Dear Impostor Page 6

  Yet the feeling had, for an instant, soothed a hurt inside her which had been sore for too many years. He must be an excellent actor, indeed, she told herself. But she must not forget that his talent was for make-believe, and his concern her purse.

  “I–I–” Percy obviously knew that he had lost command of the situation, even if he were not quite sure how. He struggled to regain his composure, drawing on his moral indignation to refuel his righteous ire. “I insist that you take your baggage and get out–”

  “But I have no baggage, that’s the problem,” the actor interrupted to remind him. “I hardly think even you would wish to put me out in the street without a stitch or a scrap to cover myself.”

  “Hardly proper, Percy,” Psyche murmured, her tone mischievous. “And surely that would not reflect well on me.”

  “No, no, but–” Percy blinked, as if at a loss. But he also, as Psyche knew only too well, always must have the last word. “I shall demand that the servants return your evening dress and then you can be on your way! And as for this ridiculous engagement–”

  ”Percy!” Psyche interrupted, her voice icy. “You will not tell me what to do, or whom to marry.”

  “It must be ended immediately,” Percy continued as if he had not heard her. He didn’t glance her way. “I shall speak to my father. Again.”

  “Your father has no power to forbid the engagement,” Psyche snapped, forgetting the actor for a moment as she turned to glare at her cousin. “I shall have half of my funds as soon as my solicitor can act. We shall go to the courts, if necessary!”

  “You wouldn’t,” Percy gaped at her. “Think of the talk–the scandal–”

  ”Then Uncle Wilfred should not try to interfere,” Psyche told him coldly. “I will have access to my own money.”

  “But the marriage itself–that cannot take place without his blessing, and you know he will never give it.” Percy stared at her, obviously perplexed.

  “One step at a time,” Psyche said, taking a deep breath to calm herself. Percy would never understand, but that hardly mattered. If she had more funds to tap, her current position would be more tolerable, and Circe would have the art lessons her talent deserved. They could travel again, go to the Continent and escape Percy’s annoying and increasingly persistent courtship. She would have her life back, and most of all, precious freedom. When this actor disappeared once more into obscurity, she would remain happily engaged to her creation, the illusive and nonexistent marquis. She would not allow her backward-thinking uncle to control her forever.

  “This marriage will never take place,” Percy repeated, his tone grim. “In the meantime, I shall speak to the servants about this–this man’s evening clothes.” He stormed out of the room, so incensed that he apparently had forgotten that he was leaving his cousin behind, alone in the lion’s den.

  Psyche knew she should leave at once–this was most improper. As to that, Percy was in the right. But she needed to speak to the actor without any witnesses. Her missing footman–

  Gabriel was regarding her gravely; his gaze now harder to read. The roguery that had glinted as he baited the slower-witted Percy had faded, and some other emotion–one she was afraid to name–glinted behind the dark blue eyes. “I apologize for my lack of attire,” he said. “And I would not remain sitting while you stand, except that if I stood in the present circumstance–”

  ”No, no,” Psyche assured him hastily, taking a step backward despite herself. Her voice sounded strained with the fear that this unpredictable man might do exactly that. “Please don’t get up.”

  The actor bit back a smile. Psyche’s surge of embarrassment faded as her irritation returned. “As soon as you are decent, we need to talk.”

  The amusement in his eyes only deepened. “I shall refrain from stating the obvious and say only that my time– among other things– are yours for the asking, my lovely Psyche.”

  “You are over-generous, sir. The only thing I wanted from you was your time. And I only paid for one evening’s worth.”

  He leaned back comfortably in his chair. “Consider this an encore, my dear.”

  Psyche’s jaw was clenched so hard that her teeth ached. “Your presence is no longer wanted. And do not call me dear!”

  “As you wish, lovely Psyche.”

  “Or Psyche. I gave you no leave to call me that, nor any of your endearments.” Her usual cool composure in shreds, she gestured wildly, pointing to the door of the suite. “I demand that you leave. I cannot afford this charade to go on.”

