Dear Impostor Page 3

  True, Psyche had never expected her unseen employee to look nor act quite like this tall, well-formed man with a face of such startling good looks. And if he acted this well, she could not imagine why he was not more successful–why, tonight she would have been willing to swear that he was a gentleman, indeed. But little matter, it had worked, her design had worked!

  As Psyche applauded herself on the unlikely success of the most mad-capped plot that she had ever envisioned, it occurred to her that this was more unconventional than anything her parents had done. The thought did not please her; she was in all things unlike her eccentric parents, she told herself quickly. Then her private musings, smug with self-congratulation, came to a sudden halt.

  One of her mother's brothers was inviting her hired finance to a party in two weeks. And had there been other invitations? Heavens, she must pay attention.

  "No, no, he will be away again by then, will you not, my lord?" she interrupted hastily.

  "What, leaving your wife-to-be already? We must properly welcome the new husband of our dear little Psyche. Eh, my lord, surely you don't wish to run back to the Continent in such haste."

  "Not at all," the actor answered, smiling down at Psyche with a wolfish grin, his white teeth glinting as his lips pulled back just a fraction too wide, his eyes mocking. "I have no desire to crush my betrothed's sensibilities by leaving so soon." He leaned closer to the men as though confiding a secret. "She can't bear to be apart from me too long, y'know. Cries till her eyes are red and puffy, ghastly, really." He grimaced as if at the thought of Psyche with swollen features.

  To her disgust, her male relatives nodded and looked in condescending pity at Psyche as if she might burst into lovelorn weeping at any moment.

  Unbelievable! These men had known her all her life and had never seen her have hysterics. Yet they took the word of this insulting, arrogant–actor–as gospel truth.

  Her mother had been right all along. Men did stick together with the mentality of a pack of mongrels.

  "Why, I never in my life–" Psyche tried to put in, aware that indignant heat had flooded her face. She felt a light squeeze on her elbow, but it was a disturbing new thought that silenced her. Would this ruffian dare to blackmail her for more money–was that what this was about?

  "And what's your given name, boy, if one may ask?" the older man continued.

  The actor smiled again. "Of course, Uncle Octavius. We're all family here. My name is Gabriel Sinclair, Marquis–" he glanced down at Psyche, now stiff with alarm–"Marquis of Tarrington."

  Chapter 3

  For Psyche, the evening, which had for a brief spell been sweet with the taste of victory, now took on the aspect of nightmare. Numb with shock, she listened to the spurious marquis cheerfully accepting invitations of all kinds from her hither-to hostile relations. Had they all fallen beneath his spell? What kind of monster was this man, this unknown actor whose powers she had so woefully underestimated?

  When the butler announced dinner, Great-aunt Sophie went in with Uncle Wilfred, followed by a stately process of elderly, higher-ranked ladies and their partners, and then the Marquis escorted Psyche into the dining room. Here, despite the Marquis' false rank, they were mercifully separated–had Percy bribed the butler?–but although she now had time to try to collect her scattered wits as she pushed at the food on her plate, Psyche found her ears straining to hear the cause of the merry laughter from farther down the table.

  What was he telling them–what fanciful tales of travel and adventure? She could catch only snatches of the conversation that seemed to be the liveliest and merriest of all those around the whole long table. Did thespians travel this much? No, his anecdotes must surely be merest fantasy. And what happened when he was exposed–as every witty story made more possible? Psyche, who had never had a nervous fit in her life, wondered if she might break all precedence.

  Her appetite was totally gone, despite the tempting portions that now covered her plate. Psyche pushed aside a forkful of sautéed mushrooms and found her stomach clenched into painful knots. Was this her punishment for departing from the safe and circumspect behavior to which she had always been so careful to adhere? She now deeply regretted her scheme; how had she thought she could pull this off?

  As soon as the actor, who must be drunk on the wine the footman poured him–how else could she explain his air of unfeigned gaiety?–slipped up, he would be exposed as a fraud, and then so would the whole fallacious engagement. She would end up more firmly imprisoned in her uncle's power than ever, and she might be forced into marrying the odious Percy, just to escape a major scandal.

