Dear Impostor Page 13

  “Not that he needs it much, with such a handsome face,” Aunt Mavis added with something of her usual tart tone. “However, it will make your marriage easier, Psyche. With any luck, he won’t flaunt his other conquests beneath your nose.”

  “Pardon?” Psyche stared at her aunt in astonishment.

  “You don’t expect a man who looks like he does to be faithful, do you?” Mavis met her gaze calmly.

  “Oh, Mama,” Matilda protested, blushing again.

  “I think you’re being most unfair.” Psyche couldn’t help defending her bogus betrothed. “You don’t know that he will be an unfaithful husband.”

  “Don’t be naive; most of them are.” The older woman sniffed and needlessly smoothed a graying hair back into her chignon.

  Psyche bit back an angry rebuttal as she suddenly perceived the hint of sadness beneath her aunt’s cynical tone. What had Mavis’ own marriage been like, before her husband’s death? Psyche felt a rare moment of sympathy for her acid-tongued aunt. “I think some husbands may be constant,” Psyche said quietly. “I believe my father was. I will continue to hope that my husband will be, also.”

  Mavis lifted her brows. “But if not, don’t make a fuss about it; doesn’t help. Pretend not to notice, that’s my counsel.”

  In some twisted way, Psyche thought her gruff relative actually meant this to be helpful advice. She was spared having to devise a reply by the butler’s return. Jowers had brought a tea tray along with a plate of scones. Psyche performed the elaborate ritual of pouring tea for all the ladies and waited for her aunt to take a sip. By then, happily, the conversation meandered into less dramatic topics.

  But not for long. They were discussing Miss Lelleman’s sad choice of pale orange trimmed with yellow for her ball gown when another guest arrived. He stomped into the room unannounced, looking even more affronted than was his usual wont.

  “Percy!” Psyche could have groaned with frustration. “What are you doing here?”

  “Do I need an invitation to check on my beloved’s welfare?” Her cousin demanded, stripping off his gloves and moving forward to grab her hand.

  Psyche evaded him by hastily snatching her teacup from the small table before her. Deprived of his object, Percy stopped awkwardly before her with his arm still outstretched. Matilda couldn’t stifle a small giggle. Psyche sent her a warning glance before glaring at Percy.

  “I am not your beloved, and haven’t you caused enough trouble? That scene last night was unpardonable!” Psyche told him hotly. “How dare you subject me, all of us–the whole family, Percy, and you with your much-vaunted pride of family–to such gossip?”

  “Badly done, Percy,” Aunt Mavis agreed.

  “I put your well being even above the sanctity of the family name, cousin Psyche,” Percy assured her gravely. He gave her a prim smile, as if waiting to be thanked. “Is that not proof of my devotion?”

  Gratitude was not the emotion that flooded through her. Psyche wanted to wring his neck like a fowl for the slaughter. Indeed, he looked much like a plump peacock in his too bright purple coat and gold-patterned waistcoat. She wished he could be served roasted and stuffed, like any minor course at the dinner table.

  “I would like you to keep your mouth shut,” she told him.

  “Now really, Psyche–”

  ”At any time, but certainly in such a public venue. I don’t need your advice, nor your help in managing my love life. I don’t know how to state it more plainly.” Psyche met his affronted gaze with an icy look of her own.

  “Now, now,” Percy repeated, sniffing. “If that is all the thanks I can expect to receive–”

  ”It is,” Psyche assured him.

  “Then I will not trouble you with my company–”

  ”Good, I mean, good-bye, Percy. You know the way to the door.”

  “But not until I have spoken again to this pretender marquis,” Percy finished. “I have given Jowers a message to ask the man to join me. I will await him in the library, and we will have a private conversation–or perhaps confrontation–there. It is just as well that ladies will not be present as I mean to be, ahem, forceful.” Percy puffed up with manly self-importance.

  “As you were last night?” Psyche demanded. “Percy, you will not harass my fiancé, I forbid it!’

