Dear Impostor (19 page)

          “I don’t think we can blame
Percy’s peculiarities on a cat,” Psyche said, straining her ears–was that the
sound of a door shutting–what was going on? How could she hint away her
relatives so she could go check on the men? “He’s very much like his father,
you know and despite what he says about his solicitude for my welfare, you know
he’s more concerned with the well-being of my fortune.”

          “True,” Mavis said, flicking a
crumb off her lap. “He does not wish for anyone to waste it, anyone except
himself.”

          Matilda laughed again, and Psyche
steeled herself not to turn toward the hall and listen openly. What was
happening? She distinctly heard a male voice raised, though she could not make
out the words. Had the two men actually come to blows?

          The door opened, but it was Jowers
who looked inside. “Ah, Miss, if I could have a word?”

          “Of course,” Psyche said quickly,
delighted to have an excuse to leave the room. “Aunt, Matilda, please excuse me
for a moment.”

          “Really, Psyche, you must train
your servants better,” her aunt said crossly, but Psyche already hurried toward
the door. She shut it firmly behind her and faced the butler in the hallway.

          Jowers had already turned toward
the front of the house. “There is a–a person who is creating a disturbance,
Miss, and I don’t quite know what to do with him.”

          “What kind of person?” Perplexed,
Psyche gazed at the man’s strange expression.

          The butler huffed a little, his
cheeks red. “Your other fiancé, Miss.”

          Psyche thought she could not have heard the
words correctly. “What?”  

          “Um, that is what he says. Obviously a lunatic
person, Miss,” the red-faced butler repeated. “I have called for extra footmen
to assist me in expelling him–” the elderly servant looked affronted to have to
admit his own physical weakness–” but one is off on an errand, and another in
bed with a toothache, leaving only Wilson, who’s rather small himself. And the
madman is so insistent–”

          ”Good heavens.” Psyche stared, unable to
imagine who this man could be; she had expected the problem to be with Percy.

          “We’d better not leave him alone, Miss. Lord
knows, he may try to murder the whole household.”

          “Indeed!” She hastened after the butler down
the hall and into the main foyer to find a thin, narrow-shouldered man in a
cheap morning suit pacing up and down, while Wilson, the footman who had
already come to grief once this week, watched him nervously.

          “G-greetings, Miss Hill,” the man stammered.

          “How do you know my name?” she demanded,
shocked to be greeted so by a stranger.

          “Of course I would k-know the name of some one
so n-near and dear to me,” the man said.

          Psyche felt her head spin. He was a lunatic;
Jowers was correct. What could she do with him? Should she humor his delusion? She
had heard that this could be the safest course for dealing with madness.

          “Ah, I see,” she murmured. “I suppose you
would. I’m sorry to say that I don’t–forgive me–remember your name just now.”

          Turning her head toward the butler, she
whispered, “Fetch the Marquis, Jowers, he will assist us. Wilson, go and roust
the other footman from his bed, toothache or not!”

          Jowers headed for the stairs. Wilson, stepping quickly as if happy to be out of this potentially dangerous situation,
retreated to the back part of the house toward the servants’ stairwell. This
left her alone with the madman, but he was slight of statue. Psyche, though she
felt her heart pounding, kept her expression calm. So far he had made no
threatening moves.

          Indeed, the man now gave her a formal bow,
sweeping a trifle too low. “I am, of course, the M-Marquis of Tarrington, your
humble servant, ma’am.”

          “So you say.” Psyche thought frantically. How–what–the
impostor had an impostor? Had the whole world gone mad? This was her punishment
for defying every rule of decorum– the universe had turned against her.

          “I must a-apologize for missing the
b-betrothal dinner,” he went on, stammering. “But I was–uh-s-suddenly taken ill
and–”

          Psyche was distracted by the sound of a
doorknob turning; she jerked her head to see the library door begin to open. Oh
no, not Percy, not now!

          She darted forward and grabbed the lunatic’s
hand, pulling him toward the small book room that stood next to the library. The
man was thin, and she was able to push him inside the room before he could
catch his breath.

          “Stay here and don’t make a sound!” she
hissed, shutting the door on his look of astonishment.

          When she turned back, Percy was in the hall. “I
thought I heard the Marquis announced; where is he?”

          “He’s not here yet, Percy; you are mistaken. Please
wait in the library,” Psyche said, maintaining her poise with the greatest
effort. “I will inform you when he comes down.”

          “Tell the man to hurry up about it,” Percy
grumbled, but he returned to the library. Psyche sighed with relief to see the
heavy oaken door shut. Now, she must sort out this quagmire before–

          The book room door opened, and the little man
peered out. “Miss Hill, we really must speak about the terms of our
engagement–”

          But now another door was opening, and Psyche
waved her hands at the madman. “Not now; shut the door!”

          Mercifully, he did. Now Matilda peered out of
the doorway of the morning room. “I’m sorry, Psyche, but Mama says will you be
much longer because she’s got more to discuss with you–”

          Psyche sped across the foyer to speak softly
to her cousin. “I have a problem, Matilda, there’s no time to explain. But
please, please, keep your mother inside the chamber and keep the door shut.”

          Matilda’s eyes widened. “Of course, if you
wish it, Psyche, but–”

          Psyche pushed her back inside. “Make some
excuse to Aunt and close the door.”

          Her cousin disappeared, and Psyche turned back
toward the book room. She had to get this lunatic out of the house, out of
sight before he stirred up even more suspicion on Percy’s part and made her
situation even more dangerous than it already was.

