Defiant Impostor (29 page)

She couldn't bear lying again to Adam. Not when things
had taken such a drastic and impossible turn between them. His words of love
haunted her memory. No, she couldn't bear another night listening to him say
such things to her. She just couldn't!

Glimpsing Adam standing beside Celeste not far from the
oval racetrack that lay just beyond the lawn, Susanna felt an incredible rush
of warmth when she noticed that he was watching her, and she quickly looked
away. Her hand trembled as she lifted the cup to her mouth, and she hardly
tasted the cider, knowing his eyes were still upon her. It seemed he was always
looking at her, no matter where he was or with whom. Yet today there was a
difference in the way he regarded her, although she couldn't define it.

He had been strangely silent during the journey this
morning, no matter how Celeste had tried to coax him into joining their
conversation. He had scarcely spared a glance for the clinging young woman, keeping
his gaze fixed upon either Susanna's face, studying her as if he might somehow
divine what she was thinking, or out the carriage window.

At times she even had the oddest sensation that he was
angry with her. She imagined he must simply be frustrated with their continuing
charade and Celeste's constant attention. Well, thank God, much of her
deception would soon be over. That is, if Dominick ever arrived—

"You're so quiet today, Miss Cary," the
ever-present Thomas Dandridge said to her. "Is it too warm for you? We
could move further into the shade—"

"No, no, it's lovely here," she said,
flashing the lanky young man a brilliant smile. Deciding that it would help to
keep her mind off Dominick's absence if she focused on her suitors'
conversation, she asked him flirtatiously, "Are you going to make any
wagers on the first race, Thomas? Perhaps one in my honor?"

"I will, Miss Cary!" Matthew interjected
eagerly before Thomas could respond. "I'm going to place a bet for you on
each and every race. I'm certain you'll bring me good luck!"

"Well, how do you gentlemen know which horse is
likely to win?" she queried, knowing such a question would prompt a lively
and hopefully diverting discussion.

As her suitors joined in debating the merits of the
Tidewater's finest horseflesh, each seeking to impress her with their
knowledge, Susanna was not surprised to find that she was once more hardly
listening to them. Her frustration mounting, she searched the crowd for any
sign of Dominick, yet time and again, her gaze strayed back to Adam.

***

"Isn't it amazing how our shy Camille has
blossomed into such a popular belle?" Celeste commented, fluttering her
silk fan in front of her generously exposed bosom. "I suppose I always
knew it was possible with plenty of outings and masculine attention, and plenty
of Virginia sunshine. I just didn't expect it to happen so quickly."

"Yes, amazing," Adam replied dryly, his gut
tightening as several more young gentlemen joined the laughing group seated
beneath the ancient willow that graced the center of the lawn.

Camille sat at its heart, looking like a beautiful rose
of summer in her shell-pink satin gown . . . that is, if she was indeed his
Camille. The seeds of doubt had been sown and he couldn't shake them, no matter
how many times he had told himself since last night that there must be a
reasonable explanation for the difference in signatures on the note and the
portrait.

Camille could have written her letter to him in such a
hurry that she had signed her name sloppily. Or months ago, before she had
learned that her father had been killed, she had been extra careful writing the
inscription on the back of the painting for fear of damaging it. That
explanation could account for the signature's almost exaggerated neatness. Yet
neither rationale rang true to him, and combined with Ertha's intuitive
misgivings and the decided facial differences in the portrait, he was beginning
to believe—though, God help him, he didn't want to!—that the woman he loved so
passionately, the woman he planned to marry, might be a very clever impostor.

"Matthew is certainly in his element today,"
Celeste added, hugging Adam's arm possessively. "Why, just look at him.
He's grinning from ear to ear. He knows he has a much fairer chance around
Camille when Dominick Spencer isn't hovering close by."

Adam shot a glance around the bustling lawn and then
beyond it to the racetrack, glad to see that the bastard hadn't yet shown his
face. The anger he felt at this unsettling turn of events was already boiling
like a tempest inside him; he didn't need Dominick adding fuel to the flames.
Yet he knew the planter would show up at some point, and he would do well to
prepare himself for it. Dominick never missed a horse race. He was drawn to
them like a tick to a hound.

