Dear Impostor (20 page)

          Psyche crossed the hall to give her cousin a
hug of genuine gratitude. “Thank you,” she whispered into her ear, then
releasing her, added, “I hope you are soon recovered, Cousin.”

          “I’m sure I will be,” Matilda agreed, her eyes
shining with the success of her ruse and her pleasure at Psyche’s approval.

          Psyche saw them out, hoping that the
concoction that Matilda was now fated to consume was not too nasty in taste. But
she had more essential matters on her mind. Jowers was hurrying up; she managed
to smile at him.

          “It’s all right,” she said. “He was not crazy
after all; he just has a slight–um–stammer that makes him hard to understand at
times. He is the Marquis of Tarrington’s secretary.”

          “Oh,” Jowers said, his expression smoothing. “I”m
sorry to have alarmed you for nothing, Miss.”

          He had no idea. “It wasn’t your fault,” Psyche
said soothingly. The butler turned away, and Psyche motioned to her maid. They
entered the book room together to find the two men standing a few feet apart,
as if taking each other’s measure.

          “Now,” Psyche said, her tone icy. “I want to
know just how this has come about, and I want to know everything!”

          A pause, while the two men eyed each other,
then the thin little man swung to face Psyche, as if hoping for a more
receptive audience.

          “She–” he gestured toward Simpson–“she hired
me to play a part, Miss, at a private party. Promised me five quid, she did.”

          “Yes, but you never turned up to assume your
role, did you?” Psyche pointed out calmly, her voice cool. “So why should you
be paid for nothing?”

          The man blinked; his eyes were a pale hazel. His
features were regular, but he had an unfortunate spotty complection. “Ah, um,
that is–”

          ”Why didn’t you come?” Simpson demanded, then
blushed. “Begging your pardon, Miss, but he promised!”

          ”He lost his nerve,” Gabriel put in. “I met
him by accident at the back of the theater, and when your carriage pulled up,
he told the driver I was the Marquis of Tarrington.”

          Which meant, Psyche suppressed a shiver, that
this man knew that Gabriel was an impostor. If he were intelligent enough, he
could hold that knowledge over their heads like the Damocles sword it was. They
must be very careful.

          Gabriel met her gaze very briefly. He knew the
danger, too; she could tell from the slight narrowing of his eyes.

          “I got a bit nervous, you see,” the actor was
saying. “And anyhow, I thought I would get the part of Iago in the next
production at the theater, or at least one of the lords, but t-they gave the
part, all the parts, to other actors.”

          Psyche wasn’t surprised. “You’ll forgive me
for asking, but do you have much experience on the stage, sir?”

          “Green, Thomas Green, at your service.” Green
gave her a low bow. “I’ve played over half a dozen parts, Miss. I played the
second murderer in Macb—the Scottish play, and a footman in the last but one
farce. And would have done much more, but I have this stammer–but only when I
get nervous, you see.”

          “And do you get nervous before you go on
stage?” Psyche couldn’t help asking.

          “Always,” the little man answered sadly. “That’s
why I only get small parts, and lately not so many of those. But anyhow, you
promised me a nice sum, and I’m short on my rent, and me landlady’s threatening
to toss me out into the street. So I’m here now, and I want to play the part.”

          Psyche bit her lip, and it was Gabriel who
answered.

          “We really don’t need you any longer for that
role, I’m afraid,” Gabriel said. “Since I was forced to step in when you didn’t
keep your appointment.”

          Green blinked, and his dismay seemed tinged
with belligerence. “B-but–”

          “But we can offer you another,” Gabriel added
quickly.

          The little man brightened. “What is that?”

          “You will be my secretary,” Gabriel explained.
“You’re the son of a clergyman, recently engaged in this post, and you’ve never
been on stage in your life. You are unfailingly loyal to the Marquis of
Tarrington, who is me. Can you do that?”

          “Of course,” the actor said, puffing out his
chest. “I will be the p-perfect secretary, sir–milord. No one will ever know
different.”

          Psyche swallowed hard. Perhaps it was better
to keep this man under their eye, but somehow her original plan, which had
seemed so simple and fool-proof, just kept getting more complicated. Who was
going to turn up next? Six white horses and a fairy godmother?

          “You will be paid according to the original
agreement, with enough for your lodging right away, and I will give you a job
to do–that is, you can read and write, can’t you?” Gabriel paused to inquire.

          “Of course!” Green looked wounded. “How you
think I could learn me lines–my lines.”

          “Yes, of course.” Gabriel didn’t seem too
impressed. “While you are here, your job is to keep your mouth shut as much as
possible; don’t talk to the servants; remember, as a secretary of good family,
you’re above them in class, so don’t lower yourself to gossip.”

          He glanced over his shoulder and winked toward
Simpson, who sniffed. As if she should care about this poor excuse for an actor
turned secretary, her expression implied. Psyche had a mad desire to giggle.

          “And what is my task?” Green asked, fingering
his shabby hat, which he still held in his hands.

          Gabriel walked across to the book shelf. Some
of the less valuable books which had overflowed the library’s crammed
shelves–Psyche’s parents had been great readers–had been put into this smaller
room. He picked up a faded volume and flipped open a page.

          “You can sit here, in this very comfortable,
warm room,” he nodded toward the fire in the hearth, “and Jowers will see that
you have your meals on a tray–excellent cook they have here, too–and all you
must do is copy this for me.”

          The actor had glowed at the thought of food
and easy surroundings, but he frowned a little at the page Gabriel held out. “But
this is a collection of sermons.”

          “Yes, I’m thinking of a career in the church
after I leave this role,” Gabriel said, his tone perfectly serious.

