“But no proof of that.”
“None to speak of.”
“Well, have done with that, then.” Ramsay sank back down in his chair. “Miss Hinds’ grandmother should arrive in London soon anyway.”
Puckett stood and cleared his throat. “May I comment on Miss Hinds, sir?”
Surprised, Ramsay glanced up at him, “Yes?”
“Are you certain you wish to see her married off to Metcalf, sir? She’s such a lovely young lady. Surely you must realize the wedding will be no more than throwing a lamb to the lions.”
“It has been arranged already,” Ramsay said, clenching his jaw. “And is out of my control.”
“But, Captain Ramsay, surely you could—”
Ramsay cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand. “I will not intervene further. I tried and was flatly refused.”
Puckett bowed slightly, chastened into a disgruntled silence.
“That will be all, Mr. Puckett.”
Ramsay watched his assistant walk to the door, his back stiff, his heels ringing on the wood floor, the staccato of his steps relaying his displeasure. In spite of himself, Ramsay had to smile. Sophie had unknowingly won over the tight-lipped, ever proper Mr. Puckett, which was no small feat. Had she any idea the power of her charms?
That was the most engaging aspect of her personality. Her absolute ingenuousness. How he wanted her soft smile to continue to light up his too dark evenings and his too serious life.
Ramsay’s smile faded as he reached for his quill. It was not half past nine, and he was thinking already of the night to come.
After an afternoon nap, Sophie ventured out of her bedchamber and walked down the stairs, realizing that her burned feet were much better and hardly hurt at all. Except for the ugly line on her arm, she was almost as good as new.
“There you are,” Mrs. Betrus called from the parlor, where she dusted the furniture with an oiled cloth. “Did you have a nice rest, Miss Hinds?”
“Yes, thank you.” Sophie wandered across the hall to the parlor doorway, taking in the sparse furnishings, and wondering why no one ever spent any time in the room.
Captain Ramsay certainly didn’t believe in homey surroundings. A settee and two chairs made up the main elements of the room, along with the harpsichord in the corner. Not one painting or print graced the walls. The mantel was a bare expanse of polished mahogany, and the floor was gleaming expanse of planks unadorned with carpets. Mrs. Betrus’s job wouldn’t take long to complete in such Spartan quarters.
“The earl called and left his card while you were sleeping.”
“Oh.” She was glad to have missed him.
“He seemed put out that you weren’t available, and said that he would call again at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. He requested quite sharply that you make yourself available.”
Sophie frowned. She didn’t care for Lord Metcalf’s impatience. He seemed spoiled and pampered, and acted as if the world had been created to please him. She felt no compulsion to prove him right.
“Do you have any requests for supper?” The housekeeper hobbled toward the harpsichord. “That fowl you made was such a delight. And I had merely the left over bits. I can only imagine what the dinner was like.”
“I was thinking of a meat pie,” Sophie’s replied. “Perhaps with a custard for dessert. What do you think?”
“My custards are like paste,” Mrs. Betrus admitted, shaking her head.
“I know of a recipe for a custard that melts in your mouth.” Sophie walked to the settee. “If you’d like, I’d be happy to help with dinner. I would love to have something to do.”
“Getting bored, poor dear?” Mrs. Betrus asked.
“A little,” Sophie lied. She hadn’t been bored since she’d stepped foot in the townhouse. Having kind people around and time on her hands was a luxury she had never known. After having spent her entire life doing Katherine Hind’s bidding, she now felt as if she were on holiday. She enjoyed her stolen moments at the townhouse, and the captain’s mysterious and provocative company made it all the more stimulating.
“Well, I can always use help in the kitchen, as long as the captain don’t complain about it.”
“I don’t think he will.” Sophie smiled to herself, certain that he would appreciate a different menu than the one to which he was usually subjected.
She glanced from the settee, pushed against the wall opposite the fireplace, to the harpsichord and back.
“I know why this room is never used,” she began.