  He ignored her and made a dignified retreat. Psyche had no doubt he would indeed retire to the library and wait for Gabriel there. She could only hope that the actor would be up to yet another difficult session. She would like to be there, Percy’s scruples regarding a female’s nervous frailties non withstanding. If only her other guests would leave. . .

  She turned back to Aunt Mavis and cousin Matilda. Her cousin looked worried, but Mavis seemed grimly amused.

  “I always said Percy was an idiot,” Mavis said calmly, reaching for another currant scone. “I blame it on the black cat his mother saw while she was increasing. Bad luck from which he will never recover, you know.”

  Matilda looked faintly scandalized.

  “I don’t think we can blame Percy’s peculiarities on a cat,” Psyche said, straining her ears–was that the sound of a door shutting–what was going on? How could she hint away her relatives so she could go check on the men? “He’s very much like his father, you know and despite what he says about his solicitude for my welfare, you know he’s more concerned with the well-being of my fortune.”

  “True,” Mavis said, flicking a crumb off her lap. “He does not wish for anyone to waste it, anyone except himself.”

  Matilda laughed again, and Psyche steeled herself not to turn toward the hall and listen openly. What was happening? She distinctly heard a male voice raised, though she could not make out the words. Had the two men actually come to blows?

  The door opened, but it was Jowers who looked inside. “Ah, Miss, if I could have a word?”

  “Of course,” Psyche said quickly, delighted to have an excuse to leave the room. “Aunt, Matilda, please excuse me for a moment.”

  “Really, Psyche, you must train your servants better,” her aunt said crossly, but Psyche already hurried toward the door. She shut it firmly behind her and faced the butler in the hallway.

  Jowers had already turned toward the front of the house. “There is a–a person who is creating a disturbance, Miss, and I don’t quite know what to do with him.”

  “What kind of person?” Perplexed, Psyche gazed at the man’s strange expression.

  The butler huffed a little, his cheeks red. “Your other fiancé, Miss.”

  Chapter 9

  Psyche thought she could not have heard the words correctly. “What?”

  “Um, that is what he says. Obviously a lunatic person, Miss,” the red-faced butler repeated. “I have called for extra footmen to assist me in expelling him–” the elderly servant looked affronted to have to admit his own physical weakness–” but one is off on an errand, and another in bed with a toothache, leaving only Wilson, who’s rather small himself. And the madman is so insistent–”

  ”Good heavens.” Psyche stared, unable to imagine who this man could be; she had expected the problem to be with Percy.

  “We’d better not leave him alone, Miss. Lord knows, he may try to murder the whole household.”

  “Indeed!” She hastened after the butler down the hall and into the main foyer to find a thin, narrow-shouldered man in a cheap morning suit pacing up and down, while Wilson, the footman who had already come to grief once this week, watched him nervously.

  “G-greetings, Miss Hill,” the man stammered.

  “How do you know my name?” she demanded, shocked to be greeted so by a stranger.

  “Of course I would k-know the name of some one so n-near and dear to me,” the man said.

  Psyche felt her head spin. He was a lunatic; Jowers was correct. What could she do with him? Should she humor his delusion? She had heard that this could be the safest course for dealing with madness.

  “Ah, I see,” she murmured. “I suppose you would.
I’m sorry to say that I don’t–forgive me–remember your name just now.”

  Turning her head toward the butler, she whispered, “Fetch the Marquis, Jowers, he will assist us. Wilson, go and roust the other footman from his bed, toothache or not!”

  Jowers headed for the stairs. Wilson, stepping quickly as if happy to be out of this potentially dangerous situation, retreated to the back part of the house toward the servants’ stairwell. This left her alone with the madman, but he was slight of statue. Psyche, though she felt her heart pounding, kept her expression calm. So far he had made no threatening moves.

  Indeed, the man now gave her a formal bow, sweeping a trifle too low. “I am, of course, the M-Marquis of Tarrington, your humble servant, ma’am.”

  “So you say.” Psyche thought frantically. How–what–the impostor had an impostor? Had the whole world gone mad? This was her punishment for defying every rule of decorum– the universe had turned against her.

