Dear Impostor (38 page)

          “Yes,” he said. “Not that I care much for such
things, but Tarrington might have need of me. He has enemies, you know.”

          “I know,” the child agreed. “You have no
costume.”

          “Oh, that’s all right,” David told her. “I
have no patience for this dress-up nonsense.”

          “Psyche says that Sally will allow no one in
without a costume,” the child told him, her tone serious. “Her footman will
give you a pair of mouse ears to wear.”

          “Mouse?” David thought he must have heard
wrong. He’d only had one glass of wine with dinner, wanting his wits sharp,
but– “What’s wrong with the woman, eh?”

          “It’s because she’s being Cinderella,” the
girl explained patiently. “You’re not very familiar with fairy tales, are you?”

          “Umm, no.” David frowned. He had to wear mouse
ears? “Maybe I won’t even go–no, dash it, I must. Promised Tarrington.”

          “And you likely have a sweetheart to meet?”
the child prompted.

          “Me? No, no,” David told her. “Not into the
petticoat line, too complicated.”

          “That’s a shame,” the girl said thoughtfully. “You
have uncommonly expressive eyes.”

          “You think so?” David began to wonder if this
child had had too much wine. Did children drink wine? Someone must have been
drinking overmuch; it was the strangest conversation he had ever been part of.

          “Yes, I do, and I know about eyes,” she
assured him. “And hands and mouths, too, of course.”

          He stared at her, slightly scandalized. “I
think you know a bit too much about body parts for a schoolgirl–”

          ”I considered you a bit foolish the first time
I saw you, but I think you will improve with time,” she said thoughtfully.

          “Here now,” David protested, wounded. “No need
to insult a fellow.”

          ”Yes, I think you should wait for me.”

          She nodded in apparent decision and raised her
brows. He noticed for the first time that her eyes were a clear lucid shade of
green. Perhaps she was a fairy, a changeling, and not a little girl at all.

          “Wait for you? Are
you
going to the
ball as well?”

          “I shall be eighteen in only six years,” she
explained. “Is that too long to wait?”

          If he said no, she would likely turn him into
a mouse, not just with ears but with whiskers and tail. David wondered how one
dealt with a fairy bent on mischief. A bit of iron in the pocket, a silver cross?
He’d have to ask the vicar on Sunday. If the shock of David showing up in the
family pew didn’t give the poor man palpitations.

          “Is it?” Her tone was very serious.

          “Oh, no, no,” he assured her, backing away. “Wait,
yes indeed. Expect I’d better be on my way, however. A good night to you.”

          “Good night,” she said as he hurried toward
the front door. “Sorry about the mouse ears,” he thought she called after him.

          A fairy child, no doubt about it.

          Gabriel reluctantly raised his head when the
carriage rolled to a stop. Psyche gave a soft sigh of disapproval when he set
her away from him.

          He chuckled beneath his breath. “The footman
may not understand ancient mythology, but a man knows
eros
when he sees
it.” He watched her lips part at his meaning. “And I don’t wish him to see it. Do
you . . . goddess?” This last he said quietly as he lifted her mask from the
seat beside them and slipped it over her face. He tied the satin ribbons around
her head and rejoiced in the kindling passion that lingered in her azure eyes. He
had awakened this in her. He smiled, remembering that he was Eros, god of
sensual love.

          Perhaps there was something to be said for
this mythology business, after all.

          He had barely covered his own face when the
door swung open, and the footman had laid down the steps. Alighting first, he
turned and offered Psyche his hand. She waited a moment and then allowed him to
help her down and lead her forward.

          The street in front of the Forsyth mansion was
crowded with barouches and chaises and every manner of vehicle, their lanterns
flickering through the early darkness. Carriages discharged their fanciful
occupants, creating a crush of revelers on the steps.