Mrs. Betrus stopped dusting and straightened. “Why?”
“Has the furniture always been positioned like this?”
“It’s the way it was when I came here.”
“Well, it’s not very inviting.” Sophie put a finger to her lips, imagining how the room would look with a more intimate grouping, a carpet, a case of books.
Mrs. Betrus hobbled up beside her. “I don’t think the captain cares how it looks.”
Sophie shook her head. “I don’t think he notices.” She walked briskly to the doorway. “I’m going to have Charles help me move things.”
“What? And change the room?”
“It will be a vast improvement, Mrs. Betrus. Just you wait.”
“But what’ll Captain Ramsay say? What if he don’t like it?”
“I’ll worry about that.”
She left Mrs. Betrus clucking her tongue and clutching the dusting rag as if for protection.
By teatime, the parlor was transformed. The settee and chairs were pulled into a cluster before the fire, all sitting upon a slightly worn but still serviceable oriental carpet they had found rolled in the attic. Charles had been sent to fetch a book cabinet, which they loaded with the books from Sophie’s chamber. The secretary, whose high shelf had blocked the light from the window, was moved to a corner of the room beneath a wall sconce, where it seemed more logical to retire and write. The harpsichord was carefully rolled out of the shadows to a more prominent position near the window. The extra side table from the hall upstairs was brought down, topped with a linen cloth, and a collection of silver that Mrs. Betrus had been storing in the pantry for lack of a place to display it.
Sophie couldn’t help but turn over the large bowl and look at the silversmith’s name. It was a fine piece, very plain, but flawless in design and turn. She didn’t recognize the name of the silversmith, for the bowl had been made in Boston. She set it in the middle of the table, center stage.
“My sakes!” Mrs. Betrus exclaimed, clasping her hands together in amazement. Her glance darted around the room. “I can’t believe it! It looks so different!”
Charles set the fire ablaze, Sophie lit the candles, and the parlor was reborn into a homey, welcoming chamber as night fell around them.
“Oh, let’s have tea in here!” Sophie exclaimed with a grin. “Shall we? Charles?”
“I couldn’t possibly, miss.” He ducked his head, embarrassed to be the center of attention.
“Yes you could. Go wash your hands now. Let’s celebrate a job well done.”
After tea was cleared away, the women retired to the kitchen to fix the evening meal. A couple of hours later, as the meat pie and custard baked in the oven, Sophie returned to the parlor, just to have another look. Mrs. Betrus, as starved for female company as Sophie had been, followed at her heels.
“I still can’t get over it,” she said. “I wonder what Captain Ramsay will say.”
Sophie wasn’t worried. She gazed at the harpsichord.
“Does he play”
“Play?”
“The harpsichord.”
Mrs. Betrus broke out in a short burst of laughter as if the question were the most ludicrous thing she’d ever heard. “My heavens, no!”
“Why does he have it then?”
“I believe it was here when the master bought the property.”
Sophie wandered closer and raised the cover of the keyboard. She pressed one wooden key and the sound rang through
the quiet house. She played a chord. “It’s fairly in tune for having sat around unused.”
“Do you play, Miss Hinds?”
“A little.”
“Oh, do play something then, while I do my mending. I would enjoy it so much! Would you?”
“All right.” Sophie pulled out the short wooden bench and sat down. For a moment she considered which song she would like to play first, and settled on a piece she had learned just before she’d left Santo Domingo, Air on a G String by Bach. Her burned palms hurt a little when she moved her fingers, but not enough to impede her progress. In fact, the more she played, the less she thought of her injuries.
Mrs. Betrus hobbled quietly to a chair by the fire, and drew out her mending, careful not to make a sound, obviously grateful to be entertained while she worked.
Sophie finished the short piece and played another, thankful to be warm and rested and enjoying a moment’s pleasure as if her life had never changed.
Ramsay let himself in at the front door, amazed to hear music tinkling inside his house, and music played by a sensitive hand. Who was here? Was Sophie playing? And what was that delicious aroma? The air was full of the fragrance of nutmeg and pastry baking.
