by Nicole Byrd
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.
Chapter 4
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!
Unable to lie still any longer, Psyche reached for the bell rope and rang for her maid. When Simpson appeared, she brought a breakfast tray with its steaming tea and warm toast into the bed chamber, carrying it across the room to place carefully on the bed.
Psyche reached to pour herself a cup, then paused. There was something else on the tray–the early mail. But it was overflowing the confines of the tray, threatening to spill into her empty tea cup and crush the brittle toasted bread. Psyche blinked in surprise, then picked up the top of the pile.
“What on earth. . .” She broke the wax seal and unfolded the first sheet. An invitation to lunch, extended to her–and to her newly pledged fiancé.
“Oh no!” Psyche groaned, ripping open the wax seals on several other notes and gilt-edged sheets. All the same–apparently everyone in her family was eager to entertain the charming Marquis. What would happen when the rest of her acquaintance heard about this good-looking rascal who was aping his betters? It would only get worse.
She glanced at her maid, and the older woman grimaced. “I’m sorry, Miss Psyche,” Simpson said. “When I went to the theater, I made it clear to this–” she lowered her voice. “–actor-person exactly what he should do. And I never said nothing about him staying the night. I don’t understand it.”
“Nor do I,” Psyche admitted. In the back of her mind, she thought of the bold glimmer in his eyes when he looked her up and down. The spark she had felt between them–no, no, it didn’t do to think on that. Besides, the man must know that it was impossible! There was no way for a lady of quality and a low-born actor to form any real connection. It had to be a baser motive. If he hoped to blackmail her–
“I think he means to hold out for more money,” she told her maid. “And since I told him I will have no extra funds to give him unless this scheme works, he is waiting to see if my uncle releases the purse strings.”
Simpson still looked anxious. “He didn’t seem the type for blackmail. I never would have thought he had that much gumption, Miss,” she worried aloud. “Trying to pretend to be something he’s not . . .”
Despite her worries, Psyche smiled. “But that is what actors do.”
Simpson’s lips tightened. She had served the household since her young mistress first put up her hair and lengthened her short skirts, and she could afford to be blunt. “But that’s on stage, Miss. This is very different.”
“So it is. We shall just have to put up with him for a day or two until I can think of some way to rid ourselves of this threat. In the meantime, try to dampen any suspicion that may arise in the servants’ hall.”
Simpson hesitated.
“What?” Psyche braced herself. Trouble already? Curse the man!
“Wilson has disappeared.”
Psyche frowned. “Which one is Wilson?”
“The new under-footman, Miss. He was the one who took the actor up to his bed chamber last night. And–” Simpson’s voice sank into an ominous whisper. “He hasn’t been seen since!”
Psyche bit her lip. Strange ideas whirled in her head for an instant, but she pushed the wilder notions aside. There was no reason for the actor to murder an innocent servant. Was there? Had the actor let his guard slip, said something which gave too much away, and he had to get rid of Wilson to avoid. . . no, the cool ease with which the impostor had handled her family all evening would not have cracked in a few brief moments with a house servant. Then what could have happened?
“There’s a logical reason,” she said aloud, trying to convince them both. “There must be. Wilson will turn up.”
She prayed it were true, and her scheme had not harmed an innocent person. Psyche pushed the tray aside. Her appetite was gone. “I must get dressed,” she told her maid, “And go downstairs to see what is happening.”
With Simpson’s help, she made a quick toilette. Dressed in a pale blue, completely proper high-necked muslin day dress, hair pulled into a simple twist, only a few pale curls escaping the knot to soften its severity and frame her face, she headed for the formal rooms.
But the dining room was empty. She knew her Aunt Sophie seldom ventured from her own room till later in the day, and Circe would have had her breakfast in the schoolroom. The morning room had a cheery fire, but it, too, was vacant, as was the larger drawing room and the library. Where on earth was the man? Was he lying in bed all day?
Simpson had departed to the servant’s quarters, with orders to report to her mistress when–or if–the missing footman returned, but so far, she had not returned with any reassuring news.
Psyche lingered in the upstairs hall, trying to think what she should do, when she heard the sound of the bell. It could not be the footman; he would return to the back door, of course, and she was in no mood for any callers come to congratulate her on her recent engagement. She hurried into the drawing room, of half a mind to tell the butler to say that she was not at home.
But when their aged butler, Jowers, puffed his way up the staircase and opened the door to the drawing room, she had no time to deny herself because the caller was right behind.
“Psyche!” her cousin Percy said, his face already flushed with strong emotion. “I must speak with you!”
