Dear Impostor (31 page)

          “You have the carriage of a queen,” Gabriel
said, smiling sweetly at her poker-stiff aunt. “And such expression in those
lovely arched brows.” His own dark brows rose a bit, and he smiled at the older
woman.

          How did he do it? He always found the most
admirable trait–if it was a ploy, it was a good one, Psyche thought, watching
Mavis melt into girlish confusion. And if it was not just a parlor trick, this
man had to have some goodness inside him, beneath the surface charm, the
incredible looks. But what about the scandal in his past, not to mention
assassins in his present life? There was much here still to be unraveled.

          “Oh, Mama, it’s true,” Matilda, always
helpful, was saying. “You have beautiful brows; I wish I had inherited them,
instead of Papa’s bushy ones.”

          Mavis knew when she had lost the battle; she
managed an almost benevolent expression. “I suppose I do remember,” she
admitted. “But Psyche, none the less, do push that lock of hair back into
place. Discretion is still a virtue.”

          “Discretion is a necessity,” Gabriel agreed. “Total
abstention, however, is not.”

          “Lord Tarrington!” Matilda protested with a
sigh. “You are shameless.”

          “I know,” Gabriel agreed, as the corner of his
mouth quirked with mischief. “It’s one of my charms.”

          “Come along,” Psyche said, afraid to let her
roguish fiancé continue along this dangerous path. “Let us go and speak to our
hostess. And I need to check on Aunt Sophie.”

          They all walked back to the top of the garden
where chairs and tables had been placed on the grass. They found Sophie
chatting with several other older ladies.

          “Ah, there you are,” she said. “Psyche, the
servants are about to serve lunch; do find a seat, child. You keep
disappearing, and it will cause talk.”

          “Yes, Aunt,” Psyche agreed, only too glad to
sit safely amidst the crowd and enjoy the Countess’ ices and meringues and
other light fare prepared for the outdoor luncheon; the Countess had a French
chef whose reputation, they soon discovered, was well earned.

          But even as she munched on mushroom fritters
and crepes decorated with strawberries from the Countess’ glassed hot houses and
served with clotted cream, Psyche had to remember to maintain a pleasant
expression. Her thoughts were not as sweet as the many confections that tempted
her taste buds.

          Why was Gabriel being stalked?

          To her frustration, Psyche was unable to
question him. For the rest of the party, they stayed safely amid the crowd. When
the luncheon was cleared away, the party gradually broke up, and she called for
their carriage, not even going up to the house but waiting by the driveway
chatting to their hostess until it drove up. Then she and Aunt Sophie were
handed in, and Gabriel took his seat opposite them, and the barouche drove off
at a smart pace. She still could not speak of the issues that lay heavy on her
mind; she had to listen to her aunt chat about gossip she had garnered at the
party.

          She knew that Gabriel was watching the road
behind them all the way back to London, but their assailants seemed to have
been discouraged. There was no sign of them, and Psyche breathed a sigh of
relief when they drove up to their own town house.

          They assisted her aunt down and saw her safely
into the house, then Psyche turned back to Gabriel. “I would speak with you,”
she hissed beneath her breath. “In the library. At once!”

          “Psyche, aren’t you coming?” Her aunt called
from the doorway.

          “Right away, Aunt,” Psyche answered, but she
threw a dark glance toward Gabriel, whose expression was guarded. This time,
she would have the truth.

          Aunt Sophie was fatigued from the excursion;
Psyche offered her arm up the first flight of steps, and then handed her
relative over to her dresser, when the maid hurried downstairs to assist her.

          “You must take a nap, Miss Sophie,” the maid
said, looking in concern at the lines of weariness on her employer’s face. “You’ve
missed your usual lie down.”

          “Nonsense, I’m barely winded. I shall just
rest upon my bed and close my eyes for a moment, that is all,” the older woman
said.

          “Yes, ma’am.” The maid exchanged a knowing
glance with Psyche. In five minutes, Sophie would be sleeping soundly.

          Psyche leaned to kiss her aunt’s cheek. “Just
so,” she agreed, and when Sophie disappeared into her bed chamber, was at last
was free to turn and descend the steps. She paused only long enough to remove
her own hat and gloves and spencer, which she had worn to prevent a chill in
the open carriage, and hurried to the library.

          To her annoyance, the room was unoccupied. She
pulled the bell rope, and in a moment, Jowers appeared.

          “Have you seen Lord Tarrington?” Psyche tried
to keep her tone level.

          “I believe he is in his bedchamber, Miss,” the
butler said, his expression suitably bland.

          “Oh.” Perhaps he had gone up to change his
blood-stained shirt, she thought. In that case–

          “Packing,” the butler added.

          Psyche’s mouth flew open, then she collected
herself. “I see,” she managed to say. “That will be all.”

          The servant blinked; any questions he had
would not be answered this hour. As soon as he had departed, Psyche retraced
her steps and almost ran up the staircase. She walked rapidly down the hallway
to the best guest chamber and, after a quick knock, turned the knob and flung
open the door.

          It was true; Gabriel was folding his new
shirts and placing them carefully into a worn carpet bag that sat on a stool in
front of his wardrobe. The footman who had been serving as his valet was
helping, his expression very glum.

          “What are you doing?” Psyche demanded.

          Gabriel looked up; he did not smile, as he
usually did in greeting. Instead he glanced toward the servant. “Thank you, I
will finish this myself.”