Surely Sophie had been cooking. His stomach growled in anticipation.
Quietly, he closed the door and brushed the snow from his shoulders and boots, and then stood without moving, listening. His mother had played the harpsichord, but not nearly as well. Still, the nights spent nodding off to sleep with music drifting up the stairs was one of the better memories of his truncated childhood. For the second time that week, Ramsay felt his heart swell inside, and he had to fight off a great wave of grief. What was coming over him? It was unlike him to give in to maudlin thoughts.
Startled at the precarious state of his emotions, Ramsay took off his hat, hung up his wraps, ran his hands over his dark hair to smooth it, and then walked down the short corridor that led to the dining room on the right and the parlor on the left.
He paused in the doorway of the parlor and let his gaze travel across the room to the young woman at the harpsichord, busily playing with her eyes closed and obviously unaware that he had come into the house. Someone had moved things around in the parlor, including the heavy harpsichord, which allowed for the light from the fire to play across Sophie’s face and hair.
She was attired in an amethyst-colored wrap, with her disheveled auburn curls cascading down her back, nearly to her waist. She moved her body as she played, letting the music weave through her slender figure as it ran through her hands. A woman who could resonate so gracefully to music would be a poetess in bed, he was certain of it. He could imagine taking that slender body of hers in his arms and—
He broke off the thought. Immediately. Sophie was the last person who should inhabit his fantasy—a fantasy he had lapsed into all afternoon during his ride to Hampton Court and back. The vision of Sophie in her night rail had emblazoned itself on his mind, and he was having a difficult time not recalling it over and over again.
Sophie finished a piece by Haydn and paused. Ramsay hesitated, undecided whether to call out to her, linger quietly and keep listening, or turn on his heel and leave—which he knew would be the most prudent course. He could easily spend the night at Maxwell’s, as he did often enough, and allow Sophie’ charms to fade from his mind, just as the charms of all other women had faded given the benefit of time.
But not before supper. He wasn’t going to miss that. He could hear Mrs. Betrus in the kitchen, and decided he would inquire about a plate of food.
He was just about to turn around and leave, when Sophie rotated slightly on the bench and caught sight of him.
“Captain Ramsay.”
“Good evening.” He took a step forward as she slowly rose from her seat. He held up his hand. “Please, don’t stop on my account. I was quite enjoying your concert.”
“Have you been standing there long?”
“Only a moment.”
She sank back to the bench, her stare never leaving him, which had a profound effect on him. It was as if her eyes were in direct contact with his skin, awaking every particle underneath. He saw her lips open as she continued. “Mrs. Betrus is just about to put supper on the table, I believe.”
“Then play on until she does.” He sat down on the settee and picked up the Times, which Betty had ironed and laid out for him, just the way he liked it. He hadn’t read the newssheet in the parlor before, because the light was so poor in the room. But since the settee had been dragged closer to the fire, he could see the words well enough.
“I will not bother you?” Sophie put in.
She had no idea of her effect upon him, the little innocent. She bothered him immensely, but not with her music. “Not at all. Please continue.” He opened the newspaper as she resumed playing.
Ramsay read a few articles but couldn’t concentrate. His thoughts kept straying to the woman at the side of the room. He’d never been married, never lived with a woman, or asked a lover to stay in his house. The presence of Sophie in his home should feel strange to him. He had expected to view her as an imposition, an annoyance. Yet, there she was, sitting in her casual attire, playing his harpsichord while he read the paper, and it seemed the most natural occurrence in the world. In fact, one might say it felt comfortable.
Comfortable. There was no place for comfort and safety in his life—never had been and perhaps never would be—not until he had the deed to Highclyffe in his hands. Ramsay clenched his jaw and forced his attention to an article about a food riot in Somerset.
