Imposter Bride

by Patricia Simpson

  “Sir, pardon my bluntness, but you look like you’re half dead as it is. Don’t make it any worse for yourself tomorrow.”

  “What would you have me do, Puckett?” he growled. “Stand by when my very soul is on fire?”

  “No,” came a steady voice from the doorway.

  Ian heard the telltale rustle of silk as Mary Auliffe walked toward him.

  “Let Mr. Puckett investigate. He can find Sophie, and probably easier than you could—what with your looks giving you away to every local. You’d have a parade following you before long.”

  Ramsay swallowed and stared at her, hearing her attempt at lightheartedness, but unable to respond to it in kind.

  “But I can’t just stand aside and do nothing!”

  “Yes, you can,” Lady Auliffe retorted. “You will allow Mr. Puckett to do his job, while you make yourself fit for the morning. It will do neither of you any good, if she’s alive and you are dead.”

  “Yes.” Puckett stepped closer. “Allow me to find her, captain. I won’t rest until I do, you can be sure of it.”

  “I don’t doubt that, Puckett.” Ramsay sighed and looked down at him. “You’ve had a soft spot for that girl all along.”

  Puckett blushed but tried to blink it away.

  “All right.” Ramsay sank to a chair, his energy suddenly and completely dissipated. “Go find her, Puckett, and bring her back, no matter what state she’s in.”

  “Right.”

  “But don’t bring her here if she is alive. Not until the duel has been fought. If Edward is the victor—and God help us if that should occur—she will be in grave danger.”

  “I understand.”

  “If that should be the case, you must take her to Boston, Puckett, where she will be safe. Set her up in my house there, and make certain she is cared for. I will draw up a paper tonight, giving her part of my estate upon the event of my death.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mary Auliffe nodding, a small smile of approval on her lips.

  “But, sir,” Puckett protested, “you’re a crack shot—”

  “And fate is unpredictable, Puckett.” Ramsay ran a hand over his hair. “When you locate Sophie, tell her that I have evidence that will prove Edward Metcalf is the murderer. And that she need fear no more. Now go. Find her.”

  “Right, sir.” Puckett turned to his hostess. “Thank you, your ladyship, for your hospitality.”

  “Tut!” She waved him off. “And don’t forget to fetch your things and the captain’s upon your return.”

  “Right.” Puckett hurried to the doorway of the drawing room and then pivoted.

  “If I don’t see you by morning, sir—”

  Ramsay looked up.

  “I mean to say, good luck, sir.”

  “Thank you, Puckett.”

  Puckett’s face contorted into an unfamiliar expression, and it was only until after his assistant had disappeared from view that Ramsay realized he had actually smiled.

  “You too, Puckett,” he murmured to himself. “You, too.”

  Chapter 21

  “Ye’ve got a visitor,” the tinker, called, stepping onto the rear stairs of the caravan. The vehicle shook with the shift of her weight, and Sophie struggled to sit up. Jane Glenn ambled down the center aisle, scowling. “And rather a late comer, if ye ask me.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Just after midnight.”

  “And who is there?”

  “A man, says he knows you.”

  “A man?” Sophie’s heart skipped a beat. A visitor could be anyone: Constable Keener, Edward Metcalf, or Ian Ramsay. “Did he tell you who he was?”

  “The name Puckett mean anything to you?”

  Puckett? That was the name of Ian’s assistant. She felt a small wave of relief and sat all the way up, not nearly as sore as she had been earlier that morning.

  “Ye ken the name, lass?”

  “Yes. I know him.”

  “Ye want to see him?” Jane Glenn had become very protective of Sophie over the course of the day, and even now blocked the path from Sophie’s bed to the door of the caravan. “Dinna have to, ye know. If someone means you harm—”

  “It will be all right, Mrs. Glenn. Truly.”

  “Shall I send him in? Or ye wish t’ give him a message?”

  “I can get up.”

  “Fie! You’re in no condition to move.” The tinker waved her off. “Bide your time, lass. I’ll bring the man in.”

