Dear Impostor (34 page)

          This time, David’s frown was suspicious, as if
he feared ridicule. “Yes, I do, and if you’re intimating that I could put my
time to better use–”

          ”Why on earth would I say that?” Gabriel
raised his brows.

          “My mother always complains–oh, nothing. What
did you have in mind?”

          “If you would be so good as to take me there
tomorrow, as your guest, I have some business I would like to transact,”
Gabriel explained.

          David still looked mystified, but he nodded
slowly. “Of course, I would be honored to introduce you. Gentleman Jackson
himself founded the establishment, and–”

          Gabriel allowed the young man to rattle on,
his attention only half on the eager discourse. He was still alert to further
dangers from the shadows around them; they would have a quick drink at David’s
club, and Gabriel would return to the Hill townhouse. There was a time to be
outrageous and assert one’s independence, and there was a time to be prudent. He
thought he had perhaps done enough of the former for one night.

          But as he listened to the boy’s rush of words,
even with only half his attention, he was aware of symptoms of the same malady
that had once beset a much younger Gabriel. This lad was starved for male
company, male approval, and it touched something deep inside Gabriel’s more
hardened breast. He would have sworn that those feelings were all behind him,
all except a burning desire to prove to his father that Gabriel could surmount
the exile to which he had been sentenced, a desire for a revenge of principle
that he could only accomplish by his successful return to the life he had once
known.

          But if that were his only remaining emotion,
why did he respond so keenly to the undertones he heard in David’s words? Gabriel
pushed the thought aside, but he no longer felt any inclination to laugh at the
boy who walked beside him.

          When they reached White’s, David led the way
proudly, introducing Gabriel to several fellow members. Gabriel shook hands and
nodded to a couple of men he had met earlier when he had come here with Freddy.
His schoolmate was not here tonight; no doubt he had another social engagement,
unencumbered by murderous assailants who lurked in shadows.

          “We’ll have to put you up for membership,”
David said after he had ordered the drinks from a footman.

          “Yes, Freddy said the same,” Gabriel agreed. “I
should like that, presently.” First, he would prefer to have his own name back,
uncluttered by any spurious title, but he could not explain that reasoning to
the lad beside him. The thought of achieving membership in London’s most
exclusive male bastion, with no help at all from his father, amused him.

          The footman brought their drinks and held out
the tray; Gabriel took his glass and saluted David.

          “To old comrades,” he said seriously, as he
would to an equal.

          David flushed with happiness, and some of the
tenseness that usually marked his body eased. “To a renewed friendship,” he
agreed.

          They both drank; around them could be heard the
murmur of men’s quiet voices, and in the next room, someone cursing over a bad
draw of cards. The fire in the hearth crackled., and he sniffed the pungent
smoke of Spanish cigars. Gabriel felt strangely at peace.

          When they returned from the theater, Jowers
awaited them in the front hall, along with one of the new footman, a burly man
with wide shoulders and steady eyes.

          “Well done,” Psyche said quietly to the butler
as she glanced at the new servant. He seemed big enough to discourage anyone
with thoughts of attack.

          “Thank you, Miss,” Jowers said; and although
his expression was impassive, she was sure he understood her comment.

          “Good night, Niece,” Sophie said. “Do not stay
up too long.” She ascended the staircase with deliberate care, taking Psyche’s
acquiescence for granted.

          “Yes, Aunt.”

          Psyche watched her aunt climb out of sight,
then thought of the man she had left to while away the evening on his own; had
he been bored by this inactivity? Perhaps she should say something to him, just
as a gesture of friendship, she assured herself.

          “Is Lord Tarrington in the library?” she asked
Jowers after he had lifted her satin evening cloak off her shoulders.

          “I believe Lord Tarrington is no longer in the
library,” the butler said. He paused, and Psyche waited for him to continue. But
the man was silent.

          Psyche blinked. “Then where is he? Surely he
hadn’t gone up to bed already?” she said. “It’s only half past eleven.”

          Jowers looked almost confused. “No, Miss, that
is–”

          A door opened, and a familiar male voice said,
“And how was the theater?”

          Psyche relaxed. “Boring. That’s why we came
home early. What are you doing in the bookroom?”

          “Checking on my–um–secretary’s scribbling. His
spelling is most inventive.” Gabriel’s lazy smile lifted his lips, and his blue
eyes brimmed with even more laughing mischief than usual.

          “But he’s copying from a book of sermons,”
Psyche pointed out. She couldn’t hold back her answering smile. How did Gabriel
always make one feel more light-hearted just with one lift of those elegantly
curved dark brows?

          “Then I fear we may need to purchase him a
pair of spectacles,” Gabriel noted. “Would you join me in the library for a
drink before bed?” He gestured toward the next room.

          “Tea will be fine,” Psyche said, her tone
demur, but she was still smiling as she followed his motion and turned toward
the library.

          “A tea tray, then,” her bogus fiancé told the
butler. “And a brandy for me, if you please.”           There was a movement at
the corner of her vision, as if a coin had passed from one hand to another, but
Psyche paid it no mind. She somehow felt happier than she had all evening.

          The library was serene, filled with the smell
of leather and books and the glow of candlelight, although the fire seemed to
be dying. She held out her cold hands to the fading flame. When Gabriel came
into the room behind her, she glanced up and surprised a quizzical expression
on his face, almost one of yearning. The man was full of surprises. And not all
of them good, she would warrant, she tried to remind herself, but it was no
use. She was still happy to be here in his company.

