Dear Impostor (22 page)

          “Aren’t you going to ask Gabriel to come with
us?” the child asked, turning her clear green eyes disconcertingly upon her
older sister.

          “Um, no,” Psyche pulled on her gloves,
avoiding her sister’s gaze. “I’m sure he would think such an excursion very
tame.”

          “But it’s a lovely day,” Circe said. “You
could ask him . . .”

          “We must hurry,” Psyche said. “You will want
to see the daffodils in the clear light; it’s threatening to cloud up, you
know.”

          The artist in Circe pushed all other concerns
away. “Oh, yes, you’re right,” she said, and they proceeded out the door.

          That night, Gabriel went out right after
dinner and had not returned when the ladies went up to bed. Where did he
disappear to at night? She knew from Simpson’s grumbling that he often went out
until the early hours of the morning. But where? It was too much to hope that
he would lose his nerve and depart her life for good. She should be so lucky, Psyche
told herself fiercely. No, Gabriel would never lose his nerve, she was sure of
that. No doubt he went out to one of the gaming hells that well-bred gentlemen
stooped to frequent, where fortunes were routinely won and lost. What would
people think of her ‘fiancé’ if they saw him at such a place?

          Aunt Sophie would say she was being too prim;
plenty of genuine noblemen and men of class were addicted to their cards and
dice, she knew. But still, it made her toss and turn for some time, wondering
what quagmire Gabriel might pull them into, next. And if, in some corner of her
mind, a logical little voice reminded her that she was the one who had
originally conceived this scheme, she refused to listen. When she had dreamed
up this plot, she has envisaged an actor who did what he was told–not the
infuriatingly independent Gabriel who was forever doing something unexpected.

          On Monday, the little actor, who had been
given Sunday to himself, returned to take his seat at the desk in the bookroom
and resume his slow copying of the sermons Gabriel had assigned him. It was
ridiculous, but it seemed to keep him safely out of the way; as far as Simpson
could detect, the servants had no suspicions.

          But on Monday, Gabriel left the house early,
and Psyche found herself worrying again. When at last he returned, well past
lunch, wearing a new dark blue coat of excellent cut, with an equally new white
shirt and perfectly arranged cravat, his tan pantaloons hugging his
well-muscled thighs, she could see that he had been back to the tailor; the new
clothes were being completed, it seemed. But he also carried a sheaf of papers
under his arm; was this more masquerading? Or–

          “Where have you been?” she demanded.

          Gabriel raised one brow. “Were you bereft at
the loss of my company, Miss Hill? I had rather thought that you were actively
desiring my absence.”

           Psyche bit her lip; she would not blush at
his ridiculous assertions. She nodded toward the papers he carried. “I only
thought–”

          ”I had business with a solicitor, Miss Hill,
as well as with my tailor. I had, um, pressing business matters to discuss with
him.”

          “Another title to assume?” She suggested, her
tone icy. It was impossible to believe his statements, now that she knew that
he did have something to hide. An even worse thought came to her, and her eyes
widened. “You are not wanted by the authorities?”

          His smile turned cool. “No more than usual.”

          Her breath seemed to snag itself in her chest.
Psyche thought she might actually be ill.

          “What have I done?”

          “You ridiculous chit.” Gabriel sighed. “Stop
baiting me and use your very fine mind.” Exasperated, he threw his papers down
on a table and strode to where Psyche was standing. With the crook of his
finger, he raised her chin and looked into rebellious blue eyes.

          “I am not a wanted man; my consultation was
about a–a most prosaic legal matter.” That was not completely true, but the
disdain in those beautiful eyes was hard to bear. Sometimes he wanted to kiss
her, penetrate that icy shell that hid the passion he knew lurked beneath; and
sometimes he wanted to shake her, tell her that he was no reprobate to be
treated like the family skeleton who has inconveniently fallen out of the
closet. And then he remembered the disgrace that he carried, and he knew that
the bones were rattling close enough. “If I had been wanted by the Courts,
would I have come back to England?”

          “I see.” She steadied her breathing. “In fact,
you are a paragon of virtue?”

          “Not precisely, but I keep my word, Miss Hill,
and I will honor our agreement–”

          He was too close; she was flustered enough to
step back. “We have no agreement.”

          “Of course we do; I will be your fiancé long
enough for you to escape the clutches of your cousin and uncle.”

          “And you will get a handsome sum as reward for
your efforts?”

          “That, among other things.”

          She wasn’t sure she had heard him right. What
else could he want? Then she saw that he was staring at the book she had tucked
inside the fold of her arm.

          “Why are you carrying about a child’s book of
stories?”

          She flushed; now he was prying. “It is–”

          ”And don’t tell me that is for Circe; she is
much beyond such simple reading matter. What are you up to now, Psyche my
love?”

          “I am not up to–don’t call me–oh, be off with
you,” she retorted. She retreated–she was irked to realize–in sad disorder. To
her relief, he did not follow her. Thus she was even more surprised and
discomfited when, half an hour later as she sat in the servants’ hall with
three of the maids seated in straight chairs around her, she looked up and saw
him watching her from the doorway.

          Psyche flushed, but she looked down quickly,
so as not to embarrass the servants who did not seem to notice the new arrival.
“Go on, Lily, you are doing very well.”

          “And then good King ’enry married a Sp-” the
girl bit her lip, trying to piece out the word.

          “Spanish.”

          “Spanish pr-princess, K-K-”

          ”Katherine,” Psyche prompted.