  Sophie hastily stuffed some stray hairs under her borrowed mobcap and pulled the covers up to the front of her night rail as she listened to Jane Glenn delivering instructions to Puckett, probably warning him of bodily injury should he molest her charge in any way. Then the caravan swayed again, much less precipitously this time, as Puckett climbed up to see her. He walked forward, carefully inspecting his cramped surrounds, but when he caught sight of Sophie on the bed at the end of the vehicle, his worried face broke into a huge grin.

  “Miss Hinds—I mean Vernet! It is you!” he exclaimed. “The Lord be praised!”

  He skittered forward, the tails of his coat flapping, and grabbed both of her hands, quite forgetting himself and his usual reserved manner. He raised her hands as if to invite her to dance, and beamed down at her. “‘Tis a veritable miracle! Look at you! Look at you!”

  “Mr. Puckett,” she replied, gently trying to slip her hands from his ecstatic grasp.

  “We thought you were dead! Everyone thinks you are dead!”

  “All the better for me.” She managed to disengage from his hands, and pulled the covers higher, unnerved by his display of delight and not sure why he was paying her a visit.

  “What happened? How did you manage to survive?”

  “I’m not sure, Mr. Puckett. I don’t remember much after jumping.”

  “And you didn’t drown. Astounding!”

  “I must have lost consciousness until Mrs. Glenn saved me. She claims the currents kept me afloat.”

  “My God! ‘Twas a miracle that you even survived the fall! You live a charmed life, Miss Vernet, indeed you do!”

  “Do I?” Sophie didn’t agree with the man. Out of no doing on her part, she had lost both parents at a young age, had come to England as a mistreated servant, had been accused of thievery and murder, used as a pawn by a revenge-hungry man, almost forced into a marriage of convenience to a fortune-hunter, and then had jumped to her death to avoid public execution. She led a charmed life? Hardly.

  “Actually, Mr. Puckett, I wish for the so-called charmed life of Sophie Vernet to come to an end.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I intend to start over, Mr. Puckett. No more Sophie Vernet. No more Katherine Hinds. And with nothing to do with any of you!”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Have I not suffered enough? And for other people’s shortcomings? For other people’s cowardice and crime? I have done nothing wrong, Mr. Puckett, but try to get on with things, to do decent work, to earn my keep. And look where it got me!”

  “I’ll admit, you did have a streak of—”

  “Bad luck? I had no choice but to take my own life, sir!”

  The door opened at the end of the caravan. “Is everything all right, lass?” Jane Glenn called.

  With a flush, Sophie realized she must have been shouting. “Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Glenn.”

  “Dinna strain yourself now, lass. Ye’re still weak.”

  “I won’t.”

  The door closed quietly and Sophie turned back to address Puckett, whose grin had faded to an expression of dark consternation. “Why should I desire to return to such a life, Mr. Puckett?”

  “Because everything has changed!”

  “Really? As if I care.”

  “And you don’t?”

  Sophie sighed. She had loved a man who had betrayed her, and there had been nothing more painful than discovering she had placed her faith in someone who did not deserve it.

  “I have learne
d from the experience of the past few months that I can depend on no one but myself.”

  “Surely that isn’t true!”

  “I trust no one, Mr. Puckett. Well, perhaps, Mary Auliffe, just a little. But I lied to that good woman, and she probably will never forgive me for it.”

  “She has.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She’s here in Scotland.” Puckett took an eager step closer. “And she was just as keen as any one of us to discover your whereabouts, once we heard the rumor.”

  “What rumor?”

  “About the woman found wearing the MacMarrie tartan. The tale’s halfway across Scotland by now, I’ll wager.”

  Sophie gazed down at the multi-colored quilt covering her and felt dark remorse creeping upward for the way she had used her generous grandmother. “Knowing Lady Auliffe, she probably wants my head.”

  “No, child. Nothing of the sort!” Puckett wrung his hands together, much less gay than he had been moments before. “And there’s the captain—”

  “I don’t want to hear of the captain,” she spat, accentuating his title.

