by Nicole Byrd
When Simpson brought the tea, Psyche drank it slowly, and then it was time to change for dinner.
“Have you been up to the nursery floor, Simpson?” Psyche asked as her maid laid out an evening dress.
“Miss Circe is just fine, Miss,” Simpson told her immediately. “Tellman told me that man ain’t been up there at all today; in fact, Miss Circe was asking about him, but Tellman set her to parsing verbs, and your sister got so distracted she didn’t ask again.”
Psyche nodded, and perhaps her relief was too obvious, because her dresser added, “Don’t you worry, Miss. We’ll keep an eye on that–that man; we won’t allow him to get too familiar with an innocent child.”
Psyche felt her eyes go damp in gratitude; it was the dream, it weakened her hard-built defenses. She blinked hard, determined to find her way back to her usual cool poise. “Thank you, Simpson. But you haven’t said anything to the other servants to give away the imposture?”
“Oh, no, Miss,” Simpson looked hurt. “I know better. But the rest of the staff are alert, and they know I don’t trust him yet, so they’ll take their cue from me.”
Psyche nodded as Simpson brought out a pale pink silk gown with a embroidered trim of tiny rosebuds around the modest neckline and filmy sleeves; for a moment they were both silent making sure the underslip slid over Psyche’s head without disturbing her hair, then Simpson fastened the long row of tiny buttons on the back of the bodice. Psyche glanced into the looking glass. For tonight, she had returned to her usual simple, severe twist at the back of her head, with no frivolous curls around her face to suggest a feminine weakness that a ridiculously good-looking male might try to exploit.
“Don’t you worry, Miss,” Simpson repeated. “We’ll be on our guard, we will.”
Her longtime servant’s loyalty again made Psyche’s throat tighten, and she nodded. “Thank you.”
When Psyche went down to dinner, she found everyone very quiet. She and her sister and her aunt, and Gabriel, sitting in elegant solitude on the other side of the table, shared an almost silent dinner.
“Thought you were going out to the theater tonight, Psyche?” her aunt demanded, dipping a spoon carefully into her turtle soup.
“I sent a note telling Lady Carre I was indisposed,” Psyche said, avoiding Gabriel’s eyes. “How is the soup?”
“Needs a bit more pepper, I think,” her aunt said, and fortunately, she did not pursue the question of why her obviously healthy niece had canceled her evening’s plans, launching instead into the possible benefits of a new recipe for stuffed hare.
Afterwards, Gabriel sat down with her aunt in the drawing room and showed her a new French version of Solitaire and made himself agreeable to the older woman. Aunt Sophie seemed to relish his consideration, and Psyche told herself she should be pleased that she did not have to contend with his unwanted attentions. She played games with Circe, and her sister went up to bed soon after dinner. Psyche sat down with a book, occasionally glancing at the other two from the corner of her eye.
What was he up to, now? She didn’t trust this new air of serious domesticity. Was he deliberating avoiding her, or was he currying favor with her aunt for some diabolical scheme of his own? She hated second-guessing the stranger; it was bad enough to have to doubt Percy and her uncle’s motives. She was tired of people who were not what they seemed!
She turned a page quickly, trying to also turn the directions of her thoughts, but found that she had no idea what she had just read. She was glad when Jowers brought in the tea tray. She poured for them all, and when the tea had been drunk, then she could say good-night to her aunt, and to Gabriel.
He bowed. “I wish both you a pleasant night.”
“Not likely, with my bones aching the way they have; too damp this spring by half,” the old lady grumbled. And perhaps her words obscured the fact that Psyche had no answer for him at all.
Or perhaps it didn’t. It seemed to her that the actor–no, the gamester–missed very little.
The next day was Sunday, and the three women went off as usual to church. Gabriel excused himself due to the deficiencies of his wardrobe.
“But surely,” Circe argued, “God would not care if your new coat has not yet arrived.” Her face had fallen when she found that Gabriel was not accompanying them.