  Oh, what had she done? Psyche felt sick with apprehension. Circe would be helpless, too; she had failed her little sister, and she had left them both in danger of disgrace. All because of one reckless actor who would not sit meekly and play his part–or perhaps he played his part entirely too well.

  The conversation at the top of the table had almost died, as more and more of her family listened shamelessly to the stories and jests that the man at the other end dispensed so easily, with such lazy charm. His comments were punctuated by bursts of laughter from the people lucky enough to be seated around him, and his stories received rapt attention.

  Next to her, Percy stabbed at his roast pork with short, angry motions. "I cannot think why you would prefer such an obvious trickster–"

  Psyche thought she might faint. "What are you saying?" she asked, her voice weak.

  "I mean, it's obvious that charming manner is all a pretense; he only wants your money, Psyche. How could you be taken in by such a fortune-hunter?"

  Psyche relaxed a little. "That isn't true," she said, trying to sound as if she believed her own words. In fact, she was increasingly afraid his charge was more accurate than Percy guessed, and this actor was motivated not just by the payment she had promised him but by hopes of a larger gain. If not that, he was totally insane, throwing himself into the part like this, with no sense of the consequences to them both if he was found out.

  "I cannot see how you could possibly prefer such a fibberjibbet to your own cousin, whom you have known all your life." Percy slapped his fork down onto the table, his narrow eyes seething with outrage. He had a trace of gravy on his chin, and his neckcloth was now dotted with crumbs.

  She stared at him and kept her voice even with some effort. "I know it's hard to imagine, Percy. You must consider a female's natural tendency to folly."

  As always, irony was wasted on Percy. "I do think you've taken leave of your senses, Psyche, and I always thought you had escaped the irrationality of your parents."

  She glared at him, and he changed his direction awkwardly. "That is to say, you've always shown the utmost respect for society's dictates, doing only what was proper and decorous, unlike–unlike some people. But this–this–well, he's almost a dashed dandy, Psyche. I really thought you had better sense!" Percy's voice was shrill with dismay.

  Psyche looked back down the table toward her hired fiancé. The man showed no sign of dandyism; his evening dress was perfectly cut, his jacket a sober black, his cravat snowy white linen, his whole costume just what good taste dictated. He wore only one simple signet ring; he had no fobs or gold chains or diamond studs to flaunt his wealth or singularity of taste. Yet, he still stood out of the crowd–he really couldn't help it. His dark good looks, the tanned skin that should have made him look like a common laborer but somehow instead only emphasized the excellent cheekbones and rakish dark brows, the dark blue eyes that flashed with intelligence and wit. No, this actor might have escaped the attention of the masses so far, but he must have been acting inside a barrel to do it.

  He seemed to have mesmerized her whole family. Or almost all–when Great-uncle Ernest, on her other side, leaned over the table, intent only upon his pudding, she turned her back on Percy's whining and listened once more to her fiancé's tales.

  He was spinning some outrageous yarn about a game of cards in a gambling hell on some island in the We
st Indies–was that where he had acquired his darkened skin? Someone had tried to cheat him, and he had stripped the other man bare to the waist in front of a laughing crowd of gamesters to expose the extra cards the card sharp had tucked up his sleeves.

  "And when I ripped off his shirt, a whole court full of face cards tumbled out–queens and kings and knaves of all suits–and here was that rascal Antonio, trying to look as if he had no idea why his best linen shirt was lined with playing cards."

  The table roared with laughter; the spurious marquis had made the tale a funny one. Even Psyche had to quench a smile.

  But then one of her cousins, Mervyn, who was tall and thin but had a penchant for scholarship like Psyche's father, cleared his throat. "Um, I visited Barbados when I went to the Americas last year," he said hesitantly. "I, uh, don't recall a club like the one you describe."

  A silence descended upon the table, and Psyche felt the knots in her stomach tighten into one heavy iron mass. This was it; the idiot had embroidered one too many fairy tales, and now the secrets would begin to unravel. They were done for!

