Dear Impostor (40 page)

          Gabriel nodded. “I shall fetch it; will you be
all right here? Should I send a maidservant to you?”

          “No, just let me sit quietly,” Psyche told
him. Gabriel turned and disappeared into the crowd.

          He had barely gone when another young man came
up to her; for a moment, she thought it was Mr. Denver again; he wore a mask adorned
with mouse ears. But then Psyche saw that his coat was black and draped a
better set of shoulders, and he had a more defined chin than the unfortunate
Mr. Denver.

          “Miss Hill?” he asked. “It is you?”

          She recognized the voice. “Lord Westbury, yes,
it’s I.” Why had she bothered with the costume; she should have worn her name
on a placard around her neck and be done with it, she thought crossly.

          “Is Gabriel here? Such a crush, it’s dashed
hard–oh, sorry–to find anyone. I came along to your house to escort you both to
the ball, but I was too late,” David explained.

          “He’s here; he’s just gone to get me a glass
of wine,” she told the young man. “He’s wearing a white costume with a wide hat
and blue plume.”

          “Ah.” David nodded. “I shall see if I can catch
up with him.” Then he plunged into the crowd, too, and headed toward the
refreshment tables. Or else vanished beneath a hillock, not to emerge for a
hundred years, as seekers of faerie land were wont to do.

          She wasn’t sure, anymore. A man in a Russian peasant
costume walked past, with a mermaid on his arm; a long blond wig covered the
seashell top that hid her upper body, her fishy tail dragged on the ground
behind them. Psyche would have sworn the apparition even smelled of fish.

          No more masquerades, she promised herself. Real
life was difficult enough to comprehend without dressing everything familiar in
exotic disguises. The fanciful scene around her was beginning to take on
aspects of nightmare. She could find nothing to reassure her, to slow her pounding
heart, nor ease the confused tangle of her thoughts.

          Who was Gabriel, really? Beneath the costume,
beneath the fake title, beneath all that was false and unreal–who was the
genuine man?

          And did her life, not just her heart, not just
her ill-conceived scheme for financial independence, depend on knowing the
truth?

          Someone else walked up to her; she knew him by
the heavy tread before she even raised her eyes to see the black and white
Puritan garb that did little to disguise her cousin Percy. His mask had been
discarded, and his expression was, as usual, peeved.

          “Psyche, I need to talk to you.”

          This, at least, was quite normal, but she was
not reassured. She felt the usual mixture of irritation and guilt that Percy
always evoked, mixed now with a slight tendency to giggle. He made a worthy
Puritan, indeed.

          “How are you, Percy?”

          He did not seem disposed for polite
conversation. He plunged ahead, again as usual, into his own obviously
already-thought out speech. “I regret that I have neglected you for some days,
Cousin, but I felt that I must express my displeasure at your current conduct.”

          Psyche hadn’t really had much chance to think
about his absence, and if she had, she would have given thanks. But it wouldn’t
do to speak such thoughts aloud. “I will make a note of your displeasure,” she
agreed gravely.

          “But the time has come to confront this
problem, Psyche.”

          “I’d really rather not,” she said. “Let us
talk about the ball instead. If this not a fantastical setting?”

          “My father has heard from your lawyer–”

          ”Sally’s vision is really quite amazing–”

          “And Father says he will not bend to such
blackmail–”

          “And the guests seem to be enjoying themselves
hugely–”

          ”He cannot believe you really intend to parade
our little family disagreement before the courts–”

          ”I’m sure the ball will be the most
talked-about event of–”

          ”And he begs you to come to your senses and to
rid yourself of this greedy Captain Fortune who means to have–”

          ”The season–”

          ”Your fortune to squander–”

          “Whereas you’d much rather squander it
yourself?” Psyche finished coolly for him.   

          The veins on Percy’s forehead bulged, and his
color had heightened. “Psyche, if you will not listen to me–”

          “I have no intention of doing so,” she told
him, her voice calm.

          “Then I must speak to this–this so-called
Marquis.”

          “I’m sure he will be delighted,” she lied. “He
went off to fetch me a glass of wine.”

          “And what ridiculous costume is he wearing?”
Percy demanded.

          “He is–ah–he is wearing a set of mouse ears,”
she told him, swallowing a wicked grin. With luck, he would not latch onto
David; she had seen at least half a dozen mouse ears on young men of different
heights and complexions.

          Percy straightened his stiff white collar and
threw back his narrow shoulders, which seemed to put an alarming strain on the
buttons which held his sober black coat fastened over his round stomach. “I
shall speak to him and demand that he give up his insane quest for your hand!”

          “I’m sure he will be impressed with your
logic,” Psyche said dryly. One more bit of insanity to make the ball complete,
she thought.

          Percy thrust himself into the crowd, treading
on a queen’s scarlet train without apology or a second look; the royal lady
glared and rearranged her skirts. Somewhere, unseen musicians began a new tune.
It was a waltz.

          Psyche thought wistfully of the waltz she and
Gabriel had never danced. As if her thought had conjured him up, Gabriel
emerged from the mob, two glasses of champagne in his hand.

          “Are you all right?” he asked, offering her a
glass.

          “Better.” She took a sip of the wine. Almost
at once, her stomach calmed, and with it, her disordered emotions. This was
Gabriel of the laughing eyes and beautiful face; Gabriel, who always knew her
thoughts and never failed to respond when she needed aid. She had met him only
a few days ago, but it seemed she had known him all her life. He could not be a
murderer; she could not believe it.

          “They are playing a waltz,” he said now, as if
he too hungered for a close embrace.