“God would not, my dear,” Gabriel told her solemnly, “but your neighbors might speculate as to my awkward situation, and they would gossip. I would not wish to bring any shadow upon your sister’s reputation, you know.”
“Quite right,” Sophie said, nodding in approval. “You can always spend the morning in quiet contemplation and prayer.”
Gabriel’s brows rose, and his lips threatened to turn up, but he controlled his expression at once. “Of course.”
Psyche frowned at him; the man had no shame at all. “We are going to be late,” she said. “Come along, Circe, did you find your prayer book?”
They hurried out. After the service, they returned to Sunday luncheon, then Aunt Sophie retired for her usual afternoon rest. Psyche took her sister out for a stroll in the park, determined not to allow her to spend any more time than necessary with the impostor.
“Aren’t you going to ask Gabriel to come with us?” the child asked, turning her clear green eyes disconcertingly upon her older sister.
“Um, no,” Psyche pulled on her gloves, avoiding her sister’s gaze. “I’m sure he would think such an excursion very tame.”
“But it’s a lovely day,” Circe said. “You could ask him . . .”
“We must hurry,” Psyche said. “You will want to see the daffodils in the clear light; it’s threatening to cloud up, you know.”
The artist in Circe pushed all other concerns away. “Oh, yes, you’re right,” she said, and they proceeded out the door.
That night, Gabriel went out right after dinner and had not returned when the ladies went up to bed. Where did he disappear to at night? She knew from Simpson’s grumbling that he often went out until the early hours of the morning. But where? It was too much to hope that he would lose his nerve and depart her life for good. She should be so lucky, Psyche told herself fiercely. No, Gabriel would never lose his nerve, she was sure of that. No doubt he went out to one of the gaming hells that well-bred gentlemen stooped to frequent, where fortunes were routinely won and lost. What would people think of her ‘fiancé’ if they saw him at such a place?
Aunt Sophie would say she was being too prim; plenty of genuine noblemen and men of class were addicted to their cards and dice, she knew. But still, it made her toss and turn for some time, wondering what quagmire Gabriel might pull them into, next. And if, in some corner of her mind, a logical little voice reminded her that she was the one who had originally conceived this scheme, she refused to listen. When she had dreamed up this plot, she has envisaged an actor who did what he was told–not the infuriatingly independent Gabriel who was forever doing something unexpected.
On Monday, the little actor, who had been given Sunday to himself, returned to take his seat at the desk in the bookroom and resume his slow copying of the sermons Gabriel had assigned him. It was ridiculous, but it seemed to keep him safely out of the way; as far as Simpson could detect, the servants had no suspicions.
But on Monday, Gabriel left the house early, and Psyche found herself worrying again. When at last he returned, well past lunch, wearing a new dark blue coat of excellent cut, with an equally new white shirt and perfectly arranged cravat, his tan pantaloons hugging his well-muscled thighs, she could see that he had been back to the tailor; the new clothes were being completed, it seemed. But he also carried a sheaf of papers under his arm; was this more masquerading? Or–
“Where have you been?” she demanded.
Gabriel raised one brow. “Were you bereft at the loss of my company, Miss Hill? I had rather thought that you were actively desiring my absence.”
Psyche bit her lip; she would not blush at his ridiculous assertions. She nodded toward the papers
he carried. “I only thought–”
”I had business with a solicitor, Miss Hill, as well as with my tailor. I had, um, pressing business matters to discuss with him.”
“Another title to assume?” She suggested, her tone icy. It was impossible to believe his statements, now that she knew that he did have something to hide. An even worse thought came to her, and her eyes widened. “You are not wanted by the authorities?”
His smile turned cool. “No more than usual.”
Her breath seemed to snag itself in her chest. Psyche thought she might actually be ill.
“What have I done?”
“You ridiculous chit.” Gabriel sighed. “Stop baiting me and use your very fine mind.” Exasperated, he threw his papers down on a table and strode to where Psyche was standing. With the crook of his finger, he raised her chin and looked into rebellious blue eyes.
