Imposter Bride

by Patricia Simpson

  Edward struggled to reach for the box, but Ramsay yanked his arm upward again, keeping him off balance. The violent jerk put an end to Edward’s giggling, but he was still smiling as he leered up at Ramsay, his bloodshot eyes dancing.

  “So help me, Metcalf, tell me where she is or I’ll pound it out of you!”

  “Where she is? She’s at the bottom of Lake Lemond, most likely. Soon to be fish food.”

  “What?” Ramsay felt as if he’d been struck.

  “She’s dead.”

  “She’s what?” Ramsay felt another blow, a bludgeon to his midsection this time, knocking the air from him. He stepped backward, releasing Edward’s arm as the strength poured out of him. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

  “She’s dead, Ramsay. Jumped off the southeast tower a couple hours ago. Ker-plash.” Edward made a gesture with his hands that mimicked sprays of water, and he burst into giggling again.

  Ramsay drew back and punched him in the face. The blow threw Edward’s head back, and he careened across the floor, crashed against the wall and slid senseless to the flagstones, with his nose bleeding profusely.

  Ramsay turned, almost tripping over the manservant, who had dropped to his hands and knees on the floor and was picking up the spilled contents of the box. Ramsay lunged for the door and sped down the stairs, shouting for a lantern. Without questioning him, the old manservant followed him and did everything he asked, including accompanying him to the lake to look for Sophie’s body, and telling him how a Constable Keener from London had done the very same thing hours before.

  “He didn’t find anything?”

  “Nay, sir,” MacEwan replied.

  Holding their lights high, they walked along the narrow strip of rocky shore closest to the cliffs where Sophie would have crawled out of the water, had she survived. They found no sign of her. “She never came up,” MacEwan explained. “Poor thing was driven to it by the two of ‘em. They chased her all through the place before she jumped.”

  Ramsay made no reply. He had known grief before. But no amount of experience with death and loss could have prepared him for the agony that descended upon him now. In the dark, in the rain that fell, he felt scalding tears burn from the corners of his eyes and course down the lines around his nose and in front of his ears. He couldn’t stop them. He couldn’t stop the hot heaving feeling in his chest, either. Soon, he couldn’t take another step.

  Never in his life had Ramsay let another human being see him cry, but this time he couldn’t hold in the tears. He sank to a boulder, dropped his lantern and hunched forward, doubling over with grief, while huge sobs rocked him.

  The old servant stood at his side, silent, looking at the lake, standing in the rain.

  Eventually, Ramsay regained control of his senses, and heaved a heavy sigh. His gaze locked blindly on the water before him.

  It was then the old manservant broke the silence.

  “The bastard must have killed my son,” MacEwan commented beside him.

  At first Ramsay thought he’d misheard what the man said. He glanced up. “Pardon?”

  “The earl.” MacEwan clenched his jaw. “The bastard must have killed my son.”

  “What would you think that?”

  “I found the ring my son wore. There, in the earl’s room. On the floor.”

  Ramsay stood up, his grief abating slightly with this new revelation. “From the baubles in that box?”

  “Aye. I just happened to see the ring lying on the floor.” MacEwan plunged his fingers into his waistcoat and pulled out a gold band set with a red carnelian. He held the lantern close and showed it to Ramsay. “This was missing from my son’s body the night we found him.”

  Ramsay took the ring and looked at it more closely.

  “My boy always liked nice things,” MacEwan continued. “That ring was his pride and joy. He would have never parted with it. Never.”

  “When did your son die?”

  “Two years past.”

  “How, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Strangled, sir.” MacEwan shifted his weight, uncomfortable with the topic. “And cut with a knife in a funny way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Someone had used a knife, sir, in a sexual way.”

  Ramsay scowled as a dark coil uncurled in his guts. The story sounded all too familiar to him. “Was the earl at Highclyffe at the time?”

  “Aye, that he was.”