Wonderful, just what she needed to make an already inauspicious morning even worse. Psyche took firm hold of her patience; she would surely need it.
“Percy, this is not a good time.”
Her cousin didn’t seem to hear. He stormed into the room, pulling off his hat and gloves and almost thrusting them at the butler, who bowed and left the room. “I’ve been at my club, talked to everyone I could find, and no one–I mean, no one, Psyche–has heard of this Tarrington title. How do we know this fellow’s who he says he is?”
“Oh, Percy, don’t be ridiculous.” Psyche found that her hands had tightened into fists; she made a conscious effort to relax; she must not reveal her own alarm that Percy was already checking on her story. “He told you himself that it was an obscure title.”
“But a marquis, Psyche,” Percy insisted. “Marquises don’t sprout on every hedgerow, y’know!”
“Of course, not, but–”
“I think–” he interrupted, but she raised her voice and tried again.
“Percy, this is none of your affair. It’s my life and my business. I must insist that you stop this interference and allow me to be the one to–”
“Not my affair?” Percy glared, his slightly-protruding eyes opening even wider than usual. “Certainly it is. If your male relatives are not the ones to protect you–protect a female from her weaker wit and too-sensitive emotions, who would? It’s for your own good, Psyche. Just ask my father.”
She had no wish to bring Uncle Wilfred into this, even more than he already was. “My uncle should respect my wishes.”
And yet she knew how likely that was! Percy ignored the statement as unworthy even of answer. He continued to pace up and down on the carpet, his too-tight shoes squeaking a little, then Percy turned quickly to confront her. “There’s something smoky here, and I want some answers! I must speak to him myself, man to man. What is his direction?”
“I don’t know,” Psyche said before she thought, then put one hand to her lips, aghast at her slip.
“You don’t know? What do you mean? Don’t the fellow have a townhouse in London?” Percy’s frown deepened.
“No, I mean, I told you, he has been living abroad..”
“Smoky itself! Why would an Englishman leave his own country, except to escape debts or a scandal,” Percy said, with unexpected shrewdness. “He’s after your money, my girl. Didn’t I say that already?”
“No, he is not,” Psyche protested, but her voice sounded shaky even to her own ears.
“And if he has no residence of his own, which hotel is he frequenting? He must have told you!”
“Ah, he–he is staying here,” Psyche said weakly. Her stomach clenched with nervousness, and she couldn’t think; she felt more and more afraid that the charade would be exposed and all would be lost.
“Here?” Percy looked scandalized. “Aunt Sophie allowed this?”
“Of course, he is my fiancé, Percy. And no one could question my aunt as a suitable chaperon.”
Percy grunted. “Still, not quite the thing. However, at least he’s to hand. I wish to speak to him.” He reached for the bell pull and tugged it vigorously.
“No!“ Psyche said, thinking wildly for an excuse—any excuse. “You can’t. I don’t think he has risen.”
But this time, the butler appeared in the doorway too quickly. She hoped he had not been outside listening to their argument.
“Jowers, take me to that accused Marquis’ chamber,” Percy demanded, with the ease of one long acquainted with the family servants.
The butler nodded and turned, and Percy strode after him. Psyche, furious to have lost control of the situation, was reduced to running along the hall after them.
“I will not allow my guest to be harassed, Percy!”
But he wouldn’t listen. Psyche felt her heart beat faster. Was it over before it had begun? Her precious plan seemed in shreds already.
When the butler led them all to the guest floor and indicated the chamber, Percy plunged forward, pushing open the door after only the briefest knock, not waiting for any permission to enter.
From outside in the hallway, Psyche heard a startled exclamation–Percy’s, she thought–and then a roar of outrage.
Had Percy attacked the actor? Or–remembering the missing footman– had the actor attacked Percy? Was someone being murdered? Psyche couldn’t help herself–she ran into the room, only to stop abruptly just inside the doorway.
“What do you mean by this, Sir? Are you some savage, to insult my cousin’s household in this fashion?” Percy was demanding.
Psyche gasped. The actor sat in a large wing chair facing the window; he had apparently been reading the newspaper. But the reason for Percy’s shock was obvious. The man was completely–bare-as-a-newborn babe–naked. At least he appeared naked, except for the happy coincidence of the newspaper.
God Save the Times, Psyche thought a trifle hysterically.
Gabriel had turned slightly to meet Percy’s gaze, and his broad shoulders and chest were quite uncovered. The newspaper he had lowered covered his torso below the waist, but she could see a glimpse of muscular legs and bare feet.
