounds.”
“Really?”
“Yes. If you had the other one, the set would be even more valuable.” He rose and let the eyepiece drop into his hand. “Are you planning to sell it, miss?”
“Perhaps. It holds no sentimental value to me.” Sophie reached for the buckle. “In fact, quite the opposite.”
“I might have a buyer.” He set the magnifying glass back upon the velvet. “Would you care to leave the piece with me?”
“Do you mean to say you can’t buy it from me outright?” Sophie countered.
“Oh, my dear no.” He stared down at the buckle. “A valuable piece like this is always sold on consignment.”
She hadn’t thought raising money through the sale of the buckle would be so complicated. It appeared she would have to sell the piece on the street, for much less than its real value. But she couldn’t chance selling the buckle in London, not if Constable Keener’s agents were out looking for a young lady with a valuable piece of jewelry for sale. And she couldn’t leave London just yet, not with Keener checking every highway and dock. She would have to bide her time at Ian Ramsay’s house.
Sophie glanced at the jeweler, wondering if she should ask him what he would give her for the buckle, right here and now. She could take the cash and take her chances in sneaking out of the city. But such a plan could easily fail, and then where would she be? She would be a dead woman for certain. Better to lay low and wait.
She looked across the glass cabinet to the jeweler. “Thank you for your time, but I would rather keep the buckle in my possession.” She returned the bauble to her purse. “Until I make my final decision to sell.”
“Of course.” He smiled but the expression did not reach his eyes. Sophie felt her suspicions rise. “If you would care to leave your name and a place where you can be reached, I would be happy to let you know of any buyer.”
“What if I just came back?” Sophie countered, “Say, in a few days? I’m in no particular rush to sell, sir.”
“That would be fine.” The shopkeeper pursed his lips. “But of course the transaction will not be as swift, if the buyer has to wait to see the item.”
“Still, I will come back. And I will let you know what date and time, so your buyer can meet me here.”
“Of course.” Again, the jeweler smiled, but didn’t seem happy about her decision to leave with the buckle.
Could Constable Keener have gone to every jeweler in London and warned them about a murderer with a buckle to sell? She was beginning to think so.
“Thank you for your assistance, sir,” she said, anxious to leave the shop, but hoping the jeweler couldn’t detect her rising panic.
“You’re welcome, miss. I hope we may do business.”
She gave him a quick smile and hurried from the shop, her senses on full alert.
She glanced around, hoping Constable Keener’s lackeys were nowhere about, and hoping as well that she could make Blethin Hall in
a quarter hour.
Chapter 7
Sophie returned from Blethin Hall much later than she intended. The Metcalfs had kept her far too long, showing her family portraits, boring her to death with tales of the family history, which might have been half-interesting if told at more than a snail-paced speed and with a dollop of humor. Tired of smiling and nodding, worn out from feigning interest, and wanting only to fall into bed, Sophie climbed out of the coach and knocked on Ramsay’s front door.
Mrs. Betrus held her finger to lips as Sophie stepped into the house.
“What is the matter?” Sophie asked, handing over her wraps.
“It’s the master. Come home with one of his headaches. The slightest sound disturbs him.”
“A migraine?” Sophie asked in a hushed voice.
“He gets them often—poor man.”
“A friend of mine suffered from the very same thing.”
Mrs. Betrus shook her head. “I wouldn’t wish them on anyone.”
“Where is he?” Sophie quickly glanced down the hall toward the study and then into the parlor, but all was dark.
“He went up to his chamber a few minutes ago. But he asked me to convey his regrets at not joining you for supper.”
Mrs. Betrus closed the cloak closet door under the stairs and turned. “May I fix you something, though, Miss Hinds?”
Sophie barely heard her as her thoughts shifted to the captain, who must be in serious discomfort. The cook at the Hinds plantation had become violently ill with each migraine until she’d had the good fortune to find a wonderful kitchen servant from Bombay, who had provided her with a much-welcomed route to relief.
“Do you have any oil of peppermint? Sophie asked.
“For supper?” Mrs. Betrus stared at her.
“No, for the captain.”
“I believe I do—in the pantry.”
“Would you bring it up to his room, along with some warm cloths?”
“I wouldn’t dare enter his room, Miss!” Betty Betrus’ eyes grew round with alarm. “Not when he has a migraine. He’ll snap your head off!”
“I’ll risk it.” She grabbed a brace of candles, picked up her skirts, and climbed the stairs, glad to be useful after an entirely useless afternoon full of china cups, name dropping and meaningless gossip.
Though she had never seen Ramsay come or go from the chamber at the end of the hall, she surmised the large room was the master bedroom. Lightly she rapped on the door and bent close to listen for a reply. None came. Surely he would not be sleeping, not if his attacks were similar to those of the Hinds’ cook. Determined to help him, Sophie placed the candles on a table in the hallway.
Quietly she unlatched the door and slipped into the room, allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom before she ventured forward. She could see a dark shape against the light counterpane of the bed.
“Leave me be,” the dark shape growled.
“I can help you,” she replied, still standing at the door. She’d never been in the bedchamber of a man before. This room, even in darkness, was full of Ramsay’s male presence, scented by the same clean fragrance she’d smelled in his coach under the plaid blanket. It must be a particular soap he used, or a subtle cologne, but whatever it was, she found it pleasant and drew in a deep appreciative breath.
He didn’t stir, which revealed just how sick he felt.
“I said leave.” His voice was gruff, forced, as if it hurt to speak. “Leave me alone.”
“Not yet.”
