Dear Impostor (35 page)

          “An accomplishment, indeed.” Gabriel hid his
amusement.

          David led the way past a couple of young men
in their shirt sleeves who were eying each other with measuring pugnacity.

          “Here he is. Sir,” David said eagerly,” I’ve
brought the Marquis of Tarrington.”

          The man who met their gaze was only of middle
height but compact of body, with sharp, intelligent eyes and a nose that had
been broken more than once. He stared at the newcomer, his eyes narrowing.

          “Hap we have met before,” he said bluntly. “Tho
thy wasn’t any marquis then.”

          Gabriel smiled ruefully. “My misbegotten youth
continues to haunt me,” he agreed. “Hello, Jackson.”

          David’s eyes widened. “You know him?”

          “Gave me a good jab to the gut once,” the
boxing instructor said.

          “You sparred with him?” David looked even more
impressed. “And you managed a hit?”

          “I had a lucky punch,” Gabriel said.

          The other man grunted. “Lucky, my arse. And
him hardly out of nappies.”

          “I was a bit older than that,” Gabriel
objected, but he grinned reluctantly. “I see you’ve come up in the world.” He
glanced around at the large open room.

          “As have thy, me lord,” the pugilist noted.

          Gabriel made a face. “Ah, yes. Long story.” And
a subject he was happy to change. “Actually, I’m glad it’s you; I have a
somewhat strange request.”

          Jackson’s eyes glinted. “Ah, me lord. Ah’m
listening.”

          And Gabriel explained.

          After lunch, Gabriel felt sufficiently guilty
about his near disastrous late night foray to stay inside while Psyche attended
a luncheon party, but he was not as bored as he had expected. The house was
quiet; Sophie had retreated to her room for her usual afternoon nap, and
Gabriel was sitting in the library, drawing up plans for his future home.

          Since he had yet to see the building, it was
an exercise in futility, yet it soothed him that his solicitor swore Gabriel
was growing closer to the day when he could take possession. He had even
acquired reading material on the most up-to-date farming methods so that he
could be a reasonable and helpful landlord, not to mention the home farm that
was likely attached to his property; he would oversee that himself. To think of
having his own land, a piece of England that no one could ever take away from
him–he felt a thrill of elation at the thought. And someday, he would be ready
to bring a bride there, show her what he had done to the estate, how he had
brought it back from its doubtless shabby state under Barrett’s indifferent
management to the shining success that he meant to make of it.

          He could imagine it so easily. He and his
bride would stroll the rejuvenated gardens hand in hand. The sweet, heavy air
of twilight would surround them with the scents of blossoming roses. And he
would tease her by tugging her hair pins out one-by-one until the golden mass
fell in a fragrant spill over his hands. Then he would pull Psyche into his
arms and into a darkened corner where he . . .

          Gabriel shook his head to clear the sensual
images from his mind. He could swear that Psyche’s perfume and the scent of
fictional roses still lingered around him. He bent his head over his drawing
and tried to ignore what his fantasy had implied. His future, hypothetical
bride had an alarming tendency to assume the characteristics of his imperious,
maddening and impossibly lovely ‘employer.’

          No, he did not dare even imagine such an
impossible feat. To clear his mind, Gabriel summoned up memories of his father,
colored by Gabriel’s own youthful vows of revenge. By making a success of his
dream, his father would know; even though the older man seldom ventured into
society, he would hear of it. Gabriel would make sure that he did! And the
elder Sinclair would recognize that the ne’er do well who had lost his
birthright had triumphed, redeemed his disgrace, confounded everyone’s
predictions of an early and disgraceful end.

          Someone hurrumped respectfully at his elbow. Gabriel
jumped. He had been so deep in thought that he had not seen the footman come up
beside him. Damn, he had blotted his paper.

          Gabriel picked up a piece of blotting felt and
then glanced toward the servant. “Yes?”

          “Excuse me, my lord, but you are wanted in the
schoolroom.”

          That was not a summons one heard every day;
Gabriel tried not to smile. What was the imperious Miss Circe up to, now? “Very
well, ” he agreed. “I shall come presently.”

          The footman bowed and retreated, and Gabriel
folded his lists of necessary equipment and tucked them into a treatise on
modern farming, which he placed into a desk drawer. He made his way up the
staircase and found Circe seated on a stool by the window, while the governess
worked on a stack of mending a few feet away.

          “You wanted to see me?” Gabriel said, sending
Miss Tellman an apologetic glance. She frowned a little, but she looked
resigned. No one, it seemed, could control Circe when she was determined; in
that way, she was much like her sister, Gabriel thought.

          “You agreed to let me draw you,” Circe said.

          He blinked in surprise. “I don’t recall–”

          ”Yes, you do,” the child argued. She was
wearing a blue smock over her day dress, and there were a few dabs of paint on
its skirt. “I told you so the other day, you remember.”

          “I don’t remember agreeing to sit for you,”
Gabriel pointed out.

          “You didn’t say no, and that’s the same as a
yes.” Circe flashed him her quick elusive smile.

          “Has anyone ever told you of your growing
resemblance to your sister?”

          An answering spark lit in her clear green
eyes. “You and our good Telly would be in agreement, my lord.”

          “Hmm.” Gabriel tried another tactic. “Your
sister doesn’t wish for me to talk with you, you know. I really should not
stay.”

          “That’s all right; you will not be able to
talk. If you did, I could not draw your mouth properly,” Circe observed,
picking up her sketch pad. “And it’s well shaped, too.”