  “I am not charging you by the hour, darling Psyche.” His deep blue eyes regarded her with thoughtful interest.

  “Don’t call me that!” She almost shrieked. “I told you, I cannot afford–”

  How fascinating that such an icy beauty should burn a man with temper, he thought. If only there were not more at stake here, if only he could afford the time to woo her as the passion that lurked beneath her cool facade deserved.

  “Nor can you afford for it to fail.”

  He had spoken slowly, calmly. His control shamed her. Forcing a breath past her tight throat, she took hold of herself. “No. I cannot fail. My sister and her future mean more to me than any little–” she looked significantly at Gabriel “–or large annoyance. But don’t forget who you are, or rather who you are not, Lord Tarrington.”

  He shrugged the broad, tanned shoulders which she had tried not to notice. Where had he lived, for the sun to have so darkened his skin? She pictured him on tropical beaches or in dense jungle, then pushed the images away. She had no time for fanciful daydreams, not now. She must hold on to her resolve, not be distracted by any blackmailing impostor, no matter how pleasant-looking he might be.

  “Perhaps I do not need your title, Psyche.” He ignored the widening of her eyes just as he continued to ignore her commands. A pity she hid her marvelous shape beneath such prim gowns, he thought as he watched her take a deep breath. “Perhaps I have a lofty title of my own.”

  Psyche rolled her eyes. “And maybe Zeus will ride down from the sky on a lightning bolt and zap my uncle and Percy on their...”

  She looked pointedly at his lap. “...newspapers.”

  Gabriel just managed not to cross his legs at the thought. “I am only here to aid you, my dear Psyc...Miss Hill. We are working together toward a common goal, if you would remember.”

  “Are we?” She had regained her control, and her voice was cool. “Besides,” she remembered her additional grievance, “it was very thoughtless of you to send my servant on such an errand, at a time when few honest men are on the streets. You should have waited till the morning.”

  “True, but then I would have been in just such a fix as I find myself.” Gabriel’s all-too-charming smile flashed, and she felt its force despite all her resolution. She must not waver. He would not beguile her out of her anger.

  “But now he is missing, and I am concerned for his safety,” she went on stubbornly. “My mother always taught me that the poorer classes deserve just as much consideration for their welfare as those of more affluent means, and I am sure that she is–was right.”

  Was it respect she saw in his eyes? Most of the Ton would have thought her as mad as her unconventional parents whenever she voiced such a strange notion.

  “I hope he has been only temporarily detained,” Gabriel agreed, his tone this time more serious. “I had best go and check on him myself. I will look a little strange in evening dress, but that cannot be helped. As soon as the man brings back my clothing–”

  That reminded her again that she should not be here, alone in his chamber. She would start just the type of gossip she was so eager to avoid, and what on earth would Aunt Sophie say?

  “I will tell them to send up your clothing at once.”

  He nodded, his smile flashing once more. “And the next time I greet you naked in my bedchamber, I promise–”

  ”There will be no next time!” she interrupted sternly, afraid to hear the rest of his statement. Th
e man seemed determined to shake her usual calm reserve. But before she left his room, she needed to inform him of something.

  “I decided last night after you so rudely invited yourself to stay here, that it was only reasonable to deduct room and board from your fee. I’m sure you would agree.” With a decided nod, she turned before he could do more than give a husky chuckle. Leaving the room in haste, Psyche released some of her irritation by slamming the door behind her.

  When she turned, she stopped abruptly. Simpson stood in the hallway, her expression distressed.

  Now what? “Yes?” Psyche demanded, then took a deep breath and modulated her tone. She would not be so petty as to take out her anger on her servants. “What is it, Simpson?”

  “It’s Wilson, Miss,” her maid answered. “I think you’d better come.”

  Chapter 5

  Psyche put her hand to her lips. “Is he–” She had a sudden vision of the hapless footman’s body, found sprawled in an alley, his throat cut and his pockets rifled.

  “He’s shaken, Miss, and has a fearful bump on his head, but–” Simpson began.

