Dear Impostor

by Nicole Byrd

  Somehow, Psyche felt less afraid. She stood up straighter, preparing herself for the attacker’s next move. She would not distract Gabriel by screaming or swooning or behaving like a fool.

  The man jumped forward. Gabriel, unable to step aside and expose her, moved swiftly to deflect the blow. But she heard him grunt, and she feared that the blade might have met flesh.

  Yes, she saw drops of blood fall to the gravel path. Gabriel was hurt!

  Whatever her counterfeit fiancé had done, he did not deserve to be cut down like this, murdered by some nameless man when, with another person to protect, he could not even properly defend himself. Some distant part of her mind brought up her mother’s voice, saying icily, “Why do men always feel that women are so defenseless?”

  But what could she do? Psyche found that she was still clutching her parasol; it was frail and light, not much of a weapon. But still, the unexpected could startle, could divert attention.

  Deliberately, she stepped to the side, away from Gabriel’s protecting frame. He must have detected the movement from the corner of his eye–the man never failed to surprise her–because he muttered, “Stay behind me, Psyche.”

  She ignored him. The grimy man with the blade had his eyes focused only on Gabriel, and they had little time; the man’s partner would find his way through the tangle of passages and be with them at any moment. She watched the villain carefully, and when he raised his arm again, she thrust with the furled parasol.

  The assailant swore and pushed the delicate thing aside; the spine cracked uselessly; she had never expected it to be an effective weapon. But she had given Gabriel his chance. He sprang forward and with his left hand pushed the arm holding the knife aside, then gave the villain a resounding crack to the jaw with his other fist. The man crumpled neatly.

  Psyche gazed at the supine form; she had expected Gabriel to do something, but this was neat work, indeed. Such an economy of movement–no wonder men went to see bouts of boxing–

  The fallen man moaned and tried to sit up. Gabriel kicked him in the stomach, and the man collapsed again.

  “Come along,” Gabriel commanded. He put his hands around her waist and lifted her bodily over the form that blocked the gravel path, then jumped over the villain. “We must run for it.”

  Run they did, pounding down the passages, while Psyche hoped they did not meet the other man face to face as they twisted and turned and wound their way back–she hoped–to the entrance.

  Again, Gabriel did not fail them. He led the way to the opening in the maze, and then they were outside again on the grass, panting, but there was no time to catch their breath. They raced across the empty lawn till they reached the stone wall of the formal garden, and only then did Psyche manage to say, “Wait.”

  Gabriel halted abruptly, leaning against the wall. “What? We should get into the crowd before they emerge from the maze.”

  “Yes, but we cannot go in like this.” Psyche touched her hair trying to tuck in the strands of hair that had come loose from her French twist in their frenzied dash. “And you are bleeding!”

  He glanced down at his arm, and the stain of red that marked the white cuff of his shirt. “It’s nothing; he barely marked me.”

  If that were nothing, she hated to think what he would consider a serious attack. Which reminded her– “We need to talk,” Psyche said, grim again. “I want to know–”

  ”Later,” Gabriel told her. “We need to lose ourselves in the protection of the other guests.” As he spoke, he had pulled out a clean linen handkerchief. He slid his arm out of the tightly-fitting coat and pushed up his shirt sleeve. “If you would assist me?”

  Grimacing when she saw the jagged cut, she wound the cloth around his arm. “You need to have that bathed,” she worried.

  “Later,” he promised, watching her tie the handkerchief neatly so that it would stay in place. He pulled his sleeve down and then put his arm gingerly back into his coat, pushing the stained cuff up beneath his coat sleeve and out of sight. “Come on.”

  “I still look out of sorts,” she protested, brushing a stray leaf off her skirt, and finding a lock of hair brushing her cheek.

  “They will only think we stole a kiss in the maze,” he told her, and taking her hand, pulled her firmly inside the garden.