          Effectively silenced, Gabriel gave up the
fight. “Where do you wish me to sit?” he asked meekly.

          “In that chair, sit up straight and look
toward the window; put your hand on the book, so,” Circe directed.

          Gabriel sat down–the chair was shabby but
comfortable–and assumed the pose that Circe ordered. He sat very still, and
Circe’s hand moved swiftly with her pencils and chalks. He found it harder than
he had expected. In a little while, he found his arm going numb, and he tried
to shift position just slightly.

          “No, no,” Circe said sharply. “Put your arm
back the way it was.”

          Gabriel obeyed. “It may fall off before you
are done,” he observed.

          At first he thought that Circe was so absorbed
that she had not heard, but then she responded, her tone low. “You only need
one hand to hold the cards during a game, do you not?”

          “I suppose, “ Gabriel agreed. “And surely I
could learn to shuffle the deck with one hand; there must be a way. When I
dance with your sister, however, I will be sadly unbalanced. If we find that I
cannot perform the waltz at all, she will be most disappointed.”

          Circe giggled. “Silly. I am almost done.” Sure
enough, in another ten minutes, she put down her pencil.

          “You are fast,” Gabriel said. “May I see it?”

          But she turned the pad away. “Not yet,” she
said. “I need to work on a few of the finer details.”

          Gabriel found he was disappointed, but he
nodded. “Very well; am I dismissed now?”

          “Yes, but you must come back again,” Circe
told him. “To pose for me.”

          Gabriel felt a little hurt.

          “And to talk,” Circe added, as if she had read
his mind. “We are friends, are we not? No matter what Psyche says.”

          The child was a witch, Gabriel thought, no
doubt about it. He hoped that she never took up serious card playing. He
nodded. “I am honored to be counted as your friend.”

          The luncheon party was rather dull, and Psyche
left as soon as she could. She was just going up the steps to her own house
when, with a clatter of hooves, Sally swept up in her high-perch phaeton. The
coachman pulled up the perfectly matched gray geldings, and Sally leaned out
the window and waved to her.

          “There you are,” Sally called. “Come along,
I’m going to the dressmaker’s.”

          “I’m just getting home,” Psyche protested.

          “I know, I know, that awful luncheon. I begged
off; come along, this is much more important,” Sally insisted. “Get in.”

          A footman hurried to hold the carriage door
for her. Psyche shook her head, but she lifted her skirt and stepped up. Taking
her seat, Psyche gazed at her friend.

          “What is all this? Why is the appointment with
the dressmaker so urgent, and why do you need me there?”

          “Because yesterday Madam Sophie told me that
you have done nothing about a costume for my masquerade ball. Psyche, you
wretch, it is tomorrow night! Don’t tell me you have forgotten!”

          “Of course not.” Psyche tried not to look guilty.

          “You are coming, you must come; I will hear of
nothing else.” Sally’s bow lips fell into a practiced pout.

          “Since there will only be four hundred other
of London’s finest there,” Psyche pointed out dryly. “I should be sadly missed,
indeed.”

          “I would miss you! You are my best friend, and
I want you there!” Sally insisted. “Not to mention your perfectly gorgeous
fiancé.”

          “The truth is out.” Psyche grinned. “I will
come, I promise, perhaps even with my fiancé, if his ankle is recovered–

          “I will take him with or without a whole
ankle.” Sally’s brown eyes held a wicked gleam, though her tone was demure.

          Psyche refused to take the bait. “But why the
abduction?”

          “Because you cannot come without a costume,”
Sally insisted, waving her hand. “You cannot wait till the last minute, dear,
and expect Madam to come up with a suitable disguise.”

          “Oh, that.” Psyche shrugged. “I had thought a
mask and domino would do, or I could find something in the back of my wardrobe–”

          ”To come to my gala, the biggest function of
the year!” Sally exclaimed, sounding genuinely horrified. “Psyche, how dare you–”

          ”It was a jest,” Psyche said quickly,
laughing. “I was teasing you; I am sorry.”

          “Very well.“ Sally fanned her pink cheeks. “As
long as you take my ball seriously, I forgive you. However, the fact remains,
you have done nothing about a costume.”

          “I’ve–been a bit distracted,” Psyche told her,
thinking of hired killers and knives emerging through a hedge, and most of all,
a fiancé who was not who he seemed.          

          Sally sniffed. “I know, mooning over your
gorgeous–”

          ”Here we are,” Psyche interrupted again as the
phaeton slowed in front of the dressmaking establishment. “I will throw myself
on Madam Sophie’s mercy and see what she can come up with.”

          “You’re still not treating this with the
gravity it deserves,” her friend complained. “I have been planning my costume
for weeks, Psyche!”

          “But you are the hostess,” Psyche tried to
sooth her. “Of course you must have a grand costume.”

          “True, wait till you see it,” Sally agreed,
her frown disappearing. “This is my final fitting.”

          They were bowed into the dressmaker’s shop and
taken to the largest fitting room, where Madam herself hurried to wait upon
them.

          “Ah, Mrs. Forsythe,” the seamstress purred. “It
is turning out
tres magnifique
; you will be sensational.”

          Psyche waited while Sally disappeared behind a
screen. Two of the assistants aided her in disrobing and donning her costume. Psyche
listened to the murmur of feminine voices and the rustle of heavy fabric. When
Sally emerged, Psyche’s eyes widened.

          “It fits divinely,” Sally pronounced, turning
back and forth to gaze at her image in the looking glass. “My, these skirts are
heavy.”