Dear Impostor

by Nicole Byrd

  “But what does this have to do with the men at the maze?”

  ”Ah, yes, well . . .” He looked away from her for the first time. “It seems Barrett has hired a gang of ruffians.”

  “To do what?” Psyche asked, feeling goose bumps rise on her bare arms. She was afraid she knew the answer even before he spoke.

  “To kill me, thereby–Barrett hopes–rendering the matter void.”

  Psyche shivered, then tried to be logical. “But that’s nonsense,” she protested. “Your heirs would still inherit the property.”

  Gabriel’s smile was grim, a bare lifting of his lips. “I have no heirs.”

  Her surprise must have shown. “No family at all?”

  “None that would claim me,” he said shortly, his tone even. But she caught a glimpse of the pain beneath the facade he struggled to maintain, and she felt a flicker of pity that she knew she dared not reveal. He had turned a little away again, as if through some instinctive wish to hide his face, and he stared into the embers of the fire.

  He looked very alone.

  Psyche knew about being alone, about making your way through life without an ally. And yet when her parents died, she had had an extended family of uncles and aunts and cousins whose support she could draw upon, even if some were more a hindrance than a help, so her experience had been nothing like his. Why had he had been forced to leave England? There were still puzzles here, and it was still possible that he had committed some great wrong. Perhaps if she knew the truth it would horrify her, repulse her so much that she could never smile at him again, and it was for that reason that he was keeping silent.

  But just now, all she could think of was the pain she felt in him, pushed deep beneath the cool charm and devil-may-care insouciance with which he usually faced the world. He was alone, and so was she. And he needed a friend, whether or not he would admit it.

  “You can’t go,” she said, holding out her hand toward him.. “I will not be bested by a poor loser with no honor, nor by his hired henchmen.”

  He looked up at her in surprise, and the light shining in the depths of his eyes made her glance away. She did not wish him to think–

  “It is for my own benefit,” she added hastily, dropping her hand quickly lest he misinterpret the gesture. “I mean, I need you here to keep up the pretense of the betrothal. I shall get my inheritance soon, or a good part of it, and by then perhaps you will have established a clear title to the property. So we shall both benefit. But you must stay.”

  Gabriel tried to keep his face impassive. Psyche fiddled with the lace trim on her bodice and did not meet his eyes. She could not mean–no, it was for convenience, as she said, for their mutual financial advantage.

  But the warmth that had flooded him when she had refused to let him go–it filled a cold emptiness deep inside that he had lived with so long that he had expected it to be part of him forever.

  Some small share of the old pain eased. There was still a great abyss of rejection and loss that he would carry with him always, but, like a sweet-smelling blossom drifting down to float on a dark woodland pool, something had been added.

  Someone had held out her hand to him, and the look she had given him had been one of friendship, he was sure of it, not of an employer needing an actor to play a part, nor even of a woman lusting for his physical beauty and masculine energy. He had seen enough of those, and often enough had met their lusts with his own, with easy cynical charm and no emotion attached to those couplings.

  With Psyche, it would never be that. With Psyche, he wanted something more, and the revelation shocked him. She would have no idea what urges, what needs she stirred within him, and he must not allow her to find out.

  When this charade was played out, he must leave her; he had no right to possess such a lovely woman, to wish to hold such an untainted spirit, not when he carried with him the guilty memory of his destruction of another beautiful woman. He was cursed by his own sins, which would be branded forever on his soul, and he must bear them alone.

  She was watching him.

  “Very well,” Gabriel said, and he found that his voice was husky. He cleared his throat and tried to give her his usual easy smile. ”As long as you need me, I will stay.”

  Chapter 15

  The knowledge that there were hired murderers on Gabriel’s trail could not just be ignored. That very afternoon, Psyche spoke to Jowers about hiring extra footmen.

  “Big men, by preference,” she told him. “And I want you to be extra vigilant about keeping the outer doors locked, and to watch for strangers who seem to be interested in the house.”

  The butler gazed at her with an unreadable expression, but his answer was spoken calmly. “Just as you say, Miss.”

  She and Gabriel, sharing the tea at last, had also worked out a credible excuse over their tea cups that would allow him to stay at home, out of sight and out of harm’s way.

  “I do not think you will be in any danger on your own,” he told her. “It is me they are looking for.”

  Psyche nodded. “If I give up all my engagements, Sally will fuss. And it’s true; it would cause talk.”

  So the next day she and Aunt Sophie went off to the theater unaccompanied by any male presence, and when a bevy of disappointed ladies came to their box after the first act to ask why the delightful Lord Tarrington was not with them, Psyche was ready with her answer.

  “Alas, he slipped on a pebble during a walk in the Countess’ garden yesterday, and his ankle has swollen up dreadfully.” Psyche smiled sweetly.

  “But he was walking just fine when he left,” a young lady pointed out. “I watched him particularly.” Then she blushed at her admission.

  “I’m sure you did,” Psyche said, her own tone dry. “No, it was not apparent at once, but by the time we reached home, his foot had begun to go black and blue. He has been advised by my physician to stay off his feet and to keep the ankle elevated.”

  “But there is Mrs. Forsyth’s dance coming up soon,” another young woman wailed. “He will miss it all.”

  “I’m sure he regrets that keenly,” Psyche agreed.

  Aunt Sophie plied her ivory-backed fan. “Not so much as the ladies of the Ton, I’ll wager.”

