Dear Impostor (7 page)

          Unable to lie still any longer,
Psyche reached for the bell rope and rang for her maid. When Simpson appeared,
she brought a breakfast tray with its steaming tea and warm toast into the bed
chamber, carrying it across the room to place carefully on the bed.

          Psyche reached to pour herself a
cup, then paused. There was something else on the tray–the early mail. But it
was overflowing the confines of the tray, threatening to spill into her empty
tea cup and crush the brittle toasted bread. Psyche blinked in surprise, then
picked up the top of the pile.

          “What on earth. . .” She broke the
wax seal and unfolded the first sheet. An invitation to lunch, extended to
her–and to her newly pledged fiancé.

          “Oh no!” Psyche groaned, ripping
open the wax seals on several other notes and gilt-edged sheets. All the
same–apparently everyone in her family was eager to entertain the charming
Marquis. What would happen when the rest of her acquaintance heard about this
good-looking rascal who was aping his betters? It would only get worse.

          She glanced at her maid, and the
older woman grimaced. “I’m sorry, Miss Psyche,” Simpson said. “When I went to
the theater, I made it clear to this–” she lowered her voice. “–actor-person
exactly what he should do. And I never said nothing about him staying the
night. I don’t understand it.”

          “Nor do I,” Psyche admitted. In
the back of her mind, she thought of the bold glimmer in his eyes when he
looked her up and down. The spark she had felt between them–no, no, it didn’t
do to think on that. Besides, the man must know that it was impossible! There
was no way for a lady of quality and a low-born actor to form any real connection.
It had to be a baser motive. If he hoped to blackmail her–

          “I think he means to hold out for
more money,” she told her maid. “And since I told him I will have no extra
funds to give him unless this scheme works, he is waiting to see if my uncle
releases the purse strings.”

          Simpson still looked anxious. “He
didn’t seem the type for blackmail. I never would have thought he had that much
gumption, Miss,” she worried aloud. “Trying to pretend to be something he’s not
. . .”

          Despite her worries, Psyche
smiled. “But that is what actors do.”

          Simpson’s lips tightened. She had
served the household since her young mistress first put up her hair and
lengthened her short skirts, and she could afford to be blunt. “But that’s on
stage, Miss. This is very different.”

          “So it is. We shall just have to
put up with him for a day or two until I can think of some way to rid ourselves
of this threat. In the meantime, try to dampen any suspicion that may arise in
the servants’ hall.”

          Simpson hesitated.

          “What?” Psyche braced herself. Trouble
already? Curse the man!

          “Wilson has disappeared.”

          Psyche frowned. “Which one is Wilson?”

          “The new under-footman, Miss. He
was the one who took the actor up to his bed chamber last night. And–” Simpson’s
voice sank into an ominous whisper. “He hasn’t been seen since!”

          Psyche bit her lip. Strange ideas
whirled in her head for an instant, but she pushed the wilder notions aside. There
was no reason for the actor to murder an innocent servant. Was there? Had the
actor let his guard slip, said something which gave too much away, and he had
to get rid of Wilson to avoid. . . no, the cool ease with which the impostor
had handled her family all evening would not have cracked in a few brief
moments with a house servant. Then what could have happened?

          “There’s a logical reason,” she
said aloud, trying to convince them both. “There must be. Wilson will turn up.”

          She prayed it were true, and her
scheme had not harmed an innocent person. Psyche pushed the tray aside. Her
appetite was gone. “I must get dressed,” she told her maid, “And go downstairs
to see what is happening.”

          With Simpson’s help, she made a
quick toilette. Dressed in a pale blue, completely proper high-necked muslin
day dress, hair pulled into a simple twist, only a few pale curls escaping the
knot to soften its severity and frame her face, she headed for the formal
rooms.

          But the dining room was empty. She
knew her Aunt Sophie seldom ventured from her own room till later in the day,
and Circe would have had her breakfast in the schoolroom. The morning room had
a cheery fire, but it, too, was vacant, as was the larger drawing room and the
library. Where on earth was the man? Was he lying in bed all day?

          Simpson had departed to the
servant’s quarters, with orders to report to her mistress when–or if–the
missing footman returned, but so far, she had not returned with any reassuring
news.

          Psyche lingered in the upstairs
hall, trying to think what she should do, when she heard the sound of the bell.
It could not be the footman; he would return to the back door, of course, and
she was in no mood for any callers come to congratulate her on her recent
engagement. She hurried into the drawing room, of half a mind to tell the
butler to say that she was not at home.

          But when their aged butler,
Jowers, puffed his way up the staircase and opened the door to the drawing
room, she had no time to deny herself because the caller was right behind.

          “Psyche!” her cousin Percy said,
his face already flushed with strong emotion. “I must speak with you!”

          Wonderful, just what she needed to
make an already inauspicious morning even worse. Psyche took firm hold of her
patience; she would surely need it.

          “Percy, this is not a good time.”

          Her cousin didn’t seem to hear. He
stormed into the room, pulling off his hat and gloves and almost thrusting them
at the butler, who bowed and left the room. “I’ve been at my club, talked to
everyone I could find, and no one–I mean, no one, Psyche–has heard of this
Tarrington title. How do we know this fellow’s who he says he is?”

          “Oh, Percy, don’t be ridiculous.” Psyche
found that her hands had tightened into fists; she made a conscious effort to
relax; she must not reveal her own alarm that Percy was already checking on her
story. “He told you himself that it was an obscure title.”

          “But a marquis, Psyche,” Percy
insisted. “Marquises don’t sprout on every hedgerow, y’know!”

