Dear Impostor Read online

  When the music stopped, it was hard to come back to reality. They stood still for a moment as the tune died, and she felt strangely loath to step out of his arms. Gabriel gazed down at her, his expression hard to read. Psyche only hoped her own bemusement was not evident to the curious eyes that surely watched them.

  “Thank you for the waltz,” she said at last, her voice husky. “You are–you are a fine dancer. ” And a better actor than she had ever suspected, she thought.

  “You inspire me,” he said, his voice quiet.

  Her heart tripped once, twice in her chest. She knew it was nothing but empty words. He had danced gracefully with Matilda, too, but still, he moved her. She suddenly wanted so much to believe him, to wish that the attention he gave her was sincere. If only–

  If she had needed a reminder of harsh reality, it came too soon.

  “This man is a fraud!” someone said loudly.

  Chapter 8

  She felt Gabriel stiffen. Psyche jerked, turning to see who would dare to make such an accusation in front of the whole party.

  It was Percy, of course.

  “You must rethink this foolish entanglement, dear cousin,” he said, lowering his voice only slightly. But everyone was watching them, and a buzz of curious conversation floated around the room.

  “Percy, how could you!” Horrified at Percy’s display and worse, what he might reveal, Psyche clutched Gabriel’s steady arm. She kept her composure only with the greatest effort. She could feel her stomach clench and her throat go dry as more and more of the guests turned to regard them. The chatter in the rest of the room was fading as people strained to hear, and even the musicians seemed to play more softly.

  His goggle eyes bright with single-minded zeal, Percy regarded her sternly. “I cannot allow you be taken in by this impostor,” he repeated, raising his voice so that the curious matrons and portly gentlemen standing at the corners of the room would not miss a juicy morsel of this brewing scandal. “I have spoken to all my friends–”

  ”That must not have taken long,” Gabriel said mildly.

  Percy blinked in surprise, but plunged ahead “–and no one has heard of this man, or his so-called title. It is all a hum, and I must save my dear cousin from this lecherous parasite.“

  Psyche swallowed hard against the angry bile that rose in her throat. She thought she might be physically ill right here, and it only needed that to become a complete disaster.

  “You doubt my credentials, sir?” Gabriel demanded, facing Percy squarely. His tone was as icy as any that Psyche could manage. She had to admire his steel.

  Percy paled a little, but he held his ground. “I do.”

  “Perhaps you and I should step outside and discuss this privately,” Gabriel suggested. He smiled, and Psyche thought of a wolf baring his fangs. Despite the desperate situation, for an instant she almost–almost–felt sorry for her cousin. Then common sense reasserted itself, and she thought, no, she wasn’t sorry at all. She wanted to see him torn into little pieces.

  But Percy was shaking his head. “No, no,” he said. “Have no intentions of being manhandled by a would-be fancy man like you.”

  The murmurs in the crowd around them grew louder. Gabriel’s smile faded, and he looked even more alarming.

  “I had other alternatives in mind,” he said quietly.

  Percy shook his head again. “No, no, can’t call me out if you’re not a gentleman, no obligation for me to answer to someone not of my own class. And–”

  ”Is it necessary for me to take you by the neck and shake the life out of you, like the pathetic little coward you are?” Gabriel demanded, his tone clear and penetrating, even though he did not raise his voice. He took one step forward, and Percy backed away.

  Percy had flushed, his composure at least cracked. “I am only stating the obvious, sir–or whoever you are. I refuse to say ‘my lord’ when –”

  ”My name is Gabriel Sinclair, lately Marquis of Tarrington,” Gabriel said, in ringing tones. “And if anyone disputes my name, my reputation, my honor, they should be prepared to face me and present proof of their accusations.”

  “But-but no one had heard of you,” Percy stuttered. “And–and–”

  ”Gabriel, ol’chap, what’s this?” a new voice said. “What’s this little beetle accusing you of, anyhow?”

  A new figure appeared in the doorway; he must have just arrived, though Psyche had missed the announcement of his name, if the stunned footman had even remembered to declaim it, considering the rising tension in the ballroom. He was a young man with natty evening clothes, pale hair and a round face; he was also the very embodiment of correctness.