  With that thought in her head, Psyche had to face the curious eyes as everyone within ten feet, it seemed, turned to stare at them. There would be gossip aplenty about this little episode, she thought, trying not to blush. But the scandalmongers would never–she hoped–know what greater defamation they had missed. Ruffians with knives–

  She whispered to Gabriel. “Should we not send someone to apprehend those men? What if they attack the house?”

  “There are too many servants on hand, they will not risk it,” he assured her. “Besides, what those men want is here. I’m sure they have taken to their heels by now and will be out of sight before we could raise an alarm.”

  She had to be content with that. To be truthful, she dreaded having to tell her hostess that Psyche’s fiancé had common, ragged men stalking him. How would she ever explain? But she had to know what had caused this dreadful attack. What did he mean, ‘what they want’?

  “We need to talk! Soon!” she hissed to Gabriel beneath her breath.

  He nodded, but already, two women were crossing the grass to their side. It was Aunt Mavis and Cousin Matilda. Psyche was thankful to see friendly faces. Well, one friendly face, Matilda was smiling bashfully, but Mavis frowned.

  “Push your hair back into place, Niece,” Mavis said. “Do you wish to be the talk of the Ton?”

  “Come now, Aunt, if I may call you so,” Gabriel said with his best smile. “Of course young lovers must steal a kiss now and then. I’m sure you remember how it was when you were first courting?”

  Psyche was diverted by the thought of her sour-faced relative ever being young and giddy, but to her amazement, Mavis’ expression wavered, and her cheeks turned a pale shade of pink.

  “Well–”

  ”You see, I was certain that you, too, have known the madness of first love. I’ve no doubt that you were a young lady impossible to resist.”

  Mavis frowned, as if suspecting sarcasm, and Psyche held her breath. Had he gone too far?

  “You have the carriage of a queen,” Gabriel said, smiling sweetly at her poker-stiff aunt. “And such expression in those lovely arched brows.” His own dark brows rose a bit, and he smiled at the older woman.

  How did he do it? He always found the most admirable trait–if it was a ploy, it was a good one, Psyche thought, watching Mavis melt into girlish confusion. And if it was not just a parlor trick, this man had to have some goodness inside him, beneath the surface charm, the incredible looks. But what about the scandal in his past, not to mention assassins in his present life? There was much here still to be unraveled.

  “Oh, Mama, it’s true,” Matilda, always helpful, was saying. “You have beautiful brows; I wish I had inherited them, instead of Papa’s bushy ones.”

  Mavis knew when she had lost the battle; she managed an almost benevolent expression. “I suppose I do remember,” she admitted. “But Psyche, none the less, do push that lock of hair back into place. Discretion is still a virtue.”

  “Discretion is a necessity,” Gabriel agreed. “Total abstention, however, is not.”

  “Lord Tarrington!” Matilda protested with a sigh. “You are shameless.”

  “I know,” Gabriel agreed, as the corner of his mouth quirked with mischief. “It’s one of my charms.”

  “Come along,” Psyche said, afraid to let her roguish fiancé continue along this dangerous path. “Let us go and speak to our hostess. And I need to check on Aunt Sophie.”

  They all walked back to the top of the garden where chairs and tables had been placed on the grass. They found Sophie chatting with several other older ladies.

  “Ah, there you are,” she said. “Psyche, the servants are about to serve lunch; do find a
seat, child. You keep disappearing, and it will cause talk.”

  “Yes, Aunt,” Psyche agreed, only too glad to sit safely amidst the crowd and enjoy the Countess’ ices and meringues and other light fare prepared for the outdoor luncheon; the Countess had a French chef whose reputation, they soon discovered, was well earned.

  But even as she munched on mushroom fritters and crepes decorated with strawberries from the Countess’ glassed hot houses and served with clotted cream, Psyche had to remember to maintain a pleasant expression. Her thoughts were not as sweet as the many confections that tempted her taste buds.

  Why was Gabriel being stalked?

