Dear Impostor (4 page)

          "And what's your given name,
boy, if one may ask?" the older man continued.

          The actor smiled again. "Of
course, Uncle Octavius. We're all family here. My name is Gabriel Sinclair,
Marquis–" he glanced down at Psyche, now stiff with alarm–"Marquis of
Tarrington."

          For Psyche, the evening, which had
for a brief spell been sweet with the taste of victory, now took on the aspect
of nightmare. Numb with shock, she listened to the spurious marquis cheerfully
accepting invitations of all kinds from her hither-to hostile relations. Had
they all fallen beneath his spell? What kind of monster was this man, this
unknown actor whose powers she had so woefully underestimated?

          When the butler announced dinner,
Great-aunt Sophie went in with Uncle Wilfred, followed by a stately process of
elderly, higher-ranked ladies and their partners, and then the Marquis escorted
Psyche into the dining room. Here, despite the Marquis' false rank, they were
mercifully separated–had Percy bribed the butler?–but although she now had time
to try to collect her scattered wits as she pushed at the food on her plate,
Psyche found her ears straining to hear the cause of the merry laughter from
farther down the table.

          What was he telling them–what
fanciful tales of travel and adventure? She could catch only snatches of the
conversation that seemed to be the liveliest and merriest of all those around
the whole long table. Did thespians travel this much? No, his anecdotes must
surely be merest fantasy. And what happened when he was exposed–as every witty
story made more possible? Psyche, who had never had a nervous fit in her life,
wondered if she might break all precedence.

          Her appetite was totally gone,
despite the tempting portions that now covered her plate. Psyche pushed aside a
forkful of sautéed mushrooms and found her stomach clenched into painful knots.
Was this her punishment for departing from the safe and circumspect behavior to
which she had always been so careful to adhere? She now deeply regretted her scheme;
how had she thought she could pull this off?

          As soon as the actor, who must be
drunk on the wine the footman poured him–how else could she explain his air of
unfeigned gaiety?–slipped up, he would be exposed as a fraud, and then so would
the whole fallacious engagement. She would end up more firmly imprisoned in her
uncle's power than ever, and she might be forced into marrying the odious
Percy, just to escape a major scandal.

          Oh, what had she done? Psyche felt
sick with apprehension. Circe would be helpless, too; she had failed her little
sister, and she had left them both in danger of disgrace. All because of one
reckless actor who would not sit meekly and play his part–or perhaps he played
his part entirely too well.

          The conversation at the top of the
table had almost died, as more and more of her family listened shamelessly to
the stories and jests that the man at the other end dispensed so easily, with
such lazy charm. His comments were punctuated by bursts of laughter from the
people lucky enough to be seated around him, and his stories received rapt
attention.

          Next to her, Percy stabbed at his
roast pork with short, angry motions. "I cannot think why you would prefer
such an obvious trickster–"

          Psyche thought she might faint. "What
are you saying?" she asked, her voice weak.

          "I mean, it's obvious that
charming manner is all a pretense; he only wants your money, Psyche. How could
you be taken in by such a fortune-hunter?"

          Psyche relaxed a little. "That
isn't true," she said, trying to sound as if she believed her own words. In
fact, she was increasingly afraid his charge was more accurate than Percy guessed,
and this actor was motivated not just by the payment she had promised him but
by hopes of a larger gain. If not that, he was totally insane, throwing himself
into the part like this, with no sense of the consequences to them both if he
was found out.

          "I cannot see how you could
possibly prefer such a fibberjibbet to your own cousin, whom you have known all
your life." Percy slapped his fork down onto the table, his narrow eyes
seething with outrage. He had a trace of gravy on his chin, and his neckcloth
was now dotted with crumbs.

          She stared at him and kept her
voice even with some effort. "I know it's hard to imagine, Percy. You must
consider a female's natural tendency to folly."

          As always, irony was wasted on
Percy. "I do think you've taken leave of your senses, Psyche, and I always
thought you had escaped the irrationality of your parents."

          She glared at him, and he changed
his direction awkwardly. "That is to say, you've always shown the utmost
respect for society's dictates, doing only what was proper and decorous, unlike–unlike
some people. But this–this–well, he's almost a dashed dandy, Psyche. I really
thought you had better sense!" Percy's voice was shrill with dismay.

          Psyche looked back down the table
toward her hired fiancé. The man showed no sign of dandyism; his evening dress
was perfectly cut, his jacket a sober black, his cravat snowy white linen, his
whole costume just what good taste dictated. He wore only one simple signet
ring; he had no fobs or gold chains or diamond studs to flaunt his wealth or
singularity of taste. Yet, he still stood out of the crowd–he really couldn't
help it. His dark good looks, the tanned skin that should have made him look
like a common laborer but somehow instead only emphasized the excellent
cheekbones and rakish dark brows, the dark blue eyes that flashed with
intelligence and wit. No, this actor might have escaped the attention of the masses
so far, but he must have been acting inside a barrel to do it.

          He seemed to have mesmerized her
whole family. Or almost all–when Great-uncle Ernest, on her other side, leaned
over the table, intent only upon his pudding, she turned her back on Percy's
whining and listened once more to her fiancé's tales.

          He was spinning some outrageous
yarn about a game of cards in a gambling hell on some island in the West Indies–was that where he had acquired his darkened skin? Someone had tried to cheat
him, and he had stripped the other man bare to the waist in front of a laughing
crowd of gamesters to expose the extra cards the card sharp had tucked up his
sleeves.

          "And when I ripped off his
shirt, a whole court full of face cards tumbled out–queens and kings and knaves
of all suits–and here was that rascal Antonio, trying to look as if he had no
idea why his best linen shirt was lined with playing cards."