  “This idiot thinks I am not whom I say I am,” Gabriel said. His tone was noncommital, but she saw that the tension had left his shoulders.

  “Why in blazes would he think that?” the newcomer demanded. He turned to peer at Percy as if he were some inferior form of animal life. “We were up at university together, don’t y’know? Knew him at Eton before that–we were grubby little school boys together.”

  This elegant young dandy had never been grubby in his life, Psyche would have taken a vow on it. But just now, she felt both intense relief and almost equal confusion. Eton? No actor could have attended . . . who was he? Had the actor hired another actor to–no, no, that didn’t make sense. How would Gabriel know just when he would have need of a character reference. And anyhow, Psyche thought this young man’s face was familiar. Surely she had seen him before. Frederick something, was that it?

  “Freddy, you are a brick,” Gabriel said with affection. He put one arm around his friend and turned him away from Percy, as if her cousin were not worthy of further argument. “Come and meet my dearest wife-to-be.”

  In greeting Freddy, Psyche barely heard Percy say desperately, “No, no. He–he must be an impostor, too–”

  ”Oh, Percy,” Sally had come up to scowl at him. “I’ve known Freddy Wyrick since I was an infant. His family’s estate and mine have stood side by side for two hundred years. Now will you kindly disappear into the punchbowl and stop trying to ruin my party!”

  How had Gabriel managed to summon up a friend from a nonexistent earlier life? Psyche greeted Freddy Wyrick with a charming smile, but her mind still raced. There was some simple explanation of this, she was sure. In the meantime, she smiled at the newcomer with such warmth that the young man blushed.

  “Gabriel, you always were a lucky dog.”

  Then Freddy paused, and a look passed between the two men as if he had said too much. What had caused the flash of pain that crossed Gabriel’s face, brief but unmistakable? Psyche felt as if she were trying to solve a puzzle missing half its pieces; she had no hope of deciphering all this.

  Around them, the hum of conversation had resumed, and another dance was being played. Psyche found she had no more appetite for gaiety. She still felt sick from the stress of Percy’s accusations. When she saw Aunt Sophie signaling to her from the side of the room, she excused herself to the two men and hurried to her aunt’s side.

  “Percy is even more of a fool than his father,” Aunt Sophie said, her tone cross. “He will make us all the laughing stock of the Ton. I wish to go home. I’ve had enough of this nonsense for one night.”

  Psyche could hardly agree more. “I will tell the servant to fetch our cloaks.” She did so and made her farewells to their hostess.

  “I’m sorry you’re leaving so early,” Sally said. “And phooey on Percy for being such a poor loser–for your hand, I mean. We all have nuts on the family tree somewhere, even if the tree is supposed to grow apples. He’ll get it over in time, you know. Don’t let him spoil all your fun. Lord Tarrington is–”

  ”I know, scrumptious,” Psyche said, giving her friend a kiss on the cheek. “But right now, I’m still suffering from indigestion a la Percy.”

  To her annoyance, Gabriel had vanished. She found him at last in the card room with Freddy, talking to a group of gentlemen and apparently quite at his
ease.

  “Aunt Sophie is fatigued. We’re about to take our leave,” she said, smiling at them all, then she retreated to the hall and waited for him to join her. He took his time shaking hands and saying goodbye, she saw from the doorway. Finally, he clapped Freddy on the shoulder and made his way to her.

  Aunt Sophie was waiting for them in the anteroom as a maid adjusted her cloak about her shoulders. “About time,” the older woman said, her tone shrill. She clutched her cane and allowed Gabriel, for once, to give her his arm.

  When they climbed into their carriage, Psyche saw that the older woman looked drawn and her face more heavily lined than usual. The scene with Percy had taken its toll on her nerves, too, though she would never admit it. Psyche felt a wave of guilt. It was inexcusable that she had not realized what she would be letting her family in for, when she dreamed up her impossible scheme. She had been selfish and short-sighted to ever start on this perilous course. And now she was committed, at least, until she could persuade the fake lord to quietly disappear.

