Dear Impostor

by Nicole Byrd

  Psyche suddenly felt the way she had when she was a child and had spun around and around until she was dizzy and then tried to walk in a straight line.

  “No denials?” she asked incredulously.

  “No.”

  “No professions of superiority?”

  “When I am just a lowly actor?” he asked with self-mocking calm.

  “Quite true.” She nodded seriously.

  He laughed as if he could not help it and then sobered. “I was unforgivably rude, and I apologize.”

  “You what?” Her voice was shrill. Never since her father died had Psyche heard a man voluntarily admit wrongdoing. She had become so accustomed to Percy’s blustering and Uncle Wilfred’s autocratic ultimatums that she had forgotten that a man might still be found who took a woman seriously, who listened to her opinions, who–

  “I apologize,” he said easily.

  “You admit you were a beast?”

  “Unequivocally.”

  Psyche sank into a nearby chair upholstered in sunny yellow. “This is beginning to be fun.”

  “Oh no, my dear Psyche. Don’t get too comfortable. You have a bit of groveling to do yourself.” To her discomfiture, he came and rested on one knee in front of her.

  She turned her head to avoid those knowing blue eyes.

  “Nonsense, I would never need to do such a ridiculous thing.”

  He smiled wickedly. “I would be happy to show you the fun we could have on our knees, my love.”

  She should have been scandalized. She was scandalized, but curious, too. What on earth did he mean? Puzzled, she turned back until her aloof gaze met the warmth of his dark blue eyes. He read her perfectly and laughed again. He reached out and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Apologize, Psyche. I never took you for a coward.”

  “I am no such thing! I would certainly apologize should I need to.”

  His steady gaze spoke for him.

  “I do not need to apologize. I was helping you!”

  “I felt,” he said slowly, “like a poor, weak excuse for a man. Hell, I felt like no man at all. I felt like a paid doxy being outfitted for the pleasure of her buyer.”

  “But that’s what you are,” she burst out, unthinking. If she had not been so unnerved by his proximity, she would have thought before speaking. But it was too late; the words were out.

  Suddenly, all his open warmth vanished. Although he did not physically move, she felt the sudden distance yawn like a chasm between them.

  And she realized what she had said.

  “Of course, you are not weak,” she said lamely wondering how she could repair this. “And you are no . . . doxy.” She stumbled over the crude word. “But you are an employee, and it is my responsibility to clothe you during the time you’re here. All my servants receive uniforms–” Her reasoning sounded weak, even to her own ears.

  Smoothly, he stood and crossed back to the fireplace. He tossed back the rest of his—by now—cold tea. The expression on her face told her he wished it were something stronger.

  Shame washed over her. Who was she to talk of kindness? Had she not just attacked a man where he was far more vulnerable than his coffers?

  She rose, uncertain if she should approach him. Oh, if only she had someone to ask about men, how to handle them, what to do, what she should say. Her elderly maiden aunt was no help, and Circe was only a child. If only her mother were still alive. . .

  Psyche remembered what her mother had always said about her father. “My dear, your father has become a great man. But he could never have done so had I not been beside him. Beside him, Psyche, not behind him. I was beside him, believing in him.” And after saying this, her father had always taken her mother’s capable hand and kissed it as if it were as delicate as the tiny bits of metal and wood they often devised together.

  Her mother had wanted Psyche to find such a partner, a man she could stand beside and believe in. Psyche did not know why, but it was suddenly imperative to make this man, this impostor, forgive her.

  Carefully, she walked to stand beside him. He was not looking at her but at the fire crackling cheerfully in the grate.

  He spoke before she could.

  “It is true that I am poor, that I have none of the riches that should be mine.” He faced her, lines she had never noticed etched deeply beside his mouth. “But I have my pride, Psyche. I have held on to it through all these years, and I will not have it taken from me. “

  Psyche opened her mouth to protest, but he put up one hand to stop her.

