Dear Impostor (39 page)

          “Psyche, you look beautiful!” Matilda was
flushed and quite bubbly with excitement. “Isn’t this the most wonderful ball? People
will be talking of it for weeks.”

          “Sally will be happy, then,” Psyche agreed. “Yes,
I think it’s quite marvelous.”

          “You know Mr. Stilton,” her cousin added,
blushing even more deeply.

          “Yes indeed,” Psyche said, making her curtsy. “How
nice to see you again.”

          The young man bowed, his eyes widening just a
little at Psyche’s bare shoulders and brief tunic, but to his credit he turned
quickly back to her cousin, speaking with a slight lisp. “We’d best head for
the dance floor, thuch a crush, tho we can take our placeth for the next thet.”

          “Of course,” Matilda agreed. “Will you excuse
us, Psyche?”

          “With pleasure,” Psyche agreed, smiling to see
her cousin’s happiness. Long live the tall and thin Mr. Stilton-Sprat, she
thought.

          A young lady dressed as Mother Goose, with a
wide hat and a toy goose under one arm, came up to her. “Miss Hill?”

          “Yes,” Psyche said. Her disguise was obviously
not every effective; next time, she would come as a Chinese concubine, she
thought. Or a goose!

          “My grandmother, Lady Serena, would like a
word with you, if you would,” the girl said timidly. “She is sitting to the
side of the room.”

          “Of course.” Lady Serena was a contemporary of
Aunt Sophie’s; Psyche would need to explain her aunt’s absence and make a
little polite conversation. At least it would deliver her from the monk, whom
she saw eyeing her again from a clump of nearby guests, and a Cavalier in a
blue cloak who was also assessing her. And by that time, perhaps the current
dance would have ended, and she could reclaim her own escort. Psyche followed
Mother Goose toward the side of the room.

          She found Lady Serena wearing a sumptuous
purple turban and a well-cut gown with a fichu tucker covering her wrinkled
neck, her only concession to the masquerade a half-mask that dangled from her
wrist. Even Sally had been unable to cow the formidable Lady S, Psyche thought,
hiding her amusement.

          “Hello, child, where is Sophia? I thought she
would be here to amuse me with her wit,” Lady Serena complained.

          “My aunt has come down with a slight cough,”
Psyche explained. “She sends her regrets.”

          The old lady sniffed. “Not half the regrets
that I have, stuck in this Bedlam of revelers with no one congenial to talk
to.”

          Her granddaughter, looking meek in her Mother
Goose disguise, tried to argue. “Now, Grandmother, you know that you have many
friends–”

          ”Most of them in the graveyard!” Lady Serena
interrupted sharply, apparently determined not to relinquish her role of
martyr. “Anyhow, I wanted to tell you, child. Sophia asked me about a family,
the Sinclairs of Kent.”

          “Yes?” Psyche’s polite attention sharpened at
once.

          “I had something to tell her,” Serena
announced in sepulchral tones.

          On the dance floor, Gabriel led Sally through
the intricate steps of the dance, amused by her skilled and light-hearted
flirtation.

          “You know that as your partner, I am the envy
of all the other ladies,” she told him.

         
Rule number one, flatter your gentleman
friend
, Gabriel thought. “You’re too kind,” he said, smiling down into her
wide brown eyes until she whirled away from him.

          “And I shall treasure this moment, since I
know you will be occupied with your betrothed for most of the evening,” Sally
said, when next the dance brought them together.

         
Rule number two, show a hint of your
attraction
. “True,” Gabriel agreed. They held hands briefly, then parted
again.

          “But I shall hope for another dance later,
since even one’s fiancé cannot expect constant attention,” Sally added when
they came back together. “It would be so provincial, don’t you think?” She
batted her long lashes.

          He pressed her hand but kept his expression
only mildly interested.
Rule number three, determine the amount of interest
from the other party
.
Sally could give lessons in flirtation, he
thought. And he had always been an eager pupil, up to now. The woman currently
on his arm was delightful, pleasing to the eye and soft to the touch and
smelling of lilies, so why did his thoughts keep returning to the front of the
room, where he had left Psyche too unguarded in her revealing costume? He was
sure that men all over the ballroom were hurrying to flock around her. He
wished the dance would end.

          “I’m sure we will have another dance,” he
agreed. “If the crush of your other admirers permit it.” He had seen more than
one set of mouse ears among the guests. Then, glancing down into her caramel-colored
eyes, he gave way to a mischievous impulse and added, “Or we could slip away to
a secluded alcove, and I could teach you some of the mysteries of the
East–lovemaking is something of an art in India, you know.”

          The brown eyes opened a fraction too wide, and
Sally actually stuttered. “B-but–”

          ”A settee is not required,” Gabriel added
helpfully. “The Kuma Sutra lists over a hundred positions for the giving of
delight, many of which–”

          She gasped. “Oh my. No, that is–my husband–he
might notice–”

          It was as he suspected; she was not truly
serious; it was simply a game to amuse the hour. Since she was Psyche’s friend,
he was glad to know she meant no harm.

          But Sally had regained her composure. “And,
you wicked man, aside from my husband, we would have another obstacle to
surmount before any such nefarious trysts should ensue.”

          “You fear that Psyche might discover us?”

          “No, Psyche has a trusting soul. The problem
would be closer at hand, I think. Secluded alcove or not, your thoughts would
be on Psyche, just as they are now,” Sally answered coolly. “A god of love, you
may be, my lord Eros, but I think your elusive heart may have at last been
snared.”

          This time, he was silenced. It was just as
well that the steps of the dance once more separated them. He could bow over
the hand of a plump angel whose wings were wilting eiderdown all over the ball
floor and avoid Sally’s sharp eyes for a measure or two.