          The table roared with laughter;
the spurious marquis had made the tale a funny one. Even Psyche had to quench a
smile.

          But then one of her cousins,
Mervyn, who was tall and thin but had a penchant for scholarship like Psyche's
father, cleared his throat. "Um, I visited Barbados when I went to the Americas last year," he said hesitantly. "I, uh, don't recall a club like the one
you describe."

          A silence descended upon the
table, and Psyche felt the knots in her stomach tighten into one heavy iron
mass. This was it; the idiot had embroidered one too many fairy tales, and now
the secrets would begin to unravel. They were done for!

          The actor glanced at the young man
who had had the nerve to question his story, something like respect in his deep
blue eyes. Then he picked up his glass of ruby-hued wine and took a thoughtful
sip. "It was in a somewhat unsavory part of town, Cousin; perhaps you did
not dip into such depraved pursuits?"

          But Mervyn, though his thin face
looked a little pale beneath his spectacles, held his ground. "No, I saw
all the island, I think."

          Some of her relatives were
regarding the Marquis with obvious speculation; Psyche could see all the
progress of the evening slipping away, like sand beneath a receding tide. Oh,
what would she do?

          Incredibly, her hired fiancé
smiled. "It was located just off the main thoroughfare in Bridgetown, behind a small inn, and it was run by a–uh–female of dubious reputation and
multitudinous charms. Her name was Nan; she had flaming red hair, and she wore
peasant blouses and skirts of gauze so light that they sometimes revealed more
of her delights than one might see at most society balls."

          Mervyn blinked, and then a slow
rush of scarlet colored his face, all the way down his throat past the slightly
rumpled folds of his neckcloth. "Um, yes," he said, studiously
avoiding the eyes of any of his female relatives. "I, um, I do seem to
remember the–the lady."

          The atmosphere at the table
suddenly lightened; several of the men chuckled, while the ladies either looked
disapproving or hid their smiles behind their hands. Mervyn's brother taunted
him, "And you said it was such an educational voyage, Brother!"

          Mervyn blushed even deeper, if
that were possible. "But it was."

          More of the family laughed, though
Mervyn's mother frowned in obvious censor.

          Percy's nostrils flared with ire
as he leaned close to speak to Psyche. His breath reeked of garlic and wine. "If
that is the type of man you desire, Psyche, I am vastly disappointed. That you
wish to give yourself, your future, and your fortune to such an infamous rake
as this man surely is...well! It seems I don't know you at all." Puffed up
in self-righteousness, Percy chewed his roasted lamb with bovine grace.

          Psyche felt herself relax slowly,
her muscles–which had been corded with tension–now easing, her breath–which she
had been holding almost unconsciously–slipped out slowly in a soft sigh. But
when she spoke, her tone was sharp.

          "I wonder, Cousin, if you are
more concerned for my future or my fortune?"

          Silverware fell to china with a
clatter as Percy seemed to realize his tactical error. "You misunderstand
me, my dear Psyche."  

          Feeling her situation pressing on
her like a weighted cloak, Psyche turned away as a servant removed her plate. "I
may be immoral, but I am not dim-witted." She raised one hand to stifle
his protests. "No, Percy. I understand you perfectly."

          It was a great relief when Aunt
Sophie signaled to the other women that it was time to rise and leave the men
to their brandy and odorous Spanish cigars. When Psyche followed the other
women obediently out of the dining room, she could not help throwing one
appealing glance back toward her fake lover, even as Uncle Wilfred was
announcing, "Picked out this port myself."

          Don't push it too far, she wanted
to beg the impostor.

          To her fury, Gabriel met her
beseeching look with one of cool amusement. And even more infuriating, one of
those deep blue eyes dipped into a wink.

          The nerve of that man! She was
docking his payment for failure to follow her careful instructions. Seething,
Psyche went reluctantly into the drawing room. And now that the women were alone,
all the younger relatives drew close.

          "Do tell us more about how
you met him, Psyche," cousin Matilda begged. "And how he was so
thoughtful and so amenable to your every wish–"

          Thoughtful? Amenable? The actor
was making a mockery of her tales!

          "It's the most romantic
story!" Matilda continued. "I am so pleased that you have found a
true love, not–not just a cousin who–"

          "Who wishes to feather his
own nest. But I never thought you would do anything so risqué as contracting a
secret engagement," Aunt Mavis said, her tone still unappeased. "I
admit the man has charm, but what do you really know of him?"

          Exhausted by the trials of the
dinner and her own nervous qualms, Psyche was for once at a loss. While she
hesitated, help came from an unexpected quarter.

          "Leave the girl be,"
Aunt Sophie commanded. "Psyche, come and sit by me, child."

          This was going from the kettle to
the cooking fire with a vengeance, Psyche thought, trying not to show her
apprehension. She sat down in a narrow chair next to the bigger armchair with
carved crocodile feet that her aunt had as usual claimed–Aunt Sophie always
took the most comfortable piece of furniture in the room–and waited, her throat
tight, for the inquisition to begin.

          But her great-aunt surprised her
once again.

          "I no longer wonder what you
see in him," Aunt Sophie said, raising her lorgnette and peering at Psyche
with eyes that hardly seemed to need the aid. "I think he has charmed all
the females of the family, even–" Aunt Sophie glanced across at Aunt Mavis,
who sat stiffly with her usual expression of peeved disapproval–"even Mavis,
though she will not allow her prune-face to unbend enough to show it. The men,
now, the men will not be appeased by a handsome face and delightful manners. They
will want to check out his background, your uncle Wilfred especially."