Dear Impostor

by Nicole Byrd

  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.”

  “An accomplishment, indeed.” Gabriel hid his amusement.

  David led the way past a couple of young men in their shirt sleeves who were eying each other with measuring pugnacity.

  “Here he is. Sir,” David said eagerly,” I’ve brought the Marquis of Tarrington.”

  The man who met their gaze was only of middle height but compact of body, with sharp, intelligent eyes and a nose that had been broken more than once. He stared at the newcomer, his eyes narrowing.

  “Hap we have met before,” he said bluntly. “Tho thy wasn’t any marquis then.”

  Gabriel smiled ruefully. “My misbegotten youth continues to haunt me,” he agreed. “Hello, Jackson.”

  David’s eyes widened. “You know him?”

  “Gave me a good jab to the gut once,” the boxing instructor said.

  “You sparred with him?” David looked even more impressed. “And you managed a hit?”

  “I had a lucky punch,” Gabriel said.

  The other man grunted. “Lucky, my arse. And him hardly out of nappies.”

  “I was a bit older than that,” Gabriel objected, but he grinned reluctantly. “I see you’ve come up in the world.” He glanced around at the large open room.

  “As have thy, me lord,” the pugilist noted.

  Gabriel made a face. “Ah, yes. Long story.” And a subject he was happy to change. “Actually, I’m glad it’s you; I have a somewhat strange request.”

  Jackson’s eyes glinted. “Ah, me lord. Ah’m listening.”

  And Gabriel explained.

  Chapter 16

  After lunch, Gabriel felt sufficiently guilty about his near disastrous late night foray to stay inside while Psyche attended a luncheon party, but he was not as bored as he had expected. The house was quiet; Sophie had retreated to her room for her usual afternoon nap, and Gabriel was sitting in the library, drawing up plans for his future home.

  Since he had yet to see the building, it was an exercise in futility, yet it soothed him that his solicitor swore Gabriel was growing closer to the day when he could take possession. He had even acquired reading material on the most up-to-date farming methods so that he could be a reasonable and helpful landlord, not to mention the home farm that was likely attached to his property; he would oversee that himself. To think of having his own land, a piece of England that no one could ever take away from him–he felt a thrill of elation at the thought. And someday, he would be ready to bring a bride there, show her what he had done to the estate, how he had brought it back from its doubtless shabby state under Barrett’s indifferent management to the shining success that he meant to make of it.

  He could imagine it so easily. He and his bride would stroll the rejuvenated gardens hand in hand. The sweet, heavy air of twilight would surround them with the scents of blossoming roses. And he would tease her by tugging her hair pins out one-by-one until the golden mass fell in a fragrant spill over his hands. Then he would pull Psyche into his arms and into a darkened corner where he . . .

  Gabriel shook his head to clear the sensual images from his mind. He could swear that Psyche’s perfume and the scent of fictional roses still lingered around him. He bent his head over his drawing and tried to ignore what his fantasy had implied. His future, hypothetical bride had an alarming tendency to assume the characteristics of his imperious, maddening and impossibly lovely ‘employer.’

  No, he did not dare even imagine such an impossible feat. To clear his mind, Gabriel summoned up memories of his father, colored by Gabriel’s own youthful vows of revenge. By making a success of his dream, his father would know; even though the older man seldom ventured into society, he would hear of it. Gabriel would make sure that he did! And the elder Sinclair would recognize that the ne’er do well who had lost his birthright had triumphed, redeemed his disgrace, confounded everyone’s predictions of an early and disgraceful end.

  Someone hurrumped respectfully at his elbow. Gabriel jumped. He had been so deep in thought that he had not seen the footman come up beside him. Damn, he had blotted his paper.

  Gabriel picked up a piece of blotting felt and then glanced toward the servant. “Yes?”

  “Excuse me, my lord, but you are wanted in the schoolroom.”

  That was not a summons one heard every day; Gabriel tried not to smile. What was the imperious Miss Circe up to, now? “Very well, ” he agreed. “I shall come presently.”

