Dear Impostor (13 page)

          Her mother had wanted Psyche to
find such a partner, a man she could stand beside and believe in. Psyche did
not know why, but it was suddenly imperative to make this man, this impostor,
forgive her.

          Carefully, she walked to stand
beside him. He was not looking at her but at the fire crackling cheerfully in
the grate.

          He spoke before she could.

          “It is true that I am poor, that I
have none of the riches that should be mine.” He faced her, lines she had never
noticed etched deeply beside his mouth. “But I have my pride, Psyche. I have
held on to it through all these years, and I will not have it taken from me. “

          Psyche opened her mouth to
protest, but he put up one hand to stop her.

          “It may be a vain virtue, but I
have precious few. I will let no one, not even you, rob me of that. There was a
time when I allowed myself to be led, but never again, Psyche. You cannot take
that from me; I have already been stripped of too much.”

          He turned away from the mantel and
walked out of the room. Psyche watched him go, feeling somehow that she had
just made a terrible mistake.

          He went up to his bedchamber and
rang for Brickson, asking first for a glass of brandy while he composed
himself–he had never meant to make such personal comments to Psyche. Why did
the woman get under his skin so easily? Her cool beauty, her too-controlling
attempts at assistance–she seemed to slip past the guard he had erected so
carefully over the years. . . he must be more vigilant.

          No woman had controlled him since
he had left England; he had been savagely wary of his independence, had prided
himself on keeping a cool head. Oh, he had certainly given into his passions,
when the opportunity presented itself, but never–never since Sylvie–had he
allowed a woman to cloud his brain or rule his actions.

          The memories of his youth were
still too painful. Perhaps it had been his innocence, his awareness of his
ignorance in matters of love and in drawing room society, too, that had led him
to allow his first lover to take over so much of his life.

          Brickson brought the wine. By this
time, Gabriel was regaining his usual calm. Psyche had been right about one
thing; he must have a new wardrobe. A short conversation with the footman
Brickson, who still swelled with pride at the chance to take over temporary
valet duties, had given Gabriel the names of the highest regarded tailors and
bootmakers. Evidently, Gabriel had been correct in the man’s ambitions. Brickson
knew a great deal about male fashion.

          “Some of the military gentlemen
prefer Shultz, milord, but Weston is favored for evening and day wear by the
most discerning,” Brickson explained, his tone serious. “And as for boot
makers, there’s a shop on Bond Street . . .”

          So Gabriel went downstairs and
donned his hat and gloves. When Jowers hurried up, the butler asked, “Do you
require a carriage, milord?”

          Gabriel thought for a moment. He
would have walked, but at mid-afternoon, his attire was still most incongruous,
and he had no wish to attract attention. “Will it inconvenience the ladies?” he
asked.

          Jowers blinked, then said, “Um,
no, milord. The ladies have no plans to go out this afternoon.”

          “Very well, then, yes,” he said. And
he rode to Bond Street once more in luxurious ease in the family chaise, with
its thick squabs and carved wood inlays.

          Gabriel was ushered into the
tailor’s establishment by a courteous underling, although the man gave his
outfit a curious glance. He was left to wait in a small but well-appointed
anteroom until the great man himself came in.

          “Milord,” the tailor bowed
slightly. “Welcome to our humble establishment.”

          “Thank you,” Gabriel acknowledged
the salute. “My luggage has met with a sad accident, and my clothing is in
shreds. Therefore, I am in urgent need of your assistance.”

          The man nodded slowly. “Yes,
milord. I regret that I am not familiar with your family. But I would say,” he
looked closely at the jacket that Gabriel wore, “that this attire is
French-made?”

          “Yes, indeed.” It was a discreet
but reasonable question. Englishmen retired to the Continent when they could
not pay their bills and the duns became too urgent. “I have been living abroad
for some time, but when I inherited the title–an obscure one, to be sure, but
still, bearing its own responsibilities, it was best that I return.“ He might
as well take advantage of Psyche’s story, Gabriel thought cynically. “And since
my betrothal to Miss Hill, I must have a wardrobe suitable for the many social
engagements that must follow.”

          “Miss Psyche Hill?” the tailor
asked, his tone sharper.

          “Yes indeed,” Gabriel agreed. “I
am most fortunate to have secured her regard.”

          “Ah, allow me to offer my
felicitations,” the other man said, bowing again even more deeply. His
expression became much more genial. As a fiancé of the wealthy Miss Hill,
Gabriel’s status had just increased enormously, not to mention the tailor’s
odds of seeing his bills paid. The man snapped his fingers, and an assistant
materialized at his elbow, measuring tape in hand. “Let us just take your
measure, milord.”

          Some time later, Gabriel found
himself in an inner room, wearing a thick velvet robe and waiting for the
assistant to return with his clothes. There had been measurements galore, and
discussions of fabric and cut, although happily, not as uninhibited as the
hopeful tailor that Psyche had recruited. “I see that his lordship favors the
latest French style,” Weston had said, “but I must point out the advantages of
the British cut. . .”

          Now Gabriel relaxed in a
comfortable chair with a glass of port; the port was only mediocre, but the
prospect of a new and elegant wardrobe was certainly pleasing. His ‘engagement’
to Psyche had developed unforeseen advantages. He would not, of course, allow
her to incur his expenses. As soon as he got into a decent game, he would
reline his empty pockets and pay his bills, then, when he took control of his
new-won estate, he could forget the hand-to-mouth existence he had endured for
so long.

          When the door opened again, he
didn’t bother to look around, expecting the assistant. Instead, a new voice
said, “By all that’s holy–Gabriel, is that really you?”