          Psyche hardly noticed. Her thoughts were still
in the darkness of the carriage. Still wrapped around the man who now clutched
her unsteady hand with a tender gallantry. If only they might spend their lives
wrapped up in each other, guiding each other, loving each other as fully as she
loved him now.

          With a start, she pulled her mind back from
wild flights of fancy. She wasn’t in love with him. She couldn’t be.

          They had arrived at the top of the stairs and
Gabriel was waiting patiently for her to walk ahead of him. “Thank you,” she
muttered. Already she could hear music and laughter and the chatter of a large
crowd of guests.

          A servant took her cloak, while Gabriel
retained his white satin cloak since it was part of his costume, and–Psyche
hoped–would help obscure his wide shoulders and hard-muscled physique. For
tonight, he must be safely anonymous.

          Thinking of Gabriel, she had forgotten about
herself. The feel of a draft on her bare shoulders, which, since the tunic had
no sleeves, were now covered only by a narrow width of fabric, reminded her of
her costume. Glancing into the looking glass on the wall, Psyche hoped she had
not gone too far beyond the pale.

          What had she been thinking? The fact that two
passing gentlemen gave her long looks of appreciation did not reassure her.

          Gabriel seemed to guess the direction of her
thoughts. He offered her his arm. “You look divine, goddess,” he told her, his
eyes glinting with their usual spark of humor.

          She understood what he was trying to tell her
and smiled reluctantly at the pun; very well, she was a Greek goddess, not the
ordinary Miss Hill of tea parties and prim dresses. Tonight, she could hide
behind her golden half-mask, and it made her feel strangely free.

          As they climbed the wide marble staircase to
the floor where the ball was held, she saw a menagerie of strange beings; a
shaggy wolf in a red velvet tunic with whiskers glued to his cheeks; a round
and merry Humpty Dumpty who seemed well into his cups already; a demure
shepherdess pulling a quite real, bleating lamb up the steps by its embroidered
leash.

          Wondering what on earth Sally’s servants would
think of cleaning up after a sheep, Psyche laughed and forgot her worries. Tonight
was a step out of time, and she would forget about Miss Hill’s concern with
decorum. This evening, she was a Greek goddess, come down to play with mortal
men and–perhaps–break a heart or two.

          She glanced toward Gabriel, wishing that might
be true.

          When they entered the ballroom, she found it
bedecked with fanciful blossoms. Some of the flowers were real, and some must
be contrived out of satin and silk, Psyche thought, for such oddly colored,
glitter-bedecked blooms belonged only in a fantasy world. Gold ribbons were
twined among the crystal chandeliers, and a wave of music rolled out to greet
them, softening the shrill sound of many voices. The room smelled of perfumes
and wine and flowers, and it was enough to make her hesitate a moment on the
threshold. Perhaps they were indeed stepping into faerie land.

          Certainly, the odd beings around them belonged
in a story book. Psyche saw Cleopatra walk by, wearing a stuffed asp around her
neck, her arms glittering with jeweled bracelets which looked much more genuine
than the snake; her white linen shift was dampened in the French manner so that
it clung to her body and showed more than a hint of the curvaceous charms
hidden beneath. Psyche felt less uncomfortable about her own costume, which now
appeared positively Puritanical in contrast. Cleopatra accepted a glass of wine
from a servant and turned to talk to a sea captain with a stuffed parrot on his
shoulder.

          A glittering vision of gold and diamonds
floated up to them; Psyche turned to greet their hostess. “Sally, this is quite
marvelous! What a spectacle.”

          “I told you I’ve been laboring forever,” Sally
told them from behind her jewel-edged mask.”And do not call me Sally, tonight I
am Cinderella.”

          It would be more accurate to say that Sally’s
servants had been working for days, Psyche thought, swallowing a grin, but she
didn’t contradict her. “Cinderella, meet Eros,” she said instead.

          Gabriel bowed over their hostess’s hand. “You
are a vision worthy of any fairy tale,” he said, kissing her fingers lightly.

