Dear Impostor (10 page)

          Laying his head back against the
hard curved rim of the copper tub, Gabriel found that he could relax completely,
let down his guard as he never could in an inn or even some friendly harlot’s
bedchamber. In this house, he felt at home.

          And that was ridiculous, he told
himself sharply. It didn’t do to let down his defenses too far. He had
dangerous enemies outside the house, and he had a sharp-witted, albeit
beautiful, adversary within. Psyche would have him out of this house as quickly
as she could.

          Except that Gabriel did not mean
to go, not yet. He relaxed a moment longer in the gentle warmth of the water,
then reached for the soap.

          Psyche spent an hour writing quick
but polite refusals and worked her way through most of the stack of mail. Then
a sudden thought made her reach for the small calendar in her desk drawer, and
she gazed at the dates, feeling a rush of dismay.

          Oh, no! How could she have
forgotten? She would send a note of apology–no, no, that wouldn’t work, either.
Psyche put one finger to her lips, chewing absently on the edge of her nail,
then when she realized what she was doing–a childish trick–pulled her hand
away. Oh, dear, oh, dear. She would have to speak to the actor again. Perhaps
by this time he would at least have his clothes on!

          She made her way back to the
drawing room, but found no sign of the man. Frowning, she pulled the bell rope
and waited for Jowers to appear. “Where is the–my fiancé, do you know?”

          Jowers, despite his slow pace and
seemingly slow wits, somehow remained aware of everything that happened in his
household. “I believe he is up the nursery with Miss Circe, Miss.”

          Psyche drew a deep breath. What on
earth– “Thank you, Jowers.”

          The butler nodded and withdrew,
and Psyche almost ran toward the stairs. To leave her innocent little sister
alone with a man of whom Psyche knew nothing–nothing except that his audacity
and lack of respect for his employer knew no bounds–this she could not allow.

          After a leisurely bath, Gabriel
dressed in his evening clothes, foregoing the comfort of his smalls beneath–it
wouldn’t be the first time. He recalled one lady whose bed chamber he had left
so hastily that he’d barely had time to pull on his outer clothing–the lady’s
husband had been pounding on the locked door, as he remembered, uttering grave
threats toward the welfare of any strangers found inside. But his jacket and
breeches had been brushed and pressed, spots of mud removed, and he himself
felt much better after a bath and a shave. He brushed his damp hair into place
and thought about what to do before venturing out into the street. Now that the
footman was safe, Gabriel was in no hurry; his attire would look slightly less
strange if he delayed his errands another few hours. And it was vital that he
attract no unwanted notice.

          On the stairway, he turned away
from his own chamber and climbed another flight, till–by the simple expedient
of opening several doors– he found the nursery chamber. His ‘employer’s’
younger sister stood at the end of the room, in front of an easel. It was
placed beneath a high window, where the light would touch the painting, and
Gabriel’s curiosity stirred. He came forward slowly; the girl was very intent
on her brushwork, and he did not want to startle her.

          “Hello again,” he said.

          Circe looked up at him, then put
down her brush and drew a paint-spattered cloth down, hiding the scene beneath.

          Gabriel had been curious about her
work, but he accepted the silent rebuke with a nod.

          “Hello,” the child said. “Are you
looking for Psyche? She isn’t here.”

          “No,” he answered, making his bow
as he would to an adult. “I came to meet you properly.”

          Circe curtsied in return, then
asked, “Why would you do that?” Her large green eyes met his gaze without
blinking. She showed none of the awkwardness or shyness he would have expected
from a child her age.

          He felt a stirring of interest in
this unusual young lady. “As your future brother-in-law, it is only polite for
me to address you properly.”

          She smiled suddenly, and her whole
face changed. The too-serious look that she usually wore vanished for an
instant, and he saw another side of her, playful and free. Just like her older
sister, this child had more to her than met the eye.

          “Ah, but I know it is all a hum,
the engagement, I mean,” she said very low. Gabriel realized that an older
woman sat in the far corner of the room, nodding over a lapful of knitting
wool.

          “But that does not mean that I
should be rude,” Gabriel retorted, his tone teasing. “We must keep up the pose,
you know, not forget our lines.”

          “I suppose not,” the child agreed.
“It is like one of your plays, yes?”

          “Indeed,” he agreed. “And besides,
you are an unusual young lady. I think I should like to know you better.”

          She considered that for a moment,
then nodded in apparent agreement. “Would you care for some tea? The maid
brought it up for me a while ago, but while the light was good, I could not
afford to stop.”

          “I apologize for interrupting you
at your work,” he said, giving her one of his best smiles. He expected her to
display the usual polite denials or even a shy flirtation. He was ready to
reply to her reassurance that his presence was far better than any silly
painting. But she flattened his over-puffed ego like a sharp knife slicing into
a souffle.

          She shrugged, apparently immune to
his charm. “It’s all right. The best light has gone.”

          Suitably chastened, he followed
her to a battered round table, where Circe took a chair and poured out the tea.
Gabriel sat down across from her and accepted a cup. The liquid was tepid, but
he sipped politely, looking in interest at the child whose motivations were so
different from the average young miss. Instead of a head full of fashion and
shopping and romantic yearnings, she seemed to care only for her art.

          “What are you painting?” he asked,
his tone polite.

          She narrowed her eyes at him over
her own cup of tea.

          “If you wish to talk about it,
that is,” he said, afraid she would retreat again into careful silence.

          “If you really are interested–” she
stopped, studied his expression, then seemed satisfied and continued. “I made a
study of French villages when I visited the Continent with Psyche and Aunt last
year. Our visit was too brief, but I did get some watercolors done that I
was–almost–happy with, and I sketched more scenes.”

