Dear Impostor (11 page)

          Psyche tried not to show her
surprise. If Circe had talked to the actor about her painting, she must have
decided he was worthy of trust. Circe hated above all things being patronized,
and her painting was not a hobby, although since their parents had died, only
Psyche and perhaps Telly really understood the passion and the talent that this
young girl revealed. And child though she was, Circe had a keen instinct for
judging people’s characters. She had always detested Percy.

          Psyche stared at the actor who sat
so at ease at this nursery table, sipping his tea; the man continued to
surprise her.

          “I told him of my interest in
oils, Psyche,” Circe told her sister. “He feels that I should be able to study
the use of oil, and also landscaping, just like any young painter.”

          Another surprise, that Circe
should be so open so quickly. “And so you should,” Psyche agreed.       

          “When I was in Spain, I viewed some remarkable scenes by El Greco,” Gabriel said thoughtfully, reaching for another
macaroon. “His study of Toledo–quite striking. Two hundred years old, of
course, but a definite mood to his paintings. I agree with Circe that
landscapes should be more than mere studies of topography.”

          Circe beamed, and Psyche’s mood
softened even more. Circe had so few people to discuss art with, seriously
discuss. She hated adults who tut-tutted and told her not to neglect her
needlework and piano, which would be more important to young lady of fashion,
after all. How did this actor know anything about art, anyhow, or was it all
just another illusion, a clever fiction he was spinning for her sister’s
benefit?

          Seeing the sparkle in her younger
sister’s eyes, Psyche almost didn’t care.

          The man seemed to sense the
direction of her thoughts. “I fear that I am ignorant at art compared to your
sister,” he said to them both. “But I know enough to appreciate genuine passion
when I see it.”

          Psyche was pleased again, both by
his candor and his seemingly honest appreciation of her sister’s talents. “Yes,
she cares deeply about her work. That is why I’m trying to find her the right
instructors.”

          Circe had smiled, but now she
frowned just a little. “I keep working on my own, but it’s difficult. That
harbor scene I did at Calais wasn’t too bad. But I’m still trying to capture
the special quality of sunlight from behind a cloud, you know, not quite
opaque, but that faint shimmer. . .” Circe’s voice trailed off as she looked
away from them, as if envisioning an image visible only to her artist’s eyes.

          Psyche felt a wave of love and
protectiveness wash over her as she gazed at her remarkable little sister. She
vowed silently, as she had done so many times before, that Circe would not be
pushed into a stifling pattern, forced to conform to the role of society maiden
interested only in finding a husband. Circe had gifts that must be exercised,
be allowed to grow, or something in her spirit would wither and fade, and Circe
would bear the loss and the pain forever. And she had already lost enough. . .
. no, Psyche would protect her, would find the money they needed–her own money,
for heaven’s sake, her parent’s inheritance, meant for just such expenditures
at this. Her free-thinking parents would have understood Circe’s special needs;
Uncle Wilfred did not.

          “You care about your sister very
much, do you not?” the actor said quietly.

          She shifted her gaze to meet his. “Yes,
I do. And I will allow no one to hurt her,” she answered, just as low.

          He smiled. “I promise you I would never
injure a child.”

          But he could, willingly or not, if
this imposture were exposed. Psyche’s fears returned with a rush. “I have bad
news.”

          He raised his brows and waited,
his expression composed. She admired his lack of panic, Psyche thought in one
corner of her mind.

          “I had accepted an invitation to a
party tonight, before–before I knew you would be here. I mean, I thought my
fiancé –you–would have to return immediately to the Continent,” she tried to
explain, aware of the governess sitting a few feet away. “And now if I send
regrets, when Percy will have told everyone that you are staying here, it will
seem too suspicious.

           “At least,” she shook her head,
“you do have evening clothes! But something must to be done about the rest of
your wardrobe.” She bit her lip. Which tailor could provide proper raiment on
short notice?

          Simone would know. She would send
a note to her modiste immediately. “Nothing too flashy, of course, nor too
expensive and then there was the bootmaker and the . . .          “

          Psyche suddenly became aware of
the stares directed at her. Telly’s round face was stunned, Circe’s interested,
and Gabriel looked a bit askance.

          “Oh dear. Was I speaking aloud?”

          Circe nodded gravely. “Yes,
Psyche.”

          Gabriel shifted uncomfortably on
the little chair. “I assume you were talking about me?”

          “No, this is for my other naked
fiancé.” Psyche rolled her eyes. “Of course I was speaking of you.”

          Circe giggled into her tea cup.

          Telly gasped, “Miss!”

          Psyche frowned. “He has to have
clothing, Telly. What’s so improper about that?”

          “But you shouldn’t–young ladies
don’t discuss male attire, Miss Psyche. You know that.” The older woman sounded
distressed, and Psyche relented.

          “I’m sorry, Telly.” She turned to
the actor to explain, “If I am improper, it’s not because of lack of trying on
our dear governess’s part.”

          Gabriel smiled. “I don’t find you
improper at all, my dear Miss Hill. In fact, I find you quite perfect, just as
you are.”

          Psyche felt a moment of warmth,
then she steeled herself against his charm. The man was an actor, the man was
an actor. She would have to embroider the phrase on her handkerchief and keep
it within constant view.

          It was so easy to relax and enjoy
his sweet phrases. She had to remember that he was not sincere, that this was
all pretense. She no longer wondered that he was not better known; she was
beginning to think he had practiced his lines in ladies’ chambers more often
than on the stage. With his incredible good looks, he would have had sufficient
chance. . .

          But this was accomplishing
nothing. Since her parents’ death, Psyche had learned to take action, not just
contemplate. She pushed herself back from the table and stood.