  “But he’s—”

  “He used me.” The lump that had been forming in her throat swelled to unbearable proportions, and she looked down at her hands, knowing the frill of the mobcap would hide her expression, so that her visitor could not witness her moment of weakness. “He used me,” she repeated, her voice cracking. She coughed, her lungs still aggravated by water.

  “That I will not deny.” Puckett paused and sank to the chair at the small table across from her. He heaved a sigh. “But there were reasons—”

  “It doesn’t matter!” She dashed her tears away with her fingertips and averted her gaze, pretending to study the wall of the caravan beside her. No matter what she said out loud about the captain, whenever she thought of Ian, her heart still broke into hundreds of sharp aching pieces, and she couldn’t bear to let her heartache show.

  “He spent twenty years of his life trying to—”

  “I don’t care to hear of it!” She coughed behind her fist, and her eyes watered, hiding the tears of anguish that threatened to fall.

  “All right.” Puckett sighed again. “But you don’t know everything.”

  “And maybe I don’t care to know!” She turned and glared at him, her eyes burning.

  “I don’t blame you.”

  Sophie fell silent and let her gaze drop to the quilt, and suddenly felt very old and very tired. “Thank you for coming, but I need to rest now, Mr. Puckett.”

  “Very well.” He rose, brushed the folds from his clothing, and then looked down at her. “May I at least tell Captain Ramsay and Lady Auliffe that you are alive?”

  “I would prefer that you tell them you never found me.”

  “As you wish.” Puckett’s shoulders drooped as he walked halfway to the door and then turned. “I wish you the best of luck, Miss Vernet.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Puckett.”

  “And should you hear of the death of Edward Metcalf, you will know that you are a free woman, no longer pursued by the law.”

  “Edward Metcalf?” She straightened again, coughing. “What are you talking about?”

  “The captain challenged the earl to a duel.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “If you must know,” Puckett reached for the latch of the door. “To clear your name.”

  “My name? Even when he believes I am dead?”

  “Yes. He says he has proof that Edward Metcalf is the murderer.”

  Sophie stared at him, struck dumb with surprise.

  “Should Captain Ramsay be victorious tomorrow, he will likely go to prison for killing a peer of the realm, or he may be hanged. Should he not be victorious, it is doubtless he will trouble you ever again.”

  “He’s fighting a duel?”

  “And likely losing everything—perhaps even his life.”

  “Where? When?”

  “Dawn tomorrow at Highclyffe. Good evening, Miss Vernet.”

  Puckett ducked to leave, and Sophie heard the door shut behind him. The sound echoed as if coming from a long distance as the last wave of strength and resolve ebbed from her limbs.

  Sophie lay in the narrow bed, stunned into a strange paralysis. Ian was to fight a duel on her behalf? Why? Was it because he cared that much about her? Or could he be hatching another plot? If so, she couldn’t fathom what it might be. Her mind whirled and her stomach churned with indecision. One moment she burned to jump out of bed and flee to Highclyffe to make sure he was safe, and the next she burned with resentment, having succumbed to his heartless manipulations too many times. She was still suffering the emotional consequences, and wasn’t about to let her heart be broken again by the man.

  Yet this was not like all those other times. Ian had never put his life on the line before or imperiled his future. Neither outcome of the duel would bode well for him. How could she go on with her life, knowing a man she had loved was dead or in prison because of her? She knew she could not stand by and let Ian surrender his life on her account. She would never be able to live with herself.

  Damn him. Once again he had meddled in her affairs. Because of him, she would have to show her face at Highclyffe once again and put herself in grave danger. Her disappearing act hadn’t lasted a day.

  Soon Sophie could no longer keep still. She could not spend another moment in bed either. With shaking legs, she stumbled to the table and hastily dressed in her dry, stiff clothing, which smelled faintly musky, like the lake into which she had plunged. The effort brought on a violent coughing spell, which she tried to suppress, but not well enough to keep Jane Glenn from hearing her distress.

  The caravan swayed with the weight of the woman as she blustered in.

  “Lass!” Jane exclaimed. “What are ye doin’?”

  “I’m getting dressed.”

  “Ye’re in no proper state!”