“I am not a wanted man; my consultation was about a–a most prosaic legal matter.” That was not completely true, but the disdain in those beautiful eyes was hard to bear. Sometimes he wanted to kiss her, penetrate that icy shell that hid the passion he knew lurked beneath; and sometimes he wanted to shake her, tell her that he was no reprobate to be treated like the family skeleton who has inconveniently fallen out of the closet. And then he remembered the disgrace that he carried, and he knew that the bones were rattling close enough. “If I had been wanted by the Courts, would I have come back to England?”
“I see.” She steadied her breathing. “In fact, you are a paragon of virtue?”
“Not precisely, but I keep my word, Miss Hill, and I will honor our agreement–”
He was too close; she was flustered enough to step back. “We have no agreement.”
“Of course we do; I will be your fiancé long enough for you to escape the clutches of your cousin and uncle.”
“And you will get a handsome sum as reward for your efforts?”
“That, among other things.”
She wasn’t sure she had heard him right. What else could he want? Then she saw that he was staring at the book she had tucked inside the fold of her arm.
“Why are you carrying about a child’s book of stories?”
She flushed; now he was prying. “It is–”
”And don’t tell me that is for Circe; she is much beyond such simple reading matter. What are you up to now, Psyche my love?”
“I am not up to–don’t call me–oh, be off with you,” she retorted. She retreated–she was irked to realize–in sad disorder. To her relief, he did not follow her. Thus she was even more surprised and discomfited when, half an hour later as she sat in the servants’ hall with three of the maids seated in straight chairs around her, she looked up and saw him watching her from the doorway.
Psyche flushed, but she looked down quickly, so as not to embarrass the servants who did not seem to notice the new arrival. “Go on, Lily, you are doing very well.”
“And then good King ’enry married a Sp-” the girl bit her lip, trying to piece out the word.
“Spanish.”
“Spanish pr-princess, K-K-”
”Katherine,” Psyche prompted.
“Katherine of Ar–ar“
”Aragon,” Psyche said gently, and the reading and history lesson continued. To her relief, Gabriel slipped away as silently as he had come. But when the daily lesson had finished and she returned upstairs, he was waiting in the drawing room, with the tea tray.
“What was that all about?” he asked.
“My mother, indeed, both my parents, believed in the education of women, Sir,” Psyche said, refusing to be embarrassed by his discovery of her odd habits. “I am simply putting these principles into action, in a very small way.”
“By teaching your maids to read?”
She nodded, serious about this subject. “So perhaps someday, they will not have to be maidservants, or at least, they can aspire to higher positions than scrubbing the kitchen pots and taking out the ashes.”
He gazed at her, and she could not determine what he was thinking. “Not a fashionable pursuit.”
“No,” she reached for the tea pot, once more in command of herself. “Tea, Lord Tarrington?”
There was the sound of a cane tapping on the polished floorboard of the hall, then Aunt Sophie appeared in the doorway. A footman held the door for her as she came into the room. While her aunt knew about her unconventional lessons with the servants–the footmen had lessons, too, when they wished it–Psyche did not often discuss the subject with her aunt, who was not as forward thinking as Psyche’s parents had been.
They spent another quiet evening at home, and this time, Gabriel sat down and played a nonsensical card game with Circe, making her laugh at his sleight of hand, until Psyche sent her sister up to bed.
“Just a few minutes more?” the child pleaded.
“You will be too tired to paint in the first light of morning,” Psyche pointed out, trying not to smile as Circe’s expression instantly changed.
“You’re right,” she agreed seriously. “But it was most diverting, Gab–Lord Tarrington.”
Gabriel bowed to her; he always treated her like an equal. How could this man be so wicked inside–he must be, he had said so himself–and yet be so considerate of a child and an elderly lady?
