Dear Impostor (50 page)

          “The Marquis of Gillingham? He is a relative?”

          ”Great-great-grandfather, that one,” Gabriel
observed, his tone wry. “Was rumored to have locked his wife into her room so
many times the poor lady went mad.”

          “Good heavens. But does that mean that your
father–”

          ”Is a Marquis. Yes, I’m afraid so,” Gabriel
said. “But I have an older brother, you know, who is very much like my sire and
also disapproves of me, so the title is of little matter to me.”

          He had mentioned a brother earlier, she
remembered. “Is your brother–”

          “Oh, he’s the image of my father.”

          “Poor man,” she said before she thought.

          Gabriel laughed and wrapped his arm around her
in a quick embrace.

          “Why is he not here?”

          “He is like my father in temperament as well
as appearance. They fight like mad dogs when they are together. There is a
smaller estate in the next county; my brother spends his time there.”

          He had a brother, and a father who was a
marquis. And she made him a fictitious marquis. The audacity of such a trick of
fate took her breath away. But there was not time to comment on the incredible
irony of it because now they had reached the ground floor. They walked into the
main hall just as Gabriel’s father emerged from his study. The big man glared
at them.

          “Come along then, if you’re determined to
stay; won’t have my dinner getting cold.”

          Gabriel simply nodded. Psyche thought the
older man looked disappointed. Did he still expect his younger son to quail, as
the boy might have done? She felt intense indignation at the many cruelties
that Gabriel had had to endure.

          They all walked in silence into the dining
room. She felt the reaction in Gabriel, the way his muscles clenched beneath
her hand, but knew it was too subtle for his father to detect. How many bad
memories did this house hold for its younger son?

          This room was dark and gloomy, with thick
draperies pulled across the tall windows, and the chandelier only half lit. Did
this surly old man enjoy the darkness? It certainly suited his personality.

          The table was of black wood, with thick
Jacobean legs and heavy carving. The sideboard was massive and groaned with
food. All this for one man? The kitchen staff had had little time to add dishes
in deference to the unexpected guests.

          But perhaps they had made an effort. The elder
Sinclair frowned at the bounty. “Wasting my blunt on a scoundrel?” he demanded.
“Can’t think what they are about; I should fire the lot of them.”

          Psyche bit her lip, pushing back her angry
reply only with great effort.

          But Gabriel was no longer a small boy, cowed
with fear of his intimidating father. “Perhaps they have some sense of what
guests are due,” he said, his tone cool. “Scoundrels or not.”

          The footmen served the first course. Psyche
was aware of how empty she was; she had tasted no food since the day before,
and much had happened since they had left London. Even with her hollow belly,
however, she found it hard to swallow; the tension at the table was intense. The
food itself was only mediocre; her cook would have chopped of her own fingers
before serving such thin sauces and over-done roast beef. The jellies were
watery, and the horseradish sauce had lumps. Only the puddings were superb,
perhaps Mrs. P’s contribution. But the head cook seemed to lack her skill. In
this house, with this master, with no mistress to guide the staff, Mrs. Parslip
must fight a losing battle; Psyche was not surprised to find the service and
the meal below par.

          But she needed to eat; who knew what tomorrow
would bring? She put another bite of beef into her mouth and chewed
deliberately. She felt for Gabriel, who also ate very slowly. How much harder
was it for him to endure this icy silence, the heavy animosity that glowered
from every glance that the older man threw his way.

          They made it through three interminable
courses without speaking, and Psyche could feel the tightness in her shoulders
growing. When the last course had been served, and they dabbled with a fruit
tart that needed more cinnamon and less sugar, she wondered what on earth she
was supposed to do when the dessert was consumed.

          Normally, the ladies at the table would
withdraw to the drawing-room and leave the men to their brandy and cigars for a
while longer. But Gabriel had said the drawing-room had no fire, and it might
even be draped in dust cloths. She supposed she could simply retire straight to
her guest chamber. It would be more comfortable than remaining here, though she
hated to leave Gabriel alone with this bully of a man.

          The elder Sinclair put down his fork; she
heard it clink on the china plate. “So. I have fed you. I think I have done
what’s expected of me.”

          “Expected of you?” Gabriel noted, raising one
elegant brow. “Since when did you ever do what was expected of you? And how is
my brother, by the way?”

          “He is as usual.”

          “I’m sorry to hear it.” Gabriel took a sip of
his wine. “You may send him my felicitations, when next you speak, some year or
other.”

          “Ha–at least he has not tarnished the name of
Sinclair,” his father barked.

          “As I have? Yes, you did mention that a few
hundred times before you threw me out.”

          “I had cause!”

          The servants had left the dining room after
passing the last course; now a footman reappeared in the doorway, his
expression nervous. “My lord, do you require more–”

          “Away w’you!” the Marquis roared. The servant
slipped out again and shut the door hastily behind him, just in time to avoid
the wine goblet that the old man hurled. It struck the wood, shattering with
the impact, the shards falling to the floor with a sound of tinkling glass.

          Psyche gasped, then held herself very still;
she did not want to attract this despot‘s attention.

          “You have no idea whether there was cause or
not.” Gabriel’s voice rose, just a little. ”You had no idea what I did; you
listened to rumor and innuendo, and you were not willing to hear my accounting
of the affair–of the events that had transpired.”

          The other man made a harsh, mocking sound deep
in his throat. He reached for another glass–were his servants familiar with his
rages?– and gulped down the wine.