          Gabriel stiffened in instinctive
alarm. If his cover was blown now, he would say goodbye to his new clothes, to
his pose as the fiancé of a rich young lady, and he’d end up on the street with
only one set of raiment to his name. He turned very slowly, and then, despite
himself, smiled.

          “Freddy!”

          “It is you! Came in to tell Weston
to run me up a couple new coats and thought I was seeing a ghost, don’t
y’know!” The young man before him had changed very little since the days they
had been up at Oxford together. His thin blond hair and pale blue eyes, his
round face which always looked a trifle foolish in expression, had made him the
brunt of many a joke by his peers, first at their boarding school and later
even at university.

          It had been Gabriel who had stood
up for the smaller boy, who had fought at his side against bullies who choose
to make fun of his small statute and less than stellar wits. But the Honorable
Frederick Allen Wyrick the third had a good heart, and he was very loyal to his
friends. And he did not, apparently, forget them.

          “Haven’t set eyes on you
in–what–well over a dozen years?” Freddy was saying. He had paused in the
doorway in surprise. Now he rushed into the room and grabbed Gabriel’s hand to
shake it vigorously. “That business with the woman–bad business, what, but not
your fault, I was sure of it.”

          “You were the only one, then,”
Gabriel said, his own voice grim. “But thank you for the support, Freddy. I
wish I had known at the time.”

          “Should have come to me, Gabriel,”
Freddy said, a bit shyly. “My father might have kicked up a fuss, but I would
have stood by you.”

          Gabriel could not help but be
touched be his friend’s sincerity. “Thank you,” he said solemnly. “I am glad to
know that now, even if I did not know it, then.”

          “Went abroad, did you?” Freddy
continued, his expression curious. “That’s what I heard, anyhow. And now you’re
back! Dashed good to see you, old man.”

          “And I to see you,” Gabriel told
him, quite honestly. It had been a very long time since he had encountered a
friend from those long ago days; he had often wondered if he would ever see
friendly faces from his past. But the timing now was not the best–

          The door opened again, and the
assistant put his head in the door. “Milord, here are the coat and trousers
that we were making for Mr.–for another client; we have adjusted them to fit
your measurements, milord; it will allow you to be seen until your other items
are ready. We will send your own garments back to Miss Hill’s townhouse.”

          “Thank you,” Gabriel said. From
the corner of his eyes, he saw Freddy frowning in bewilderment.

          Fortunately, his college friend
waited until the man had left before asking, “You have the title, Gabriel? But–your
father and brother–um–”

          “It’s Tarrington,” Gabriel
explained. “The title, I mean.”

          “What?” Freddy looked bewildered,
as indeed he might. But–”

          ”It came to me through a cousin’s
death,” Gabriel said quickly. ”A distant connection, actually.”

          “But your older brother, wouldn’t
he be the one—“

          ”Um, normally, yes. But there are
special circumstances having to do with my grandmother’s second marriage and
that disgraceful affair with the vicar’s nephew–we don’t like to talk about it,
Freddy, you understand.”

          “Right-o,” Freddy agreed, though
he obviously didn’t. He still looked puzzled. “Whatever you say.”

          Good old Freddy. He might not be
the most shiny twig to fall off his family tree, but he was unfailingly loyal. Gabriel
felt a rush of affection. “I have to be back for dinner, but we have time for a
quick drink first. Have some of the tailor’s regrettably insipid wine, and
let’s catch up on old times, eh?”

          “Just the thing,” Freddy agreed
with enthusiasm. “But not this rot–it’ll ruin your palette if you’re not
careful. Tell you what, let’s walk down to my club and I’ll introduce you to
some nice chaps.”

          That wasn’t what Gabriel had had
in mind at all; he was supposed to be staying out of sight. But he couldn’t
push even Freddy’s credibility any further, or the bubble might burst. Do the
normal thing, despite strange circumstance, that was the surest way to pull off
a scam. He knew that from past experience.

          “Very well, but it will have to be
a quick drink. I have a solicitor to see this afternoon.”

          “Ah, the new inheritance.” Freddy
nodded wisely. “Tedious, all that, but worth it in the end, eh?”

          “I certainly hope so,” Gabriel
said, with feeling. “Just let me get dressed.” He reached for his hastily
put-together new garments.

          “Not bad, under the
circumstances.” Freddy looked at the navy blue, severely tailored coat with a
critical eye. “Not exactly up to Weston’s usual standards, perhaps, but
considering your plight . . .” He brushed his own immaculate lapels
absentmindedly. Freddy had always been a neat, almost prim little boy, which
had only aggravated the bullies’ attentions. However, judging from his own
outfit, he had grown into a man with excellent taste, Gabriel thought, hiding a
grin.

          “Feel for you, old chap, all those
years abroad. Nothing worse than being without decent English tailoring . . .” Freddy
patted his school mate on the shoulder and aimed him toward the door. “But
you’re back at last, and Weston will soon have that taken care of. Let me
advise you about the best bootmakers, and as for shirts–”

          This time Gabriel did laugh as he
walked out side by side with his old friend.

          He returned to the townhouse in
good time for the evening meal. Jowers met him at the door, nodding in approval
of the new coat and trousers. Gabriel handed over his hat and gloves and a
handsome new walking stick he had acquired–the news of his ‘engagement’ to the
wealthy Miss Hill had a wonderful way of procuring unlimited credit, he had
discovered to his amusement–and thought he detected a look of distinct sympathy
in the butler’s eyes.

          “Did my evening clothes and my new
shirts and neckcloths arrive?” he asked.

          “Yes, milord, they have been taken
up to your chamber,” the butler assured him. “You have just time to change
before dinner, milord. The ladies are in the drawing room having their sherry.”