He had only to endure a few more days. In a few more days, Ms. Hinds’ grandmother would swoop down and carry off her supposed heir to introduce her to London society and make her ready for her upcoming wedding. Surely he could see them both through a few days more without crossing over the line of impropriety again.
He glanced at her once more and was struck by the way she closed her eyes while she succumbed to the music. Something inside him twisted painfully at the sight of her profile, with her full pink lips and long white neck. What would it be like to kiss that supple white throat, to fully embrace her, to make her look just that way, filled with ecstasy and pleasure, but at his own hands?
Ramsay scowled and forced himself back to the news. He should never have returned to the house. Never.
After a succulent meat pie and equally succulent custard, Ramsay quit the table, using a business meeting as an excuse. He thanked Sophie for the excellent dinner and told her he was off to inquire about Molly MacRell’s welfare.
It wasn’t a lie. He did meet his cronies at a local coffee house, but he lingered long after they had all left for their own homes. Ramsay remained behind, drinking dark ale and watching the crowd, until he was certain all would be safely asleep at the townhouse.
What he needed was to bed a willing woman and get Sophie Vernet off his mind. But none of the women he saw that evening appealed to him, and he knew in his heart that his thirst would not be so easily slaked as to drink from just any cup. He had never truly enjoyed taking a woman to bed just to relieve himself and had quit the practice years ago. Such sport left him more dissatisfied in the end than he’d been at the outset. Besides, the disquiet he was suffering stemmed not from a need to relieve himself, but from a need much more intense, something he’d carried with him since childhood, a black hole of loneliness he never let himself look at for more than an instant.
Just after midnight, nearly drunk, Ramsay slowly rode home, chiding himself for letting the presence of a female alter his routines. The house was dark when he arrived, and Sophie’s chamber door was safely closed. He walked past it, unbuttoning his waistcoat as he went, pushed open his door, and fell into bed, still in his shirt and breeches.
Not long afterward, a loud crash awakened him. He sat up with a start, and heard pounding feet running toward his room. Alert in an instant, he yanked open the drawer of his night stand, pulled out a pistol, and primed it expertly, even though
he had no light to guide him. He jumped to his feet as his door burst open.
“Ian!” Sophie called, her voice sharp with terror. She stood in his doorway, barefoot. “There was a man!”
“Where?”
“In my room!”
He ran past her, the pistol ready, as Mrs. Betrus came hobbling down the stairs from the third level, tying the belt of her robe.
“Stay back!” he barked, and kicked open Sophie’s door. He burst into her room, surprised to find her clothes scattered upon the floor and the wardrobe doors hanging open. He scanned the room for movement and saw nothing but the drapery blowing in a breeze. The window was open.
Ramsay stepped forward, his senses on fire, ready to shoot anything that moved. Slowly he advanced to the window, startled to see a grappling hook with a rope attached to it, hanging from the window nearly to the ground. He glanced up and down the street, looking for the intruder, but saw nothing.
Sophie and Mrs. Betrus huddled in the doorway of the room, their eyes as round as saucers. Ramsay dashed past them, down the stairs and out the back door, not stopping to put on shoes. He splashed through the slush, all the way to the mews and back, but didn’t see a soul. Could the intruder still be in the house?
Frantic, he returned to the townhouse, running on numb soles covered by sopping wet stockings. He didn’t stop running until he had searched every room, and returned to Sophie’s chamber for a second look.
Mrs. Betrus paced the hallway, wringing her hands, while Sophie came up behind him.
“Did you see anything of the man?” he asked, turning to glance at her. Her face was whiter than he’d ever seen it.
“Just a silhouette.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was short and slight.”
“What happened?”
“I heard something and woke up. He was standing in front of the armoire,” She pointed at the wardrobe. “Pulling out my things.”
“What did you do?”
“I must have gasped. He looked at me, paused for a moment, and then ran over to the window. He must have jumped out!”
“He had a rope ready. A professional.”
“Dear Lord!” Mrs. Betrus wailed from the hallway.
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