Dear Impostor (9 page)

          Psyche put her hand to her lips. “Is
he–” She had a sudden vision of the hapless footman’s body, found sprawled in
an alley, his throat cut and his pockets rifled.

          “He’s shaken, Miss, and has a
fearful bump on his head, but–” Simpson began.

          Psyche didn’t wait to hear the
rest. Relief easing the tension that had stiffened her shoulders, she headed
immediately for the stairs. She hurried down several flight of steps and on
through the door that led to the servants’ quarters. When she reached the main
servants’ hall, she found a cluster of maids and footmen surrounding the
no-longer missing servant. He sat slumped in a wooden chair. When he saw her,
he jumped to his feet, but then swayed and collapsed into the chair again even
before she spoke.

          “Sit down, Wilson. Are you all
right?”

          The rest of the servants made way
for her, and she saw that the housekeeper, Mrs. McNilly, was wringing a clean
cloth over a basin of vinegar water she had brought to the table beside him. As
Psyche watched in concern, the housekeeper gently washed the large purple
swelling on the side of the footman’s head. He had other scrapes and cuts, and
his livery was ripped and torn and covered with mud.

          “Are you all right?” Psyche
repeated. “Do you need to see a surgeon?”

          The footman shuddered. “Oh, no,
ma’am. Don’t need no one bleeding me. I been through enough, I ‘ave.”

          Despite her concern, Psyche had to
hide a smile. “Very well.”

          ”Looks like no bones broken, Miss
Psyche,” the housekeeper told her, dabbing at a bit of dried blood on the man’s
face. “He’s very lucky indeed. Set upon by a whole gang of footpads, ‘e was.”

          “Tell me what happened,” Psyche
said.

          The man rolled his eyes. “All I
did was go where his lordship tol’me, to the inn down by the docks–shabby place
it’twere, ma’am–and ask for his bags. ‘E gave me a coin to settle his account
and another for me–which they took from me.” The footman’s tone was bitter. “Nicest
bit of coin I’ve ‘ad since–” As if remembering this was not the person to
complain to, he stopped abruptly.

          Psyche pretended not to notice;
she knew that their servants were well paid; her parents had never stinted on
household economy, nor had she, but she could understand his disappointment
over the loss of his unexpected largesse. “Who attacked you?”

          “It ‘appened after I left the inn,
ma’am,” the servant told her. “I ‘ad his lordship’s carpetbags–he don’t seem to
‘ave no trunk, maybe it ain’t arrived yet–and when I turned to head back toward
Mayfair, all these men–must a’been a ‘undred of ‘em–swarmed out of an alley and
jumped me. ‘Ad no chance at all to defend myself.” He shuddered, remembering,
and several of the younger maidservants shrieked in sympathetic alarm.

          The last thing she needed was the
housemaids having hysterics. Psyche spoke firmly. “You are very fortunate, Wilson, to have escaped with only minor injuries.”

          He nodded, shivering again. “A
bunch of sailors came out of a nearby tavern, ma’am, singing and swearing, and
likely they scared the thieves away. I’m sorry bout his lordship’s things,
ma’am. Guess those footpads thought ‘e might have money or jewelry in ‘em. I
‘ope he don’t ‘old me accountable. . .”

          Psyche had forgotten about Mr.
Sinclair’s luggage. She looked around and saw two carpet bags, much slashed and
ripped, which lay on the floor nearby. Poor Wilson had been true to his trust,
bringing back what was left of the luggage. But the bags had been ripped inside
and out; she could see a scrap of a once fine linen shirt hanging out through
one of the slits. The thieves had either been disappointed in what they sought
or very thorough indeed in searching for valuables.

          “Someone must have heard you
asking for the Marquis of Tarrington’s cases,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s
really too bad.”

          “But I was very private, like,” Wilson argued. “His lordship tol’me and I was careful, just like ‘e said. He weren’t even
staying there under his title, miss, but under ‘is Christian name.”

