Dear Impostor (29 page)

          The young man stammered an answer. “I s-shall
be only too happy to try, Mrs. Forsyth.”

          Sally might find this insipid twig amusing,
but Psyche was bored with him already. She turned back toward Gabriel; enough
was enough. “Excuse me,” she said to Sally and her young conquest,

          The sun was warm; she unfurled her parasol and
lifted it to shade her face as she strolled closer to the knot of feminine
admirers surrounding Gabriel.

          “Oh, Lord Tarrington,” she heard a young woman
simper. “You are so witty.”

          “Indeed,” Psyche agreed, raising her voice
just slightly. “And so perceptive. Perhaps you would enjoy a stroll among the
rest of the flower borders, Lord Tarrington?”

          He turned at once and smiled at her, a genuine
smile she would have sworn, then inclined his head to the rainbow of gowns
which flanked him. “It’s been a pleasure, ladies,” he said. “But you must excuse
me; I would not allow my betrothed to fatigue herself by walking the gardens
without me.”

          He slipped smoothly through the throng of
disappointed faces to take his place by her side, and Psyche felt a small
thrill of satisfaction which she pushed aside as unworthy. It was all a
pretense; he didn’t really prefer her company to any other lady’s.

          “Thank you for having pity on my feminine
weakness,” she said, her tone cool.

          “I suspect you would endure the walk without
me,” he agreed. “But I might not have survived the gale of fluttering lashes
much longer; I was in great danger of being blown totally away.”

          He sounded sardonic, not boastful, and she
glanced at him in surprise. Did he truly not enjoy the adulation his remarkable
good looks attracted? “I shall try to contain myself, then,” she told him.

          He grinned, and again, it seemed so genuine,
such a moment of shared understanding between two–two friends. But again, she
doubted her own perception; he was too smooth, he had outplayed too many
opponents across a card table with a face impossible to read. And that did not
count the women he had lured to his bed. No, she would not be so easily taken
in.

          “Shall we lose ourselves in the maze? I
understand it is quite famous,” he told her.

          “And how many ladies offered to escort you
there?” she countered, glancing at him through lowered lids. The Sutton Maze
was a spot famous for stolen kisses and brief illicit trysts. “No thank you. I
believe we shall be content with the flowers.”

          They ambled toward the end of the beds at the
far end of the garden, walking side by side but not touching hands. She felt a
little self conscious, remembering the kiss in the attic, which she had tried
hard to forget. Perhaps Gabriel was remembering, too.

          “I shall not forget myself in public view,
dear Miss Hill,” he told her, his tone mild but his lapis eyes teasing.

          “I shall count on it,” she retorted, holding
her parasol tightly in both hands, so that he had no excuse to take her hand. She
pretended to lose herself in contemplation of the flowers.

          Pausing in front of a large row of tulips, she
heard Gabriel say, “They have even more in Holland. Someday, perhaps I will
show them to you.”

          She looked up at him in surprise, and he
seemed for an instant nonplused.

          “Just keeping up our pretense,” he said.

          “But there is no one to hear,” she pointed
out, glancing around.

          “A good actor is always in character,” he
assured her, taking a step closer.

          She turned away at once, and he fell silent. But
how long could anyone stare at a bed of flowers? After duly admiring the rows
of scarlet tulips, she found they had run out of garden. Not wishing to return
and be surrounded by Gabriel’s throng of admirers, Psyche nodded toward the far
doorway.

          “Shall we walk amid the fruit trees?”

          He smiled and held open the gate; they passed
through the thick stone wall that surrounded the formal garden and made their
way into the orchard, with its rows of flowering apple trees. Psyche lowered
her parasol. The blossoms made a white canopy above them, dappling the sunshine
into mottled shade; the scent was intoxicating.

          Psyche felt wistful. It was a setting
conducive to romantic thoughts. If her betrothal was not a sham, if their
attraction was not assumed, she might lose all her sense of decorum here; a kiss
beneath fragrant clouds of flowering trees would be impossible to resist. But,
though the engagement might be a sham, she could not lie to herself; the
attraction between them was not in the least feigned. She tried to ignore the
temptation, but even walking sedately side by side she could feel the allure of
his presence, the spark that always flowed between them.

          And Gabriel, keeping his gaze studiously
averted as he studied, or pretended to study, the blossom-decked trees, did he
feel it, too?

          Perhaps they should allow someone to see them
holding hands, she thought. That was not so very bad. A kiss she could not
allow; it was not proper.

          “We should look like an affianced couple,” she
pointed out, trying to keep her voice suitably cool.

          “Indeed?” He still studied the tree limbs.

          “For the benefit of the rest of the party,”
she explained. The fact that they had left the rest of the party behind in the
walled garden did not seem relevant, just now.

          “Oh, I agree.” Then he turned to face her, and
she saw that dreaded look of mischief which always preceded his worst actions.

          He put out his hands and grasped both her
arms, and she shook her head. “Hand holding is enough, I think.”

          “Really? I don’t find it enough for me, dear
Miss Hill.”

          He pulled her gently forward, and she found
herself only a few inches away. She put her hands up against the superfine of
his coat and held him away. She could not press against him like a servant girl
kissing her footman beau in a back alley. She was not that far removed from her
sense of what was proper. But he lowered his head, and she found her reserve
melting. Perhaps, just one kiss–

          But he paused and turned his head away. She
felt him stiffen.

          Psyche straightened, putting more distance
between them. “Is someone coming?” she asked, blushing at the exhibition she
had almost provided for some gossip to relish.