"Oh, look, there's Annie Custis! I haven't seen
her for the longest time." Celeste smiled up at him, batting her thick
russet lashes. "Would you mind getting me a glass of punch while I go and
talk to her? I've heard she's absolutely pea-green with envy that Thomas
Dandridge hasn't paid her one visit since Camille's ball. I want to reassure
her that she has nothing to worry about, not with my brother paying such steady
court. I won't be long, Adam dear."

Her endearment grating on his already taut nerves, Adam
was grateful when she released his arm and hurried away. Giving her no more
thought, he decided this would be the longest trip to the refreshment table he
had ever taken. In fact, he probably wouldn't come back.

Camille's lighthearted laughter carried to him as he
deliberately skirted the willow tree, and hot, unreasoning jealousy melded with
his barely restrained anger.

It wasn't the first time he had wondered during the
past weeks, when she was surrounded by her many suitors, if she might be
innocently toying with him, teasing him a little as part of their ruse. Yet
because he knew they would soon be announcing their betrothal, it had never
bothered him except when Dominick Spencer was around.

Now fearing what he did, her actions were suddenly cast
in a much darker and wholly unsettling light. He had never felt so wretchedly
jealous before. As her voice, raised in a spirited remark, drifted to him, it
was all he could do not to yank her from that admiring crowd and demand an
explanation for the portrait and the signatures.

Adam willed himself to keep moving toward the
refreshment tables, reminding himself of his decision not to confront her until
tonight, when they would have time alone to fully discuss the matter. Right
now, he could use a drink. Several. Maybe a whole bottle. Two bottles! Anything
to kill the pain deep inside him.

"Brandy," he muttered to the bewigged waiter
behind the table. Giving the pale amber liquid a brief swirl, he threw back his
head and drained the snifter, grimacing as the liquor burned a searing path
down his throat. He set the empty glass on the table with a thunk.
"Another."

As he lifted the refilled snifter to his mouth, he
noticed standing not far from him an ebony-haired young woman dressed in a
waiting-maid's gown and apron who looked vaguely familiar. She had obviously
been sent to the table for refreshments, for she held two full cups of apple
cider. As he tried to place her, she must have felt him staring for she glanced
over at him. A wide smile fit her pretty face, her dark eyes dancing with
instant recognition.

"Why, yer the fine gentl'man who saved me from
takin' a tumble when I come off the
Charmin'
Nancy
!" she blurted, setting down the cups so abruptly that cider
sloshed onto the white tablecloth. Paying no heed, she rushed over to him.
"Don't ye remember me? I'm Polly! Polly Blake."

Recalling the brief incident between himself and the
maid—quite a contrived one, he thought wryly—Adam bowed his head in a gallant
manner usually reserved for ladies of the gentry. "Of course. Miss Blake.
What brings you here to the Tates'?"

"I've come to see the races same as ye, I
s'pect," she said, appearing flattered by his courtesy. "Well, that
is, with me mistress." She gestured to a fat yet elegantly dressed woman
seated at a distant table with a few other dowagers of the Tidewater. "We
live in Williamsburg, if y' recall, but me mistress is a second cousin of Mrs.
Tate's. They invited us out for the day." She paused, her gaze roaming brazenly
over him. "My, y' sure are a handsome one, Mr. . . . uh . . . come to
think of it, I don't know yer name."

"Adam Thornton."

"Adam Thornton," she repeated, rolling it on
her tongue. "Aye, it suits ye. A fine, strong name for a fine,
strong-looking man." Her expression became hopeful, her eyes flirtatious
beneath long charcoal lashes as she asked him, "Have ye come here alone,
Mr. Thornton?"

"Actually, no," he began, but she cut him off
before he could continue, her tone disappointed.

"I should have guessed." Shrugging her slim
shoulders, Polly glanced around the lawn. "Which beauty did ye accompany,
then? Lord knows, there are enough of 'em here."

Adam made no mention of Celeste, simply inclining his
head toward the weeping willow. "That one there, sitting among those
gentlemen." His throat tightened around his next words. "Miss Camille
Cary."