          Psyche felt herself stiffen. “What do you know
about them?” she demanded, then tried to soften her tone. “I mean, I will pass
on the intelligence to my Aunt Sophia.”

          “The Sinclairs?” the older lady sniffed again.
“Or at least this branch? Most ungracious family; the father rarely leaves his
estate and has no friends, he drove them all off years ago. His poor wife–”

          ”What about the son, Gabriel Sinclair?” Psyche
had no patience for vague meanderings. “Do you know anything of him?”

          “Oh yes, a great scandal. Mind you, it
happened years ago, but one doesn’t forget such a thing.” Lady Serena’s words
were slow and measured, as if she enjoyed Psyche’s agony of impatience. “They
tried to cover it up, shipped the boy off–he was not even properly on the town
yet, still up at University when it came about–but whispers went round, don’t
you know?”

          “What happened?” Psyche almost whispered; her
lips felt numb.

          “He was having an affair with an older woman,
the wife of a baronet, lovely little thing.”

          “Is that all?” Psyche felt an irrational
relief; affairs among the Ton were as common as daisies in Hyde Park.

          “Oh no, dear,” the venerable dame said, her
eyes glinting with malice. “Not at all. When he decided to end it, the lady was
distraught. Pleaded with him, they said. Threatened to make it all public and
egg her husband to a divorce.”

          “Oh,” said Psyche said slowly. Affairs might
be commonplace, divorces were not.

           Lady Serena leaned closer and lowered her
voice; her breath stank of sour wine. “The boy panicked, apparently. Afraid of
his tartar of a papa, perhaps. At any rate, she died. They said he’d killed
her.”

          Psyche felt as if she’d been struck. “He
couldn’t–”

          ”He was out of the country before anything
could be done about it, and nowadays, few people remember. But you might want
to ask him about it,” the matron said, her tone smooth. “Before you wed
yourself to a murderer.”

          Psyche wanted to escape, but her whole body
felt frozen. She heard the woman beside her natter on, but the words flowed
past her, their sense lost.

          Gabriel a murderer? Oh no, it was impossible. It
had to be impossible.

          “It was, no doubt, a moment of anger. Young
men are so hotheaded,” Lady Serena said, her voice still honeyed and still
dripping with venom.

          If Psyche didn’t escape from this woman, she
might become a murderess herself, she thought. Desperation gave her rubbery
knees strength; she stood suddenly. “Excuse me,” she said. “I see a friend I
need to speak to.”

          “Of course, dear,” the other woman said. “I
know that the young are easily bored by the wisdom of their elders.”

          “So true,” Psyche agreed. Giving the granddaughter
a look of genuine pity, Psyche made her escape. But now her head pounded, and
the room around her seemed a kaleidoscope of color and motion. She felt the
room spin, and she thought she might pass out. Taking a deep breath, her steps
a little uncertain, she walked on, determined to get away from that evil old
woman.

          Pushing past a couple of gypsies and a
highwayman with a scarlet sash, she found another gilt chair unoccupied. Her
knees had weakened again, and she sat more quickly than grace would dictate.

          Gabriel a murderer.

          No, it couldn’t be.

          Blinded by shock, Psyche looked around, not
really seeing. She thought she might swoon, and she had never fainted before. She
took slow deep breaths, trying to steady herself. She smelled cloying perfumes and
strong wine and from the highwayman, the faint scent of sweat.

          “Are you all right, my dear?” a lady who might
have stepped out of an Arabian night asked; her body was barely covered by the
thin gauzy costume she wore, but her face was effectively masked by a scarf
that covered all but her elaborately painted eyes.

          A man in a kilt glanced her way, and two
pirates, one wearing an eye patch, looked her up and down, their motives
perhaps less altruistic.

          “Yes, thank you,” Psyche muttered. What could
she say?
I have had a bad shock; the man who is my fiancé might be a
murderer
? Except he was not really her fiancé, how could she think in such
a way? It was too easy to enjoy Gabriel‘s easy charm, Gabriel’s ready sense of
humor, Gabriel’s disconcerting habit of always understanding her . . .

          She had become so accustomed to his company in
such a few days, and she had forgotten how little she really knew about him. He
was an impostor, an expatriate with dark secrets in his past–he had said so
himself. And then there was the most disturbing thing–she was very much afraid
that she had fallen in love with him.

          A woman in French court dress, with a towering
powdered wig bedecked with a small gilt birdcage complete with a real canary,
sauntered by, and with her a American Indian in leather and war paint
and–oddly–jeweled shoes.

          Psyche felt her head spin again. Who knew what
was real, anymore?

          “Psyche, are you unwell?”

          The voice was familiar, but she jumped anyhow.

          Gabriel had returned to her side.

          Was she speaking to a murderer? Hadn’t she,
once or twice, glimpsed a steel-hard determination in his eyes? Hadn’t he
admitted to sins that he did not wish exposed to the harsh light of day?

          But no, she couldn’t believe it. Not Gabriel,
whom her little sister trusted, who made Psyche’s own heart quiver with his
barest touch.

          “Psyche?” His tone was concerned.

          “I feel a little–a little faint,” she
admitted, her voice trembling.

          “Would you like to step outside for some air? It’s
rather close in here.”

          Psyche shut her eyes. It was true that the
ballroom felt too warm, and the odors of the heavily-scented party-goers was
almost overwhelming. But to step outside onto the veranda, out of sight of the
other guests–at another time, she would have worried about gossip; now she
wondered if she would be endangering her life?

          No, that made no sense; it was impossible. But
. . .

          “I think I should like a little wine,” she
said, aware of her roiling stomach.