Dear Impostor (6 page)

          When the first tune ended, there
was a polite scattering of applause. Gabriel clapped, too, for Matilda's
courage, if nothing else. "Very nice, dear," one of the women said.

          Then Mavis commanded, "Now
the new ballad, my dear."

          "Oh, Mother, I don't wish to
sing," Matilda protested.

          "Nonsense, you have a lovely
voice," her doting and unperceptive mother said.

          Matilda placed new sheet music
upon the stand, and her fingers moved slowly over the keys. When the notes
rose, and she added her voice to the melody, Gabriel winced despite himself. Matilda's
singing was even less inspired than her playing; she had a thin voice likely
made more shrill by fear of her mother's disapproval.

          He saw Matilda glance beseechingly
up at Psyche, who had been standing beside the instrument turning the pages of
the music. At once, Psyche added her voice to the song, keeping her own singing
low, not attempting to drown out her cousin. But her pleasing alto added depth
to the sound and gave her cousin's thin voice a much needed embellishment. This
time, when the music died, the applause, which Gabriel joined heartily, was
louder.

          Matilda flushed with pleasure. As
the two singers began another tune, Gabriel's thoughts wandered. She had heart,
this ice maiden, despite her outer coolness. He was sure Psyche had other
passion as well, hidden deep within.

          But as alluring as she was, that
was not why he had played for time, deciding to draw out this dangerous role as
long as he could. He glanced outside into the dark garden, where shadows
cloaked the shrubbery. He could find no better hiding place than this, no more
secure sanctuary from which to assert his claim and acquire his newly-won estate.
This was better than cheap rooms or equally shoddy inns for escaping the
renewed detection of the band of ruffians hired to kill him. He had no false
hope that they will give up; every time he set foot on the street, he would be
a marked man.

          And the strange thing was, he
suddenly realized that he had enjoyed the evening. The warmth of the family
gathered here, the welcome he had been granted, it was the kind of homecoming
he would never receive from his own kin. And despite the fact that the shower of
invitations and cordial greetings had been given to the wrong man, to a fantasy
fiancé invented for one sole purpose, despite it all, it had fed some empty
spot in his heart. He allowed himself to remember the lonely boy who had ridden
away from his father's house, with no one of his own blood ready to take his
part. The pain was still there, though he had pushed it deep and had never
allowed himself the luxury of self-pity. The Sinclairs had rejected Gabriel,
and he had repaid the favor.

          But to stand in a room where,
eccentric or not, sharp-tongued or not, most of the people assembled showed
real affection for each other, warmed some of the coldness inside him. He
glanced at Mavis, whose peevish expression had relaxed into a smile that
reflected obvious pride and fondness for her plump daughter. No, he had lived
with the old emptiness for so long that by now he was barely aware it existed–until
he stepped inside a warm, candle-lit room where women's voices rose in sweet
melody.       

          Damn, he must have had too much
wine! This was not the thoughts of Gabriel Sinclair, rogue and card sharp. Even
that slight excuse seemed unlikely, however, as cheap and badly-chosen as Uncle
Wilfred's port had been. Gabriel winced at the after-taste that still lingered
on his palate. If nothing else, he must repay Psyche for her accidental help by
rescuing her from the threatened marriage with her cousin, who showed every
sign of being as stingy and stodgy as his father. Whatever her faults, Psyche
deserved better than the blustering, simpering Percy, of that Gabriel was sure.

          As for the quirk of providence
that had caused their paths to intersect–he had seen too many strange things in
his travels to wonder much. Perhaps the universe owed him this, after cursing
him with the incredible stroke of ill fortune which had caused him to be exiled
to start with. Still, he could be thankful for Psyche's aid, and he would
somehow manage to repay her.

          When this tune ended, the two
ladies left the instrument and gave way to another cousin, who played a piece
with dogged correctness and little imagination. Psyche's attention was still
claimed by her aunts, who chattered away, patting her hand and pinching her
cheek as they talked. She glanced toward him occasionally, her brow knit
slightly in concern.

          Gabriel was content to stand on
the sidelines and ease her anxiety. He waved aside an invitation to sit down to
a hand of whist–these elderly uncles and aunts would be easy victims to his
experienced knowledge of cards, but relieving them all of their pocket change
would not endear him to his new "family."

          He did exchange a few well-chosen
stories with Mervyn, when the bashful young man found courage to join him and
discuss his own travels in the West Indies. And when the guests began to depart,
he joined his betrothed to say good-night to all his new acquaintances.

          Psyche said her goodbyes, rigid
with tension. Even though the accursed actor had toned down his behavior in the
last part of the evening, she would still be glad to see the last of him. He
could not mean his threat about remaining in her life, she told herself, her
heart beating faster at such an alarming thought.   

          She wanted only to see the last of
him, and if her fraudulent fiancé demanded more money–well, it would depend on the
success of her stratagem; right now, she had only her small allowance–nothing
like enough to satisfy a real villain. Perhaps she had miscalculated badly,
putting herself into this handsome rascal's power.

          Percy and his father were the last
to take their farewells. "I have not given my consent to this
marriage," Uncle Wilfred reminded them both, his tone savage. "I
would not plan the honeymoon just yet."

          "And you haven't seen the
last of me," Percy grumbled as he bent awkwardly over Psyche's hand, clutching
it too tightly. "I know you will regret this impulsive commitment, Cousin,
and I will be nearby, willing to forgive you, despite the scandal that a broken
engagement will necessarily bring."

          "Your magnanimity does you
justice," she answered gravely, trying to pay attention. She was too aware
of Gabriel's presence so close to her to concentrate on Percy.