          “Katherine of Ar–ar“

          ”Aragon,” Psyche said gently, and the reading
and history lesson continued. To her relief, Gabriel slipped away as silently
as he had come. But when the daily lesson had finished and she returned
upstairs, he was waiting in the drawing room, with the tea tray.

          “What was that all about?” he asked.

          “My mother, indeed, both my parents, believed
in the education of women, Sir,” Psyche said, refusing to be embarrassed by his
discovery of her odd habits. “I am simply putting these principles into action,
in a very small way.”

          “By teaching your maids to read?”

          She nodded, serious about this subject. “So
perhaps someday, they will not have to be maidservants, or at least, they can
aspire to higher positions than scrubbing the kitchen pots and taking out the
ashes.”

          He gazed at her, and she could not determine
what he was thinking. “Not a fashionable pursuit.”

          “No,” she reached for the tea pot, once more
in command of herself. “Tea, Lord Tarrington?”

          There was the sound of a cane tapping on the polished
floorboard of the hall, then Aunt Sophie appeared in the doorway. A footman
held the door for her as she came into the room. While her aunt knew about her
unconventional lessons with the servants–the footmen had lessons, too, when
they wished it–Psyche did not often discuss the subject with her aunt, who was
not as forward thinking as Psyche’s parents had been.

          They spent another quiet evening at home, and
this time, Gabriel sat down and played a nonsensical card game with Circe,
making her laugh at his sleight of hand, until Psyche sent her sister up to
bed.

          “Just a few minutes more?” the child pleaded.

          “You will be too tired to paint in the first
light of morning,” Psyche pointed out, trying not to smile as Circe’s
expression instantly changed.

          “You’re right,” she agreed seriously. “But it
was most diverting, Gab–Lord Tarrington.”

          Gabriel bowed to her; he always treated her
like an equal. How could this man be so wicked inside–he must be, he had said
so himself–and yet be so considerate of a child and an elderly lady?

          Aunt Sophie was also ready to retire. Gabriel
said good night to the older woman, and they followed her into the hall.

          As Sophie climbed the steps slowly, Gabriel
looked up to catch Psyche’s gaze upon him, and the dark brows lifted.

          “I was wondering why you are so courteous to
my family,” she said, “To Circe and Aunt Sophie; you do not have to be so
obliging.”

          “Perhaps I like them,” Gabriel said, his tone
hard to read. “Or perhaps I have nefarious reasons of my own–that’s what you’re
really thinking, is it not, Miss Hill?”

          He stepped closer, and she braced herself; she
would not succumb to the charm that had disarmed so many virtuous–or not so
virtuous–women. She did not have to ask about his past conquests; their
multitudes were easy to read in his off-hand charm, his unspoken assumption
that women would melt at his merest glance. Just because those dark blue eyes
had a gleam in them that made her stomach weak–

          She was a modern woman; her mother had always
noted that logic and reason were not solely male attributes, that women could
be educated and sensible, just like men. Psyche took a deep breath, then wished
she had not. She could smell his masculine scent, the odor of new clothes and
soap and a subtly male scent of tanned skin warm beneath his shirt–

          She pulled her thoughts back, giving herself a
mental shake. Logic and reason, she must remember, logic and reason, both of
which commanded she have as little as possible to do with the reprobate who had
lost his own status in life due to some unnamed scandal which still pained him.
And what on earth could shame such a shameless man? The offense must be
nefarious indeed, and she should –must–keep her distance.

           Perhaps he was simply a good actor, after
all, an impostor to his very soul. Certainly not a man whom she could trust,
and yet now he had become the key to the fulfillment of all her hopes. She
should never had undertaken this wild plot, but at this juncture she had no
choice; she must see it through. But she would be prudent, she would be proper,
she would not risk straying from the rules of decorum again.

          One part of her mind knew that was ridiculous;
hiring a man to pose as your fiancé was as improper as one could likely get. Yet
Psyche clung to her sense of what was decorous as if it were a lifeline tossed
to a drowning sailor. Above all, she would not succumb to the feelings that
Gabriel could arouse in her, feelings that weakened her knees and made her
breath come faster–never, never. She would master this situation, she would
master her own irrational attraction, she would master him.

          Gabriel’s lips curved into a disconcerting
smile, as if somehow he could read her thoughts. He stood there, watching her
struggle with herself, the candlelight glinting in the dark centers of his
eyes.

          “Don’t be too certain, my dear Miss Hill,” he
said quietly, “that you hold all the cards. I might yet have an ace up my
sleeve.”

          After dinner on Monday he went out as usual,
hiring a hackney–he would not take Psyche’s carriages into this kind of
neighborhood–and making his way through the early darkness into the East End. When he alighted and paid the driver, he ducked under a low doorway into the
cramped front room of what Brickson had assured him was the most infamous
gaming hell in London. Almost immediately, the thick smoky haze left a
tangible, nasty feel upon his skin. The air stank of sweat, both desperate and
victorious. The taste of it all was gritty and sour. But he could taste
something else too—the feeling of familiarity that he had known in more than
one country, more than one continent. He was at ease in this most incongruous
of surroundings.

 A tarnished mirror hung across from the door; he saw
that his teeth slashed white in the heavy air. He hadn’t felt so at home since
he returned to London.

          “Offer you a whiskey,
milord?”

          Gabriel looked down at the woman who had
pressed herself against him. She batted gummy lashes over hard eyes. One hand
clutched the neck of a half-empty bottle and the other was caressing his thigh.
She smelled of gin and cheap perfume and unwashed flesh. Significantly, she
glanced down at the cheroot nestled between her abundant breasts.