Psyche felt her cheeks burn. She had never seen a man unclothed before. This was shocking, most improper. And if one corner of her mind couldn’t help noting that the man’s form was just as well made and as pleasing as his face, if she noted the breadth of his shoulders or the muscled biceps of his arms—well, she smothered those dreadful thoughts immediately, of course. After one last lingering glance, she averted her gaze and studied the figured carpet beneath her feet with great concentration.
“No, indeed,” Gabriel’s voice was as calm and controlled as if entertaining au naturel were an everyday occurrence. For all she knew it probably was. Unprincipled wretch! Psyche risked another quick glance to glare at him, noting absently the faint stubble that marked his chin and lower cheeks. Even that did not mar his incredible good looks.
“I simply have had a slight accident with my apparel. When the servant brought me a cup of tea this morning, he took away my evening clothes to be brushed and pressed. Until I rose, I didn’t know that my other luggage had not reappeared.”
“B-but–” Percy stammered, still obviously flustered.
“I sent the footman to the hotel to fetch them last night,” Gabriel continued smoothly. “But according to the other servants, he doesn’t seem to have returned.”
This brought Psyche’s head erect again, and anger pushed aside any remnants of embarrassment. “You sent my footman out into the street alone at such an hour! How dare you?”
“It didn’t seem an outrageous request,” Gabriel said, his deep blue eyes mild. “I gave him a handsome tip to run the errand.”
“But so late at night!” Psyche was still outraged. “Don’t you know that the streets of London are always dangerous? There are footpads and robbers and–and–I don’t know what.”
“And you shouldn’t,” Percy interrupted, frowning at his cousin. “A lady should have no knowledge of such things!”
“Oh, don’t be a fool,” Psyche shot back, irritated at him, too. “I’m not a half-wit, Percy.”
Gabriel spoke at almost the same time. “I have lived abroad in much more dangerous climes; I suppose I didn’t think. If your servant has been injured, I certainly regret the fact.” He sounded concerned, for the first time, and a little of Psyche’s anger faded.
Percy shook his head as if to dismiss such insignificant concerns as a lowly footman.
“You’ve explained away your lack of proper attire glibly enough.” Percy bristled about, reminding Psyche of nothing so much as an angry hedgehog, “but I should like to hear you explain away this!”
Gabriel looked around him as if expecting something to magically appear. He smiled. “I’m afraid I am at a disadvantage. I don’t know to which this you are referring.”
Percy colored and fisted his pudgy hands.
“This, my lord, if indeed you may be called by that honorific, refers to the fact that you are a fraud! No one has ever heard of you. Your title is nonexistent, your name is unknown, you are a complete mystery.”
He sounded even more pompous than usual, but Psyche found herself holding her breath to hear the actor’s response.
But Gabriel appeared delighted. “How lovely.”
“L-lovely?” Percy stammered.
“Yes, everyone will appreciate the novelty, and I shall be all the crack. Soon, all the young bucks will be pretending not to know one another
. We shall all be mystery men.”
Psyche could not stop the giggle that escaped her trembling lips. Too late, she clamped her hand over her mouth. Percy stared at her, aghast. Really, she could not feel more annoyed with herself than he was. Ruthlessly, she squashed down the glimmer of admiration for the actor’s audacity.
“I demand that you leave this house at once, Sir!” Percy swung back to confront the impostor once more. “Sitting around in the–in the–without any proper garments at all! I will not have you compromising a lady of quality whose reputation is unblemished.”
“Really?” Gabriel’s deep blue eyes focused on Psyche, and she hoped that she was not blushing. “Not a glimmer of blemish, not even the tiniest blot? My dear, I fear you must have led a sadly tedious existence up to now. I’m so glad I came into your life to add that spark of controversy without which we should all perish of boredom.”
“I beg your pardon–” Percy sputtered, but the actor transferred his gaze to her cousin, and Gabriel’s blue eyes seemed to turn a steely gray.
“Besides, I rather think that I am the one who should be concerned about protecting my fiancé, her person and her reputation, against any danger, imagined or real.” His tone was cool, and Percy seemed to wilt slightly, his narrow shoulders drooping.
But Psyche felt a surge of warmth that took her by surprise. She had been alone for so long. Despite the presence of her extended family, her life had never been the same since the death of her parents. Since the accident she had felt unprotected, vulnerable to all of fate’s twists and turns. She had been forced to face the world on er own, to fend off Percy’s unwanted advances and her uncle’s mercenary matchmaking, to look out for herself and her sister. That such a man would be her protector. . . to have a champion who would be at her side against all foes, take her part against any–then she shook herself, mentally. This was all an illusion! The man was an actor, he had no interest in her, no reason to protect either her good name or her person.