  The young women around them blinked and reddened, and the raising of the curtain for the next act was a logical reason for them to flee to their own seats.

  “May have to lend you my cane to beat’em off,” the older lady said. “Marrying that scamp may be quite fatiguing for you, Niece.”

  Psyche grinned. “Do you think I should throw him back into the sea and wait for a better catch?”

  Sophie grunted, an inelegant noise drowned out by a scattering of laughter from the spectators in the pit below as the actors in front began to declaim. “I doubt you will do better than Tarrington,” she said, turning her gaze back to the stage. “If I were thirty years younger, I would have tried to snag him first.”

  Surprised, Psyche stared at her aunt; she had thought Sophie impervious to the most charming rogue. But Gabriel was more than that, and his allure was more even than his remarkable good looks. It was the intelligence lurking beneath his laughing blue eyes; the kindness he occasionally exhibited, almost despite his own wishes, the way he spent time so willingly with a child or an older lady. It was–

  No, this would not do. What was the use in cataloguing Gabriel’s positive traits? He was not a permanent part of her life; he was only here for the interim until they both had their affairs in order. She must remember that. He was little more to her than the narrow-shouldered Mr. Green who still came every day to scribble away in her bookroom, playing the part of her fiancé’s secretary.

  Gabriel was an actor, too, in his own way, and she could not trust even what she thought she knew of him. As if her aunt could follow the direction of her thoughts, the other woman glanced across at her niece, her brows slightly lifted.

  “Do you know anything about the Sinclairs?” Psyche asked, keeping her voice low. “Bef
ore they–he had the title, I mean.”

  Sophie pursed her mouth. “Not to speak of; I can inquire.”

  “Quietly, please,” Psyche suggested. Sophie’s cronies, older ladies with prodigious memories, were devoted in equal parts to long reminiscences and gossip both ancient and recent. She didn’t wish to stir up any muck from the bottom of the pond, but if there was anything about Gabriel that she should know–and he was keeping something in his past a secret, something he was very much ashamed of. Even though he would be leaving soon, Psyche wanted to know the truth. At least, she thought that she did.

  For the rest of the play, Psyche tried hard to listen to the actors on stage, but the drama played out there was so insipid compared to the drama of her own life that the flowery dialogue could not hold her attention. Her thoughts always returned to Gabriel, once again a virtual prisoner in her home, and how galled he must be to have to stay inside and out of sight.

  After the play, a loud and occasionally funny farce was enacted upon the stage. During the scattered rounds of laughter and catcalls, Sally came across to speak to her. After greeting Sophie, Sally turned to whisper, “The ladies are gossiping about your stroll in the orchard yesterday. And now this sprained ankle–dear, dear. A stolen kiss is one thing, Psyche dear, but must you attack the man?”

  Psyche’s mouth dropped open. “Sally!”

  “Just teasing.” Sally giggled. “I know you wouldn’t do anything so improper. Your life might be more entertaining if you did. If it had been me walking unobserved with your Lord Tarrington, now, it might be another story.”

  “If you don’t stop saying such things, you will have no reputation left at all,” Psyche observed tartly. “I only say this as your friend, of course.”

  “Of course,” Sally agreed, but some of the laughter in her face had faded. “Amazing what hurtful things your friends can utter.”

  Psyche felt thoroughly ashamed of herself. “I didn’t mean it, Sally. I beg your pardon. No one who knows you would think ill of you, it’s just–just that you do have a tendency to make sport of serious matters–”

  Sally waved her fan in disgust. “Lord, Psyche, you sound as bad as Percy! Don’t sermonize.”

  “Your levity might be misconstrued, that is all,” Psyche tried to explain.

  “Like your exaggerated sense of propriety?” Sally gazed at her, her expression for once serious. “You never used to be so strict, Psyche. In our first season, we were both dreadful scamps, and you were just as irreverent as was I. Only since your parents’ death–”

  Psyche brushed the words aside. She did not wish to discuss a painful subject. “I’m only trying to help.”

  “That kind of help I can do without,” Sally snapped. “I have plenty of aunts and cousins of my own, not to mention my sainted mother-in-law! You are supposed to be my friend.”

  “I am your friend, and I apologize,” Psyche said. “I will not judge you, Sally; please forgive me.”

  “Only if you promise to smile, and not be so dreadfully serious. You will get lines in your forehead well before your time,” Sally warned, her tone severe.

  That did make Psyche smile, and the tension between the two faded. They spoke of Sally’s continued preparations for her masquerade ball and the costume she was having made for it, and of the new gown she had glimpsed at the dressmaker’s.

  Psyche tried to pay attention, keep her thoughts in order, but again they strayed to her bogus fiancé.

  What was he doing just now? Sitting at ease in front of the library fire, holding a glass of brandy and staring into the flickering heart of the flames, perhaps? She wished fervently that she could leave this crowded theater and hurry home, enter the room quietly, walk up beside him and take his hand. And he would look up in surprise, smile with that mischievous twinkle, put down his glass and draw her closer to him. And then–her thoughts veered wildly.

  No, no, she must not think like this. The theater was a place for fantasies, true, but this one was too close to home and too dangerous. Frowning, she stared hard at the stage where a actor waved his arms and bowed too low, losing his hat. The crowd in the pit below laughed and jeered.

  Sally nudged her. “He’s trying to be funny, you goose; why are you making such a face at the poor man?”

  “I’m, ah, just thinking about the farce; the lead actor is a bit disappointing,” Psyche tried to sound convincing.

  “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.