  The footman bowed and retreated, and Gabriel folded his lists of necessary equipment and tucked them into a treatise on modern farming, which he placed into a desk drawer. He made his way up the staircase and found Circe seated on a stool by the window, while the governess worked on a stack of mending a few feet away.

  “You wanted to see me?” Gabriel said, sending Miss Tellman an apologetic glance. She frowned a little, but she looked resigned. No one, it seemed, could control Circe when she was determined; in that way, she was much like her sister, Gabriel thought.

  “You agreed to let me draw you,” Circe said.

  He blinked in surprise. “I don’t recall–”

  ”Yes, you do,” the child argued. She was wearing a blue smock over her day dress, and there were a few dabs of paint on its skirt. “I told you so the other day, you remember.”

  “I don’t remember agreeing to sit for you,” Gabriel pointed out.

  “You didn’t say no, and that’s the same as a yes.” Circe flashed him her quick elusive smile.

  “Has anyone ever told you of your growing resemblance to your sister?”

  An answering spark lit in her clear green eyes. “You and our good Telly would be in agreement, my lord.”

  “Hmm.” Gabriel tried another tactic. “Your sister doesn’t wish for me to talk with you, you know. I really should not stay.”

  “That’s all right; you will not be able to talk. If you did, I could not draw your mouth properly,” Circe observed, picking up her sketch pad. “And it’s well shaped, too.”

  Effectively silenced, Gabriel gave up the fight. “Where do you wish me to sit?” he asked meekly.

  “In that chair, sit up straight and look toward the window; put your hand on the book, so,” Circe directed.

  Gabriel sat down–the chair was shabby but comfortable–and assumed the pose that Circe ordered. He sat very still, and Circe’s hand moved swiftly with her pencils and chalks. He found it harder than he had expected. In a little while, he found his arm going numb, and he tried to shift position just slightly.

  “No, no,” Circe said sharply. “Put your arm back the way it was.”

  Gabriel obeyed. “It may fall off before you are done,” he observed.

  At first he thought that Circe was so absorbed that she had not heard, but then she responded, her tone low. “You only need one hand to hold the cards during a game, do you not?”

  “I suppose, “ Gabriel agreed. “And surely I could learn to shuffle the deck with one hand; there must be a way. When I dance with your sister, however, I will be sadly unbalanced. If we find that I cannot perform the waltz at all, she will be most disappointed.”

  Circe giggled. “Silly. I am almost done.” Sure enough, in another ten minutes, she put down her pencil.

  “You are fast,” Gabriel said. “May I see it?”

  But she turned the pad away. “Not yet,” she said. “I need to work on a few of the finer details.”

  Gabriel found he was disappointed, but he nodded. “Very well; am I dismissed now?”

  “Yes, but you must come back
again,” Circe told him. “To pose for me.”

  Gabriel felt a little hurt.

  “And to talk,” Circe added, as if she had read his mind. “We are friends, are we not? No matter what Psyche says.”

  The child was a witch, Gabriel thought, no doubt about it. He hoped that she never took up serious card playing. He nodded. “I am honored to be counted as your friend.”

  The luncheon party was rather dull, and Psyche left as soon as she could. She was just going up the steps to her own house when, with a clatter of hooves, Sally swept up in her high-perch phaeton. The coachman pulled up the perfectly matched gray geldings, and Sally leaned out the window and waved to her.

  “There you are,” Sally called. “Come along, I’m going to the dressmaker’s.”

  “I’m just getting home,” Psyche protested.

  “I know, I know, that awful luncheon. I begged off; come along, this is much more important,” Sally insisted. “Get in.”

  A footman hurried to hold the carriage door for her. Psyche shook her head, but she lifted her skirt and stepped up. Taking her seat, Psyche gazed at her friend.

  “What is all this? Why is the appointment with the dressmaker so urgent, and why do you need me there?”