  Ramsay gave the ring back to MacEwan, and the older man stuffed it back into his pocket. “The bastard! And I’ll not say what I suspect of the man.”

  “That he prefers young men?” Ramsay stood up.

  “Oh, aye. And brutally.” MacEwan looked up at him, his eyes glittering with hatred. “I’m going to the authorities, Mr. Ramsay. I dinna care if it costs me job. The earl is going to pay.”

  “Don’t. You won’t find satisfaction, not with your word against his.”

  “But I have proof! The ring—”

  “Metcalf will slither out of any accusation you bring against him, MacEwan. He’s an Englishman.” Ramsay put a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Listen, I have a better idea.”

  Hours later, Ramsay returned to Lady Auliffe’s estate, barely able to keep in the saddle. He stumbled to the door, waking the butler and demanding to see the mistress of the house. He was shown to the drawing room, and Ramsay trudged after the disgruntled servant, feeling as if he had aged a hundred years in a single night. A few minutes later, Lady Auliffe swept into the room, dressed in a pale blue wrap with a huge mobcap covering her hair.

  “Captain Ramsay!” Lady Auliffe exclaimed when she caught sight of him. “What is going on? You’re soaked to the bone!”

  Ramsay raised his head and stared at her, hardly hearing the words she spoke, although he could see her lips moving. He stood at the fire, too grief-stricken and stiff with cold to make a proper bow. It was close to dawn. He and MacEwan had been out all night searching for Sophie and had found nothing. No trace of her.

  “What’s happened?” she demanded, hurrying to his side. “You look horrible!”

  “It’s Sophie.” His lips felt swollen, almost too numb to form words.

  “Did she refuse you?”

  “Not as such.” He swiped his dripping bangs back as Lady Auliffe inspected him, her eyes hard with worry.

  “Barnes!” she barked, and her butler bustled into the parlor. “Get Captain Ramsay something dry to wear and a cup of strong coffee.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Ian, sit down before you fall down.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not!” She took his elbow and he let her pull him to a nearby wingback chair. He collapsed into it, and his blood seemed to run down his frame, into his feet. He felt more tired and more immovable than he had ever been in his life.

  “I had to come,” he mumbled. “I know it’s early.”

  “Never you mind about that. What happened?” She crossed her arms over her wrap and bent toward him. “Did they surprise you and marry last night?”

  “No.” He pressed his lips together, finding it impossible to blurt out the truth. How could he put words to the awful truth? If he declared it, it would be so. If he heard his own voice speak the words, he would have to believe them. Much to his chagrin, he felt new tears springing to his eyes.

  “Oh God,” he gasped and covered his eyes with his hand, weeping uncontrollably again.

  Lady Auliffe sank to her knees at his side. “My dear boy,” she cried, reaching for the side of his face. “Whatever has happened?”

  She stroked his cheek and his hair, and before he knew it, he was in her arms and burying his face in the soft collar of her wrap, clinging to her as if she were his own mother, sent to comfort him on the day he needed it the most. She held him tightly, and murmured in his ear, encouraging him that whatever had happened, things would be all right.

  Then Barnes returned with a robe and slippers, and a cup of coff
ee. Ramsay pulled out of her embrace and sat back, closing his eyes, wishing himself back a day—just one blessed day—so that he could set everything right, so that Sophie would still be alive, smiling and vibrant, and gazing with love at him.

  Lady Auliffe pressed the mug of coffee into his hands, bringing him to his senses.

  “Now will you please tell me what is wrong?” she asked.

  Ramsay nodded and sat up. He had to tell her. There was no escape from the shattering truth.

  “Sophie’s dead.”

  Lady Auliffe stared at him, her mouth falling open. She blinked twice, and her hand crawled up the front of her robe to her throat. “Sophie’s what?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “How?”

  “She jumped from a tower at Highclyffe?”

  “Dear God, why?”

  “To escape. The law had caught up with her.”

  “She jumped? I can’t believe it!”