          She remembered the reason she had wanted to
see him. “I just wanted to commend you for being willing to stay in tonight,”
Psyche said. “I know you must be bored with the confinement.”

          His expression was impossible to read. “I
don’t deserve your commendation,” he said.

          She thought she had misheard. “I mean, I just
know you would prefer–”

          He waved her words aside. “Actually,” he
turned away slightly and gazed into the smoldering embers, bending to add a
piece of coal from the scuttle. “I am more content now than I have been all
evening.”

          She had been about to tell him not to bother;
the footman would repair the fire when the tea tray was brought in, but she
caught herself. He was not accustomed to being waited on; it was easy enough to
see that. He had been on his own for a long time. She wanted to tell him that
she realized how hard it must have been, thrust outside of his own social
sphere, but she knew he would reject any sympathy, even from her. Perhaps
especially from her.

          Then she realized the meaning of his last
sentence and she looked up, startled. She was afraid she might be blushing. “I–”

          ”You don’t have to answer that,” he said, and
the reserve, the laughing mask that he usually wore to protect his deeper
feelings, was back into place. “Obviously, I am indeed bored with staying too
much indoors. Hopefully, my solicitor will win through the tangle of legal
maneuvering very soon, and I will not longer be a burden to you.”

          Psyche felt cheated. How dare he say such a
thing, and then retract it in the next second. Of course, it could be true, he
had not meant to imply–oh, drat the man. “No one hopes it more than I,” she
snapped, then bit her lip. “That is, I hope for your sake that the claim on the
estate goes through.”

          “I appreciate your good wishes,” Gabriel
answered, his tone dry.

          And the happiness Psyche had felt, the
indefinable feeling of all’s well with the world that his presence had induced,
had gone. She felt suddenly very tired.

          A footman came in with the tea tray, and
Gabriel’s glass of brandy. “I am fatigued,” she said. “I don’t believe I wish
for any tea, after all. Good night, Lord Tarrington.”

          He nodded, accepting the dismissal, and his
answer was also blank and non-revealing. “Good night, Miss Hill.”

          They might as well be strangers, she thought
bitterly as she walked out of the room. They were strangers, and it was foolish
to think she understood him, that they shared any feelings of–that they shared anything
except a mutual business arrangement.

          But when she reached her own bed chamber and
Simpson came in to help her out of her evening dress, Psyche was silent.

          “How was the play, Miss?” her maid inquired.

          “Insipid,” Psyche said, knowing that her tone
was peevish, but too weary to care. “And I have a headache.”

          Her dresser tut-tuted in sympathy. “I’ll make
you a tisane right away, Miss.”

          Somehow, Psyche thought the healing draught
would not be enough. She wanted–something else–and relief did not seem likely
to come.

          But she thanked her faithful servant and
climbed into bed, pulling the smooth sheet up to her chin and blinking hard
against sudden unreasonable tears.

          The next morning the Earl of Westbury knocked
on the mahogany doors of the Hill townhouse before nine, a little heavy-eyed
but his expression eager. David nodded carelessly to Jowers when he was
admitted and then sank into a damask-covered settee against the foyer wall. Holding
his achy head in his hand, he gestured to Jowers.

          “Inform Gabriel I have arrived, won’t you?”

          If Jowers felt any amusement at the sight of
the young Earl, he was too well-trained to show it.

          “At once, my lord.” Bowing,
he walked smartly away.

          As David waited, he held tightly to his head
lest it finally roll off his neck as it had been threatening to do since he had
risen. At this point, he would hardly care.

          “Are you ill?”

          David jumped so sharply at the unexpected
question that he had to take a few deep breaths to control the nausea. When he
could speak, he looked around for the phantom voice. The salons on either side
of the foyer were untenanted; his foggy mind could not think further than that.

          Circe crouched down at the top of the landing,
where she often sat quietly to survey visitors; an artist had to be observant,
after all. She was about to speak again when Gabriel’s footsteps rang on the
marble foyer floor.

          “Right on time, David,” Gabriel said. He had
been finishing his coffee, toast and marmalade in the dining room as he waited
for David to arrive, hoping the young man would be out of bed in time to make
his appointment. But apparently, a session at the boxing saloon was worth the
lad dragging himself from his slumbers. Pulling on his buff-colored gloves,
Gabriel paused as he noticed the green tinge of David’s skin. “Celebrated a bit
longer last night, did you?”

          “I’m never drinking again,” David moaned,
breathing deeply through his mouth.

          “Oh, the promises of youth.” Gabriel chuckled.
“You’ll learn.”

          David groaned. Was it necessary to speak so
loudly?

           “Maybe more painfully than necessary, but
you’ll learn.” With sadistic unconcern, he pulled David to his feet and steered
him towards the open door. “Let’s sweat it out of you. Come along; I have to
see my solicitor, Mr. Theobald, after we leave the saloon.”

          Circe watched silently as Jowers shut the door
behind the two men. Slowly, she climbed the stairs to the schoolroom; the
morning light would be striking her easel at just the right angle. Besides, she
had much to consider.

          By the time they had arrived at the boxing
saloon, David was feeling much more the thing. Gabriel watched David’s renewed
enthusiasm as the lad bounded down the step of the phaeton and shook his head. Ah,
to be twenty-two again.

          After a few words with the doorman, the man
bowed and opened the door for them.

          “You’ll find Jackson a real master of
pugilism,” David told him eagerly as they went inside. “And his instruction has
merit; I am becoming much more practiced with my left hook.”