Dear Impostor (33 page)

          “Of course you are. You didn’t hear a word I
said about my new gown.”

          “It has silver trimmed lace around the
neckline,” Psyche argued.

          “Gold,” Sally responded. “You see? And you
were not watching the actors. You were a million miles away. You are not by any
chance missing your handsome betrothed?” Sally plied her fan gracefully.

          “Hush, I cannot hear the players,” Psyche
refused to rise to her friend’s bait. “This actor is really quite amusing.”

          “You just told me how badly they were playing,
so what does it matter?” Sally demurred. She rose to return to her own box. “Don’t
try to fool me, Psyche; I’ve tried all the tricks myself, plus a number your
honest soul has never conceived of. Whatever your motives were for contracting
this unexpected engagement, I know when you are in serious danger of losing
your heart.”

          Startled, Psyche turned to stare at her
friend, but Sally had lifted her long train to step back out into the corridor
behind their box and didn’t meet her gaze. It must have been only a frivolous
jest, one of Sally’s usual quips; surely her closest friend did not mean to be
serious.

          Despite a few wayward thoughts, Psyche had no
intention of falling for a man who was everything she most despised–a fraud, a
gamester, a man with shameful secrets in his past. Even worse, in a way, he was
a man who could not be depended upon to conduct himself with proper decorum. And
when her parents died, hadn’t Psyche vowed that a conventional life, with no
cause for gossip, no eccentricities to be whispered about, would be so much
easier for everyone, so sweetly predictable, so much less cause for pain?

          She must remember that hard-won pledge.

          Gabriel was indeed in the library, but instead
of relaxing in front of the fire, he paced up and down before the flames
dancing on the hearth. The chair set in front of the fireplace was soft, its
leather upholstery smooth with age; the candles on the table burned steadily,
their lights glinting off the glass panes of the bookcases. The glass of wine
waiting beside his chair was mellow and rich to the palate, its ruby depths
pleasing to the eye; yet, with all this, he could not be at ease. The luxurious
refuge of Psyche’s comfortable town house had begun to seem more like a prison.
It was ridiculous; surely, he could stay at home for one night? Yet–

          He was skulking at home like a wounded fox in
its den, all because of that rat Barrett. Gabriel wished that he could call
Barrett out, but the man had no sense of honor–his treatment of the gaming debt
was ample proof of that. No gentleman ever refused to pay his gaming debts! They
were settled before any other legal obligation; certainly tradesmen sometimes
waited months for their money, but a debt of honor–bah, Barrett had no honor!

          Gabriel had won the estate fairly, by his own
skill at cards and a little judicious luck. Yet despite that, now Gabriel was
the one who was chained to his fireside, while that villain crawled through the
muck of London’s seamiest gaming clubs, trying to repair his lost fortunes. It
made Gabriel seethe with the unfairness of it.

          Of course, he might not have been so
discontented if Psyche had been at home, too–no, no use to think on that. He
had promised Psyche that he would stay inside, stay out of sight, stay
protected. But Gabriel had spent the last fifteen years living a precarious,
dangerous, exciting life, and it was not so easy, he was finding, to suddenly
play it safe. It was boring. Not only that, it offended his sense of pride. If
anyone should be frightened, it was Barrett, the miserable little coward hiding
behind his hired ruffians.

          The more he thought about it–Gabriel took a
swallow of his port–the more affronted he was by this whole arrangement. No, by
god, he would not do it. When he was sixteen, he had done what he’d been told,
allowed a woman to bend him to her will, to make all the decisions. But he also
had sworn that would never happen again!

          No, it would not do. Psyche would have to
understand that some impositions a man could not bear. Gabriel took two long
strides and rang the bell.

          In a moment, Jowers appeared. “Yes, my lord?”

          “Bring my hat, Jowers; I am going out.”

          The butler hesitated for an almost
imperceptible moment before he replied, “Yes, my lord.”

          He disappeared, and Gabriel pushed back a
momentary glimmer of guilt. He had promised Psyche, who he knew had only the
purest motives–but it was his own safety he was risking, not hers, and he must
be allowed to risk his own neck if he so chose. The important thing was that he
was the one who made the choice; he
would
be his own man.

          When the servant returned, Gabriel donned his
hat and looked over his shoulder as he headed for the door. “If Miss Hill
returns before I do, tell her–”

          ”Yes, my lord?” Some flicker in the butler’s
impassive expression made Gabriel grimace.

          “Actually, you don’t have to mention that I
have gone out.”

          “Yes, my lord.” Amusement glinted for an
instant behind the butler’s sober countenance.

          “Not that I care–” Gabriel began, then
realized that explaining himself to the servant was undignified. Oh, the hell
with it, he told himself.

          Yet, when the footman held open the big front
door, Gabriel hesitated for a second on the front steps. Beyond the flambeau’s
circle of light, the street seemed very dark. No carriages rolled past; it was
late to be going out and early to be coming home again, and the rest of the houses
along the wide avenue seemed to have turned their gazes inward.

          Was he being a fool?

          Probably. Gabriel grinned a little at the
thought. Definitely. But he had tempted Lady Luck too many times to stop now. He
saw no sign of lurking villains, so he set off down the steps with a determined
gait. Still, he was not stupid enough to linger in the shadows; he walked at
the edge of the street and avoided the darkness at the sides of the houses and
the deep caverns of blackness that led into alleys.

          Somewhere, he heard the distant
tlot-tlot
of horses’ hooves and the clatter of carriage wheels rolling over paving
stones. Then it was quiet again, and he could have sworn he heard the quiet
footfalls of a solitary walker a few feet behind him.