          Psyche turned another giggle into a cough with
the greatest of difficulty. If there were anyone less suited to becoming a man
of the cloth–

          Simpson rolled her eyes, but she maintained
her usual dignified silence.

          Green eyed the book, and the pen and ink and paper
Gabriel had now unearthed from the small desk drawer. “I suppose I can do it. I–uh–I’m
not a very swift writer, my lord.”

          “That’s fine; there’s no rush,” Gabriel
assured the man. “And I will suggest that Jowers bring you a glass of wine,
just to help you relax and get into the role.”

          Green’s expression looked positively blissful.

          “We will leave you to it,” Gabriel said. He
held the door open and motioned to both women to exit. Outside, he nodded
toward the footman hovering nearby. “Bring my secretary a glass of port, if you
would.”

          “But only one,” Psyche added. “We don’t need a
drunken–um–secretary on our hands.”

          The footman nodded and left to fetch the wine.

          “No, that would be counterproductive,” Gabriel
agreed. “We want to shut his lips, not open them.”

          Psyche did not return his smile. There was
still a great gulf of misconception to cross.

“Simpson, you may leave us,” she
said.

          The dresser nodded. “Yes, Miss,” she said, and
her glance at Gabriel was both speculative and pitying. No one liked to cross
Miss Hill when she was in
that
mood.

          Simpson retreated, the footman had
disappeared. For a moment, they stood alone in the hallway.

          “Now,” Psyche said, her voice grim. “You–”

          The door to the library opened. She had
forgotten Percy.

          “I demand to speak to Lord Tarrington,” her
cousin said, in his usual self-important style. “I have waited long enough–”

          ”And so have I, for a little peace in my own
house!” Psyche snapped. “You have nothing to say to Lord Tarrington, Percy. I
can manage my own affairs.”

          “But, Psyche–”

          ”Leave us, Percy. Now!”

          “If you need assistance to the door, I should
be happy to help you find the way,” Gabriel suggested, his blue eyes glinting
with mischievous anticipation.

          Her cousin eyed the other man’s stature and muscular
build with alarm. “No, no, I would not lower myself to–” He frowned, looking
affronted. “Yes, well, when you realize the error of your judgment, Cousin,
when you need help with this fortune-hunting libertine–”

          ”Out!” Psyche shrieked, at the last vestige of
her patience.

          Percy sniffed and turned toward the outer
door, pausing only to pick up his hat and gloves from the hall table. “You’ll
be sorry,” he muttered, determined as always to have the last word.

          Psyche ignored him. In a moment, the front
door closed, a little too hard, and Psyche drew a deep breath. “Let us retire
to the library.”

          Gabriel walked across the hall and motioned
for her to enter–Percy had left the chamber door ajar–then followed her into
the room.

          Psyche walked across the floor, glanced down
at one of the comfortable chairs that her father had chosen for his own use,
then paced up and down instead, too agitated to sit.

          Gabriel shut the door behind them. The silence
was balm. Just to have Percy out of the house seemed to make the atmosphere
lighter. Psyche drew a deep breath and swung to face this man of mystery who
had somehow become so entangled in her innocent–well, almost innocent–pretense.

          “Who are you?”

          Gabriel’s lips lifted, but his eyes were
shadowed by emotions she could not begin to decipher–she felt a moment of real
trepidation. What kind of man had she allowed so unknowingly into her life?

          “That depends on whom you ask,” he said, his
voice quiet.

          “Spare me any more riddles.” She waved away
his words. “Why on earth did you take up the pose of my fiancé? Are you an
actor, too, or-or what?” She was almost afraid to hear his answer.

          “I have been many things,” the man said.

          She was about to lose patience, yet again. She
found that her hands had clenched into fists. “Just tell me the truth!”

          “I have earned my living for the last decade
at games of chance,” he told her, his eyes oddly distant, his tone
matter-of-fact.

          She gazed at him in horror. “A gamester?”

          He met her gaze squarely. “Yes.”

          And she had introduced this man to her family,
allowed him to meet her little sister! “You are a cheater, a dishonest–”

          ”I never cheat!” Gabriel answered quickly. She
seemed to have penetrated his unnatural calm at last. “That is, unless my
opponent cheats first.”

          “And you were down on your luck and in need of
a few pounds to get you into your next game?” It began to fall into place. “How
fortunate that you should come across an actor with a bad case of stage
fright.” No, Psyche thought, shaking her head in confusion. There were still
pieces of the puzzle that did not fit. “But what about Freddie Wyrick. How did
you convince him to pretend to be your old school mate?”

          He gazed at her steadily, his aspect hard to
read.

          Slowly, Psyche felt her legs turn weak. She
sank into the chair behind her. “It was not a ploy; it’s true. He was your
school mate.” Images of Gabriel—his smooth manners, his impeccable speech, his
graceful dancing and socializing—flashed through her mind like scenes from a
play. And she knew with a dreadful certainty that he was not the lowborn
gamester he claimed to be.

          “You are well born, are you not?” she almost
whispered.

          “You are disappointed that I am not a lowly
thespian? Being of good birth is somehow worse then aping my betters?” he
asked, his tone light. But his eyes were dark with those emotions she still
could not read.

          She felt a spasm of distaste cross her face. “What’s
worse is that it means,” she explained, putting her jumbled thoughts together
out loud, “that your passion for gaming was so extreme that you lost your own
inheritance–”

          ”No, I did not lose my position in life over
gaming. I gamble only to survive,” he told her, his calmness somehow
convincing. “Not for the thrill of it.”