          The man bowed and disappeared into the
dressing room, shutting the door carefully behind him. The door to the hall was
ajar; Psyche glanced at it; she did not wish to suggest impropriety, but yet,
she could not allow anyone to overhear this conversation, either. Sighing, she
crossed and shut the door.

          Gabriel watched her, a hint of his usual
mischief in his tone. “If you wish a private moment to say good-bye–”

          ”I’m not in the mood for nonsense,” she
snapped, determined not to be diverted. “What do you think you’re doing?”

          “I’m leaving, dear Miss Hill. I would not wish
to cause you embarrassment, and certainly not any physical danger. So I shall
depart, quietly, and you can resume your proper and safe existence.”

          It was just what she had been ready to order
him to do, and yet, illogically, she felt a burning anger that he would just
give up and be ready to walk away.

          “You have no right to leave!” she said hotly.

          He raised those eloquent dark brows. “I beg
your pardon?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

          She wasn’t sure she believed herself, either,
but she plunged ahead. “You made a promise to me, and I still do not have my
money from my uncle; he must release it soon. You must stay here until he does,
and until I agree that your employment is no longer necessary.”

          Gabriel put down the fine linen shirt and gave
her his full attention. “But–”

          ”That does not mean that–that–I don’t still
demand to know exactly what is going on. Why were those men following you, us? Why
do they wish you harm?”

          He frowned.

          “The truth, not some fanciful tale,” she
warned him.

          “Very well, but it will take some time to
explain. I am not sure this is the right setting.” He glanced at the bed. “I do
not mind the servants gossiping, if you do not, but–”

          Psyche flushed. This was quite a switch! He
was thinking of the proprieties, and she was the one whose wits were wandering.
Was the whole world going mad?

          “I shall await you in the library,” she said,
trying to regain her dignity. “But I expect you momentarily.”

          And if you try to slip out, she thought,
I
will–I will–I will never forgive you
! She turned and left the room quickly
before he could discern her emotions. Outside in the hallway, she paused and
tried to compose herself. She had been wishing him gone for days; she should have
let him leave.

          But her family, her uncle, the inheritance she
was trying to secure–no, she did need him, for a while, at least. Then, when
Psyche was mistress of her own funds, and Circe could be tutored properly, and
they had funds to travel, then–

          But she would not think of that just now. She
went to the staircase and made her way down to the library, which was still
unoccupied. She rang the bell rope and when Jowers appeared, told him, “Bring a
tea tray for two, if you please.”

          He bowed and left, and she could see the
speculation behind his bland expression. The servants would likely be wondering
if the two of them had had a spat and then made it up again. So be it. She
could not control their thoughts, and so far, the household knew nothing really
damaging, except Simpson, of course, whose loyalty had been proven many times
over.

          Jowers brought the tea tray just as Gabriel
appeared. He came into the room, nodding to her, and stood in front of the
fireplace, waiting for the servant to put down the tray.

          “I will pour, thank you,” Psyche told the man.
When Jowers had shut the door behind him, she ignored the tea tray, however,
and stared at Gabriel.

          He seemed to feel her gaze because he turned
to face her. “What do you wish to know?”

          “What do I wish to know?” she repeated,
becoming annoyed all over again. “I wish to know why men with knives are
following you, assaulting us both! Don’t be a simpleton, tell me what kind of
quagmire you have become involved in.”

          He folded his arms, looking for once almost
defensive. “It started with a card game,” he said.

          Psyche shook her head. What else could she
expect from an admitted gamester. “And?”

          “I won an estate,” he said baldly.

          Psyche had heard of outlandish wagers before,
huge amounts lost and won on a draw of the cards or a roll of dice. The concept
was not unknown, but still, she blinked at his admission. “An estate?” Her tone
was skeptical. “Is this another paper castle–”

          ”Like the marquisate you conjured up? No, my
dear Miss Hill, the property is quite real, and it is mine, or will be, soon
enough.”

          She shook her head. “What madman would bet his
whole estate on a game of chance?”

          “Someone who thought he was a better player
than I; he was mistaken,” Gabriel noted, his voice as chilly as her own.

          “I’ve heard of wild wagers, but this is–is–and
you mean to take it?”

          “Of course I mean to have it; a man’s gambling
debts are debts of honor, dear Psyche.” He knew how to distract her, that was
for certain. At the use of her Christian name, he saw the lights gleam in her
eyes, and some of her reserve slipped away. “However, the loser, Barrett, is
dragging his feet,” Gabriel was forced to admit, “not wanting to hand over the
property.”

          “So some debts are less honorable than
others?” she suggested.

          “Or some men,” he countered.   

          She stared at him, as if still trying to
believe the whole idea. Did she see him differently, now? A man with property
was a man to be respected, Gabriel thought, remembering his own elation when he
had bested Barrett that eventful night in a smoke-filled Paris gaming salon.

          ”A nice little property in the south of England, the man said,” Gabriel mused aloud. “With a manor house dating back a hundred
years, and all the usual outbuildings. A nice home park, and several farms with
tenants paying rent.”

          “An estate for a gentleman,” Psyche said,
understanding dawning. “This was your means of returning to your homeland.”

          He nodded, and his glance held appreciation
for her quickness. “Yes. I hoped to regain my birthright, if you would. I still
plan to do so.”

          “But what does this have to do with the men at
the maze?”

          ”Ah, yes, well . . .” He looked away from her
for the first time. “It seems Barrett has hired a gang of ruffians.”

          “To do what?” Psyche asked, feeling goose
bumps rise on her bare arms. She was afraid she knew the answer even before he
spoke.

          “To kill me, thereby–Barrett hopes–rendering
the matter void.”