          “I would love to see them,”
Gabriel said.

          Circe didn’t answer. “Would you
like a macaroon?” She offered him the plate.

          Gabriel accepted his put-down and
took a biscuit. It was light and sweet, and he nibbled it, watching her. “So
you enjoy water colors?”

          She sighed. “I do, but I should
really like to try oils, only it’s very slow, trying to learn on my own, and we
haven’t been able to find a decent teacher. Young ladies are expected to dabble
in water color, you see, but oils are for serious artists. Oils suggest more
avenues to fully express one’s work. Mr. Turner achieved his Avalanche in the
Grisons by applying his paints with the use of a palate knife–is that not
intriguing? I should so like to expand my skills. ” For the first time, her
tone sounded forlorn.

          “That is too bad,” Gabriel
murmured. At her slightly suspicion glance, he said, “No, I mean it. I can see
that it matters to you.”

          Circe’s narrow shoulders relaxed
just a little. “Yes, and in addition, I am interested in landscapes, not
portraits or still life sketches, and that is not considered quite the thing
for ladies, either. You know what Sir Joshua Reynolds said about the object of
painting.”

          Gabriel didn’t, but he tried to
maintain an air of intelligent interest. “Yes?”

          “He believed that painting should
not copy nature but idealize it. And he preferred historical subjects, the
‘grand style’ that would elevate the observer’s spirit, though mind you, he did
enough portraits, too, but that was for bread and butter. But personally, I
don’t see why a artistically-pleasing vista cannot do the same–elevate the
spirit, that is!” Circe observed, with more passion than she had so far
displayed.

          “Quite right,” Gabriel agreed,
fascinated by her zeal, if not by the topic.

          “But it’s most unfair; even if I
could be admitted to the Royal Academy School, which I can’t, as I’m female–”
Circe sighed– “landscape painting is not taught. One must apprentice to another
artist, but finding a master who will take a girl . . . well, it’s enough to
make one quite downcast.”

          Gabriel stared at her clear eyes,
sparkling now with the depth of her feelings. “But you will not give up,” he
predicted, and was rewarded with the child’s sudden brilliant smile, which
always vanished almost as soon as it appeared.

          “No, indeed!” Circe agreed. “We
are hopeful, Psyche and I, that on the Continent we might find a painter–poor,
perhaps, in need of a paying student–who would be more open-minded. My mama
always said that females should be allowed to exercise their talents just as
men do, you know. Most people find that view shocking.” She paused to observe
his reaction.

          Gabriel smiled quite genuinely. “I
have traveled enough to be, perhaps, more open in my thinking. I see no reason
why a talented woman should not express her genius fully.”

          Circe flashed another wide,
dazzling smile.

          He had a sudden increased
understanding of how Psyche must feel about this adorable, if quite different,
child. No one else was left to nurture her incredible spirit nor protect her
from the confines of a conventional existence except her older sister. Psyche
must feel the burden of her responsibility; no wonder her facade was so cool
and her shell so hard to penetrate. She had assumed the weight of a parent’s
responsibility at too young an age.

          “Some day,” he remarked, “I hope
you will allow me to view your work. These macaroons are excellent, by the
way.”

          When Psyche reached the nursery
suite, she hurried inside. To her relief, she found Circe sitting at the round
table where Psyche herself had once conducted tea parties with her dolls. The
actor sat across from her, and they were both drinking tea and eating macaroons,
Circe’s favorite treat.

          “Circe, what are you doing with
this–this man?” Psyche demanded, her tone too sharp. “Where is Telly?”

          “Here, Miss, did you need me?” The
governess, Miss Tellman, sat up with a jerk. She seemed to have been napping in
her chair in the corner of the room.

          “No, that’s all right,” Psyche
said, her tension fading a little. But her eyes were still narrow as she turned
back to the actor. “And what is your purpose here?”

          “I thought I should pay a courtesy
visit to my future sister-in-law,” Gabriel said, exhibiting his usual lazy
smile.

          “That’s ridiculous,” Psyche
snapped, then pressed her lips together before she could give too much away. Circe
knew all about her scheme, but Telly did not, and the elderly governess was not
above a little judicious gossip with the other servant.. “I mean, I appreciate
your sense of the proprieties, but–”

          ”I thought it was very nice of
him,” Circe said, with her usual direct gaze turned toward her sister. “He
didn’t forget me or ignore me, like some people, just because I’m not out yet,
nor wearing long skirts.”

          “Oh, Circe,” Psyche’s anger faded
into contrition. “You know I always think of you, dearest.”

          “Oh, not you,” Circe explained. “I
meant Percy, who never seems to think that my life will be altered beyond
bearing, too, if he should marry you. In fact, it would be hideous, living with
Percy and Uncle Wilfred.”

          Psyche nodded. She would never
leave her sister behind if or when she should marry; Circe needed her too much.
And when her sister leaned forward and whispered, “It’s a game, Psyche, we’re
pretending, just like a play,” Psyche surrendered to the inevitable.

          “Have a cup of tea, Psyche,” her
sister added, playing the role of hostess with aplomb. “It’s cooled a bit, but
it’s still very nice.”

          “Yes, thank you,” Psyche agreed,
drawing up another chair. Her sister, at twelve, could be alarmingly mature one
moment, and very much a child the next. Psyche could hardly blame Circe for
being curious about this impostor, but she did not like his association with
her sister. After all, she knew next to nothing about him, or his past.

          It seemed that Circe did. “Lord
Tarrington–” her sister said carefully as she passed the cup of tea, “has
traveled extensively, Psyche. He was telling me about some French paintings he
has seen.”