          Psyche raised her brows. Since
Gabriel hadn’t heard of his ‘title’ until she had bestowed it upon her
fictitious fiancé, that was no surprise. The other servants looked a bit
shocked, however. “He was doubtless being discreet until he could find a more
refined hotel,” she said. “He has been out of England for some time, as you
know. However, someone had better take this up to his lordship and allow him to
see if anything here can be salvaged. And take back his evening clothes; he
must have something to wear.” She remembered the naked man upstairs, sheltered
tactfully under his newspaper, and tried not to blush.

          One of the footmen jumped, as if
remembering that he was remiss in his duties and hurried away. Again, Psyche
pretended not to notice. Her mother had been an excellent manager with her
household staff, and she had taught her daughters that, for everyone’s benefit,
there were times to be vigilant and times to turn a blind eye.

          Psyche looked down at the wounded
footman. “Don’t worry about the loss of your own money,” she said kindly. “I’m
sure that when his lordship hears of your ordeal, he will replace your coin,
likely even increase it.” She would make sure of it, she told herself.

          Wilson brightened at once. Then,
as she was about to turn away, he said timidly, “Umm, ma’am, if I might be so
bold–”

          ”Yes?” She looked back, her mind
already engaged once again with the bigger problem of ridding herself of an
unwanted fiancé.

          “You won’t–won’t ‘old me
responsible for me ruined livery, will you, ma’am?” he asked anxiously.

          It took her a second to realize
what he meant. Servants were provided with household livery as part of their compensation
and received new clothing once a year, but they were responsible for the upkeep
of their uniforms.

          “Of course not,” she said briskly.
“Jowers will see to getting you a new set of livery right away; you certainly
can’t be seen above stairs in such a state.”

          The elderly butler nodded.

          “Thank’ee, ma’am,” Wilson said. He settled back into the chair to accept the ministering of the housekeeper
and several maids, happy enough now in his role of the brave, abused victim.

          Psyche returned to the main floor,
thankful that her servant would recover. It had been most thoughtless of the
actor to have sent the man out so late at night, but perhaps Gabriel had really
not considered the dangers. Likely, the thespian was accustomed to the peril of
the streets and had come to consider it simply another fact of life. Psyche
sighed, recalling her mother’s lectures on social systems and understanding the
world of the under classes.

          As she entered the morning room,
she remembered the stack of mail. She would have to decline three luncheon
invitations, since her ‘fiancé’ had no clothes to wear, and she herself was too
distracted to leave the house and make polite conversation. Sighing, she headed
toward her bedroom and the small desk littered with notes and cards.

          In his chamber, Gabriel had
groaned when he saw the damaged bags. The footman who brought up his luggage
had also detailed, with much colorful embellishment, the story of Wilson’s return and of the attack he had suffered. Gabriel, who had just pulled his best
linen shirt from the bag and was frowning at the slashes that now rendered it
useful only for the housemaid’s rag bag, forgot about his clothing. He turned
and listened with all his attention.

          “They jumped him outside the
tavern, after he had collected my things?”

          “Yes, milord. If there’s aught
missing from the bags, it really ain’t his fault, milord.”

          This household staff’s loyalty to
each other was commendable, Gabriel thought. In his own father’s house, the
staff was so browbeaten they would have sold their own grandmother to have
escaped censure from their overbearing employer. But he pushed that thought
away. He never cared to think about his father.

          “No, of course not,” he agreed. Fortunately,
he had left no money in such a rowdy inn, which had been chosen only for its
cheap rate. The note turning over ownership of the estate which Barrett had
lost during the card game–which must have been the thieves’ true target–had
been tucked inside his evening jacket, but still . . . he rummaged through the
bag and sighed.

          “Milord?”

          “My gold stick pin is missing, of
course. I thought I had it well hidden, but–it can’t be helped”. It was a
trifle, worth only a few pennies, but he had valued it for other reasons. As
usual, he pushed the deeper emotion away and focused on the needs of the
moment.. “Tell Wilson I shall see him presently when he has recovered and offer
him my–um–condolences.”