Aunt Sophie was also ready to retire. Gabriel said good night to the older woman, and they followed her into the hall.
As Sophie climbed the steps slowly, Gabriel looked up to catch Psyche’s gaze upon him, and the dark brows lifted.
“I was wondering why you are so courteous to my family,” she said, “To Circe and Aunt Sophie; you do not have to be so obliging.”
“Perhaps I like them,” Gabriel said, his tone hard to read. “Or perhaps I have nefarious reasons of my own–that’s what you’re really thinking, is it not, Miss Hill?”
He stepped closer, and she braced herself; she would not succumb to the charm that had disarmed so many virtuous–or not so virtuous–women. She did not have to ask about his past conquests; their multitudes were easy to read in his off-hand charm, his unspoken assumption that women would melt at his merest glance. Just because those dark blue eyes had a gleam in them that made her stomach weak–
She was a modern woman; her mother had always noted that logic and reason were not solely male attributes, that women could be educated and sensible, just like men. Psyche took a deep breath, then wished she had not. She could smell his masculine scent, the odor of new clothes and soap and a subtly male scent of tanned skin warm beneath his shirt–
She pulled her thoughts back, giving herself a mental shake. Logic and reason, she must remember, logic and reason, both of which commanded she have as little as possible to do with the reprobate who had lost his own status in life due to some unnamed scandal which still pained him. And what on earth could shame such a shameless man? The offense must be nefarious indeed, and she should –must–keep her distance.
Perhaps he was simply a good actor, after all, an impostor to his very soul. Certainly not a man whom she could trust, and yet now he had become the key to the fulfillment of all her hopes. She should never had undertaken this wild plot, but at this juncture she had no choice; she must see it through. But she would be prudent, she would be proper, she would not risk straying from the rules of decorum again.
One part of her mind knew that was ridiculous; hiring a man to pose as your fiancé was as improper as one could likely get. Yet Psyche clung to her sense of what was decorous as if it were a lifeline tossed to a drowning sailor. Above all, she would not succumb to the feelings that Gabriel could arouse in her, feelings that weakened her knees and made her breath come faster–never, never. She would master this situation, she would master her own irrational attraction, she would master him.
Gabriel’s lips curved into a disconcerting smile, as if somehow he could read her thoughts. He stood there, watching her struggle with herself, the candlelight glinting in the dark centers of his eyes.
�
�Don’t be too certain, my dear Miss Hill,” he said quietly, “that you hold all the cards. I might yet have an ace up my sleeve.”
Chapter 11
After dinner on Monday he went out as usual, hiring a hackney–he would not take Psyche’s carriages into this kind of neighborhood–and making his way through the early darkness into the East End. When he alighted and paid the driver, he ducked under a low doorway into the cramped front room of what Brickson had assured him was the most infamous gaming hell in London. Almost immediately, the thick smoky haze left a tangible, nasty feel upon his skin. The air stank of sweat, both desperate and victorious. The taste of it all was gritty and sour. But he could taste something else too—the feeling of familiarity that he had known in more than one country, more than one continent. He was at ease in this most incongruous of surroundings.
A tarnished mirror hung across from the door; he saw that his teeth slashed white in the heavy air. He hadn’t felt so at home since he returned to London.
“Offer you a whiskey, milord?”
Gabriel looked down at the woman who had pressed herself against him. She batted gummy lashes over hard eyes. One hand clutched the neck of a half-empty bottle and the other was caressing his thigh. She smelled of gin and cheap perfume and unwashed flesh. Significantly, she glanced down at the cheroot nestled between her abundant breasts.
“Or would a discriminating gent like you prefer a cheroot?”
Gabriel grinned. “I’d bet the house you could offer every vice known to man.”
“And a few unknown, milord.”
The heavy rouge that coated her lips cracked when she smiled. He felt a mild disgust when her hand became bolder. Smoothly, he captured her wandering hand in his own and brought it up to his lips.
Her hard eyes melted at the unusual chivalry.