  “Into the lake apparently.” Ramsay took a ragged breath and lifted the mug to his frozen lips. His hands were shaking. He knew he was a wreck, but Lady Auliffe was one of the few people he would allow to see him like this.

  “Where was Metcalf?”

  “Standing aside apparently. He had discovered her true identity.”

  “And he didn’t try to stop her?”

  “No.” Ramsay swallowed, fighting down a wave of nausea. “He did nothing to help her. He laughed about it.”

  “That bastard. That cold-hearted bastard.”

  “It’s all my fault.” He set aside the coffee, losing interest in it. “I’m the bastard. I never should have—”

  “You stop that kind of talk right now!” Lady Auliffe stood up. “You had nothing to do with her legal situation. She was running for her life because of someone else, not you.”

  Ramsay couldn’t speak. His heart and mind were numb.

  “You aren’t the killer, Ian,” Lady Auliffe continued in disdain. “You aren’t the coward hiding behind a woman’s skirt.”

  “No, I am not,” he growled. Ramsay glared at the fire as the small flame of determination continued to grow inside him. He was miserably inept in the ways of the heart, but he was a master at revenge. The one thing he could do for Sophie was to avenge her death. He had thought of little else for the past few hours. “And I shall see the real murderer dead.”

  Lady Auliffe sank to the settee beside him. “Do you even know who it is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is it? I will help you bring him down.”

  Ramsay looked into her eyes, marveling at the older woman’s loyalty to a mere maidservant, and falling in love with her for it, but certain her help would not be offered once she learned the killer’s identity.

  “You won’t help once you find out who it is.”

  “Tell me.”

  “He’s a fellow Englishman,” Ramsay watched her closely. “A peer of the realm. Edward Metcalf.”

  “You are mistaken,” she replied.

  “I am not wrong in this.”

  “No, you are mistaken that I will not help you.” She reached for the untouched coffee, and raised the delicate china cup to her lips. “I have never trusted that man and liked him even less.”

  Chapter 20

  The next morning, after a fitful few hours of sleep, Ramsay rode back to Highclyffe. The day should have been Sophie’s wedding day, but instead, it was the day to mourn her. Yet because of the circumstances of her death and her assumed identity, there would be no funeral service for the false Katherine Hinds.

  His head throbbed with every step his horse took upon the road, and he realized he hadn’t eaten a decent meal for days. Maybe when this was all over, he would have the stomach for food again, but until then he was like the walking dead, with the little strength he possessed fired solely by nerves and determination.

  Just before noon, he pounded on the front door of Highclyffe. MacEwan opened the massive oak door and motioned him inside.

  “Mr. Ramsay,” he said, his face grim.

  “MacEwan,” Ramsay answered, his expression equally serious.

  “He’s in the parlor with the constable.”

  “Thank you.”

  Without waiting for the manservant to announce him, Ramsay strode forward, while everything to the right and left blurred, as if he walked too swiftly for his weary faculties. He threw open the walnut door to the parlor and kept walking, surprising Metcalf and Keener, who sat in an heavy-timbered old-fashioned settee and chair with saucers of tea in their hands. Edward looked up, too surprised to assume his usual air of ennui.

  Ian noted with satisfaction that Edward’s nose was bruised from their scuffle of the previous night.

  “Ramsay,” he blurted. Fear glinted in his eyes.

  Ian walked up to him and threw a riding glove upon the earl’s right knee, barely missing the saucer perched on his left.

  “Dawn,” Ramsay stated tersely, while the constable rose to his feet.

  “What are you talking about?” Edward set aside his china cup and saucer.

  “I’m calling you out, you bastard.”

  “I beg your pardon?” He gave a funny little high pitched laugh.

  “For the murder of Jean Couteau.”

  Edward quickly stood up, his face pale. “Who?”

  “You know who I’m talking about. The young actor found in Kensington—in your carriage house.”

  The constable glanced at Edward and back to Ramsay. “You are accusing the earl of murder?”

  “That I am. And indirectly for the murder of Sophie Vernet, whom he drove to her death last night.”