  “I’m sorry, Aunt,” she said quietly as the carriage jerked a little over the rough stones of the street.

  “Whatever for?” her aunt demanded, sounding more like herself. “You didn’t make Percy an idiot, did you?”

  Psyche’s lips tightened to contain the bubble of laughter.

  “We must blame his father and his mother, poor timid thing, for that. His tantrums are bound to cause talk, of course. Next time you start up a secret engagement, Missy, you might consider that fact.”

  But beneath the tart tone, Psyche saw that the old lady looked at them both with something suspiciously close to approval. “Still, the two of you made a fine pair on the dance floor, quite a picture.”

  The man sitting opposite them nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment, and Psyche knew she was blushing. But her relative wasn’t through.

  “They’re saying it’s probably some obscure Irish title, you know,” Sophie said to Gabriel. “Since no one knows it. Poor coin, but if that’s the worst they say of you–the rational people, I mean, not Percy with his bee-infested bonnet–you’ll survive.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Gabriel said. “I hope I do.”

  Not half as much as Psyche did. She drew a deep breath and tried to relax as her aunt repeated several scandalous tales she had gleamed from her contemporaries, remembering to laugh in the appropriate places and gasp in others.

  Only after they were home and Aunt Sophie had ascended the staircase, did Psyche pause to speak quietly to Gabriel.

  “I must commend you, too.”

  “For making a fine picture on the dance floor?” Something in his tone suggested that he did not care to be reminded of his masculine beauty.

  “No, of course not. For keeping your head in such a tight spot.”

  “I’ve been in worse,” Gabriel said.

  He seemed to refuse to allow her to say anything positive, and Psyche, after all the inadvertent insults she had flung at him earlier, was determined to be fair. “And for being a better actor than I suspected. . . .”

  “It’s easy to put on other people’s titles, other people’s lives,” Gabriel said, his tone suddenly cynical. “Easy to look people in the eye and lie. Actors do it all the time.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said, though she didn’t .

  “Of course,” he said. “It only takes a complete absence of conscience. And that is a lack I am most familiar with.”

  Psyche threw up her hands in exasperation. “Really, this is too much! You’re—“

  ”A rogue, a scoundrel, a man without scruples?” His tone was mocking, but his eyes flashed, and his lips–his lips were parted, and he was leaning forward.

  Whatever she had planned to say was lost against the firm lines of Gabriel’s mouth. With an easy efficiency, he swept her close, his arm hard around her waist. The wall of his chest pressed against her so tightly she could feel the imprint of his coat buttons. She resisted for a moment, but when she struggled against him, when his lips softened and the kiss gentled in contrition, she was lost. Just when she would have separated her lips as he seemed to demand, he thrust her away from him. Brushing the back of his hand against his lips, he smiled with self-mockery.

  “Go ahead and dock ten pounds for that kiss. And don’t wait up, dear Miss Hill,” Gabriel said. “I shall be back very late.”

  After the confrontation at the party, and then Gabriel’s scathing remarks—just see if she didn’t dock him those ten pounds!—and brief but unsettling kiss, Psyche went up to bed with a pounding head. Her mattress seemed stuffed with rocks for all the repose it provided her, and it took hours before she fell asleep. Percy’s shrill accusations echoed in her head over and over, and she couldn’t forget the look of strain on Aunt Sophie’s face.

  Why had Psyche ever thought she could pull off this crazy scheme? Only the actor’s skill and glibness have saved them so far. She really did feel a sense of gratitude toward him, or she had until he’d reminded her that he was entangled in this plot for far different and more nefarious reasons. Yet when they had danced, he had seemed so–

  It was almost daylight and the first bird was trilling outside her window when she finally shut her eyes.

  She slept late into the morning, having left orders with her maid the night before not to be awakened, and when she finally opened her eyes, Psyche could tell by the golden tint of the light slipping past the draperies at her windows that it must be almost noon.