  “I have to go somewhere.”

  “And where might that be?”

  “To Highclyffe.”

  “Highclyffe? You are in no shape to be traipsing off to Highclyffe. ’Tis miles away!”

  “I have to.” Coughing, Sophie pulled on her skirt and tied it. “Someone’s life is in danger.”

  “Aye, yours—if ye dinna stop this foolishness!” Jane planted her fists on her hips. “Listen to ye! Hacking and sputtering—”

  “I have to get there by dawn.”

  “Why so early?”

  “Isn’t dawn when duels are fought?”

  Jane’s eyes narrowed. “Who is fightin’ a duel?”

  “The Earl of Blethin and someone you probably don’t know.”

  “Who?”

  “An American. Ian Ramsay.”

  “Captain Ramsay?”

  “Yes.”

  Jane’s posture relaxed somewhat. “Oh, I know of him, all right. Captain Ramsay’s done right by many of us the past few years.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jane’s voice lowered as if she was worried about being overheard. “If a Scot ends up in trouble in London, or anywhere thereabouts, they know they can ask for the captain, and he’ll get them help. His name’s like a password to safety.”

  Sophie thought back to Molly MacRell, and the way the poor woman had come to Ian’s back door, begging for help. How much of himself he gave to Scotland and how little he gave to anything or anyone else. Nothing, it seemed, could come between Ian and his goal of acquiring Highclyffe—until now. But why now? Why put his future at risk for the sake of a dead woman? His sudden act of valor on her behalf didn’t make sense.

  “So he’s here?” Jane inquired, breaking into her thoughts. “The captain?”

  “Yes. At Highclyffe.” Sophie swallowed. “He’s fighting the duel because of me.”

  “How braugh!” Jane tilted her head and studied Sophie, as if looking for a reason for Sophie’s distress. “But you dinna agree?”

  “My affairs are none of his business,” Sophie replied.
“And I have to stop him before it goes too far.”

  “Then sit down.”

  “I can’t! I have to get a horse somewhere and leave as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll take ye, lass.”

  “But I can’t ask that of you, to turn around and go—”

  “Ye didna ask. I’m volunteering. I’m taking ye t’ Highclyffe.” She turned and then looked over her shoulder. “Canna sleep for the ache in my joints anyhow. Besides, I’ve never seen this Captain Ramsay.” She put her hand on the latch of the door. “Now get back to bed, lass. We just might make it if we hurry.”

  All through the night the tinker’s wagon rumbled toward Loch Lemond, the pots and pans clanking, the tools and utensils jangling, keeping Sophie awake. She couldn’t have slept anyway, even had she been lying in the softest feather bed, for her thoughts raged through her mind like fire through a cane field. All she could think about was the coming morning.

  It had been a miracle that she had survived her leap from Highclyffe, but because of Ian’s duel her miracle would come to naught. To save Ian’s life and fortune, she would have to give herself up to the authorities, as Edward knew of her duplicity as well as the household servants.

  Sophie smiled bitterly. At least she’d come up in the world. Where once she’d been a worthless servant, now she was able to barter her life for a rich man’s future.

  The smile soon faded, however. Sophie shoved her hands beneath her cheek to keep them warm, closed her eyes, and forced back scalding tears. She would not cry. Crying never helped anything. She must face her fate with strength and honor, even though she had been unjustly accused. No one could help her now that her false identity had been discovered. She could not even help herself, even so much as running, weak as she was. Assuredly this was her last night of freedom, and she would spend it in the cacophony of a tinker’s wagon, all alone.

  But that had been her life up until now anyway—living day to day with no ties to anyone save servitude. The only moments of happiness she had known in her entire life were those spent in Ian’s townhouse. There, sitting with him by the fire or eating at the same table, she had tasted true companionship for the first time.

  Sophie sighed at the memory. How sweet it had been. How wonderful an experience to be held in Ian’s embrace, to feel his heat and strength surrounding her, to be lifted off her feet and gently crushed against his chest. In those moments she had felt safe and cherished, no longer alone in the world. How those moments had seduced her into thinking he cared for her.