  “I must a-apologize for missing the b-betrothal dinner,” he went on, stammering. “But I was–uh-s-suddenly taken ill and–”

  Psyche was distracted by the sound of a doorknob turning; she jerked her head to see the library door begin to open. Oh no, not Percy, not now!

  She darted forward and grabbed the lunatic’s hand, pulling him toward the small book room that stood next to the library. The man was thin, and she was able to push him inside the room before he could catch his breath.

  “Stay here and don’t make a sound!” she hissed, shutting the door on his look of astonishment.

  When she turned back, Percy was in the hall. “I thought I heard the Marquis announced; where is he?”

  “He’s not here yet, Percy; you are mistaken. Please wait in the library,” Psyche said, maintaining her poise with the greatest effort. “I will inform you when he comes down.”

  “Tell the man to hurry up about it,” Percy grumbled, but he returned to the library. Psyche sighed with relief to see the heavy oaken door shut. Now, she must sort out this quagmire before–

  The book room door opened, and the little man peered out. “Miss Hill, we really must speak about the terms of our engagement–”

  But now another door was opening, and Psyche waved her hands at the madman. “Not now; shut the door!”

  Mercifully, he did. Now Matilda peered out of the doorway of the morning room. “I’m sorry, Psyche, but Mama says will you be much longer because she’s got more to discuss with you–”

  Psyche sped across the foyer to speak softly to her cousin. “I have a problem, Matilda, there’s no time to explain. But please, please, keep your mother inside the chamber and keep the door shut.”

  Matilda’s eyes widened. “Of course, if you wish it, Psyche, but–”

  Psyche pushed her back inside. “Make some excuse to Aunt and close the door.”

  Her cousin disappeared, and Psyche turned back toward the book room. She had to get this lunatic out of the house, out of sight before he stirred up even more suspicion on Percy’s part and made her situation even more dangerous than it already was.

  She had reached the middle of the foyer when she heard someone behind her. By now so agitated that her nerves were thin as paper, Psyche whirled, but it was only her own maid, Simpson.

  “Miss, is everything all right? Jowers came past me looking most agitated and muttering that we could all be murdered in our own house!”

  The book room door opened again, and the little man peeked out. “Miss Hill?”

  “Shut the door!” Psyche almost shouted. He disappeared once more, but beside her, Simpson gasped.

  “Miss, you can’t treat him like that, no matter how annoyed you are at his avarice, wishing for more money for his role. People will notice, and–”

  ”Not now.” Psyche didn’t have time to try to decipher this strange remark because she was trying to watch all the doors at once. “I’m waiting for the actor to help rid us of this madman who claims to be the Marquis of Tarrington. Percy must not see him.”

  “But, Miss, that is the Marquis of Tarrington.”

  “What?” Psyche felt the room whirl again, and her maid reached out to steady her. “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean, that’s the actor I hired to play the part, Miss,” Simpson explained, touching her employer’s head as if wondering if she were feverish and delusional.

  “It can’t be–” Psyche said, her voice weak. “Haven’t you seen–”

  No, in the last two days her maid had had no reason to be in the room with the fraudulent lord. But if this were the actor–

  “Then who is he?” Psyche whispered to her servant as steps behind them announced the arrival of Gabriel Sinclair. He gazed inquiringly toward her.

  “You have need of me?” he asked. “Your butler is almost incoherent, poor man. He muttered something about the house being invaded by a lunatic, but surely that is not correct?”

  “I have no idea, Miss.” Simpson stared at the tall man before her.

  “Oh, my god.” Psyche felt as if she could not get a breath. “I think I’m the one who has lost my mind.” She wanted to sit down, but there was no time.

  Doors were opening again. Aunt Mavis peered out from the morning room, pausing only to look back for an instant over her shoulder. “Be quiet, Matilda, I shall be right back. Psyche,” she said, facing her niece again. “Your household is very poorly run; you must take your servants in hand, my dear. I’ve rung the bell rope three times. Matilda is faint and I need smelling salts. She doesn’t want me to leave her side, but–”

  A small shriek interrupted from the depths of the morning room.