  “This is preposterous!” Edward sputtered.

  The constable raked Ramsay with his eyes. “What proof do you have?”

  “Proof?” Edward waved him off impatiently. “The man has no proof! He merely wants revenge!”

  “I have proof, sir,” Ramsay ignored Metcalf’s outburst and addressed the constable, “of a similar killing here at Highclyffe, which will be enough to implicate him in the other murder.”

  “You’re mad!” Edward strode to the fireplace and turned. “And I want you out of here. At once!”

  “May I remind you, Mr. Ramsay,” the constable crossed his scrawny arms, “that dueling is illegal in Great Britain?”

  “Then you may arrest me on the green, after I commit the crime.”

  “And that carrying a pistol in Scotland is an offense against the Crown?”

  “I repeat, you may arrest me tomorrow morning.” Ramsay turned his glare upon Metcalf. “Until that time, I have the reputation of an innocent young woman to restore.”

  Edward curled his lip. “Innocent, my eye.”

  “Should you refuse to meet me tomorrow, Metcalf, I shall go to every paper in London with a story that will clear Miss Vernet’s name. But you,” he paused, barely able to contain his rage,“–you will be ruined.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Name the weapons, Metcalf.”

  “This is outrageous!” Edward swept the air with both hands and paced the floor in front of the fire. “This is truly outrageous!”

  “Swords or pistols?” Ramsay pressed him further. “Or dirks?”

  “You shall be thrown in prison for this, Ramsay!”

  “If your blood is on my hands, ‘tis all that will matter to me.” Ramsay’s eyes felt like burning holes in his skull. Why was it that everything in his life that meant anything to him at all was so quickly and violently taken from him? Why hadn’t he learned his lesson? He had fallen in love with Sophie, knowing his affections would mean the kiss of death for her. “So what will it be, Metcalf, swords or pistols?”

  “Pistols then!” Edward threw back his head. “This should be easy. Look at the state of you, man!”

  “And where do you choose to meet?”

  “Here at Highclyffe, upon the green. I want no public spectacle made of this!”

  “Twenty paces,” Ramsay replied. “And your second?”
/>   Edward turned to the constable. “Keener?”

  “Me?” The constable stepped back. “‘Twould be highly—”

  “Or you get nothing for your trouble these past weeks,” Edward snapped at him. “Nothing!”

  The constable’s face soured as he was being asked to participate in something he normally would have forbidden.

  “There will be no witnesses,” Edward put in. “No one to see.”

  “No physician?”

  “No one. I don’t want anyone to think this madman has the slightest cause to call me out. Better that his nonsense be put to an end, quickly and privately, here in Scotland.”

  “But if someone should get killed, there will be the authorities to answer to—”

  “If I get killed, you can throw Ramsay in jail forever on any charge you like, for all I care. If he is killed, we’ll dump his body in the lake and no one will be the wiser. I’m the law around here, anyway.”

  The constable glared at the ground, uncomfortable with the circumstances.

  “Come, Keener.” Edward paced the floor behind him, his voice tight with impatience. “You’ve worked hard for this. And I will reward you handsomely.”

  Ramsay crossed his arms. “What’s the trouble, Metcalf—no friends in Scotland?”

  Edward shot him a dark glare. “Hardly the case. I’ve no peers here. Keener?”

  “All right!” The constable swiped the air with his left hand, as if brushing away his misgivings. “All right. I shall act as your second, as long as there are no witnesses. And only a single shot.”

  “And you, Ramsay?” Edward sneered. “What fool stands with you?”

  “I will.” MacEwan stepped forward. “I’ll act on Mr. Ramsay’s behalf.”

  All three men stared in surprise at the small older manservant.

  “You?” Edward drawled, incredulous.

  “Aye.”

  “Thank you, MacEwan.” Ramsay patted him on the shoulder. He had thought to ask Puckett, but MacEwan was the better man for the job, having a personal stake in the matter.