  To her frustration, Psyche was unable to question him. For the rest of the party, they stayed safely amid the crowd. When the luncheon was cleared away, the party gradually broke up, and she called for their carriage, not even going up to the house but waiting by the driveway chatting to their hostess until it drove up. Then she and Aunt Sophie were handed in, and Gabriel took his seat opposite them, and the barouche drove off at a smart pace. She still could not speak of the issues that lay heavy on her mind; she had to listen to her aunt chat about gossip she had garnered at the party.

  She knew that Gabriel was watching the road behind them all the way back to London, but their assailants seemed to have been discouraged. There was no sign of them, and Psyche breathed a sigh of relief when they drove up to their own town house.

  They assisted her aunt down and saw her safely into the house, then Psyche turned back to Gabriel. “I would speak with you,” she hissed beneath her breath. “In the library. At once!”

  “Psyche, aren’t you coming?” Her aunt called from the doorway.

  “Right away, Aunt,” Psyche answered, but she threw a dark glance toward Gabriel, whose expression was guarded. This time, she would have the truth.

  Aunt Sophie was fatigued from the excursion; Psyche offered her arm up the first flight of steps, and then handed her relative over to her dresser, when the maid hurried downstairs to assist her.

  “You must take a nap, Miss Sophie,” the maid said, looking in concern at the lines of weariness on her employer’s face. “You’ve missed your usual lie down.”

  “Nonsense, I’m barely winded. I shall just rest upon my bed and close my eyes for a moment, that is all,” the older woman said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The maid exchanged a knowing glance with Psyche. In five minutes, Sophie would be sleeping soundly.

  Psyche leaned to kiss her aunt’s cheek. “Just so,” she agreed, and when Sophie disappeared into her bed chamber, was at last was free to turn and descend the steps. She paused only long enough to remove her own hat and gloves and spencer, which she had worn to prevent a chill in the open carriage, and hurried to the library.

  To her annoyance, the room was unoccupied. She pulled the bell rope, and in a moment, Jowers appeared.

  “Have you seen Lord Tarrington?” Psyche tried to keep her tone level.

  “I believe he is in his bedchamber, Miss,” the butler said, his expression suitably bland.

  “Oh.” Perhaps he had gone up to change his blood-stained shirt, she thought. In that case–

  “Packing,” the butler added.

  Psyche’s mouth flew open, then she collected herself. “I see,” she managed to say. “That will be all.”

  The servant blinked; any questions he had would not be answered this hour. As soon as he had departed, Psyche retraced her steps and almost ran up the staircase. She walked rapidly down the hallway to the best guest chamber and, after a quick knock, turned the knob and flung open the door.

  It was true; Gabriel was folding his new shirts and placing them carefully into a worn carpet bag that sat on a stool in front of his wardrobe. The footman who had been serving as his valet was helping, his expression very glum.

  “What are you doing?” Psyche demanded.

  Gabriel looked up; he did not smile, as he usually did in greeting. Instead he glanced toward the servant. “Thank you, I will finish this myself.”

  The man bowed and disappeared into the dressing room, shutting the door carefully behind him. The door to the hall was ajar; Psyche glanced at it; she did not wish to suggest impropriety, but yet, she could not allow anyone to overhear this conversation, either. Sighing, she crossed and shut the door.

  Gabriel watched her, a hint of his usual mischief in his tone. “If you wish a private moment to say good-bye–”

  ”I’m not in the mood for nonsense,” she snapped, determined not to be diverted. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m leaving, dear Miss Hill. I would not wish to cause you embarrassment, and certainly not any physical danger. So I shall depart, quietly, and you can resume your proper and safe existence.”

  It was just what she had been ready to order him to do, and yet, illogically, she felt a burning anger that he would just give up and be ready to walk away.

  “You have no right to leave!” she said hotly.

  He raised those eloquent dark brows. “I beg your pardon?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

  She wasn’t sure she believed herself, either, but she plunged ahead. “You made a promise to me, and I still do not have my money from my uncle; he must release it soon. You must stay here until he does, and until I agree that your employment is no longer necessary.”

