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Ramsey had never intended to lie. He had not been a deceitful child. Oh, Ramsey was no George Washington—that paragon of honesty the Americans liked to brag about—but he had told the truth more often than not. As a child, he had not understood why the reclusive Earl of Sedgwick singled him out, providing him with books to read and conversation about everything from art to music. Perhaps the old earl, who had no surviving children of his own, was lonely. Or perhaps he saw something in Ramsey, the son of one of his tenant farmers, that reminded him of himself.
Ramsey didn’t know what that something could be. He was the eldest of eight brothers and sisters, all sharing a two-room cottage in Cumbria. His family had been poor, and Ramsey had gone to bed hungry more than once. His father was a self-educated man, who read to the family from whatever books Ramsey brought home from the earl’s country estate.
In the old earl, Ramsey saw nothing of himself. But he saw what he wanted to be. He dreamed of going to London, living in a town house, spending the afternoon at Boodles, White’s, or one of the other gentleman’s clubs, buying horseflesh at Tattersalls, boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s, dancing—well, perhaps not dancing; he’d never been fond of dancing—at Vauxhall Gardens.
It was only a dream.
Until the old earl died.
He shouldn’t have lied. He shouldn’t have deceived. Even with the best of intentions—that of saving his family from starvation, his sisters from prostitution, his brothers from a harsh life at sea—it was wrong.
And he had paid for his transgression. Sincerely, he regretted it.
If he hadn’t impersonated the earl’s heir, he wouldn’t be under Madame Fouchet’s thumb. He wouldn’t be in France with his neck a hairsbreadth from the guillotine.
And he wouldn’t be with Gabrielle McCullough. He wouldn’t have held her last night. He wouldn’t have had his lips on her mouth, had his farmer’s hands on her soft body. He didn’t regret that. In fact, he wanted her still.
Even though he knew it was wrong on so many levels.
He paced the hallway outside the bedroom he shared with Gabrielle and tried not to think of all the reasons he shouldn’t take her to bed.
First, he was not who she thought he was. That had never stopped him before, but he cared for Gabrielle more than he had for other women he had been with. She was no courtesan. She was the widow of his friend.
That was the second reason. George McCullough had been a good friend. The man was an idiot who loved gambling more than himself or his wife, but he had taken the new earl under his wing and protected him from the worst of the dangers facing young gallants unaccustomed to life in London.
And reason three.
Ramsey stopped pacing, listening for a moment to the sounds inside the closed bedroom door. What was taking the woman so long? They were to steal a bracelet, not be presented at court.
Reason three—he began pacing again—he was using her to find the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Not for good. Oh no. She was trying to do a good deed—God love the woman—and save a woman and child. He, of course, would destroy the Pimpernel for his own selfish reasons—to save himself.
But then he’d always been good at thinking of himself.
So perhaps he could save the woman and child before he revealed the name of the Pimpernel.
Except now the plot—which was already thick enough to make his head ache—thickened further.
He had been taken off guard when Madame Fouchet’s assistant had cornered him in Le Grand Véfour. And then he’d been quite powerless to do anything to prevent her from seeing Gabrielle walking with Ffoulkes.
She’d turned to Ramsey and raised one slim eyebrow. “Is that he?”
He shook his head. “No.” He tried to take her arm and lead her away from the window, but she stood resolute.
“I told you I would give you the information when I have it.”
She kept her eyes on Gabrielle. “And I toldyou,Madame grows impatient. I think you know how that pains me.”
He did. Madame Fouchet was dangerous when she was displeased. Waiting for anything displeased her immensely.
“That’s not the one you seek,” he said, not certain why he was trying to protect Ffoulkes. Wouldn’t he be betraying the whole League by revealing the Pimpernel’s identity? “Madame hates errors even more than waiting.”
“How do you know he’s not the one?” the woman asked, stroking a lock of her hair.
How did he know? “I suppose I cannot be certain. I’ll be certain when I do find the man.”
“And perhaps I shall find him first. Perhaps your blond friend out there”—she pointed to Ffoulkes—“will assist me.”
She’d strode after Ffoulkes, and Ramsey had briefly debated going after her. But if Ffoulkes was part of the League, he could undoubtedly take care of himself. Gabrielle could not.
