“I didna mean ye nae trouble, Captain, but I just had t’ come here! The bairn couldna last another night!”
“‘Tis all right, lass.” Ramsay tucked the blanket around her and urged her to drink a hefty dose of whisky while he assured her that she’d come to the right place, that she shouldn’t worry. He shot a quick demanding glance at Sophie, instantly conveying his question.
She shook her head and hugged the bundle a bit more closely, as if to protect them all from the grief to come.
Resolutely, the captain turned back to the woman. Sophie wondered how he would break the news—bluntly or tenderly—or if he would postpone the inevitable until the woman wasn’t so hysterical.
“How do they call ye, lass?” he asked.
“Molly, sir. Molly MacRell.”
“Where d’ye hie frae, Molly?”
“Aberdeen.”
“Ye’ve come a long way.”
“Aye. We’d dreams, Hugh and me.”
“A better life in England?”
“Nay, the colonies. A place called South Carolina.” Her mouth twitched into a fleeting smile, as if just saying the words gave her renewed hope. “Have ye heard o’ th’ place, Captain?”
“I’ve been there, lass. To Charleston. A beautiful city. Warm, gentle waters in the bay, palmetto trees rustlin’ in th’ breeze. Warm sand. Warm rain.”
“Aye.” The woman sighed. “Hugh and me, we planned to find work, save for passage. Make a new life, ye ken? Leave th’ bloody trouble behind us.”
He nodded and squeezed her hands. Sophie gazed at him, wondering just what Ian Ramsay had left behind in Scotland, for this glimpse of him was very revealing of the man he kept hidden from English eyes.
“We’ll see what we can do,” Ramsay said. “You’ve friends here in London, Molly. Friends that can help.”
“Bless you, Captain!” She hugged him again.
When he pulled away, he took her hands once more. “But your bairn, Molly. Now buck up for what I’m about to say.” He stroked her hand. “I’m afraid your babe won’t be makin’ th’ trip.”
“What d’ye say?” She yanked away her hands and stared up at Sophie. Sophie stepped forward and gave the child back to her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, wishing she knew what more to say to soften the blow.
Molly flung off the blanket, tears springing to her eyes. She stared at her baby, her lips pinched together to fight off a scream of anguish.
“Ye must think of your husband now,” Ramsay urged. “Of goin’ on. ‘Tis the only justice th’ bairn will have.”
She closed her eyes and nodded, tears spilling from beneath her lids. She began to rock back and forth, weeping, holding her too still child.
Ramsay touched her shoulder and rose. “I’ll get Molly some help,” he said to Mrs. Betrus. “While I’m gone, find her some dry clothes, and try to get her to eat.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then Ramsay’s dark eyes met Sophie’s. She straightened, unsure what would come out of his mouth—a scolding for having stuck her nose in his business, a thank you for her assistance, a request that she would never speak of what she’d seen—because it was obvious such traffic did not usually show up at his place of residence—or more curt instructions such as the ones he’d given to his housekeeper. For a moment he stared deep into her eyes, as if just about to speak, and then he broke off the glance and strode toward the front of the house, calling for Mr. Puckett.
She watched him go, wondering who Ian Ramsay really was.
Late that evening, Sophie held the little wooden box in her arms as Ramsay helped Molly MacRell into an awaiting carriage, bound for an unnamed but safe harbor. Once Molly was inside, Sophie surrendered the box while Mrs. Betrus blubbered into her handkerchief. The carriage rolled away in the slush of the dark alley behind Ramsay’s townhouse. For a moment, the trio stood in the rain, watching Molly go, until Ramsay sighed and said, “A drink to Molly MacRell, eh, ladies?”
“No disrespect, Captain, but I’m bone-tired,” Mrs. Betrus replied, blowing her nose. “I’m to bed.”
Ramsay turned to Sophie. “Miss Hinds?”
“I could use one, thank you.”