  “Because yesterday Madam Sophie told me that you have done nothing about a costume for my masquerade ball. Psyche, you wretch, it is tomorrow night! Don’t tell me you have forgotten!”

  “Of course not.” Psyche tried not to look guilty.

  “You are coming, you must come; I will hear of nothing else.” Sally’s bow lips fell into a practiced pout.

  “Since there will only be four hundred other of London’s finest there,” Psyche pointed out dryly. “I should be sadly missed, indeed.”

  “I would miss you! You are my best friend, and I want you there!” Sally insisted. “Not to mention your perfectly gorgeous fiancé.”

  “The truth is out.” Psyche grinned. “I will come, I promise, perhaps even with my fiancé, if his ankle is recovered–

  “I will take him with or without a whole ankle.” Sally’s brown eyes held a wicked gleam, though her tone was demure.

  Psyche refused to take the bait. “But why the abduction?”

  “Because you cannot come without a costume,” Sally insisted, waving her hand. “You cannot wait till the last minute, dear, and expect Madam to come up with a suitable disguise.”

  “Oh, that.” Psyche shrugged. “I had thought a mask and domino would do, or I could find something in the back of my wardrobe–”

  ”To come to my gala, the biggest function of the year!” Sally exclaimed, sounding genuinely horrified. “Psyche, how dare you–”

  ”It was a jest,” Psyche said quickly, laughing. “I was teasing you; I am sorry.”

  “Very well.“ Sally fanned her pink cheeks. “As long as you take my ball seriously, I forgive you. However, the fact remains, you have done nothing about a costume.”

  “I’ve–been a bit distracted,” Psyche told her, thinking of hired killers and knives emerging through a hedge, and most of all, a fiancé who was not who he seemed.

  Sally sniffed. “I know, mooning over your gorgeous–”

  ”Here we are,” Psyche interrupted again as the phaeton slowed in front of the dressmaking establishment. “I will throw myself on Madam Sophie’s mercy and see what she can come up with.”

  “You’re still not treating this with the gravity it deserves,” her friend complained. “I have been planning my costume for weeks, Psyche!”

  “But you are the hostess,” Psyche tried to sooth her. “Of course you must have a grand costume.”

  “True, wait till you see it,” Sally agreed, her frown disappearing. “This is my final fitting.”

  They were bowed into the dressmaker’s shop and taken to the largest fitting room, where Madam herself hurried to wait upon them.

  “Ah, Mrs. Forsythe,” the seamstress purred. “It is turning out tres magnifique; you will be sensational.”

  Psyche waited while Sally disappeared behind a screen. Two of the assistants aided her in disrobing and donning her costume. Psyche listened to the murmur of feminine voices and the rustle of heavy fabric. When Sally emerged, Psyche’s eyes widened.

  “It fits divinely,” Sally pronounced, turning back and forth to gaze at her image in the looking glass. “My, these skirts are heavy.”

  “Good gracious, who are you going as?” Psyche demanded. “The Queen of Sheba?”

  “No, silly, Cinderella, after she has married Prince Charming,” Sally explained. “I had to have a dress fit for a fairy tale princess, however. Is it not amazing?”

  “I think I am likely to be blinded,” Psyche murmured, as the assistants applauded, and the seamstress herself beamed. As well she might; Psyche gazed at the resplendent ball gown which might well have paid the dressmaker’s rent for a full year. Its huge golden skirts held two rows of scallops, all trimmed with gold embroidery, and the deeply cut bodice was trimmed with a row of Flemish lace which glittered with gold thread and sparkling gems.

  “Surely those are not real diamonds?” Psyche murmured.

  “Alas, no.” Sally sighed. “Even my sweet Andrew might have drawn the line at that. But they are the very best paste, and I will have real diamonds in my hair and around my throat and in my ears and–”

  ”In other words, you will glitter from head to toe,” Psyche noted. “You should be a marvelous sight.”