          “Although, I must admit, you never did listen
to me, so I really should not have expected anything else.” Gabriel selected a
piece of fruit from the fruit bowl; Psyche admired his calm.

          “A pack of whining excuses you would have
given me, worse than your mother, you were,” his father snapped back. “Waste of
my time. Never were any good, from the time you were whelped.”

          “The first time you told me that, and the next
half dozen, I wept,” Gabriel observed. He put down the pear untouched. “But I
am no longer a child. I regret to inform you that I really have no interest in
your opinions.”

          The older man’s face darkened. “Mock me, will
you? Poor manners and bad blood, no doubt about it.”

          “If you disparage your own bloodline, it is
your judgment, and I must accept it.” Gabriel’s voice was steady.

          Psyche felt genuine bewilderment. How could
the older man feel such enmity for his own offspring? Even if he doubted
Gabriel’s paternity, how could anyone hate a small boy who only wanted to be
loved and accepted? What kind of small-spirited person would take out his
doubts upon a child?

          Gabriel added, “As for my manners, my mother
taught me those, and her father. A good thing; I would have fared very ill in
the world if I had had only your impressive example to guide me.”

          “Aye, I can see how far you’ve come,” his
father snapped. “Come creeping back to your boyhood home dressed in such
ridiculous fashion. Become a gypsy, have you? Reading palms and stealing from
the back garden?”

          “I hate to disappoint you,” Gabriel said. “I
will inform you when I hold that impressive position. In fact, I have not yet
made my mark on the world; I suppose the acorn never falls far from the tree.”

          The other man snorted. “Don’t blame your
misbegotten weaknesses on me,” he said. “Doubt I had anything to do with your
pretty face.”

          Psyche wanted to shout at the man; she held in
her instinctive protest with great difficulty, anger bubbling inside her like
an overboiling pot.

           Gabriel seemed to grow even colder. “A
fortunate thing for us both.”

          “Humph. So what do you want, then?” The other
man folded his arms; he seemed disappointed that he had not been able to
provoke his son. “If it’s money–”

          ”Never,” Gabriel said, his tone flat. “My
purse is not empty. However, I do need your gracious hospitality for one night.
The lady and I will stay overnight and be on our way again in the morning.”

          For the first time, the older man turned to
glare at Psyche. She stiffened, the leering expression on his face warned her
what to expect from his cesspool of a mind.

          “Lady? About as much a lady as your own
mother, doubt me. How dare you bring your doxy into my house–I won’t have it–” But
this insult he was not allowed to finish.

          Gabriel pushed himself back from the table and
took three rapid strides, his long legs covering the distance between them
before his father could complete his statement. He took the older man by the
throat, pulled him erect and held him as lightly, as dangerously as if he were
a striking asp.

          “You have just insulted the two women, the two
honorable women, who are the most dear to me,” he said, his voice deathly
quiet. “If you wish to live to take your next breath, you will swallow those
words, and I will not hear their like again.”

          The other man struggled, but Gabriel’s grip
seemed like iron. Psyche watched and held her breath as the older man fought
for his. His square ugly face turned bluish, and his eyes seemed to pop from his
head.

          Psyche began to shake. Surely Gabriel would
not murder his own father. She made a noise deep in her throat.

          “Gabriel, you can’t!”                                                                   

          For a long moment, she thought he had not
heard. The older man struggled, trying to push Gabriel back, but fifteen years
had wrought more changes than simply gray hairs and lines; the father’s
strength was no longer equal to that of the son’s

          “No, I will not become the same ilk as he,”
Gabriel agreed, his voice husky with emotion. His gasp loosened, and the man in
his grasp drew a long shuddering breath.

          Gabriel looked down at his sire. “You can not
beat me any longer, Father,” he said. “Now, mind what I said about the lady. She
is a lady, you may trust me on that; you have no need to know her name. Because
of a complicated plot against us, she is in need of shelter and protection for
the night. That you will provide, and what poor excuse for civility you can
manage, which I know will not be much.”

          He released the other man, who staggered back
into his chair, still gasping for air. It was

a moment before he could speak; Psyche heard the fire
pop and somewhere, a floorboard creaked.

She wondered if the servants were listening outside the
door.

          “I’ll have you horsewhipped,” Gabriel’s father
croaked. “I’ll have you hung!”

          “I will hang only if I actually murder you,”
Gabriel said, his voice almost cheerful, as if the assault had released some of
the simmering resentment he had harbored for years. “And I would not stoop so
low. Nor will you horsewhip me because you no longer have the muscle, nor do
any of the browbeaten, mistreated servants whose spirit is so poor that they
are willing to stay with you. You will do as I say, and keep your mouth shut.”

          The Marquis made a noise almost like a growl,
but Gabriel ignored him. He turned to Psyche and bowed.

          “My lady, may I escort you to your chamber?”

          She was very glad to take his arm. When they
reached the guest chamber, Gabriel said, “Lock your door. I do not think you
are in any danger, but just–just to be safe.”

          Psyche’s eyes had widened; she nodded. “I
will.” When she shut the door, she turned the key as he had instructed, but the
room seemed very barren, very cold despite the small fire that flickered on the
hearth. How had their parsimonious host agreed to the fire? Perhaps the extra
luxury was due to Mrs. Parslip; the housekeeper seemed to have her own mind
about how to run the house, Psyche thought, smiling a little.