He sighed and she took the sound as a sign of acquiescence. A soft rap behind her broke the tense stillness, and Sophie turned to take the tray Mrs. Betrus had brought upstairs.
“Shall I stay?” the housekeeper whispered, aware of the impropriety of the heiress being alone with a man in bed, but at the same time fearful of remaining in the room.
“I hardly think it’s necessary,” Sophie replied. “Not in his condition”
“Ring if you need me.”
“Thank you. I will.”
The housekeeper closed the door, and Sophie flowed forward, careful not to make any noise. She put the tray on the seat of a wingback chair and picked up the small vial of oil.
“You should not be here,” he rasped as she moved to his side.
“You should not be suffering so,” she replied.
She could see now that his large frame sprawled diagonally across the bed, that his shirt was half-buttoned and free of his breeches. His shoes were off, but he’d left his hose on. Through the open placket of his cambric shirt, she could see the sheen of his perspiring but well-muscled chest. Sophie tried not to stare.
“There is an East Indian cure that worked wonders for a friend of mine,” she explained.
He didn’t answer. She hoped he wouldn’t be sick enough to lose what he’d eaten that day.
“I’m going to put peppermint oil on your temples, and then give you a light massage.”
She pulled out the cork of the tiny amber bottle, overturned the bottle onto the tip of her index finger, and leaned forward to lightly dab the mint onto his skin. He lay there, breathing shallowly, his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted as she reached over him.
Then she felt the puff of his breath on her throat.
A swell of desire bloomed in her breasts, overwhelming her. She paused, hovering over him, filled with longing and wanting him to rise up to her breasts and kiss them as she sank down upon him. Her breasts ached to be touched by his mouth, her neck ached for the soft rasp of his beard, the delicious tickle of his hair. The aching sensation swept through her, weakening her knees, until she caught herself and straightened, ashamed that she could indulge in such a fantasy while the poor man suffered.
She realized now how dangerous it was for her to be alone with this man, because all she had been taught about proper conduct and moral behavior disappeared the moment she was anywhere near him. It was if the rules did not pertain to her when she was with Ian Ramsay.
After applying the oil, she carried the tray around the foot of the bed, where his long legs spread wide. Forcing herself not to contemplate the lean lines of his thighs, she reached over to his left knee and unbuttoned his breeches there.
“What are you doing?” His tongue sounded swollen.
“I’m going to take off your hose.”
“No need. Nothing helps.”
“This will.” She rolled down the thin knitted cotton and pulled it off his foot. He had strong, long feet with long thin toes. Sophie had never massaged a male foot before, but guessed it couldn’t be much different than the cook’s.
She wrapped his foot in the warm cloth, and the captain let out another sigh.
“The Indian man who taught me this cure claimed that every part of the body is connected to certain places in the human foot.”
“Quackery,” Ramsay croaked.
“I disagree.” She removed the towel and placed it on the tray. Then she perched upon the side of the bed and lifted his foot onto her lap. Though his foot was much harder and muscular than her friend’s—and a good deal larger—she found the spot the Indian man had shown her, and slowly began to knead it with her thumbs. She was careful not to apply too much pressure, and she drew out the pain by slowly pulling his toes, one by one.
Soon she heard him sigh again, felt a shift in his posture, a shift in the room. Odd, how a person in pain could infuse a room with tenseness, and when the pain lifted, so did the heaviness in the air. Sophie felt the atmosphere changing for the better.
After an extensive massage of Ramsay’s left foot, she repeated the process with his right. Not a sound came from the captain now, and she was certain she was easing his pain. From downstairs came the chime of the clock as it rang out nine times. She’d been with Ramsay for an hour and was very tired.
Rising, she picked up his hose and put them on the floor near the wardrobe. Then she found a blanket to cover him, since she was not nearly strong enough to get the heavy limbs of sleeping Captain Ramsay between his s
heets. She pulled the blanket up to his wide, muscular shoulders.
With a glance at his now calm face, she smiled in relief and picked up the tray. As she opened the door to leave, she heard him stir behind her.
“Angel,” he murmured.
She glanced over her shoulder at him, not certain if he was awake or dreaming. He said nothing more, however, so she closed the door and softly walked away. She was glad she had helped him. Relieving his pain was the least she could do for taking advantage of his kindness. Perhaps one day he might remember her for her care and not her chicanery.
The next morning, Sophie awoke to a world of white, oddly muffled and quiet. She looked out the window to discover two feet of snow had fallen during the night. The street below was an unmarked expanse of white, spilling against doorsteps and swallowing up hitching posts at the side of the road, until only the iron rings at their tops showed above the snow.
This was no day to run from the townhouse. Perhaps when the snow melted in a few days, so would Constable Keener’s zeal to find her fade enough to allow her to sell the buckle and slip out of London. Sophie let the curtain fall back into place, telling herself her reasons for staying in the home of Captain Ramsay were logical ones and had nothing to do with her feelings for the man. She had no right to engage the man’s regard, and yet she didn’t seem to have complete control of the situation, as if she had begun a carriage ride with a horse too swift and headstrong for her to manage. The sensation frightened her and worried her, but carried a sweet thrill with it that she did not altogether wish to relinquish.
Maggie knocked on the door a few minutes later, carrying a tray of tea and bread and helping her dress for the day.
“Is the captain still here?” Sophie inquired, hoping he had fully recovered from his headache.
“Oh, yes, miss. The whole of London is behind doors this morning. Didn’t you see the snow?”
“Yes, but—”
“No one would venture out in such a snowfall. Have you ever seen the like?”
“It’s beautiful.”
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