He held the door while they returned to the house, their steps and spirits dampened by the evening’s sad business.
Mrs. Betrus paused at the back stairs. “Good night, sir. Miss Hinds.”
“Good night to you, Betty.”
Sophie murmured good night and followed Ramsay into the study, where they had previously passed the evening hours. Though she was dying of curiosity in regard to Ramsay’s background, she was also feeling the emotional effects of the past few hours, too. In fact, she wasn’t sure she would be much company, as subdued as she felt. She longed to sit quietly, curled up in a chair with another human being, as she had heard children sometimes did with their fathers. She longed for the comfort of a human heartbeat, a protective arm wrapped around her shoulders with its promise that everything would be fine, that she was safe from harm.
Yet she was no longer a little girl. She would never know her father. And there was no guarantee of safety in this world.
As if he read her very thoughts, Ramsay remarked, “It’s a damnable world,” as he opened the cabinet behind his desk.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” she put in.
He stared down at the open cabinet. “What’s your pleasure, Miss Hinds?”
She thought for a moment of how much she wanted an embrace from him, just a warm embrace, the same sweet hug Molly MacRell had received from him. A simple embrace would do more for her than any amount of spirits. But a proper young lady wouldn’t dream of making such a scandalous request. Besides, this man wasn’t her father, put in the world to comfort her.
“Brandy,” she answered finally. “It’s a brandy kind of evening.”
“Hear, hear.” He flashed her a sardonic smile. He was back to his American self: the wry comments and the dry delivery.
Sophie heard him pour the drinks, heard the clink of the stopper replaced in the decanter. A moment later Ramsay strolled back to her and gave her a small goblet with a generous portion of brandy rocking in the bottom.
“Try that,” he said, looking at the amber drink. “It’s not exactly brandy, but I think you might like it.”
“What is it?”
“Drambue. Whisky and honey.”
She took a sip. “‘Tis strong!” she exclaimed.
“Aye. But smooth, eh?”
“I’ll certainly forget the evening if I drink all of this,” she commented, trying to lighten their mood.
“‘Twould be best that ye do, lass.” His tone was so serious and so pointed that she glanced up at him to find him regarding her just as seriously.
“I do have trouble when I drink strong spirits.” She took as deep a draught as she could manage. “Not that I’m accustomed to heavy drinking, Mr. Ramsay. But when I have drunk a goodly portion,” she raised a brow at him to let him know she had understood him completely, “I can’t remember a single thing that transpired beforehand.”
He sipped his drink, still standing in front of her, his dark eyes never wavering from her face, as if he gauged her character and weighed it on a scale only he could define. Then he reached out for the back of her head. His hand slipped down her hair to her neck, urging her to step nearer to him. She complied, moving closer, close enough that her skirts swished over the tips of his boots, close enough that she could smell his light, heavenly scent. His warm, whisky-laced breath fanned her face as he paused to look deep into her eyes.
“Not a thing?” he questioned, just above a whisper.
“Not a single thing.” Her voice trailed off as she was caught up in the spell of his intensity.
“I will have to remember that,” Ramsay murmured, “for the future.” And then he bent down and softly kissed her on the mouth.
She hung in the air, her fingers laced around the bowl of the snifter, too stunned to react, too
stunned to reach for him or to kiss him back. And then the kiss was over as quickly as it had begun. The heat of his lips vanished from hers, leaving only the essence of the sweet liquor on her mouth and a sudden swell of hunger inside her.
“My thanks,” he said softly, releasing his hold on her. “Good night.”
A quarter hour later, Sophie fell into bed, once again thankful for the haven she had found in Captain Ramsay. If not for him, she might still be suffering the same fate as Molly, spending the nights on the street, hungry and cold. Because of Ramsay, she was well fed and warm, and she pulled clean sheets and a luxurious down coverlet over her. Because of Ramsay, she snuggled into bed, her body warmed by his Drambue and her soul aflame from his unexpected kiss. She closed her eyes, running the scene over and over in her thoughts. She had never been kissed by a man before. In fact, his actions had taken her so much by surprise that she hadn’t reacted the way she would have, given the right circumstances.