  “It may be a vain virtue, but I have precious few. I will let no one, not even you, rob me of that. There was a time when I allowed myself to be led, but never again, Psyche. You cannot take that from me; I have already been stripped of too much.”

  He turned away from the mantel and walked out of the room. Psyche watched him go, feeling somehow that she had just made a terrible mistake.

  He went up to his bedchamber and rang for Brickson, asking first for a glass of brandy while he composed himself–he had never meant to make such personal comments to Psyche. Why did the woman get under his skin so easily? Her cool beauty, her too-controlling attempts at assistance–she seemed to slip past the guard he had erected so carefully over the years. . . he must be more vigilant.

  No woman had controlled him since he had left England; he had been savagely wary of his independence, had prided himself on keeping a cool head. Oh, he had certainly given into his passions, when the opportunity presented itself, but never–never since Sylvie–had he allowed a woman to cloud his brain or rule his actions.

  The memories of his youth were still too painful. Perhaps it had been his innocence, his awareness of his ignorance in matters of love and in drawing room society, too, that had led him to allow his first lover to take over so much of his life.

  Brickson brought the wine. By this time, Gabriel was regaining his usual calm. Psyche had been right about one thing; he must have a new wardrobe. A short conversation with the footman Brickson, who still swelled with pride at the chance to take over temporary valet duties, had given Gabriel the names of the highest regarded tailors and bootmakers. Evidently, Gabriel had been correct in the man’s ambitions. Brickson knew a great deal about male fashion.

  “Some of the military gentlemen prefer Shultz, milord, but Weston is favored for evening and day wear by the most discerning,” Brickson explained, his tone serious. “And as for boot makers, there’s a shop on Bond Street . . .”

  So Gabriel went downstairs and donned his hat and gloves. When Jowers hurried up, the butler asked, “Do you require a carriage, milord?”

  Gabriel thought for a moment. He would have walked, but at mid-afternoon, his attire was still most incongruous, and he had no wish to attract attention. “Will it inconvenience the ladies?” he asked.

  Jowers blinked, then said, “Um, no, milord. The ladies have no plans to go out this afternoon.”

  “Very well, then, yes,” he said. And he rode to Bond Street once more in luxurious ease in the family chaise, with its thick squabs and carved wood inlays.

  Gabriel was ushered into the tailor’s establishment by a courteous underling, although the man gave his outfit a curious glance. He was left to wait in a small but well-appointed anteroom until the great man himself came in.

  “Milord,” the tailor bowed slightly. “Welcome to our humble establishment.”

  “Thank you,” Gabriel acknowledged the salute. “My luggage has met with a sad accident, and my clothing is in shreds. Therefore, I am in urgent need of your assistance.”

  The man nodded slowly. “Yes, milord. I regret that I am not familiar with your family. But I would say,” he looked closely at the jacket that Gabriel wore, “that this attire is French-made?”

  “Yes, indeed.” It was a discreet but reasonable question. Englishmen retired to the Continent when they could not pay their bills and the duns became too urgent. “I have been living abroad for some time, but when I inherited the title�
��an obscure one, to be sure, but still, bearing its own responsibilities, it was best that I return.“ He might as well take advantage of Psyche’s story, Gabriel thought cynically. “And since my betrothal to Miss Hill, I must have a wardrobe suitable for the many social engagements that must follow.”

  “Miss Psyche Hill?” the tailor asked, his tone sharper.

  “Yes indeed,” Gabriel agreed. “I am most fortunate to have secured her regard.”

  “Ah, allow me to offer my felicitations,” the other man said, bowing again even more deeply. His expression became much more genial. As a fiancé of the wealthy Miss Hill, Gabriel’s status had just increased enormously, not to mention the tailor’s odds of seeing his bills paid. The man snapped his fingers, and an assistant materialized at his elbow, measuring tape in hand. “Let us just take your measure, milord.”

  Some time later, Gabriel found himself in an inner room, wearing a thick velvet robe and waiting for the assistant to return with his clothes. There had been measurements galore, and discussions of fabric and cut, although happily, not as uninhibited as the hopeful tailor that Psyche had recruited. “I see that his lordship favors the latest French style,” Weston had said, “but I must point out the advantages of the British cut. . .”