  Psyche didn’t wait to hear the rest. Relief easing the tension that had stiffened her shoulders, she headed immediately for the stairs. She hurried down several flight of steps and on through the door that led to the servants’ quarters. When she reached the main servants’ hall, she found a cluster of maids and footmen surrounding the no-longer missing servant. He sat slumped in a wooden chair. When he saw her, he jumped to his feet, but then swayed and collapsed into the chair again even before she spoke.

  “Sit down, Wilson. Are you all right?”

  The rest of the servants made way for her, and she saw that the housekeeper, Mrs. McNilly, was wringing a clean cloth over a basin of vinegar water she had brought to the table beside him. As Psyche watched in concern, the housekeeper gently washed the large purple swelling on the side of the footman’s head. He had other scrapes and cuts, and his livery was ripped and torn and covered with mud.

  “Are you all right?” Psyche repeated. “Do you need to see a surgeon?”

  The footman shuddered. “Oh, no, ma’am. Don’t need no one bleeding me. I been through enough, I ‘ave.”

  Despite her concern, Psyche had to hide a smile. “Very well.”

  ”Looks like no bones broken, Miss Psyche,” the housekeeper told her, dabbing at a bit of dried blood on the man’s face. “He’s very lucky indeed. Set upon by a whole gang of footpads, ‘e was.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Psyche said.

  The man rolled his eyes. “All I did was go where his lordship tol’me, to the inn down by the docks–shabby place it’twere, ma’am–and ask for his bags. ‘E gave me a coin to settle his account and another for me–which they took from me.” The footman’s tone was bitter. “Nicest bit of coin I’ve ‘ad since–” As if remembering this was not the person to complain to, he stopped abruptly.

  Psyche pretended not to notice; she knew that their servants were well paid; her parents had never stinted on household economy, nor had she, but she could understand his disappointment over the loss of his unexpected largesse. “Who attacked you?”

  “It ‘appened after I left the inn, ma’am,” the servant told her. “I ‘ad his lordship’s carpetbags–he don’t seem to ‘ave no trunk, maybe it ain’t arrived yet–and when I turned to head back toward Mayfair, all these men–must a’been a ‘undred of ‘em–swarmed out of an alley and jumped me. ‘Ad no chance at all to defend myself.” He shuddered, remembering, and several of the younger maidservants shrieked in sympathetic alarm.

  The last thing she needed was the housemaids having hysterics. Psyche spoke firmly. “You are very fortunate, Wilson, to have escaped with only minor injuries.”

  He nodded, shivering again. “A bunch of sailors came out of a nearby tavern, ma’am, singing and swearing, and likely they scared the thieves away. I’m sorry bout his lordship’s things, ma’am. Guess those footpads thought ‘e might have money or jewelry in ‘em. I ‘ope he don’t ‘old me accountable. . .”

  Psyche had forgotten about Mr. Sinclair’s luggage. She looked around and saw two carpet bags, much slashed and ripped, which lay on the floor nearby. Poor Wilson had been true to his trust, bringing back what was left of the luggage. But the bags had been ripped inside and out; she could see a scrap of a once fine linen shirt hanging out through one of the slits. The thieves had either been disappointed in what they sought or very thorough indeed in searching for valuables.

  “Someone must have heard you asking for the Marquis of Tarrington’s cases,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s really too bad.”

  “But I was very private, like,” Wilson argued. “His lordship tol’me and I was careful, just like ‘e said. He weren’t even staying there under his title, miss, but under ‘is Christian name.”

  Psyche raised her brows. Since Gabriel hadn’t heard of his ‘title’ until she had bestowed it upon her fictitious fiancé, that was no surprise. The other servants looked a bit shocked, however. “He was doubtless being discreet until he could find a more refined hotel,” she said. “He has been out of England for some time, as you know. However, someone had better take this up to his lordship and allow him to see if anything here can be salvaged. And take back his evening clothes; he must have something to wear.” She remembered the naked man upstairs, sheltered tactfully under his newspaper, and tried not to blush.