Given the right circumstances, she would have wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed into him, kissing his mouth, his cheeks, his jaw—kissing him everywhere. She would have stroked his silken black hair, run her hands down his broad back and across his firm chest. Given the right circumstances, she would have made it clear how she was beginning to feel about him, instead of standing there like a simpleton, frozen in place, letting him walk away.
An ache she had never felt before seared through her. She flopped over on her stomach, too disturbed to sleep, wishing she had acted like a woman instead of an innocent ninny. Captain Ramsay had probably been with scores of women and knew a novice when he kissed one. He must be laughing at her. Why else had he left the study so quickly? Nothing of interest for him there.
Yet she couldn’t imagine Ramsay laughing at her or at anyone. It wasn’t like him.
She recalled the words he’d spoken so softly, so close to her mouth. He’d have to remember for the future. She squeezed the pillow with her hands. Whatever had he meant by that? Did he envision a future with her?
The ache burned through her again. Whatever Ramsay envisioned and whatever she wished to do to him given the right circumstances would never come to pass. Not if she were to save her own skin.
“It is a damnable world!” she moaned into the pillow, squeezing it with all her strength. “Damnable!”
Ramsay set his drink on top of his chest of drawers and wearily unbuttoned his waistcoat, thinking of Sophie with every button he unfastened, surprised and alarmed at how thoroughly she could arouse him, and how easily he had succumbed to her sweet mouth, her kind eyes, and her quick intelligence. She seemed so attuned to him. Sometimes he didn’t even have to speak, and she could read his glance. Not often in his life had he encountered such a strong connection with another human being, especially with a woman.
Why the devil had he kissed her? She, like any female he’d encountered, would want to know the reason for such a startling turn of events. She would certainly question him at the first opportunity. What would he tell her? That he had wanted to kiss her from the moment he’d seen her? Such a response would seem shallow and self-serving. Should he tell her that he had wanted to kiss her since she’d convinced him to dance and cajoled him into enjoying himself, that her lively company was a pleasure he’d never known in his life, that he didn’t quite know how to react? Such an explanation would seem unlikely coming from a man of his experience. She’d laugh at him, might accuse him of lying.
Would she believe him if he told her that he had wanted comfort this evening, that more than anything he had wanted to be held in someone’s arms, to assure him that things could go right in the bloody damn world they lived in?
But that wasn’t altogether true either. He had wanted to embrace Sophie long before Molly MacRell had appeared this evening.
Would Sophie believe that it had seemed right to kiss her, even though they had known each other only a handful of days? That it had seemed the perfect thing to do? And that it had felt just as perfect?
Yet he had shocked her. It had been obvious by her reaction. Ramsay scowled and finished his drink. He had taken a grave misstep, whatever his wants and desires. Sophie was a guest in his home, off limits to him and far too innocent. He could just imagine introducing himself to her grandmother, saying, “Yes, madam, I’m Ian Ramsay, the nice gentleman who ravished your granddaughter while she stayed in my home.” He should have practiced better self-control, no matter the reasons for his kiss, and would tell Sophie as much should she inquire.
He prayed she would say nothing. Perhaps if he made himself scarce, she would let his indiscretion pass. Ramsay unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt. He could make himself scarce by spending all his time at the club. He could return to his old routine. Easily.
Ramsay threw his shirt on a chair and frowned at himself in the nearby looking glass where evidence of his arousal was still plain to see, now that he’d removed his long waistcoat. What a bastard. He couldn’t stay away from Sophie Vernet any more than he could bow to the English. Who was he trying to fool? But somehow, he must.