          Gabriel felt the hair on the back of his neck
stand up, but he did not turn to look. He walked on with a confident, steady
gait, but his ears were attuned to the sounds behind him, and he felt like a
cat, trying to see through the darkness, trying to listen for the rush of
footsteps that would presage an attack.

          He would be sadly outnumbered when it came;
why had he done this? Was having one’s freedom important enough to risk one’s
life over? It was just that he did not like to be manipulated, Gabriel told
himself. He would not have his life ruled by others, certainly not by a cad
like Barrett.

          Gabriel’s hands closed into fists as he heard
a crackle, as of someone stepping on a fallen twig; the unseen stalker was
moving closer. He should have brought a walking stick, anything that could be
used as a weapon.

          The sound came again, but Gabriel’s pace did
not slacken; he was nearing the intersection of the next street, now, and his
concentration on the man behind him almost cost him his life. He was listening
hard for movement behind, but when the attack came, it was from another
direction entirely.

          Two rough-dressed men stepped suddenly out of
the shadows just ahead of him. They were holding clubs, and Gabriel again
clenched his fists, wishing for something with which to strike back.

          His heart beat fast, now. He felt the rush of
blood to his head and the almost uncanny awareness of every movement that came
when one faced imminent death. Psyche would tell him he had been a fool to come
out alone, and she was right. But it had been his choice, no one else’s. At
least the whole gang was not here.

          Gabriel laughed. “What are you waiting for?”
he demanded.

          The first ruffian blinked in surprise and
lifted his cudgel.

          “Aren’t you even going to make a pretense of
asking for my purse?” Gabriel inquired, his tone easy. “You’re new at this,
aren’t you?”

          The bully paused, apparently confused by a
victim who did not flee in terror, who seemed amused and spoke in
conversational tones. “Um,” he muttered. “As to that, ’and over your purse.”

          “No, you blockhead.” The other man jabbed his
companion in the ribs. “The man said we don’t wait for nu’t’ing.”

          ‘But if ’e got blunt on ’im–” the first man
argued.

          Gabriel still listened for sounds behind him,
but the third assailant seemed to be biding his time.          

          “Enough of this,” he murmured. He stepped
forward, straight toward the first man who held the cudgel.

          Startled by the unexpected actions of their
prey, the man raised his club and swung, while his companion moved back to give
his companion room.

          But Gabriel jumped inside the rising arc of
the weapon and hit the big man hard in the stomach. He fell forward, gagging. Gabriel
had already turned to the second man who lifted his own weapon. This attacker
was more experienced, and he did not rush in, watching Gabriel with eyes that
seemed pale in the dimness.

          A sound from behind made Gabriel whirl to
avoid being blind-sided, but what he saw was so unexpected that he almost
missed the movement of the second ruffian as he swung the club.

          “Look out!” David Lydford, Earl of Westbury,
shouted.

          Gabriel ducked, but the glancing blow caught
him on the left elbow. The impact sent waves of pain up his arm, leaving it
momentarily useless.

          David was grappling with the second ruffian;
the first was still curled up on the street, groaning and holding his gut. David
succeeded in grabbing the rough club. Pulling it away from the assailant, David
pitched it aside.

          Gabriel watched in exasperation as the younger
man put up his fists in the elegant style of the best boxing saloons, dancing
about lightly on the balls of his feet.

          “Put up your hands, you cur,” he exclaimed. “I
will teach you to attack your betters!”

          The second attacker looked disdainful. He
reached inside his grimy jacket and pulled out a small but lethal-looking
blade.

          David hesitated, his eyes widening.

          Gabriel took one long step, picked up the
abandoned cudgel and almost casually stepped inside the man’s guard so that he
could knock him neatly on the head. The man crumbled into a heap, the blade
falling with him.

          “Never throw away a weapon,” Gabriel snapped. “And
what the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

          “Looking out for you.” David sounded hurt. “I
knew those men might try to jump you again.”

          “And you’re playing nursemaid?” Gabriel could
think of nothing more ridiculous.

          The younger man flushed at his tone. “I
thought it only fair; I owed you a debt for aiding me the other night, didn’t
I? Besides, we are old friends, after all.”

          “That doesn’t warrant risking your own neck–” Gabriel
began, his tone angry. “And where are your guards?”

          David’s young face turned sulky, “I escaped
out the kitchen alley.”

          “You escaped–”

          ”Had to, don’t you know? After all, I am
obliged to you.”

          Oh, happy days. Gabriel swallowed the sarcasm
that rose to his lips. Now the boy thought he had to reclaim his honor. And to
tell him how inane that was would only offend his sensibilities further, and
the lad would put himself into further danger. Gabriel did not need this
bantling’s blood on his conscience, too!

          Still, the lad did not lack for courage,
Gabriel thought, as laughter rose inside him to replace his first surge of
irritation. He swallowed the chuckle as well; he didn’t dare so much as grin. God
forbid he offend this bantling rooster any further, or David might end up his
bondsman for life.

          “You do have a point,” he said, his tone
grave. “Thank you for your assistance.”

          David looked gratified. “You are most
welcome,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “If you like, we could drop
into my club and have a brandy.”

          With some difficulty, Gabriel kept his
expression somber as he nodded his acceptance. “Yes, this kind of exertion does
make a man thirsty. In addition, you have suggested a recourse that was so
obvious I hadn’t thought of it.”

          David looked uncertain. “Which is?”

          “You belong to a boxing saloon, do you not?”
Gabriel suggested.