  One of the footmen jumped, as if remembering that he was remiss in his duties and hurried away. Again, Psyche pretended not to notice. Her mother had been an excellent manager with her household staff, and she had taught her daughters that, for everyone’s benefit, there were times to be vigilant and times to turn a blind eye.

  Psyche looked down at the wounded footman. “Don’t worry about the loss of your own money,” she said kindly. “I’m sure that when his lordship hears of your ordeal, he will replace your coin, likely even increase it.” She would make sure of it, she told herself.

  Wilson brightened at once. Then, as she was about to turn away, he said timidly, “Umm, ma’am, if I might be so bold–”

  ”Yes?” She looked back, her mind already engaged once again with the bigger problem of ridding herself of an unwanted fiancé.

  “You won’t–won’t ‘old me responsible for me ruined livery, will you, ma’am?” he asked anxiously.

  It took her a second to realize what he meant. Servants were provided with household livery as part of their compensation and received new clothing once a year, but they were responsible for the upkeep of their uniforms.

  “Of course not,” she said briskly. “Jowers will see to getting you a new set of livery right away; you certainly can’t be seen above stairs in such a state.”

  The elderly butler nodded.

  “Thank’ee, ma’am,” Wilson said. He settled back into the chair to accept the ministering of the housekeeper and several maids, happy enough now in his role of the brave, abused victim.

  Psyche returned to the main floor, thankful that her servant would recover. It had been most thoughtless of the actor to have sent the man out so late at night, but perhaps Gabriel had really not considered the dangers. Likely, the thespian was accustomed to the peril of the streets and had come to consider it simply another fact of life. Psyche sighed, recalling her mother’s lectures on social systems and understanding the world of the under classes.

  As she entered the morning room, she remembered the stack of mail. She would have to decline three luncheon invitations, since her ‘fiancé’ had no clothes to wear, and she herself was too distracted to leave the house and make polite conversation. Sighing, she headed toward her bedroom and the small desk littered with notes and cards.

  In his chamber, Gabriel had groaned when he saw the damaged bags. The footman who brought up his luggage had also detailed, with much colorful embellishment, the story of Wilson’s return and of the attack he had suffered. Gabriel, who had just pulled his best linen shirt from the bag and was fr
owning at the slashes that now rendered it useful only for the housemaid’s rag bag, forgot about his clothing. He turned and listened with all his attention.

  “They jumped him outside the tavern, after he had collected my things?”

  “Yes, milord. If there’s aught missing from the bags, it really ain’t his fault, milord.”

  This household staff’s loyalty to each other was commendable, Gabriel thought. In his own father’s house, the staff was so browbeaten they would have sold their own grandmother to have escaped censure from their overbearing employer. But he pushed that thought away. He never cared to think about his father.

  “No, of course not,” he agreed. Fortunately, he had left no money in such a rowdy inn, which had been chosen only for its cheap rate. The note turning over ownership of the estate which Barrett had lost during the card game–which must have been the thieves’ true target–had been tucked inside his evening jacket, but still . . . he rummaged through the bag and sighed.

  “Milord?”

  “My gold stick pin is missing, of course. I thought I had it well hidden, but–it can’t be helped”. It was a trifle, worth only a few pennies, but he had valued it for other reasons. As usual, he pushed the deeper emotion away and focused on the needs of the moment.. “Tell Wilson I shall see him presently when he has recovered and offer him my–um–condolences.”

  The servant nodded in complete understanding. “I’ll tell ‘im, milord. I know ’e’ll be most appreciative.”

  Gabriel rummaged through the bag again. “Damn!”

  “Milord?”

  “They took my ivory-backed razors.” Gabriel fingered the rough stubble that covered his chin and cheeks. In all his years of wandering, despite his poverty, his sometimes desperate straits, he had maintained his personal hygiene religiously. Perhaps at times it had been all that reminded him of what he had been, what he still considered himself–a gentleman.