Imposter Bride Read Online Free PDF Page B

attendants
attired in red and chestnut livery. Each time he crossed over the
threshold of the club, he felt a flush of pride in all he’d
accomplished in thirty years. Single-handedly, he had built up a
business in the colonies that had prospered enough to allow him to
construct this luxurious gambling club in the heart of London. Yet,
the club was a mere stepping stone, a trap for dissolute Englishmen
whose money would be the means toward an even more important
end.
    “Good evening, Captain Ramsay,” the doormen both
greeted.
    He nodded at the older gentlemen and passed into the
huge glittering hall ablaze with chandeliers reflecting on the
polished marble floors. The hall and surrounding salons were like a
garden full of silk and satin bees, the crowd buzzing—just the way
he liked it, for the more laughter he heard, the fatter his purse
grew. He glanced around, barely conscious of the luxurious scarlet
drapery of the salons, the imported Chinese paper on the walls, or
the Bernini angel that blew a silent fanfare to everyone who
noticed her. Ramsay’s eyes took in a far more different territory:
the posture and rank of every man in sight. From what he could see,
the cream of London society sought their pleasure here tonight.
    Almost immediately, a footman appeared at his
elbow.
    “May I take your things, Captain Ramsay?”
    “Yes, thank you.” He gave over his heavy woolen
great-coat and his hat, into which he had stuffed his gloves. Then
he took three flights of stairs at a good clip, without a change in
his respiration.
    Puckett, his secretary, met him at the top of the
staircase, his short wiry body more agitated than ever.
    “The Earl of Blethin is here,” he said, indicating a
closed door with a quick sweep of his hand. His dark frock coat and
breeches reflected the conservative taste of his employer.
    “Good.”
    “He’s upset, sir.”
    “Good.” Ramsay tugged down the tails of his
waistcoat to make certain he looked presentable, and then pushed
through the door.
    Edward Metcalf, the Earl of Blethin, looked up as
Ramsay passed into the room, and did not rise to his feet. Ramsay
was certain the earl did not recognize him as the half-starved boy
in Scotland he’d teased so many years ago, as Ian had grown
considerably and assumed a different last name. But Ramsay
recognized the youth who had completely humiliated him once by
making him strip off his clothes and swatting his wedding tackle
with his riding crop. Edward hadn’t changed much from the slender,
blond-haired boy of twelve. He’d just grown a bit taller and there
were small wrinkles about his cool blue eyes now.
    Slowly, almost insolently, Lord Metcalf straightened
in his chair. His plum-colored coat shimmered in the candlelight.
The insolence of his posture was repeated in the curl of his lip
and the languid gaze in his blue eyes. Ramsay might have considered
the earl handsome—and he probably was to the ladies—except for the
careless slouch to his frame and his tiresome air of ennui. Ramsay
had never cared for the bored look, in either men or women. In
fact, he had no patience for affectations of any kind.
    “Metcalf.” Ramsay greeted, slightly inclining his
head, the most deference he would muster for any member of the
English nobility, especially a member of the English family who had
annihilated his clan and stolen his birthright. But the earl made
no mention of his lack of respect, for Ramsay’s adopted American
background afforded him many freedoms and indiscretions prohibited
to the average Englishman. Slowly, he lifted a decanter at a small
cabinet, refusing to hurry any of his movements. “Would you care to
join me in a whisky?”
    “No thank you. I wish to return to my game. And I
must tell you, I do not take kindly to this delay.”
    “Have you been waiting long?” Ramsay drawled,
deliberately pouring his drink. “I’m sorry.”
    “Not as sorry as you will be, if you don’t tell me
what this is all about,