          “Of course, not, but–”

          “I think–” he interrupted, but she
raised her voice and tried again.

          “Percy, this is none of your
affair. It’s my life and my business. I must insist that you stop this
interference and allow me to be the one to–”

          “Not my affair?” Percy glared, his
slightly-protruding eyes opening even wider than usual. “Certainly it is. If
your male relatives are not the ones to protect you–protect a female from her
weaker wit and too-sensitive emotions, who would? It’s for your own good,
Psyche. Just ask my father.”

          She had no wish to bring Uncle
Wilfred into this, even more than he already was. “My uncle should respect my
wishes.”

          And yet she knew how likely that
was! Percy ignored the statement as unworthy even of answer. He continued to
pace up and down on the carpet, his too-tight shoes squeaking a little, then
Percy turned quickly to confront her. “There’s something smoky here, and I want
some answers! I must speak to him myself, man to man. What is his direction?”

          “I don’t know,” Psyche said before
she thought, then put one hand to her lips, aghast at her slip.

          “You don’t know? What do you mean?
Don’t the fellow have a townhouse in London?” Percy’s frown deepened.

          “No, I mean, I told you, he has
been living abroad..”

          “Smoky itself! Why would an
Englishman leave his own country, except to escape debts or a scandal,” Percy
said, with unexpected shrewdness. “He’s after your money, my girl. Didn’t I say
that already?”

          “No, he is not,” Psyche protested,
but her voice sounded shaky even to her own ears.

          “And if he has no residence of his
own, which hotel is he frequenting? He must have told you!”

          “Ah, he–he is staying here,” Psyche
said weakly. Her stomach clenched with nervousness, and she couldn’t think; she
felt more and more afraid that the charade would be exposed and all would be
lost.

          “Here?” Percy looked scandalized. “Aunt
Sophie allowed this?”

          “Of course, he is my fiancé,
Percy. And no one could question my aunt as a suitable chaperon.”

          Percy grunted. “Still, not quite
the thing. However, at least he’s to hand. I wish to speak to him.” He reached
for the bell pull and tugged it vigorously.

          “No!“ Psyche said, thinking wildly
for an excuse—any excuse. “You can’t. I don’t think he has risen.”

          But this time, the butler appeared
in the doorway too quickly. She hoped he had not been outside listening to
their argument.

          “Jowers, take me to that accused
Marquis’ chamber,” Percy demanded, with the ease of one long acquainted with
the family servants.

          The butler nodded and turned, and
Percy strode after him. Psyche, furious to have lost control of the situation,
was reduced to running along the hall after them.

          “I will not allow my guest to be
harassed, Percy!”

          But he wouldn’t listen. Psyche
felt her heart beat faster. Was it over before it had begun? Her precious plan
seemed in shreds already.

          When the butler led them all to
the guest floor and indicated the chamber, Percy plunged forward, pushing open
the door after only the briefest knock, not waiting for any permission to
enter.

          From outside in the hallway,
Psyche heard a startled exclamation–Percy’s, she thought–and then a roar of
outrage.

          Had Percy attacked the actor? Or–remembering
the missing footman– had the actor attacked Percy? Was someone being murdered? Psyche
couldn’t help herself–she ran into the room, only to stop abruptly just inside
the doorway.

          “What do you mean by this, Sir? Are
you some savage, to insult my cousin’s household in this fashion?” Percy was
demanding.

          Psyche gasped. The actor sat in a
large wing chair facing the window; he had apparently been reading the
newspaper. But the reason for Percy’s shock was obvious. The man was completely–bare-as-a-newborn
babe–naked. At least he appeared naked, except for the happy coincidence of the
newspaper.

          God Save the Times, Psyche thought
a trifle hysterically.

          Gabriel had turned slightly to
meet Percy’s gaze, and his broad shoulders and chest were quite uncovered. The
newspaper he had lowered covered his torso below the waist, but she could see a
glimpse of muscular legs and bare feet.

          Psyche felt her cheeks burn. She
had never seen a man unclothed before. This was shocking, most improper. And if
one corner of her mind couldn’t help noting that the man’s form was just as
well made and as pleasing as his face, if she noted the breadth of his
shoulders or the muscled biceps of his arms—well, she smothered those dreadful
thoughts immediately, of course. After one last lingering glance, she averted
her gaze and studied the figured carpet beneath her feet with great
concentration.

          “No, indeed,” Gabriel’s voice was
as calm and controlled as if entertaining
au naturel
were an everyday
occurrence. For all she knew it probably was. Unprincipled wretch! Psyche
risked another quick glance to glare at him, noting absently the faint stubble
that marked his chin and lower cheeks. Even that did not mar his incredible
good looks.

          “I simply have had a slight accident
with my apparel. When the servant brought me a cup of tea this morning, he took
away my evening clothes to be brushed and pressed. Until I rose, I didn’t know
that my other luggage had not reappeared.”

          “B-but–” Percy stammered, still
obviously flustered.

          “I sent the footman to the hotel
to fetch them last night,” Gabriel continued smoothly. “But according to the
other servants, he doesn’t seem to have returned.”

          This brought Psyche’s head erect
again, and anger pushed aside any remnants of embarrassment. “You sent my
footman out into the street alone at such an hour! How dare you?”

          “It didn’t seem an outrageous
request,” Gabriel said, his deep blue eyes mild. “I gave him a handsome tip to
run the errand.”

          “But so late at night!” Psyche was
still outraged. “Don’t you know that the streets of London are always
dangerous? There are footpads and robbers and–and–I don’t know what.”

          “And you shouldn’t,” Percy
interrupted, frowning at his cousin. “A lady should have no knowledge of such
things!”