          The servant nodded in complete
understanding. “I’ll tell ‘im, milord. I know ’e’ll be most appreciative.”

          Gabriel rummaged through the bag
again. “Damn!”

          “Milord?”

          “They took my ivory-backed
razors.” Gabriel fingered the rough stubble that covered his chin and cheeks. In
all his years of wandering, despite his poverty, his sometimes desperate
straits, he had maintained his personal hygiene religiously. Perhaps at times
it had been all that reminded him of what he had been, what he still considered
himself–a gentleman.

          The servant looked sympathetic. “May’ap
I can do something about that, milord. Miss Psyche’s father–his set of razors
might still be put away, for sentiment sake, like. I’ll ask the housekeeper if
she could oblige.”

          “Thank you,” Gabriel told him.

          When the footman left the room,
shutting the door behind him, Gabriel smiled grimly. Despite his losses, they
had still been very lucky. He realized, more than any of them, how fortunate
the footman was to still have his throat uncut and his head in one piece. Gabriel
had not expected the band of ruffians to be so intelligent as to detect another
man coming to fetch his cases.

          On the other hand, the servant’s
livery had likely caused remark in such a lowly inn. It was too late now to
regret his actions; fortunately, the servant would heal, and Gabriel himself
must deal with the loss of his wardrobe. With precious few coins left to spend,
that was enough of a blow. Gabriel winced at his own pun. He had to replace his
ruined wardrobe sufficiently to be seen outside the house without attracting
comment, he had to engage a competent attorney to assure the legal transfer of
title of the estate he had won, and he had to replenish his almost empty
pockets. And for that, he would have to return to the gaming houses, while
still escaping notice of the gang hired to kill him.

          “I think,” he muttered to himself,
“it will be a most intriguing week.”

          In a short time, the footman
returned with an engraved leather case and a brocade robe hanging over his arm.
“The ‘ousekeeper found a set of razors, my lord, and also a robe. Ain’t no more
of the late master’s clothes ’as would fit you. And I took the liberty of
ordering the maids to bring up ’ot water for a bath. Your evening clothes will
be here shortly, as well, but your–um–drawers are still wet, milord; the
laundry maids put them into the wash.”

          “I should like a bath very much
indeed,” Gabriel answered, keeping his tone calm with some effort. A warm bath
in a clean tub–it reminded him forcibly that he was in a real home again, not
just another grimy second-rate tavern or inn. This was luxury indeed, almost
worth the repeated attempts on his life. Bless Psyche for offering him this
haven, this moment of ease that reminded him of all he had lost, and all he
meant to reclaim. Even if her offer was a bit involuntary. . .

          Grinning, he pulled on the robe,
picked up the set of straight razors engraved with H.H.–he would treat them
with utmost care–and followed the footman to the large bath, where the water
emitted pleasant waves of warmth, and fresh soap and clean towels waited
nearby.

          “Do you wish me to shave you,
sir?” the footman asked, his eyes glinting. Did he have ambitions of becoming a
valet? It would be a step up for him, more money and more status. He seemed
more intelligent than the poor fellow Gabriel had sent to retrieve his
belongings, and Gabriel certainly had no man of his own. It wasn’t a bad idea,
Gabriel thought.

          “I’ll call you when I’m ready,” he
said aloud. “What’s your name?”

          The man bowed slightly; he had a
lantern jaw and mild, intelligent brown eyes. “Brickson, milord.” He left the
dressing room and pulled the door shut behind him.

          Gabriel dropped the thick robe and
stepped into the tub, sighing as the water swirled around his legs. It had been
a long while indeed since he had had a proper bath, not a dip in a stream or a
quick wash from a cracked basin. He sat down, and the warm water enveloped him
like the security he had lost years ago, the stability he would have sworn he
cared nothing for.