  The actor glanced at the young man who had had the nerve to question his story, something like respect in his deep blue eyes. Then he picked up his glass of ruby-hued wine and took a thoughtful sip. "It was in a somewhat unsavory part of town, Cousin; perhaps you did not dip into such depraved pursuits?"

  But Mervyn, though his thin face looked a little pale beneath his spectacles, held his ground. "No, I saw all the island, I think."

  Some of her relatives were regarding the Marquis with obvious speculation; Psyche could see all the progress of the evening slipping away, like sand beneath a receding tide. Oh, what would she do?

  Incredibly, her hired fiancé smiled. "It was located just off the main thoroughfare in Bridgetown, behind a small inn, and it was run by a–uh–female of dubious reputation and multitudinous charms. Her name was Nan; she had flaming red hair, and she wore peasant blouses and skirts of gauze so light that they sometimes revealed more of her delights than one might see at most society balls."

  Mervyn blinked, and then a slow rush of scarlet colored his face, all the way down his throat past the slightly rumpled folds of his neckcloth. "Um, yes," he said, studiously avoiding the eyes of any of his female relatives. "I, um, I do seem to remember the–the lady."

  The atmosphere at the table suddenly lightened; several of the men chuckled, while the ladies either looked disapproving or hid their smiles behind their hands. Mervyn's brother taunted him, "And you said it was such an educational voyage, Brother!"

  Mervyn blushed even deeper, if that were possible. "But it was."

  More of the family laughed, though Mervyn's mother frowned in obvious censor.

  Percy's nostrils flared with ire as he leaned close to speak to Psyche. His breath reeked of garlic and wine. "If that is the type of man you desire, Psyche, I am vastly disappointed. That you wish to give yourself, your future, and your fortune to such an infamous rake as this man surely is...well! It seems I don't know you at all." Puffed up in self-righteousness, Percy chewed his roasted lamb with bovine grace.

  Psyche felt herself relax slowly, her muscles–which had been corded with tension–now easing, her breath–which she had been holding almost unconsciously–slipped out slowly in a soft sigh. But when she spoke, her tone was sharp.

  "I wonder, Cousin, if you are more concerned for my future or my fortune?"

  Silverware fell to china with a clatter as Percy seemed to realize his tactical error. "You misunderstand me, my dear Psyche."

  Feeling her situation pressing on her like a weighted cloak, Psyche turned away as a servant removed her plate. "I may be immoral, but I am not dim-witted." She raised one hand to stifle his protests. "No, Percy. I understand you perfectly."

  It was a great relief when Aunt Sophie signaled to the other women that it was time to rise and leave the men to their brandy and odorous Spanish cigars. When Psyche followed the other women obediently out of the dining room, she could not help throwing one appealing glance back toward her fake lover, even as Uncle Wilfred was announcing, "Picked out this port myself."

  Don't push it too far, she wanted to beg the impostor.

  To her fury, Gabriel met her beseeching look with one of cool amusement. And even more infuriating, one of those deep blue eyes dipped into a wink.

  The nerve of that man! She was docking his payment for failure to follow her careful instructions. Seething, Psyche went reluctantly into the drawing room. And now that the women were alone, all the younger relatives drew close.

  "Do tell us more about how you met him, Psyche," cousin Matilda begged. "And how he was so thoughtful and so amenable to your every wish–"

  Thoughtful? Amenable? The actor was making a mockery of her tales!

  "It's the most romantic story!" Matilda continued. "I am so pleased that you have found a true love, not–not just a cousin who–"

  "Who wishes to feather his own nest. But I never thought you would do anything so risqué as contracting a secret engagement," Aunt Mavis said, her tone still unappeased. "I admit the man has charm, but what do you really know of him?"

  Exhausted by the trials of the dinner and her own nervous qualms, Psyche was for once at a loss. While she hesitated, help came from an unexpected quarter.

  "Leave the girl be," Aunt Sophie commanded. "Psyche, come and sit by me, child."

