Dear Impostor (27 page)

          She walked across the room to her small desk
and pulled out her journal of household accounts. Perhaps a listing of linen
that needed to be replaced and complaints about the quality of the last
canister of tea that must be returned to the merchant, anything as boring and
common place as possible, perhaps these everyday matters would divert her
thoughts from this engaging, wicked man.

          But when she found that she was humming a tune
beneath her breath even as she added up the staff’s quarterly wages, Psyche bit
her lip. How could she escape the power of his attraction when she could not
expel him even from her thoughts, much less her life! She was so unnerved by
the encounter in the attic that she stayed in her room until mid-afternoon,
when the butler appeared to announce a caller.

          “Who is it, Jowers?” she asked, dreading the
return of her annoying cousin. If it were Percy, she would turn him out of the
house!

          “Madam Forsyth, Miss,” the servant told her. “She
is waiting in the small drawing room; Miss Sophie is in the large drawing room
with three callers, the Misses Baldwin and their mother.”

          “Thanks for the warning. Very well, I’ll be
right down,” Psyche said. She put away her ledger and glanced into the looking
glass to see if her hair was still in place–no one must know of the tryst in
the attic, or detect that for a few moments she had forgotten all the
proprieties–then made her way downstairs. She found her friend garbed in an
elegant walking suit of green striped silk, perched on the edge of a settee,
frowning at a print on the wall as if it offended her.

          “So, you have not taken to your death bed!”
Sally exclaimed when Psyche came into the room.

          Her usual words of greeting died on her lips. “I
beg your pardon?” Psyche raised her brows in surprise. “Did someone say I was
ill?”

          “No, but I decided that must be the only
explanation for your disappearance from all of your normal activities. Either
that, or you have been closeted with your delicious fiancé, making passionate
love even before the bans have been said–and by the by, when are you going to
have them read, Psyche?”

          Psyche hoped she was not blushing. “Soon, and
don’t be silly.”

          “Oh, I know Aunt Sophie would not allow any
real love making, more’s the pity.” Sally’s bow-shaped lips drooped in an
exaggerated pout. “But you have certainly been keeping close to home; you’ve
turned down four social engagements in the last three days, and those are only
the ones that I know about!”

          “What is there that you don’t know?” Psyche
retorted. “You’re aware of everything in the Ton.”

          “Well, then,” Sally said reasonably. “Tell me
why you are locking yourself up like a prisoner in your own home.”

          “I–um–” Psyche searched her mind for a
convincing answer, but Sally shook her head.

          “If I did not know your spirit, my friend, I
would say that you are hiding out from your annoying cousin.”

          “I don’t–” Psyche still hesitated.

          “But you would not allow Percy to frighten
you, I know you wouldn’t.” Sally blinked her brown eyes in the manner that had
captivated her numerous suitors, before she’d finally chosen her good-natured
stout-framed husband. He was fourteen years older than Sally, but he doted on
his young wife, and Sally seemed content with her choice.

          Psyche knew that this time, she was certainly
red-faced. “It was very upsetting, having Percy accuse my poor fiancé of being
an impostor; how can I allow Percy to harass Lord Tarrington in such a manner?”

          “How can you allow Percy to drive you into
hiding? You have more courage than that, Psyche, I know you do. Will you hide
out for the rest of the season?”

          “But I must think of my husband-to-be, as well
as myself,” Psyche tried to argue, but she didn’t quite meet her friend’s
accusing gaze. “Just because I have such lunatic relations, it is not fair to
Lord Tarrington if I subject him to their denunciations.”

          “I would wager that Tarrington is not afraid
of your hen-witted cousin,” Sally argued. “Oh, thank you,” she said as a
footman brought in a tea tray.

          Psyche poured them both a cup. Sally accepted
the fragile cup and sipped, allowing Psyche a moment to try to pull her
thoughts together.

          “Besides, Psyche,” Sally continued after the
servant had left the room, “if you want people to believe in Percy’s mad
accusations–”

          ”Of course not!” Psyche said sharply.

          “Then you must not be driven into hiding,”
Sally finished, her smile triumphant. “You must continue about your normal
social rounds.”

          “But if Percy makes a scene again?” Psyche
picked up her own cup and peered into the brown liquid as if she might read her
future there.

          “Then you must face him down. I will stand by
you, and your fiancé is up to the challenge, I am sure of it. Come along now,
Psyche. There is an opera tonight–”

          ”I never meant to go,” Psyche pointed out. “Everyone
knows the opera is not my favorite, and Aunt Sophie says that all that
caterwauling gives her a headache.”

          “Tomorrow, then,” Sally persisted. “There is a
delightful excursion planned for the afternoon to the Countess of Sutton’s
estate. We have a large party going, and you must not cry off again; it would
be too bad of you! I have had no fun at all at the last two soirees and as for
Lady Kettering’s afternoon card party, lord, it was too boring for words.”

          Sally sipped her tea, and Psyche tried not to
smile. Sally had never been bored a day in her life; she imbued every party
with her own infectious good spirits and high energy. But her concern for her
friend was obviously genuine, and Psyche was touched.

          And perhaps Sally was right; would people
begin to believe Percy’s accusations if she and Gabriel remained at home,
avoiding the normal social whirl? She could not have that; it would defeat her
aim and make all her risks go for naught.

          No, she must not be so craven, Psyche decided.

          “Drink the tea, it will not answer for you,”
Sally said tartly. “And you are no gypsy, to read your future in the tea
leaves. So, are you going tomorrow or not?”