  Yawning, she rang for her tea, and once more considered last night’s horrible scene. If every outing with her fake fiancé was going to be like this–oh, curse Percy, anyhow. The rest of her family and acquaintance might wonder about the so-called secret engagement and Gabriel’s sudden appearance, might whisper behind her back, and it was inescapable that they would suspect that Gabriel was marrying her for her money, assuming it could ever be pried out of Uncle Wilfred’s tight fists. But no one else except Uncle Wilfred and the omnipresent Percy would have dared to challenge Psyche openly. Percy had not yet given up hope of gaining her fortune for himself, that was obvious. Her cousin was so stupid, so pig-headed–

  Castigating Percy occupied a few satisfying moments, then Simpson appeared with a tray, and Psyche sighed and turned her thoughts to more practical matters. “Is the actor up yet?” she asked.

  “I haven’t seen him, Miss, but Jowers said that he was up in the nursery having a cup o’ tea with Circe and Tellman,” Simpson said. She placed the tray carefully on the bed, fluffed the pillows behind Psyche, then went to pull open the heavy draperies. Sunshine poured into the room; the day was even more advanced than Psyche had suspected.

  This unexpected friendship between the actor and her little sister was puzzling. Circe was usually a little shy and not drawn to new acquaintances. Last night Psyche had thought with horror that her earliest impression must be correct; the actor had no morals whatsoever. Yet why did Circe regard him with approval? Perhaps her sister was simply too young and inexperienced to recognize a total reprobate.

  Psyche had better dress and get upstairs. She should try to discourage Circe from spending time with this unprincipled man. She could simple forbid her, of course, but Circe had a mind of her own, and while she never argued with her older sister, she had a habit of simply going ahead with whatever course seemed right to her, without considering the consequences. Perhaps, Psyche thought, sighing, it was a family trait.

  Simpson laid out a sprigged muslin day dress, white with touches of blue, and threaded a blue ribbon through Psyche’s golden hair to hold back the tangle of curls from her face. It softened the classical lines of her face more than her usual smooth knot, but Psyche found that she approved. Anyhow, she had no plans to go out and with luck, no one would call. She wanted only a day of unalloyed peace.

  When her toilette was complete, Psyche went out into the hall and turned toward the upper floors, but she never made it to the nursery. Before she could ascend, she heard a knock at the front d
oor, then voices as visitors came into the house.

  Oh, drat, Psyche thought. If it were Percy–

  She had a good mind to deny herself, but knowing her cousin, he would come upstairs and search her out, and she did not wish to have another argument with him in her sister’s presence. Reluctantly, she went down to the morning room, a smaller and more intimate chamber which she often used for family visitors.

  But it was not Percy; instead she found Cousin Matilda and Aunt Mavis already seated on the silk-covered settee.

  “Good afternoon, Psyche,“ Mavis said. “I trust you have recovered from the pleasant exertions of last night. Jowers has informed me that dear Sophie wishes to rest in her bedchamber today.”

  It was more likely the wily woman wished to avoid visitors. “Yes, thank you, Aunt Mavis.”

  Her aunt’s tone had been unusually mild. She must have come to gossip and see how Psyche was holding up to Percy’s accusations–and her observations were sure to be shared with half a dozen of her closest friends. Psyche must not allow her aggravation to be known.

  “It was a lovely party,” Psyche said at once. “With only a minor annoyance or two, mostly to do with my mutton-headed cousin.”

  Matilda giggled. “Percy can be difficult at times.”

  “Pig-headed, mulish, slow as any ox–” Psyche ran through the animal kingdom swiftly. “Oh, do let us talk of more pleasant topics. Did you enjoy Sally’s party, Matilda?”

  Her cousin’s round cheeks flushed delicately. “Oh, yes. It was so nice to be asked to dance. Your fiancé has the most lovely manners, Psyche. After he danced with me, he introduced me to Mr. Stilton, who asked me to dance next, just fancy! It was a marvelous evening. I do believe Lord Tarrington has a kind heart, too, beneath his excellent polish.”

  Another innocent, deceived by his smooth charm; Psyche smothered a sigh. Matilda was hardly worldlier than Circe, despite her more mature years. Psyche would not try to disillusion her, but–