          The actor raised one dark brow. "I
hardly think that will be necessary," he said, his tone smooth. "I'm
sure you will grow to love me as one of the family, Cousin."

          Percy glowered, and Uncle Wilfred
snorted.

          "Oh, get on with you,
Percy," Aunt Sophie said. "My feet are aching. You may complain
another day."

          The two men left with no more
farewells, and Psyche breathed a sigh of relief when she heard them clomp down
the stairs.

          Aunt Sophie glanced at the two of
them. "You may say good night, Psyche," she said, "but five
minutes only, and do not shock the servants."

          She slowly climbed the staircase
to her own suite of rooms, and Psyche took a deep breath. Two footmen waited at
the end of the hall, but no one was within earshot.

          "Thank God that's over,"
Psyche said, keeping her voice low. "I will get you the purse of money
that my maid promised you."

          Gabriel smiled, but his eyes held
a dangerous glint. "Oh no, my dear. Did you forget what I said? I am your
fiancee, and I'm not leaving. I will be your guest, of course, since the
Marquis resides on the Continent. And you would not send your beloved to the
cold, unaired sheets of a hotel, I'm sure."

          "You can't!" Psyche
gazed at him in horror. "It wouldn't be proper."

          "You have a duenna," he
pointed out smoothly. "It will be most proper. No one could dare consider
being indecorous with Aunt Sophie in the house."

          Of course she had a chaperon–an
unmarried female would not live alone–and between her aunt and a houseful of
servants, she should not be in any actual physical peril from this stranger. But
to have him underfoot, meeting her family every day, with every new encounter a
chance for exposure–Psyche felt herself go rigid with alarm.

          Before she could think of an
argument, she heard a slight sound overhead and turned to see her sister
leaning over the rail of the next landing.

          "Is this the actor?"
Circe called, blunt as usual. "He's very nice to look at."

          "Circe!" Psyche
despaired of ever teaching her little sister to guard her tongue. "Be
silent!"

          "Why? And why is he not
leaving?"

          "I am staying to perfect my
role, of course," Gabriel told her, eyeing the child with interest. She
was as unlike her beautiful big sister as anyone of such close blood could be;
Circe was thin and undeveloped still, with straight brown hair escaping from
its braid at the back of her head, and strange green eyes that regarded the impostor
with straightforward curiosity.

          "Of course," the child
agreed, to his surprise. "Any artist would wish to perfect his
creation."

          "Circe, go to bed! I shall
talk to you in the morning." Psyche sounded past all patience.

          "Good night, my love." Gabriel
reached for his spurious fiancee's hand, but she snatched it back. He bowed to
her, instead, then motioned to the footman hovering by the door. "You may
show me to the best guest chamber."

          Obediently, the servant led him
away. Gabriel left Psyche standing beside the staircase, her face burning with
anger. He knew the bent of her thoughts, her outrage and frustration, but it
could not be helped. Outside lay danger and an assassin's knife. Inside–perhaps
danger waited inside, as well. Gabriel remembered the smooth curve of Psyche's
neck, where it led into the tempting dips and hollows of her shoulder. But the
temptation must be resisted. He had a life to reclaim, and by God, he meant to
do it.

          Shaking with fury, Psyche watched
the actor climb the steps. He was taking shameless advantage of her situation. Yet,
she needed him–he was now the man her whole family believed to be her fiancé–
and she could not expose him herself, nor throw him out, at least not just yet.
A few days, that was all, and she would find a way to rid herself of this
insolent intruder.

          If she felt a flicker of regret at
the thought, that was only a trick of her overstretched nerves. Surely, it was.
A few days of this pretense, Psyche promised herself. Then Gabriel Sinclair
would be shown the door, and she would never suffer his presence again.

          A clatter of carriage wheels in the street
outside the town house woke Psyche too early. She blinked at the pale clear
sunlight peeking past the heavy draperies and turned her head, ready to slip
back into sleep.

          But something was wrong. It nagged
at her half-aware consciousness, keeping her from sinking back into peaceful
slumber. Then memories of last night flooded back, and, sitting upright in her
bed, Psyche gasped.

          That man! That impostor, who had
dared to take over her brilliant scheme, who had so coolly and without
conscience walked into her home and was now doubtless sleeping at ease in her
best guest chamber.

          If the actor hadn’t fled in the
middle of the night with a tablecloth stuffed with her best silver, that is. .
. . On the whole, she would be relieved if he had, Psyche thought, her mood
grim. Getting rid of this dangerous poseur who had stepped into his role with a
too complete dedication would be worth a few pieces of silverware.

          By now further sleep was
impossible. She lay back against the smooth linen sheets and pulled the covers
up to her chin, wishing she could hide her face beneath them as she’d done when
she was a child frightened by bad dreams. But Gabriel was no nightmare, vanishing
easily into wisps of fog when sunlight hit. What on earth was she going to do
about him? How could she get rid of him. . . because she must, as soon as
possible, before he slipped and revealed to anyone else–to Percy and her uncle,
especially–the falsity of her invention.

          Psyche lay wide-eyed in her bed
for over an hour, trying to come up with a fool-proof scheme to undo the damage
that had already been done, but she found her mind strangely blank. If only all
her relatives had not met him–yet, that had been the whole point of the
betrothal party, after all, to show that her fiancé did exist, to give him a
face and a form. And now the Marquis of Tarrington was real, to her family, at
least, and the illusion must be maintained, or she would be once more in Percy’s
power. She thought of Percy leaning closer to kiss her and shuddered. Marriage
with Percy–no, anything but that!