          Smiling, she put down her glass on a nearby
table and held out her hand. He set down his own glass, closed his fingers
around hers and guided her toward the music.

          The room was still just as crowded, but
somehow Gabriel led the way through the close-packed guests, past shepherdesses
and queens, desert sheiks and low-dressed vagrants, and even made their passage
seem easy.

          In the second ballroom, dozens of couples
whirled and swayed. They both paused at the edge of the dance and Gabriel put
one hand on her waist. He pulled her close, and she followed his lead as they
took a gliding step and were swallowed up by the smooth flow of the tune.

          Somewhere, a violin trilled, and Psyche felt a
shiver of chill bumps run up her bare arms. Or perhaps it was not the notes of
the tune at all, but Gabriel’s nearness. She saw a vein jump in his temple–what
was he thinking?– and then her gaze dropped and she admired the incredible
smooth curve of his cheekbones; he might have been sculpted from marble, like
the Greek statutes in her father’s etchings. He was just as beautiful to look
upon, but he was alive, tanned and laughing and strong. She felt once more
transported into a dream; he was the man she had never thought to find, and he
was here, holding her close.

          He bent down to whisper, “You know that you
are the most captivating lady here?”

          She laughed. “Cinderella would be offended to
hear you say that.”

          “Cinderella will have to be content with her
band of mice,” Gabriel answered, his blue eyes warm. He pulled her even closer,
and Psyche hoped that the music would never end.

          Then she saw something from the corner of her
vision that made her breath catch in her throat.

          Gabriel raised his brow. “What is it?”

          “That man is watching us. He was in the other
room a few moments ago; did he follow us?”

          “Perhaps he also came to dance,” Gabriel
suggested, but he swung her round so that he could see the man whose appearance
had alarmed her.

          She felt him stiffen. “Gabriel?”

          “I know the face,” he answered quietly. “He’s
one of Barrett’s ruffians.”

          She felt a shiver of fear run through her. She
didn’t want to cause a scene, but if they were in danger–“What shall we do? Can
we call for help?”

           “David went out of the room; he decided to
stand guard in the front hall. And Freddy is not here tonight; he refused to
dress in costume, not that he’s much of a fighter, anyhow. I believe we shall
dance to the other side of the room and slip out one of the French windows onto
the veranda.” Gabriel twirled her expertly around two couples and toward the
far side of the room.

          Psyche clung to him tightly. Surely the man
wouldn’t dare to attack them in plain sight of the other guests? Then she
looked past Gabriel’s arm and saw another man in rough clothes come to join the
first, and then another. Oh, God, how many were here? How they had managed to
walk into Sally’s house without the servants noticing?

          The costumes, of course; everyone looked so
strange, who could tell what was only a disguise and what was not?

          Gabriel had noticed the other men, too. He
quickened his steps, and they were almost to the edge of the room when a rough
hand grabbed Psyche’s arm.

          “We’ll just share this dance, won’t we, me
lord,” a coarse voice said.

          Psyche tried to pull away, but the grip was
too tight. She winced at the painful hold.

          Gabriel pushed the man back, breaking the
villain’s grasp on Psyche. “Unhand her!” he said, his tone sharp.

          But the other two men crowded in, and one put
grimy fingers on Psyche, while two pushed Gabriel back. “We’ll ransom the lady
for a fair sum,” one of the men boasted. “And you, sir, will have your throat
slit in a back alley.”

          Several couples who had been gliding and
whirling to the waltz tune paused, and a woman shrieked, while the other guests
around them stared with wide eyes. Psyche struggled with the man who clasped
her wrist, waiting for someone to scream, to summon help.

          Instead, a ripple of laughter spread through
the crowd. One man said, “What will Sally think of next?’

          “I want to be kidnapped, too,” a stout matron
called playfully.

          “Careful, Angela,” her friend warned. “Your
husband is so tight, he wouldn’t come up with a tuppence for ransom.” More
guests laughed, and several couples resumed their dance.

          They would be murdered right here, or swept
away under the very eyes of the whole ballroom, Psyche thought in alarm. She
pulled harder against her captor. “Someone, help us!”

          But the guest closest to her, who wore a Roman
toga, laughed and shrugged. “Too many for me to fight.”

          The other two ruffians blocked Gabriel’s path;
one of them pulled a small but lethal dagger from his waistband.

          Gabriel’s expression was stern, and his eyes
had darkened. If she had not already been so frightened, Psyche would have
shivered at the look he wore. But he had no weapon, only a few flimsy
gilt-colored cardboard arrows in the quiver at his waist.

          Despite his outrage, he would be helpless
before the knife, she thought, despair threatening to overwhelm her. So she was
as surprised as their assailants when Gabriel whipped the white satin cloak off
his shoulders and wrapped it swiftly around his left arm.

          The man with the knife, as if realizing
Gabriel’s intent, lunged with the sharp blade outstretched. Gabriel blocked the
blow with his well-wrapped arm and at the same time, his right fist thrust
forward, meeting the man’s chin with a sharp impact that rocked him back on his
heels. Dazed, the attacker dropped, hitting the ballroom floor with a thud. Gabriel
leaned over him and delivered another stunning blow. The spectators around them
squealed and clapped, as if it were all a show.

          Idiots! Psyche had overcome her own momentary
feeling of helplessness. The man holding her was staring at Gabriel in surprise
and his grip was less certain. Psyche plunged her elbow into her captor’s side.
Gulping with pain, he let go of her wrist, and she ran to Gabriel.

          The third man hesitated, looking unsure now
that the odds were more even.