          She had reached the middle of the foyer when
she heard someone behind her. By now so agitated that her nerves were thin as
paper, Psyche whirled, but it was only her own maid, Simpson.

          “Miss, is everything all right? Jowers came
past me looking most agitated and muttering that we could all be murdered in
our own house!”

          The book room door opened again, and the
little man peeked out. “Miss Hill?”

          “Shut the door!” Psyche almost shouted. He
disappeared once more, but beside her, Simpson gasped.

          “Miss, you can’t treat him like that, no
matter how annoyed you are at his avarice, wishing for more money for his role.
People will notice, and–”

          ”Not now.” Psyche didn’t have time to try to
decipher this strange remark because she was trying to watch all the doors at
once. “I’m waiting for the actor to help rid us of this madman who claims to be
the Marquis of Tarrington. Percy must not see him.”

          “But, Miss, that
is
the Marquis of
Tarrington.”

          “What?” Psyche felt the room whirl again, and
her maid reached out to steady her. “What are you talking about?”

          “I mean, that’s the actor I hired to play the
part, Miss,” Simpson explained, touching her employer’s head as if wondering if
she were feverish and delusional.

          “It can’t be–” Psyche said, her voice weak. “Haven’t
you seen–”

           No, in the last two days her maid had had no
reason to be in the room with the fraudulent lord. But if this were the actor–

          “Then who is he?” Psyche whispered to her
servant as steps behind them announced the arrival of Gabriel Sinclair. He
gazed inquiringly toward her.

          “You have need of me?” he asked. “Your butler
is almost incoherent, poor man. He muttered something about the house being
invaded by a lunatic, but surely that is not correct?”

          “I have no idea, Miss.” Simpson stared at the
tall man before her.

          “Oh, my god.” Psyche felt as if she could not
get a breath. “I think I’m the one who has lost my mind.” She wanted to sit
down, but there was no time.

          Doors were opening again. Aunt Mavis peered
out from the morning room, pausing only to look back for an instant over her
shoulder. “Be quiet, Matilda, I shall be right back. Psyche,” she said, facing
her niece again. “Your household is very poorly run; you must take your
servants in hand, my dear. I’ve rung the bell rope three times. Matilda is
faint and I need smelling salts. She doesn’t want me to leave her side, but–”

          A small shriek interrupted from the depths of
the morning room.

          Good God! Had the madman attacked poor
Matilda. But no—he couldn’t have gone past without her seeing, Psyche thought
wildly.

          “Mouse?’ Mavis jerked to look. “What do you
mean, you see a mouse beneath the settee cushion?” She hastened back inside the
room to defend her daughter from the wild beast.

          “Shall I fetch the kitchen cat?” Simpson
inquired.

          “I don’t think–”

          ”You’re going to set the cat on the lunatic?”
Gabriel inquired with interest, as if this conversation actually made sense.

          Now two doors opened at once. The small man in
the cheap suit looked stubbornly out of the book room, and Percy emerged again
from the library.

          “There you are,” Percy said. “I wish to have
words with you, sir.”

          But Gabriel was regarding the madman with
surprise. “You?”

          “Who are you?” Psyche demanded, turning on
Gabriel. “You told me–”

          But it was the stranger who answered, in a
voice much too loud, as if to bolster his fading courage. “I a-am the Marquis
of T-Tarrington.”

          A moment of stunned silence, then everyone
spoke at once.

          “Is this a joke at my expense?” Percy
thundered. “Who is this man?”

          “What does he mean, Psyche?” Aunt Mavis had
apparently frightened away the fictional mouse. She had entered the hallway
again.

          The small man looked flustered, and Psyche
herself was dumb with shock. This man–this man was the actor her maid had
interviewed, prompted with information about her family, and hired to play the
part? This skinny, thin-shouldered man with the badly-cut suit, who could not
even declaim his supposed title calmly–he would never have been able to
withstand her relatives’ scrutiny, nor stand up to Percy, nor carry off the
whole untruthful scheme. She shuddered at the thought of what a debacle her
betrothal party would have become, if this timid, stuttering actor had been by
her side.

          But then where had Gabriel Sinclair come from?

          Everyone waited for her to speak, but it was
Gabriel who answered, his voice calm.

          “He means that he is the Marquis of
Tarrington’s . . .” Gabriel glanced at the cowering little man. . . “secretary.
He’s a bit shy, poor fellow, and easily rattled, and he does have a slight
speech impediment. But he’s very good with my letters and such.”

          “Poor man,” Matilda said from behind her
mother. She had apparently recovered from her assumed vapors and had been
unable to resist the urge to peek at the commotion in the hallway.

          Psyche took a long deep breath. Percy
shrugged; a servant, even one of more distinction than ordinary household
staff, was beneath his notice. “No matter about him; I wish to speak with you,
Tarrington.”

          The little man opened his mouth, but quelled
beneath the look that Gabriel gave him. “I will be right with you, Hill. Let me
just speak to my secretary and give him the instructions he has doubtless come
to collect.”

          “Be quick about it, then,” Percy grumbled, but
he turned back into the library and shut the door.

          Gabriel put his hand on the little man’s
shoulder and guided him firmly back into the book room.

          “I see you are recovering,” Mavis was saying
to her daughter, who flushed slightly at her mother’s words. “I think we had
better take our leave, Psyche. Matilda needs a healing tisane and a long quiet
repose.”