Dear Impostor (32 page)

          Psyche shivered, then tried to be logical. “But
that’s nonsense,” she protested. “Your heirs would still inherit the property.”

          Gabriel’s smile was grim, a bare lifting of
his lips. “I have no heirs.”

          Her surprise must have shown. “No family at
all?”

          “None that would claim me,” he said shortly,
his tone even. But she caught a glimpse of the pain beneath the facade he struggled
to maintain, and she felt a flicker of pity that she knew she dared not reveal.
He had turned a little away again, as if through some instinctive wish to hide
his face, and he stared into the embers of the fire.

          He looked very alone.

          Psyche knew about being alone, about making
your way through life without an ally. And yet when her parents died, she had
had an extended family of uncles and aunts and cousins whose support she could
draw upon, even if some were more a hindrance than a help, so her experience
had been nothing like his. Why had he had been forced to leave England? There were still puzzles here, and it was still possible that he had committed
some great wrong. Perhaps if she knew the truth it would horrify her, repulse
her so much that she could never smile at him again, and it was for that reason
that he was keeping silent.

          But just now, all she could think of was the
pain she felt in him, pushed deep beneath the cool charm and devil-may-care
insouciance with which he usually faced the world. He was alone, and so was
she. And he needed a friend, whether or not he would admit it.

          “You can’t go,” she said, holding out her hand
toward him.. “I will not be bested by a poor loser with no honor, nor by his
hired henchmen.”

          He looked up at her in surprise, and the light
shining in the depths of his eyes made her glance away. She did not wish him to
think–

          “It is for my own benefit,” she added hastily,
dropping her hand quickly lest he misinterpret the gesture. “I mean, I need you
here to keep up the pretense of the betrothal. I shall get my inheritance soon,
or a good part of it, and by then perhaps you will have established a clear
title to the property. So we shall both benefit. But you must stay.”

          Gabriel tried to keep his face impassive. Psyche
fiddled with the lace trim on her bodice and did not meet his eyes. She could
not mean–no, it was for convenience, as she said, for their mutual financial
advantage.

          But the warmth that had flooded him when she
had refused to let him go–it filled a cold emptiness deep inside that he had
lived with so long that he had expected it to be part of him forever.

          Some small share of the old pain eased. There
was still a great abyss of rejection and loss that he would carry with him
always, but, like a sweet-smelling blossom drifting down to float on a dark
woodland pool, something had been added.

          Someone had held out her hand to him, and the
look she had given him had been one of friendship, he was sure of it, not of an
employer needing an actor to play a part, nor even of a woman lusting for his
physical beauty and masculine energy. He had seen enough of those, and often
enough had met their lusts with his own, with easy cynical charm and no emotion
attached to those couplings.

          With Psyche, it would never be that. With
Psyche, he wanted something more, and the revelation shocked him. She would
have no idea what urges, what needs she stirred within him, and he must not
allow her to find out.

          When this charade was played out, he must
leave her; he had no right to possess such a lovely woman, to wish to hold such
an untainted spirit, not when he carried with him the guilty memory of his
destruction of another beautiful woman. He was cursed by his own sins, which
would be branded forever on his soul, and he must bear them alone.

          She was watching him.

          “Very well,” Gabriel said, and he found that
his voice was husky. He cleared his throat and tried to give her his usual easy
smile. ”As long as you need me, I will stay.”             

          The knowledge that there were hired murderers
on Gabriel’s trail could not just be ignored. That very afternoon, Psyche spoke
to Jowers about hiring extra footmen.

          “Big men, by preference,” she told him. “And I
want you to be extra vigilant about keeping the outer doors locked, and to
watch for strangers who seem to be interested in the house.”

          The butler gazed at her with an unreadable
expression, but his answer was spoken calmly. “Just as you say, Miss.”

          She and Gabriel, sharing the tea at last, had
also worked out a credible excuse over their tea cups that would allow him to
stay at home, out of sight and out of harm’s way.

          “I do not think you will be in any danger on
your own,” he told her. “It is me they are looking for.”

          Psyche nodded. “If I give up all my
engagements, Sally will fuss. And it’s true; it would cause talk.”

          So the next day she and Aunt Sophie went off
to the theater unaccompanied by any male presence, and when a bevy of
disappointed ladies came to their box after the first act to ask why the
delightful Lord Tarrington was not with them, Psyche was ready with her answer.

          “Alas, he slipped on a pebble during a walk in
the Countess’ garden yesterday, and his ankle has swollen up dreadfully.”
Psyche smiled sweetly.

          “But he was walking just fine when he left,” a
young lady pointed out. “I watched him particularly.” Then she blushed at her
admission.

          “I’m sure you did,” Psyche said, her own tone
dry. “No, it was not apparent at once, but by the time we reached home, his
foot had begun to go black and blue. He has been advised by my physician to
stay off his feet and to keep the ankle elevated.”

          “But there is Mrs. Forsyth’s dance coming up
soon,” another young woman wailed. “He will miss it all.”

          “I’m sure he regrets that keenly,” Psyche agreed.

          Aunt Sophie plied her ivory-backed fan. “Not
so much as the ladies of the Ton, I’ll wager.”

          The young women around them blinked and
reddened, and the raising of the curtain for the next act was a logical reason
for them to flee to their own seats.

          “May have to lend you my cane to beat’em off,”
the older lady said. “Marrying that scamp may be quite fatiguing for you,
Niece.”