          The actor stood, too, politely,
and she thought she saw a moment of disappointment in his deep blue eyes. No,
it was likely another pretense.

          “I am going out,” she announced. “I
will be back soon. We will leave for the party at eight, after a light dinner;
they will have a late supper at the soiree.”

          His look was ironic, but she
wasn’t sure how much he knew about the social life of the Ton. It was not
something an unknown actor would have had the chance to participate in. And
with Telly in the room, she couldn’t speak more plainly.

          “I will be ready,” he said,
casting an ironic glance down at his apparel; since the evening grab was the
only outfit he owned not in shreds, he was certainly prepared to go out.

          Psyche almost laughed, then bit
back her giggle. He might think she was making fun of his predicament, and she
wouldn’t hurt anyone’s feelings through ridicule, not even this impertinent
thespian. But it really was ridiculous.

          “Psyche,” Circe put in. “I could
use a new pad of drawing paper, please.”

          “Of course,” Psyche nodded. “I
shall see you later, dearest.”

          The actor bowed, and Psyche
inclined her head, then turned and hurried out. Sometimes she could almost
regret that their engagement were not real. His attention was so unwavering,
his regard so–no, no, she mustn’t even consider such a thing. It was a game;
she must remember, only a pose. It would all end soon.

          There was nothing more satisfying
than a successful shopping trip, Psyche thought, tugging off her kid gloves as
she strode up the steps of the townhouse and through the open door that Jowers
held. She had purchased drawing paper and picked up a few new brushes that
Circe had ordered. Thinking only of Circe’s delight at the sable brushes, she
barely noticed Jowers’ strange expression as her new entourage followed her
through the door.

          She had also called at the boot
maker, glove maker, and, of course, Simone’s establishment. Simone had only
been too happy to give Psyche the name of a tailor. Between Aunt Sophie, Circe
and the many gowns Psyche needed for the season, Simone made a tidy profit from
the females in the Hill family.

          While ensconced on a rose-colored
silk settee, Psyche had sipped her tea and sighed appreciably over the new
French fashions. Now that that scourge Napoleon had at last been vanquished,
trade was flourishing and the English could again enjoy their beloved French
fabrics and designs. Not that some hadn’t been smuggled in even during the war
years, but Psyche’s parents had frowned upon that practice.

          Psyche had also slipped on the new
gown she was to wear to the Forsyth’s party that evening for a final fitting. It
was a dream of a gown; icy blue in some lights, silver in others. The short
sleeves were banded with a delicate, filmy lace and still more lace flirted
with the low, square-cut neckline. The fitted bodice clung to her figure, then
the skirt flowed smoothly over her hips and ended in a train which was a swirl
of filmy fabric. Experimentally, Psyche twisted back and forth and watched
herself in the looking glass. The fabric glimmered with each movement of her
body. If for just a movement she had allowed herself to imagine Gabriel’s
powerful arm guiding her through the swing and swirl of a waltz, or imagined
the feel of his rough cheek against the smoothness of her own, or his warm
breath against her cool lips as he leaned in for another forbidden kiss...well,
no one but she would know of her foolishness.

          After Simone had checked the fit
of the new gown and pronounced it perfect, Psyche had left the shop with
Simpson following behind her, carrying the dress. One more stop to gather her
last needs and she had returned home in a glow of satisfaction. As she handed
her reticule and gloves to a footman, she finally noticed poor Jowers.

          She had never seen the poor man so
distracted. Of course, as he held the door open for the last of the arrivals,
he did have to duck to avoid being hit over the head by a very large bolt of
black silk.

          “Miss, excuse me. Who are all
these men and what am I to do with them?”

          “Why, they are here to assist me,
Jowers.”

          Psyche pressed herself against the
drawing room door to avoid another bolt of fabric.

          Jowers tried to draw himself up in
affront but had to stop to help one of the men lift a clumsy package of
trimmings over the threshold.

          “Miss, I am most sorry if you feel
you must go elsewhere for assistance, but I assure you that our household staff
is–”

          Distressed, Psyche cut him off. “Oh,
no, Jowers. Don’t worry yourself. These men are tailors and are here to create
a new wardrobe for Lord Tarrington. As you know, his clothing has met with an
unfortunate accident.”

          “Oh, yes, miss. I see.” An uncertain
look crossed Jowers’s wrinkled face. “But, miss, are you certain that Lord
Tarrington wishes this kind of assistance? It has been many years since your
father has died, but surely things have not changed so much–”

          Psyche paid scant attention to his
worries as she directed the team of tailors into the foyer. “Jowers, where is
Lord Tarrington?”

          “He is in the yellow salon, Miss.”

          “Perfect!” Psyche turned and waved
the men down the hall toward the large room. “This way, gentlemen. Follow me. Your
client is right this way.”

          “But I really don’t think this is
how it is done,” Jowers finished weakly.

          With enthusiastic vigor, Psyche
threw open the salon doors and found her fiancee studying her mother’s portrait
over the fireplace. He was sipping coffee from a pale green and cream Sevres
cup, but his arm stopped midway to his mouth at the sight of Psyche and her
tailors.

           Gabriel stood motionless with his
cup poised ready to drink. Psyche paused with her hand on the doorknob,
directing what appeared to be a small army into the room–or more
accurately–straight at him. The gang of tidily-dressed men rushed to Gabriel’s
still figure and swarmed around him. One little monkey of a man actually
reached up and nipped the cup out of his hand. Gabriel was so startled by this
audacity, he didn’t even pound the man as he normally would, had a stranger
been so familiar with his person.