  This was going from the kettle to the cooking fire with a vengeance, Psyche thought, trying not to show her apprehension. She sat down in a narrow chair next to the bigger armchair with carved crocodile feet that her aunt had as usual claimed–Aunt Sophie always took the most comfortable piece of furniture in the room–and waited, her throat tight, for the inquisition to begin.

  But her great-aunt surprised her once again.

  "I no longer wonder what you see in him," Aunt Sophie said, raising her lorgnette and peering at Psyche with eyes that hardly seemed to need the aid. "I think he has charmed all the females of the family, even–" Aunt Sophie glanced across at Aunt Mavis, who sat stiffly with her usual expression of peeved disapproval–"even Mavis, though she will not allow her prune-face to unbend enough to show it. The men, now, the men will not be appeased by a handsome face and delightful manners. They will want to check out his background, your uncle Wilfred especially."

  "But–" Psyche had to swallow her protests. Why was this so complicated? It had seemed like such a simple plan. "His–his family is all dead, I believe. That is why–this is why he has gone abroad, to escape the memories."

  "Indeed?" Aunt Sophie fanned herself and waved away a footman with a tray of raffia. "No, go away, man, can't abide that stuff. Bring me some proper brandy, and not the poor stuff Wilfred brought, one of my own bottles."

  When the servant had retreated, she went on, "He doesn't seem like the kind of man to run away, I would have said. Though there's something familiar about that name."

  "Really?" Psyche asked, her voice faint.

  "I can't quite grasp the memory, but it will come to me. In the meantime, don't risk your whole heart, my girl. He's a bit too smooth for my taste, marquis or not."

  "It's not a matter of heart–" Psyche began, then stopped, appalled that she had been about to contradict her whole concocted tale of love at first sight.

  "No, you just want to escape Percy, which is easy to understand," Aunt Sophie agreed, her tone matter-of-fact. "No one could fault you for that, no woman, at least. But tread carefully, or you might find that your escape is more dangerous than the fate you wish to flee from."

  Psyche nodded, too dazed by the old woman's perception to try to argue. And Aunt Sophie would not have listened, anyhow. Psyche could only pray Uncle Wilfred was not so perceptive.

  She was almost relieved when the men rejoined them, and she waited impatiently till she had the chance to pull her supposed fiancé aside for a moment of private conversation.

  "Now–" She guided Gabriel toward one of the tall, slightly recessed windows on t
he pretext of pointing out the shadowy garden outside. "What else do you want?"

  Gabriel's lips curled into a lazy smile. He looked her up and down, then reached for her hand, which she gave him reluctantly, glancing past him to the relatives who were bound to be watching the newly-betrothed couple.

  As he kissed her fingers, Psyche tried to repress an instinctive quiver. Her heart beating fast, she backed deeper into the window niche, instinctively seeking to put more space between them.

  "My dear, this is hardly the place to tell you. I'm afraid your maidenly blushes–"

  "Oh, don't try to gull me," she snapped, then to her annoyance, realized that she was indeed blushing, caught using a cant term of which her aunts would not approve. "You know what I mean. How much more do you want? How much money? I warn you, my funds are limited and you're not getting a ha'penny more out of me."

  Gabriel glanced at her proper but well-cut silk gown, at the pearl ear drops that dangled from her neatly-formed ears, the single strand of exquisite pearls that circled her white throat. He did not have to voice his skepticism.

  She bit her lip and looked away. "I have money, but it's tied up in a ridiculous Trust. Not until I am engaged will I have access to my own funds; Uncle Wilfred dribbles out my allowance as if I were still twelve years old. And I need more money!"

  "Indeed." Gabriel remembered the thin man in the cheap evening dress at the back of the theater, the man whom he had knocked into a heap just before the carriage had appeared. The pieces were falling into place.

  In another moment, it was all blindingly clear. This was not a case of an arranged marriage, nor a suitor whose embarrassing last-minute flight she was trying to cover up. He had even wondered if she might be with child. There was not, had never been, any marquis–she had made the whole thing up!