          Psyche grinned. “Do you think I should throw
him back into the sea and wait for a better catch?”

          Sophie grunted, an inelegant noise drowned out
by a scattering of laughter from the spectators in the pit below as the actors
in front began to declaim. “I doubt you will do better than Tarrington,” she
said, turning her gaze back to the stage. “If I were thirty years younger, I
would have tried to snag him first.”

          Surprised, Psyche stared at her aunt; she had
thought Sophie impervious to the most charming rogue. But Gabriel was more than
that, and his allure was more even than his remarkable good looks. It was the
intelligence lurking beneath his laughing blue eyes; the kindness he
occasionally exhibited, almost despite his own wishes, the way he spent time so
willingly with a child or an older lady. It was–

          No, this would not do. What was the use in
cataloguing Gabriel’s positive traits? He was not a permanent part of her life;
he was only here for the interim until they both had their affairs in order. She
must remember that. He was little more to her than the narrow-shouldered Mr.
Green who still came every day to scribble away in her bookroom, playing the
part of her fiancé’s secretary.

          Gabriel was an actor, too, in his own way, and
she could not trust even what she thought she knew of him. As if her aunt could
follow the direction of her thoughts, the other woman glanced across at her
niece, her brows slightly lifted.

          “Do you know anything about the Sinclairs?”
Psyche asked, keeping her voice low. “Before they–he had the title, I mean.”

          Sophie pursed her mouth. “Not to speak of; I
can inquire.”

          “Quietly, please,” Psyche suggested. Sophie’s
cronies, older ladies with prodigious memories, were devoted in equal parts to
long reminiscences and gossip both ancient and recent. She didn’t wish to stir
up any muck from the bottom of the pond, but if there was anything about
Gabriel that she should know–and he was keeping something in his past a secret,
something he was very much ashamed of. Even though he would be leaving soon,
Psyche wanted to know the truth. At least, she thought that she did.

          For the rest of the play, Psyche tried hard to
listen to the actors on stage, but the drama played out there was so insipid
compared to the drama of her own life that the flowery dialogue could not hold
her attention. Her thoughts always returned to Gabriel, once again a virtual
prisoner in her home, and how galled he must be to have to stay inside and out
of sight.

          After the play, a loud and occasionally funny
farce was enacted upon the stage. During the scattered rounds of laughter and
catcalls, Sally came across to speak to her. After greeting Sophie, Sally
turned to whisper, “The ladies are gossiping about your stroll in the orchard
yesterday. And now this sprained ankle–dear, dear. A stolen kiss is one thing,
Psyche dear, but must you attack the man?”

          Psyche’s mouth dropped open. “Sally!”

          “Just teasing.” Sally giggled. “I know you
wouldn’t do anything so improper. Your life might be more entertaining if you
did. If it had been me walking unobserved with your Lord Tarrington, now, it
might be another story.”

          “If you don’t stop saying such things, you
will have no reputation left at all,” Psyche observed tartly. “I only say this
as your friend, of course.”

          “Of course,” Sally agreed, but some of the
laughter in her face had faded. “Amazing what hurtful things your friends can
utter.”

          Psyche felt thoroughly ashamed of herself. “I
didn’t mean it, Sally. I beg your pardon. No one who knows you would think ill
of you, it’s just–just that you do have a tendency to make sport of serious
matters–”

          Sally waved her fan in disgust. “Lord, Psyche,
you sound as bad as Percy! Don’t sermonize.”

          “Your levity might be misconstrued, that is
all,” Psyche tried to explain.

          “Like your exaggerated sense of propriety?” Sally
gazed at her, her expression for once serious. “You never used to be so strict,
Psyche. In our first season, we were both dreadful scamps, and you were just as
irreverent as was I. Only since your parents’ death–”

          Psyche brushed the words aside. She did not
wish to discuss a painful subject. “I’m only trying to help.”

          “That kind of help I can do without,” Sally
snapped. “I have plenty of aunts and cousins of my own, not to mention my
sainted mother-in-law! You are supposed to be my friend.”

          “I am your friend, and I apologize,” Psyche
said. “I will not judge you, Sally; please forgive me.”

          “Only if you promise to smile, and not be so
dreadfully serious. You will get lines in your forehead well before your time,”
Sally warned, her tone severe.

          That did make Psyche smile, and the tension
between the two faded. They spoke of Sally’s continued preparations for her
masquerade ball and the costume she was having made for it, and of the new gown
she had glimpsed at the dressmaker’s.

          Psyche tried to pay attention, keep her
thoughts in order, but again they strayed to her bogus fiancé.

          What was he doing just now? Sitting at ease in
front of the library fire, holding a glass of brandy and staring into the
flickering heart of the flames, perhaps? She wished fervently that she could
leave this crowded theater and hurry home, enter the room quietly, walk up
beside him and take his hand. And he would look up in surprise, smile with that
mischievous twinkle, put down his glass and draw her closer to him. And
then–her thoughts veered wildly.

          No, no, she must not think like this. The
theater was a place for fantasies, true, but this one was too close to home and
too dangerous. Frowning, she stared hard at the stage where a actor waved his
arms and bowed too low, losing his hat. The crowd in the pit below laughed and
jeered.

          Sally nudged her. “He’s trying to be funny,
you goose; why are you making such a face at the poor man?”

          “I’m, ah, just thinking about the farce; the
lead actor is a bit disappointing,” Psyche tried to sound convincing.