"Oh, aye, the one y' left me for to follow after
on the dock. I remember her from the
Charmin'
Nancy
. I spotted that pretty gold hair as soon as I got here. I should have
known ye two would be t'gether. "

Adam tensed, lowering his half-empty snifter. "You
knew Miss Cary?"

"No, just who she was. Me mistress and I never had
a chance to meet her. Nobody did, far as I know, 'cept maybe the captain. I saw
her comin' aboard ship with him in Bristol, but she had her head down real
timid-like. She was a shy bird, hidin' in her cabin with her waitin'-maid from
the very start of the voyage. Which was just as well, I s'pose, what with the
killin' fever and all. After a few weeks into the trip, we all hid in our
cabins, fearin' for our lives." Polly exhaled heavily as uproarious
laughter sounded from the group beneath the willow. "That Miss Cary sure
has changed since comin' to Virginia. She doesn't look to me like a shy bird now."

"She isn't," Adam muttered, taking a long sip
of brandy. "Not anymore."

As silence fell between them, he tried to imagine what
might have happened aboard that plagued ship to bring about such an incredible
deception.

He already knew that Camille's waiting-maid had caught
the typhus fever and died. What if the real Camille Cary had also perished?
What if that beautiful young woman sitting beneath the tree, the woman with
whom he had fallen in love, was really some extremely clever wench who had seen
a golden opportunity and seized it. Yet how? It all seemed so improbable.

Surely the ship's records would have noted both deaths,
Camille's and her maid's, so how could anyone have thought they would get by
with such a masquerade? And this woman would have had to be acquainted with
Camille to have known so much about her. Yet Polly had just said no one ever
saw Camille, let alone talked with her, except for her waiting-maid. Dammit,
what in blazes was going on? Could it be that the signatures and the portrait
were both innocent flukes, that he was torturing himself over nothing?

Adam cursed the sad fact that Captain Keyes had also
perished. That old salt would have easily solved this mystery. He had known
Camille since she was a child, had gone to England to fetch her home. If only
he hadn't died, none of this would be happening

"Doesn't it make y' jealous, Mr. Thornton, her
sittin' there like a princess surrounded by all those fine young
gentl'men?" Polly asked, her query breaking into his tormented thoughts.

"Yes," he answered tersely, thinking there
was no harm in revealing that much to this young woman. "Very much."

"I can see why. She's sure a pretty thing, and
it's funny how she looks kind of like her poor waitin'-maid that died no more
than a week before we landed in Yorktown. They both had that same honey
hair."

Adam froze, his gaze riveted on the woman in the
shell-pink gown, but he said nothing as Polly chattered on.

"I was on deck when they buried the girl, ye know.
So was Miss Cary, but she had on a wide-brimmed hat to cover her face. She was
weepin' real hard, which made me think the two of them must have been friends.
It happens that way sometimes between a lady and her maid," Polly sighed,
darting a sidelong glance at her mistress. "The lucky ones, that is. Hmmm
. . . Now, what was her name? Sally . . . Sarah . . . Susan . . ."

"Susanna," he said, feeling numb.

"Aye, that was it. I s'pose Miss Cary must have
told ye."

Adam didn't answer, asking instead, "Did you know her
. . . this Susanna?"

"No, we never talked, and I hardly saw her. She
kept pretty much to herself, too. But that long gold hair of hers was hard to
miss, and she had green eyes. Does yer Miss Cary have green eyes?"

"Yes," he murmured, the startling pieces
falling one by one into place.

"Imagine that. I s'pose if I'd ever seen them side
by side and full in the face, they could have passed as sisters. What a shame
that poor girl caught the fever and died."

Yes, what a pity, Adam thought, barely able to swallow
the last of his brandy for the cold fury gripping him.

What a pity the real Camille Cary, the woman he would
have married, lay moldering in a deep, watery grave while her lying, scheming,
opportunistic strumpet of a waiting-maid was having the time of her life! No
wonder she hadn't even faintly recognized Ertha when she had first arrived at
Briarwood, or known the whereabouts of the Cary graveyard, or how to dance! Yet
this woman was planning to marry him . . . they would be announcing their
betrothal next week—

Cruel intuition shot through him as he heard her
vivacious laughter join that of her admirers', and he wondered if her many
pretty promises were also part of her cunning deception. God help her, if he
had been played the fool . . .