  Now Gabriel relaxed in a comfortable chair with a glass of port; the port was only mediocre, but the prospect of a new and elegant wardrobe was certainly pleasing. His ‘engagement’ to Psyche had developed unforeseen advantages. He would not, of course, allow her to incur his expenses. As soon as he got into a decent game, he would reline his empty pockets and pay his bills, then, when he took control of his new-won estate, he could forget the hand-to-mouth existence he had endured for so long.

  When the door opened again, he didn’t bother to look around, expecting the assistant. Instead, a new voice said, “By all that’s holy–Gabriel, is that really you?”

  Gabriel stiffened in instinctive alarm. If his cover was blown now, he would say goodbye to his new clothes, to his pose as the fiancé of a rich young lady, and he’d end up on the street with only one set of raiment to his name. He turned very slowly, and then, despite himself, smiled.

  “Freddy!”

  “It is you! Came in to tell Weston to run me up a couple new coats and thought I was seeing a ghost, don’t y’know!” The young man before him had changed very little since the days they had been up at Oxford together. His thin blond hair and pale blue eyes, his round face which always looked a trifle foolish in expression, had made him the brunt of many a joke by his peers, first at their boarding school and later even at university.

  It had been Gabriel who had stood up for the smaller boy, who had fought at his side against bullies who choose to make fun of his small statute and less than stellar wits. But the Honorable Frederick Allen Wyrick the third had a good heart, and he was very loyal to his friends. And he did not, apparently, forget them.

  “Haven’t set eyes on you in–what–well over a dozen years?” Freddy was saying. He had paused in the doorway in surprise. Now he rushed into the room and grabbed Gabriel’s hand to shake it vigorously. “That business with the woman–bad business, what, but not your fault, I was sure of it.”

  “You were the only one, then,” Gabriel said, his own voice grim. “But thank you for the support, Freddy. I wish I had known at the time.”

  “Should have come to me, Gabriel,” Freddy said, a bit shyly. “My father might have kicked up a fuss, but I would have stood by you.”

  Gabriel could not help but be touched be his friend’s sincerity. “Thank you,” he said solemnly. “I am glad to know that now, even if I did not know it, then.”

  “Went abroad, did you?” Freddy continued, his expression curious. “That’s what I heard, anyhow. And now you’re back! Dashed good to see you, old man.”

  “And I to see you,” Gabriel told him, quite honestly. It had been a very long time since he had encountered a friend from those long ago days; he had often wondered if he would ever see friendly faces from his past. But the timing now was not the best–

  The door opened again, and the assistant put his head in the door. “Milord, here are the coat and trousers that we were making for Mr.–for another client; we have adjusted them to fit your measurements, milord; it will allow you to be seen until your other items are ready. We will send your own garments back to Miss Hill’s townhouse.”

  “Thank you,” Gabriel said. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Freddy frowning in bewilderment.

  Fortunately, his college friend waited until the man had left before asking, “You have the title, Gabriel? But–your father and brother–um–”

  “It’s Tarrington,” Gabriel explained. “The title, I mean.”

  “What?” Freddy looked bewildered, as indeed he might. But–”

  ”It came to me through a cousin’s death,” Gabriel said quickly. ”A distant connection, actually.”

  “But your older brother, wouldn’t he be the one—“

  ”Um, normally, yes. But there are special circumstances having to do with my grandmother’s second marriage and that disgraceful affair with the vicar’s nephew–we don’t like to talk about it, Freddy, you understand.”

  “Right-o,” Freddy agreed, though he obviously didn’t. He still looked puzzled. “Whatever you say.”

  Good old Freddy. He might not be the most shiny twig to fall off his family tree, but he was unfailingly loyal. Gabriel felt a rush of affection. “I have to be back for dinner, but we have time for a quick drink first. Have some of the tailor’s regrettably insipid wine, and let’s catch up on old times, eh?”