  Gabriel put down the fine linen shirt and gave her his full attention. “But–”

  ”That does not mean that–that–I don’t still demand to know exactly what is going on. Why were those men following you, us? Why do they wish you harm?”

  He frowned.

  “The truth, not some fanciful tale,” she warned him.

  “Very well, but it will take some time to explain. I am not sure this is the right setting.” He glanced at the bed. “I do not mind the servants gossiping, if you do not, but–”

  Psyche flushed. This was quite a switch! He was thinking of the proprieties, and she was the one whose wits were wandering. Was the whole world going mad?

  “I shall await you in the library,” she said, trying to regain her dignity. “But I expect you momentarily.”

  And if you try to slip out, she thought, I will–I will–I will never forgive you! She turned and left the room quickly before he could discern her emotions. Outside in the hallway, she paused and tried to compose herself. She had been wishing him gone for days; she should have let him leave.

  But her family, her uncle, the inheritance she was trying to secure–no, she did need him, for a while, at least. Then, when Psyche was mistress of her own funds, and Circe could be tutored properly, and they had funds to travel, then–

  But she would not think of that just now. She went to the staircase and made her way down to the library, which was still unoccupied. She rang the bell rope and when Jowers appeared, told him, “Bring a tea tray for two, if you please.”

  He bowed and left, and she could see the speculation behind his bland expression. The servants would likely be wondering if the two of them had had a spat and then made it up again. So be it. She could not control their thoughts, and so far, the household knew nothing really damaging, except Simpson, of course, whose loyalty had been proven many times over.

  Jowers brought the tea tray just as Gabriel appeared. He came into the room, nodding to her, and stood in front of the fireplace, waiting for the servant to put down the tray.

  “I will pour, thank you,” Psyche told the man. When Jowers had shut the door behind him, she ignored the tea tray, however, and stared at Gabriel.

  He seemed to feel her gaze because he turned to face her. “What do you wish to know?”

  “What do I wish to know?” she repeated, becoming annoyed all over again. “I wish to know why men with knives are following you, assaulting us both! Don’t be a simpleton, tell me what kind of quagmire you have become involved in.”

  He folded his arms, looking for once almost defensive. “It started with a card game,” he said.

  Psyche shook he
r head. What else could she expect from an admitted gamester. “And?”

  “I won an estate,” he said baldly.

  Psyche had heard of outlandish wagers before, huge amounts lost and won on a draw of the cards or a roll of dice. The concept was not unknown, but still, she blinked at his admission. “An estate?” Her tone was skeptical. “Is this another paper castle–”

  ”Like the marquisate you conjured up? No, my dear Miss Hill, the property is quite real, and it is mine, or will be, soon enough.”

  She shook her head. “What madman would bet his whole estate on a game of chance?”

  “Someone who thought he was a better player than I; he was mistaken,” Gabriel noted, his voice as chilly as her own.

  “I’ve heard of wild wagers, but this is–is–and you mean to take it?”

  “Of course I mean to have it; a man’s gambling debts are debts of honor, dear Psyche.” He knew how to distract her, that was for certain. At the use of her Christian name, he saw the lights gleam in her eyes, and some of her reserve slipped away. “However, the loser, Barrett, is dragging his feet,” Gabriel was forced to admit, “not wanting to hand over the property.”

  “So some debts are less honorable than others?” she suggested.

  “Or some men,” he countered.

  She stared at him, as if still trying to believe the whole idea. Did she see him differently, now? A man with property was a man to be respected, Gabriel thought, remembering his own elation when he had bested Barrett that eventful night in a smoke-filled Paris gaming salon.

  ”A nice little property in the south of England, the man said,” Gabriel mused aloud. “With a manor house dating back a hundred years, and all the usual outbuildings. A nice home park, and several farms with tenants paying rent.”

  “An estate for a gentleman,” Psyche said, understanding dawning. “This was your means of returning to your homeland.”

  He nodded, and his glance held appreciation for her quickness. “Yes. I hoped to regain my birthright, if you would. I still plan to do so.”