  Good God! Had the madman attacked poor Matilda. But no—he couldn’t have gone past without her seeing, Psyche thought wildly.

  “Mouse?’ Mavis jerked to look. “What do you mean, you see a mouse beneath the settee cushion?” She hastened back inside the room to defend her daughter from the wild beast.

  “Shall I fetch the kitchen cat?” Simpson inquired.

  “I don’t think–”

  ”You’re going to set the cat on the lunatic?” Gabriel inquired with interest, as if this conversation actually made sense.

  Now two doors opened at once. The small man in the cheap suit looked stubbornly out of the book room, and Percy emerged again from the library.

  “There you are,” Percy said. “I wish to have words with you, sir.”

  But Gabriel was regarding the madman with surprise. “You?”

  “Who are you?” Psyche demanded, turning on Gabriel. “You told me–”

  But it was the stranger who answered, in a voice much too loud, as if to bolster his fading courage. “I a-am the Marquis of T-Tarrington.”

  A moment of stunned silence, then everyone spoke at once.

  “Is this a joke at my expense?” Percy thundered. “Who is this man?”

  “What does he mean, Psyche?” Aunt Mavis had apparently frightened away the fictional mouse. She had entered the hallway again.

  The small man looked flustered, and Psyche herself was dumb with shock. This man–this man was the actor her maid had interviewed, prompted with information about her family, and hired to play the part? This skinny, thin-shouldered man with the badly-cut suit, who could not even declaim his supposed title calmly–he would never have been able to withstand her relatives’ scrutiny, nor stand up to Percy, nor carry off the whole untruthful scheme. She shuddered at the thought of what a debacle her betrothal party would have become, if this timid, stuttering actor had been by her side.

  But then where had Gabriel Sinclair come from?

  Everyone waited for her to speak, but it was Gabriel who answered, his voice calm.

  “He means that he is the Marquis of Tarrington’s . . .” Gabriel glanced at the cowering little man. . . “secretary. He’s a bit shy, poor fellow, and easily rattled, and he does have a slight speech impediment. But he’s very good with my letters and such.”

  “Poor man,” Matilda said from behind her m
other. She had apparently recovered from her assumed vapors and had been unable to resist the urge to peek at the commotion in the hallway.

  Psyche took a long deep breath. Percy shrugged; a servant, even one of more distinction than ordinary household staff, was beneath his notice. “No matter about him; I wish to speak with you, Tarrington.”

  The little man opened his mouth, but quelled beneath the look that Gabriel gave him. “I will be right with you, Hill. Let me just speak to my secretary and give him the instructions he has doubtless come to collect.”

  “Be quick about it, then,” Percy grumbled, but he turned back into the library and shut the door.

  Gabriel put his hand on the little man’s shoulder and guided him firmly back into the book room.

  “I see you are recovering,” Mavis was saying to her daughter, who flushed slightly at her mother’s words. “I think we had better take our leave, Psyche. Matilda needs a healing tisane and a long quiet repose.”

  Psyche crossed the hall to give her cousin a hug of genuine gratitude. “Thank you,” she whispered into her ear, then releasing her, added, “I hope you are soon recovered, Cousin.”

  “I’m sure I will be,” Matilda agreed, her eyes shining with the success of her ruse and her pleasure at Psyche’s approval.

  Psyche saw them out, hoping that the concoction that Matilda was now fated to consume was not too nasty in taste. But she had more essential matters on her mind. Jowers was hurrying up; she managed to smile at him.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “He was not crazy after all; he just has a slight–um–stammer that makes him hard to understand at times. He is the Marquis of Tarrington’s secretary.”

  “Oh,” Jowers said, his expression smoothing. “I”m sorry to have alarmed you for nothing, Miss.”

  He had no idea. “It wasn’t your fault,” Psyche said soothingly. The butler turned away, and Psyche motioned to her maid. They entered the book room together to find the two men standing a few feet apart, as if taking each other’s measure.