  “Just the thing,” Freddy agreed with enthusiasm. “But not this rot–it’ll ruin your palette if you’re not careful. Tell you what, let’s walk down to my club and I’ll introduce you to some nice chaps.”

  That wasn’t what Gabriel had had in mind at all; he was supposed to be staying out of sight. But he couldn’t push even Freddy’s credibility any further, or the bubble might burst. Do the normal thing, despite strange circumstance, that was the surest way to pull off a scam. He knew that from past experience.

  “Very well, but it will have to be a quick drink. I have a solicitor to see this afternoon.”

  “Ah, the new inheritance.” Freddy nodded wisely. “Tedious, all that, but worth it in the end, eh?”

  “I certainly hope so,” Gabriel said, with feeling. “Just let me get dressed.” He reached for his hastily put-together new garments.

  “Not bad, under the circumstances.” Freddy looked at the navy blue, severely tailored coat with a critical eye. “Not exactly up to Weston’s usual standards, perhaps, but considering your plight . . .” He brushed his own immaculate lapels absentmindedly. Freddy had always been a neat, almost prim little boy, which had only aggravated the bullies’ attentions. However, judging from his own outfit, he had grown into a man with excellent taste, Gabriel thought, hiding a grin.

  “Feel for you, old chap, all those years abroad. Nothing worse than being without decent English tailoring . . .” Freddy patted his school mate on the shoulder and aimed him toward the door. “But you’re back at last, and Weston will soon have that taken care of. Let me advise you about the best bootmakers, and as for shirts–”

  This time Gabriel did laugh as he walked out side by side with his old friend.

  Chapter 7

  He returned to the townhouse in good time for the evening meal. Jowers met him at the door, nodding in approval of the new coat and trousers. Gabriel handed over his hat and gloves and a handsome new walking stick he had acquired–the news of his ‘engagement’ to the wealthy Miss Hill had a wonderful way of procuring unlimited credit, he had discovered to his amusement–and thought he detected a look of distinct sympathy in the butler’s eyes.

  “Did my evening clothes and my new shirts and neckcloths arrive?” he asked.

  “Yes, milord, they have been taken up to your chamber,” the butler assured him. “You have just time to change before dinner, milo
rd. The ladies are in the drawing room having their sherry.”

  Gabriel nodded and proceeded up the staircase. He found the footman/valet Brickson in his new employer’s room, waiting to assist him in changing his clothes. Gabriel donned his own evening dress–the harried tailor had had no time to effect more miracles of assembly, but there was a new evening coat on order, in addition to morning coats, riding habits, street clothing, shirts, even underwear and nightshirts–as Brickson stood ready to assist. Then Gabriel took a clean neckcloth from the servant and arranged it with a careless ease into his own signature style. He had had aspirations of dandyism as a lad, he remembered, smiling a little now at his own folly. Perhaps that was one reason he and Freddy had hit it off as small boys, both with precocious vanity and big aspirations.

  Gabriel could have cringed when he remembered some of his and Freddy’s “costumes.” They had considered themselves all the crack in their heavily ruffled shirts, garishly colored waistcoats and ridiculously high shirt points. What had finally cured him of the high “ears,” as the shirt points were called, was a very nasty eye infection that poor Freddy had suffered from a scratch inflicted by one of the starched points. Gabriel shook his head in bewilderment. How had he ever thought all that fluff was manly or attractive? Thank God for Sylvie. If she hadn’t taken him in hand and discreetly guided his taste and taught him a bit of restraint . . .

  His fingers stumbled for a moment on the folds of his cravat, then regained their normal dexterity. He would not think of her at all, let alone with gratitude. Sylvie had been a woman of many talents, he thought cynically. She had skillfully controlled him in a manner that appalled him to remember. By turns needy and demanding, she had played with his youthful passion like a puppeteer with an amusing new toy. He had thought her all that was lovely and womanly and had offered her all his naive passion. In return, she had destroyed his life.