          “I will go,” Psyche said, then repeated more
firmly. “We will go.”

          “Good girl!” Sally said in approval. “Don’t
wear your new red pelisse, as I am wearing purple, and we will clash.”

          Laughing, Psyche agreed.

          The next day was fair, the air warm, with only
a light breeze lifting the ribbons on Psyche’s hat as she walked down the
steps. Gabriel took her hand as she climbed into the open barouche; Aunt Sophie
was already enthroned upon the other side of the rear seat; Psyche sat down
beside her aunt, and Gabriel took his place on the opposite side, facing them.

          At first, he had been strangely reluctant to
agree to the outing. “You should go,” he’d agreed when she’d first broached the
subject at breakfast, appearing in the dining room earlier than usual to find
him sitting at the long dining room and sipping a cup of coffee all alone. He
had stood to make his bow and listened to her explanation, taking a moment
before replying. “You should go; I’m sure you will enjoy the company of your
friends.”

          Psyche had narrowed her eyes; what was he
playing at, now?

          “And you would not enjoy meeting more of my
friends?” she asked, her voice a little cool.

          “I thought you didn’t want me to appear in
public more than was necessary?” he countered. “Your cousin–”

          ”Sally thinks we will only reinforce the
effect of Percy’s suspicions if we stay too much at home. And I have decided
that she is right.” Psyche had lifted her well-shaped chin, as if daring him to
argue.

          The idea of getting out of the house, out of
London, past the danger of lurking eyes and well-paid assassins, sounded too
good to be true. Something nagged at him, but he brushed his misgivings aside. Who
was being too cautious now? He had been sitting at the table, watching through
the pane how the breeze stirred the ivy that grew up the stone and poked its
green tendrils above the window sill. He would like nothing more than to be out
in the countryside on such a day, with this fair-haired beauty on his arm.

          “Very well, I am at your disposal,” he had
told her.

          Psyche nodded, and told him what time they
would be leaving, then retraced her steps to the upper floor to make sure Aunt
Sophie had had her morning tray and would be dressed in good time.

          “Drive on,” Psyche called now to the driver. The
servant flicked his reins, and the pair of matched grays set out at a decorous
pace; behind the team, the well-sprung barouche rolled smoothly across the
paving stones. The street was crowded again on such a agreeable day, so they
could not have made better speed even if they had wished. Aunt Sophie nodded at
an acquaintance who rode past them in an old-fashioned coach; she did not care
for excessive speed and would be pleased with the sedateness of their passage.

          Psyche could not imagine that a man in his
prime would enjoy such a stodgy pace, however. He would probably have preferred
to ride. “I’m sorry we do not have a suitable mount for you in our stables,”
Psyche murmured to their male passenger.

          Gabriel grinned at her, the slight lifting of
the lips which always seemed to denote some mischievous thought. “I am well
content,” he told her.

          She could not know the vision she made,
Gabriel told himself. Today Psyche wore a pale muslin dress sprigged with
green, and a paler spring green spencer over it, with a matching parasol that
made her eyes seem as strongly blue as the cloud-free canopy above them. Her
cheeks were flushed with excitement, and her eyes sparkled.

          He also felt energized, free at last of his
self-imposed sequestration, and he took a deep breath, savoring the odors of
London, from the savory smell of the hot pie vendor and the sweetness of cherry
blossoms in the park they passed, even to the stench from a steaming pile of
horse manure that a street-sweeper had not yet scraped aside to spare the thin
soles of a pair of ladies about to cross the avenue.

          He was back in England at long last; soon, he
would be the master of his own estate, and the old shame would be put aside. He
would show his father that the patriarch had been wrong about the son he had
turned out so unmercifully, to sink or swim all alone. Gabriel had survived,
despite the odds against him, and he was here, ready to retake his place in his
rightful level of society. And when he did, could he dare to think of wooing a
lady like the beauty who sat in front of him?

          Psyche said something to her aunt, oblivious
of his speculation. Just as well, Gabriel told himself. He had any number of
obstacles to overcome before he could consider asking for anyone’s hand, much
less for someone as desirable as the wealthy and ravishing Miss Hill–

          No, better be practical. But he was here now,
and he could enjoy the day. The air was balmy, and the breeze just enough to
refresh them.

          He glanced over his shoulder at the
well-chosen team that drew their carriage, then turned back to enjoy the vision
of loveliness before him. The vision was gazing at the houses they passed by, a
distant look in her eyes as if she did not really see them. What was she
thinking, the lovely Psyche? How could she have withstood the charms of all the
suitors whom her beauty, not to say her wealth, must have attracted? Percy and
his father not withstanding, what was wrong with the men of London that Miss
Psyche Hill was still unwed? But thank God for whatever ailed them, Gabriel
thought. Otherwise, he could not have taken part in the fortuitous masquerade,
could not have relished his odd role as a fiancé who would never become a
husband.

          He remembered that he had told himself to put
aside these thoughts, and he turned his head to gaze at the houses that were
becoming more scattered as they at last left London behind. The road was still
dotted with carriages as other Londoners also escaped the city; a chaise
followed them, and behind that, a shabby little gig that looked somewhat out of
place. Soon the houses fell away and there was open land around them, cows and
sheep grazing on green meadows, and birds flying up from the hedgerows as their
barouche rolled forward, the team of horses clipping along at an increased
pace.

          He had forgotten how beautiful England could be in the spring.

          “You are smiling,” Psyche said, sounding
almost surprised.

          “Have I been so forbidding that you have never
seen me smile?” He gazed at her, dark brows slightly raised.