          “And you are a most appropriate god of love,”
Cinderella declared, flicking her fan with practiced archness. “My, that mask
gives me chills, darling. I adore it! You must come and dance with me; it is a
royal decree. Andrew has already gone off to the card room; he says his corset
is too tight and his crown is giving him a headache.”

          “But what about the guests still arriving?”
Psyche asked in surprise.

          “It’s a masquerade, no one is being
announced.” Cinderella waved her fan airily. “Come along, Eros, and don’t
disappoint me.”

          Gabriel looked over at Psyche, his eyes
glimmering with laughter. “I shall return,” he promised, and then he led
Cinderella off toward the dance floor.

          Psyche looked about; the costumes were a
marvel. Close at hand, two women approached, one seemed to be Queen Mary, she
wore an antiquated dress with a wide ruff around her neck, and a gilt crown on
her head. Her daughter was–well, she wore a crown, too. Psyche decided that
perhaps it was the younger woman who was Mary Tudor, and the older who
portrayed Katherine of Aragon. They were each trying to be some antique royal
lady, that was certain.

          When the older woman spoke, Psyche recognized
the voice. It was Mrs. Fleming, and this must be her daughter.

          “Is that you, Psyche?” the older royal
demanded. “What an, um, unusual costume, dear.”

          “Do you like it?” Psyche asked calmly. “I
thought I should live up to my name.” She had regained her usual self
possession and did not intend to let this old cat . . . um . . . queen upset
her. She imagined the skinny matron as a cat, with whiskers glued to her cheeks
like the wolf they had passed on the stairwell and had to stifle a laugh.

          “Is your fiancé here?” the younger woman
asked, her tone eager. “The Marquis?”

          “Oh, I cannot tell you that, it is a
masquerade,” Psyche pointed out. “But you might just find him somewhere among
the guests.”

          “Oh, look Mother,” the younger woman said. “The
tall man in the Chinese emperor costume and the fake beard, I believe that
might be him. Is it, Psyche?”

          Psyche only smiled mysteriously, and the two
women hurried off. “And good luck to you,” Psyche murmured.

          A man wandered up, wearing a drab brown coat,
mouse ears attached to his half-mask and below the mask, a petulant frown. “Have
you seen Madam Forsyth–that is, Cinderella?” he asked, his voice plaintive.

          “I believe you’ll find her on the dance
floor,” Psyche told him. “If you go and stand nearby, you can likely claim her
for the next dance.”

          Brightening, the mouse hurried off.

          A stout man dressed as a monk appeared at her
elbow. “My dear classical goddess, your loveliness overwhelms me! No doubt you
must be Venus, goddess of beauty. Perhaps you will favor me with the next
dance?” He leered at her in a very un-monklike manner, and Psyche was reminded
again of how revealing her costume really was.

          “I’m sorry, that dance is already promised,”
she told him.

          “Then perhaps you would like a glass of wine?”

          “Goddesses subsist only on mead and ambrosia,
didn’t you know?” She smiled and stepped back. “Excuse me, I see a friend.”

          Actually, she saw a bevy of shepherdesses with
crooked staffs and one rather stout king, whose crown was slipping over his
bald pate.

          “It just wouldn’t behave,” one of the young
women was saying. “It kept stepping on my slippers and pulling at the leash. And
it smelled–ugh. So I told the footman to take it away to the stables and give
it some hay, or something. It didn’t act like the poem, at all.”

          Psyche smiled; so much for the sylvan peace of
rustic glades. Then she did recognize a face beneath a half-mask.

          “Matilda, is that you?” she asked. Her
cousin’s plump form was clothed, not unbecomingly, in a ball gown of striped
lavender; her brown hair was fringed with an arrangement of large silk flower
petals; the young man with her was tall and thin and his costume was green; she
wasn’t sure who they were supposed to be, some kind of plants, perhaps, but
they reminded her forcibly of Jack Sprat and his wife. She didn’t say this
aloud, of course.