Chapter 9
Ramsay made certain he vacated the premises in short order the next morning, and even earlier than usual. Mrs. Betrus had not yet risen, and darkness still shrouded the streets as he set off for Maxwell’s, intending to fill his day and most of the night with profitable work. He forced himself to keep his mind occupied with business and not the image of the tousled-haired beauty he had left behind sleeping in his house.
His blood rose at the mere thought of Sophie. Ramsay slapped his horse to a canter, trying to outdistance the images of her that hung in his mind. He rode through the slush, unmindful of the muddy drops kicked up that splattered his boots and cloak.
For hours he worked at the club, a cup of coffee near at hand, until Puckett showed up at nine. He heard his assistant clatter by his doorway and hailed him.
“Yes, Captain?”
“Come in for a moment, Puckett.”
“Sir?”
“Whatever happened to the investigation you were conducting on that murderess?”
“The Sophie Vernet character?”
“The same.” Ramsay lifted his cup, determined to appear nonchalant. He took a drink, although the coffee had lost much of its delicious heat.
“I shall need to get my notes, Captain.”
“Do so and return at your earliest convenience.”
Puckett came back in a few minutes with a sheaf of papers in his hand and a pair of spectacles perched on the end of his thin nose. Ramsay gazed up at him, marveling at how large Puckett’s eyes looked behind the small rectangular lenses, while the slight man reviewed the information in front of him.
“Well?” Ramsay prodded, trying not to betray his impatience.
“The weather has impeded our progress somewhat,” Puckett began, “But this is what my agents and I have managed to uncover.”
“Sit. And continue.”
Puckett sank to the seat of a wingback chair upholstered in maroon leather near Ramsay’s massive desk and held the papers in front of his face.
“Sophie Vernet, maidservant of Katherine Hinds, has no apparent family or connections in England. There’s not much information on her background.”
Ramsay frowned and shook his head. “What about the murder? What transpired?”
Puckett shifted the papers to the next page. “Well, that involved an actor by the name of Jean Coutain, a young and by all reports, quite attractive man.”
“Found where?”
“In a carriage house on the Metcalf property in Kensington.”
“His residence?”
“Apparently not. Just a place of assignation.”
“For whom?”
“Not for Miss Vernet. Or for any woman,” Puckett stared over the tops of his thick lenses, “If you get my meaning.”
Ramsay nodded.
“This Coutain character had quite a following and ran with a wealthy crowd. Very select.”
�
�What was his connection with the Metcalfs?”
“No one knows. None of the Metcalfs were at home the night of the murder.”
“And what is Miss Vernet’s connection in all of it?”
“Sophie Vernet called at Blethin Hall to deliver a note that very same evening. Apparently she was spotted going into the carriage house by one of the servants, just before the murder took place.”
“Back to the victim. How was he killed?”
“Strangled by a silk scarf. And apparently there were some knife wounds in an indiscreet location.”
“Indiscreet location? Speak plainly, man.”
“It’s indelicate, sir.”
“Sweet Jesus!” Ramsay swore, jumping to his feet. “So the authorities say an innocent nineteen-year-old lass, barely over five feet tall, strangled a man in his prime and shoved a dagger up his ass—all for a diamond buckle?”
Puckett stared at him, two patches of color flaring on his cheeks. “Yes, sir. That’s what they’re saying.”
“And I’m Betty Martin.” Ramsay paced to the fire and back, more agitated than he’d been in years, made more frustrated by the fact that he could do nothing for Sophie without endangering his own agenda.
“Is there more?” he inquired, running his hand over his hair.
“I’m afraid not.”
“She did the only logical thing,” Ramsay mused. “She went into hiding.” Good for Sophie. He was glad she had fallen into his hands. He looked down at his assistant. “Any information regarding the real killer?”
“None. No one saw a thing. Coutain was discreet.”
Ramsay nodded and rubbed his jaw. “Very good, Puckett. Keep at it.”
“Of course, sir.”
“And Miss Hinds’ governess?”
“Still nothing. We are assuming she perished in the fire.”
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