  “Oh, I do hope so,” Sally admitted. “Andrew will be my prince, and dear little Mr. Denver is wearing mouse ears.”

  “Mouse ears?”

  “You remember, the mice who turned into white horses to pull Cinderella’s coach. And perhaps one or two more young men, too.”

  “Poor Denver.” Psyche raised her brows, remembering the young man’s rather narrow chin He would look like a rat, she thought.

  “I have planned this forever. But let us not forget–” Sally turned back to Psyche and looked her up and down. “What about your costume? Who shall you be, Psyche? Madam Pompadour? Cleopatra?”

  “No indeed,” Psyche said, beginning to get into the spirit of the game. “I shall go as Psyche.”

  “Dearest, no, you must have a costume!” Sally protested as she adjusted her long train and gazed into the looking glass again. “I insist.”

  “I shall, I shall.” Psyche smiled. “The original Psyche.” Her father’s penchant for Greek legends might come in useful, at last.

  “Oh, of course,” Sally’s brow cleared. “You shall have to tell me the story again; I forget how it goes.”

  “Psyche married a mysterious young man of amazing beauty–”

  “You’ve got that part right,” Sally said. “Tarrington is a cream puff, dearest.”

  One of the assistants giggled, then covered her mouth quickly when Madam Sophie glared.

  Psyche pretended not to hear. “But she was not allowed to see his face or know his name.”

  “Well, that was hardly fair. I would have peeked.”

  “She did, but then he was forced to leave,” Psyche explained.

  “Umm,” Sally’s attention was wandering. “What a shame. Anyhow, what about the dress? You will need–”

  ”Something Greek, which should be simple for Madam’s seamstresses to whip up on short notice,” Psyche pointed out. “A simple tunic, they were called a chiton, as I remember from Papa’s lessons.”

  “You are much too practical,” Sally complained.

  But Madam Sophie nodded. “Mais oui, we can do it. And with Miss Hill’s exquisite figure–”

  Sally looked a bit less enthused. The dressmaker called to her assistants, who hurried up. They held a low-voiced consultation, while Psyche told her friend. “It will not be nearly as grand as your costume, of course. The Greek wore a simple sort of dress.”

  Sally was mollified. Presently, when Madam Sophie pinned several lengths of white linen into a rough approximation of the finished costume, with a thin gold-colored belt aroun
d her waist, Psyche found that the Greek garb might not be elaborate but it was certainly revealing. She was momentarily askance at how much of her bosom the simple drape of the white dress exposed, and as for the glimpse of bare ankles below the linen . . .

  Sally frowned for a moment, then laughed. “It will be worth it to see Percy’s face,” she pointed out. “You will need some gold-colored sandals, Psyche. I have a pair you can borrow that might be just the thing.”

  Psyche took a deep breath. She did look rather well in the simple gown. She gazed at her reflection. And she would be wearing a mask, of course, so not everyone would even know who she was. It was a liberating idea.

  “And,” she said aloud. “I believe I should do something about a costume for Lord Tarrington.”

  “Of course,” Sally agreed.

  Psyche only hoped it would be more successful than her last effort at dressing Gabriel!

  The dressmaker delivered the costumes on Saturday after lunch, and Psyche wondered how to break the news to Gabriel. First she had to locate him; he was not in the library, nor the bookroom, nor–when she sent a footman to check–was he in his bedroom. He never sat in the parlor, where Aunt Sophie’s friends were wont to be found sharing hot tea and lukewarm gossip. At last she found him in the back garden, tossing acorns into a hat. The two stablelads who had been urging him on disappeared quickly when they saw their mistress approaching.

  Psyche raised her brows. Gabriel looked as striking as ever, though he had removed his tightly fitted jacket to better his aim.

  “Are you winning?”

  “I always win,” he told her, grinning. “Though I fear you have frightened away my competitors.”

  “I hope you have not won all their wages?” she asked, her voice cool.

  His smile faded. “Miss Hill, I do not take money from children. We competed only to demonstrate our skill.”