          He didn’t answer; but she saw the tenseness in
his shoulders. .

           “What is it?” she repeated, keeping her voice
low.

          “Nothing. I think.” But he took her arm and
quickened his pace, as if desiring to return to the company of the other party
goers.

          Then Psyche saw a movement behind them, and
she glanced over her shoulder. “There’s a man peering around the corner of the
wall,” she said in surprise. “Not a servant, and certainly not a guest, he does
not look very well dressed. He has a jacket of some kind of poor brown cloth
and rough trousers.”

          “Yes, you’re right. I’m afraid he’s the same
man I saw on your street yesterday,” Gabriel said, his tone grim. “He must have
been keeping watch.”

          “He’s a friend of yours?” Psyche asked, her
heart sinking. What kind of vulgar people did Gabriel associate with? Was this
his unknown past coming back to haunt them both?

          “Hardly. The very opposite, in fact. I thought
I had escaped them, but it seems I was wrong.”

          “Who?” Psyche demanded, not liking his tone. “Escaped
whom?”

          “Walk faster, Miss Hill; I have no wish to put
you in harm’s way,” was his only–and not very comforting–answer.

          They increased their stride and Gabriel kept
her hand securely tucked inside the crook of his arm, keeping her close to his
side. She saw that he was walking at a slight angle back toward the garden and
the rest of the guests, keeping his body between her and the stranger. She
began to feel really alarmed.

          “What does he want? If he is after our purses–”

          ”I’m afraid he may want more than that,”
Gabriel said. “Don’t talk; we must make haste.”

          They were almost running. But the man behind
them, with no need to keep up any pretense, was sprinting after them. Psyche
heard the rush of steps on the gravel path, coming closer.

          “Gabriel?”

          “Take my hand; we’re going to run for it,” he
said. His tone was grim, and his mouth pressed tightly together into a thin
line.

          She slid her hand down and into his firm grip.
She was frightened, but yet, with Gabriel beside her, not terrified, which she
should have been. Who was this strange ruffian and what did he want?

          She thought that Gabriel knew more than he was
telling her, and once they were safely back amid the crowd, with servants and
stout men who would thrust this intruder off the estate without ceremony, she
intended to find out just what he was keeping from her.

          “Run!” Gabriel directed, and they did.

          They had increased their lead over the man in
the brown coat, but then, just as Psyche was sure they would make the safety of
the walled garden, another man stepped out of the wall’s shadow, just ahead of
them.

          Gabriel muttered an oath beneath his breath. Psyche
shivered with shock as they abruptly slowed their steps. Now they found
themselves between two strangers. The closest man looked even rougher than the
first; his clothes were grimy and his eyes were narrow slits. His mouth was
twisted by an old scar. Psyche swallowed hard.

          “What shall we do?” Psyche breathed to
Gabriel, whose brows were knit in thought. “If I scream–”

          ”They might not hear you,” he responded. And
she knew it was true; even from here she could hear the high-pitched chatter
from the crowd of party-goers.

          “But if we both shout together,” she urged,
feeling a chill run down her spine. The men were coming closer, and they
blocked the path to the nearest doorway in the wall. “Perhaps if we yell–”

          But then she heard, like a wailing banshee,
the strident tune of a bagpipe. The garden party’s entertainment, and the
special treat their hostess has hinted at in the invitations.

          “Oh, bloody hell,” Gabriel snapped. Even
standing by his side, she could barely make out the words.

           Psyche felt cold with terror. They were lost.

          Suddenly she felt Gabriel jerk her hand. “This
way,” he mouthed. Then they were running again, but this time away from the
sanctuary of the stone walls, leaving behind all hope of succor.

          “Where are we going?” Psyche tried to say, but
she bit back the words almost as soon as they left her lips. She needed her
breath for their mad dash, and anyhow, she had realized their destination.

          They were headed for the maze.

          It was an impressive structure, eight-foot
high walls of thick greenery carefully trained into an intricate maze of twists
and turns, with–it was said–only one correct path to the center, which held a
lovely fountain and benches to refresh those who had persevered till they found
the heart of the puzzle.

          Gabriel pulled her inside before she could
question the logic of his strategy. The thick hedges rose around them and
blocked them from sight; Gabriel pulled her into a side turning almost at once,
and then they ran several feet and turned again.

          They came to an abrupt halt, and Gabriel
gestured for silence. It was unnecessary; Psyche felt her head whirl, and she
was speechless. The pipe music had paused, and in the brief stillness she could
heard the sound of running, and a muffled oath, words in a Cockney accent whose
meaning she could only guess, and suspected that she didn’t want to.

          Gabriel had his head cocked, listening.

          Psyche stood, stiff with fear, till she heard
the men blunder past them, pushing against the thick unyielding walls of
prickly shrubbery and cursing again when they found they could not push their
way through, but had to follow its twists and turns like anyone else.

          The thick bushes smelt lush and green, and the
shade was welcome after their mad dash, but Psyche could take little comfort in
their moment of repose. Her heart was beating fast, and she tried to take
normal breaths.

          Gabriel was mouthing something; she couldn’t
make out the words. She leaned closer, putting her ear almost against his
mouth.

          “Do you know the way in?” he was asking. “Is
there any other exit?”

          She shook her head twice, and his expression
grew even more severe, his blue eyes were hard and looked almost black.

          There was no sound from their pursuers. Where
were they? “I’ve only been here twice,” she was emboldened to whisper back. “And
I don’t remember the secret to the puzzle; indeed, I never found it out.”