Dear Impostor

by Nicole Byrd

  Somewhere, he heard the distant tlot-tlot of horses’ hooves and the clatter of carriage wheels rolling over paving stones. Then it was quiet again, and he could have sworn he heard the quiet footfalls of a solitary walker a few feet behind him.

  Gabriel felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but he did not turn to look. He walked on with a confident, steady gait, but his ears were attuned to the sounds behind him, and he felt like a cat, trying to see through the darkness, trying to listen for the rush of footsteps that would presage an attack.

  He would be sadly outnumbered when it came; why had he done this? Was having one’s freedom important enough to risk one’s life over? It was just that he did not like to be manipulated, Gabriel told himself. He would not have his life ruled by others, certainly not by a cad like Barrett.

  Gabriel’s hands closed into fists as he heard a crackle, as of someone stepping on a fallen twig; the unseen stalker was moving closer. He should have brought a walking stick, anything that could be used as a weapon.

  The sound came again, but Gabriel’s pace did not slacken; he was nearing the intersection of the next street, now, and his concentration on the man behind him almost cost him his life. He was listening hard for movement behind, but when the attack came, it was from another direction entirely.

  Two rough-dressed men stepped suddenly out of the shadows just ahead of him. They were holding clubs, and Gabriel again clenched his fists, wishing for something with which to strike back.

  His heart beat fast, now. He felt the rush of blood to his head and the almost uncanny awareness of every movement that came when one faced imminent death. Psyche would tell him he had been a fool to come out alone, and she was right. But it had been his choice, no one else’s. At least the whole gang was not here.

  Gabriel laughed. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded.

  The first ruffian blinked in surprise and lifted his cudgel.

  “Aren’t you even going to make a pretense of asking for my purse?” Gabriel inquired, his tone easy. “You’re new at this, aren’t you?”

  The bully paused, apparently confused by a victim who did not flee in terror, who seemed amused and spoke in conversational tones. “Um,” he muttered. “As to that, ’and over your purse.”

  “No, you blockhead.” The other man jabbed his companion in the ribs. “The man said we don’t wait for nu’t’ing.”

  ‘But if ’e got blunt on ’im–” the first man argued.

  Gabriel still listened for sounds behind him, but the third assailant seemed to be biding his time.

  “Enough of this,” he murmured. He stepped forward, straight toward the first man who held the cudgel.

  Startled by the unexpected actions of their prey, the man raised his club and swung, while his companion moved back to give his companion room.

  But Gabriel jumped inside the rising arc of the weapon and hit the big man hard in the stomach. He fell forward, gagging. Gabriel had already turned to the second man who lifted his own weapon. This attacker was more experienced, and he did not rush in, watching Gabriel with eyes that seemed pale in the dimness.

  A sound from behind made Gabriel whirl to avoid being blind-sided, but what he saw was so unexpected that he almost missed the movement of the second ruffian as he swung the club.

  “Look out!” David Lydford, Earl of Westbury, shouted.

  Gabriel ducked, but the glancing blow caught him on the left elbow. The impact sent waves of pain up his arm, leaving it momentarily useless.

  David was grappling with the second ruffian; the first was still curled up on the street, groaning and holding his gut. David succeeded in grabbing the rough club. Pulling it away from the assailant, David pitched it aside.

  Gabriel watched in exasperation as the younger man put up his fists in the elegant style of the best boxing saloons, dancing about lightly on the balls of his feet.

  “Put up your hands, you cur,” he exclaimed. “I will teach you to attack your betters!”

  The second attacker looked disdainful. He reached inside his grimy jacket and pulled out a small but lethal-looking blade.

  David hesitated, his eyes widening.

  Gabriel took one long step, picked up the abandoned cudgel and almost casually stepped inside the man’s guard so that he could knock him neatly on the head. The man crumbled into a heap, the blade falling with him.

  “Never throw away a weapon,” Gabriel snapped. “And what the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Looking out for you.” David sounded hurt. “I knew those men might try to jump you again.”

  “And you’re playing nursemaid?” Gabriel could think of nothing more ridiculous.

  The younger man flushed at his tone. “I thought it only fair; I owed you a debt for aiding me the other night, didn’t I? Besides, we are old friends, after all.”

  “That doesn’t warrant risking your own neck–” Gabriel began, his tone angry. “And where are your guards?”

  David’s young face turned sulky, “I escaped out the kitchen alley.”

  “You escaped–”

  ”Had to, don’t you know? After all, I am obliged to you.”

  Oh, happy days. Gabriel swallowed the sarcasm that rose to his lips. Now the boy thought he had to reclaim his honor. And to tell him how inane that was would only offend his sensibilities further, and the lad would put himself into further danger. Gabriel did not need this bantling’s blood on his conscience, too!

  Still, the lad did not lack for courage, Gabriel thought, as laughter rose inside him to replace his first surge of irritation. He swallowed the chuckle as well; he didn’t dare so much as grin. God forbid he offend this bantling rooster any further, or David might end up his bondsman for life.

  “You do have a point,” he said, his tone grave. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  David looked gratified. “You are most welcome,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “If you like, we could drop into my club and have a brandy.”

  With some difficulty, Gabriel kept his expression somber as he nodded his acceptance. “Yes, this kind of exertion does make a man thirsty. In addition, you have suggested a recourse that was so obvious I hadn’t thought of it.”

  David looked uncertain. “Which is?”

  “You belong to a boxing saloon, do you not?” Gabriel suggested.

  This time, David’s frown was suspicious, as if he feared ridicule. “Yes, I do, and if you’re intimating that I could put my time to better use–”

  ”Why on earth would I say that?” Gabriel raised his brows.

  “My mother always complains–oh, nothing. What did you have in mind?”

  “If you would be so good as to take me there tomorrow, as your guest, I have some business I would like to transact,” Gabriel explained.

  David still looked mystified, but he nodded slowly. “Of course, I would be honored to introduce you. Gentleman Jackson himself founded the establishment, and–”

  Gabriel allowed the young man to rattle on, his attention only half on the eager discourse. He was still alert to further dangers from the shadows around them; they would have a quick drink at David’s club, and Gabriel would return to the Hill townhouse. There was a time to be outrageous and assert one’s independence, and there was a time to be prudent. He thought he had perhaps done enough of the former for one night.

  But as he listened to the boy’s rush of words, even with only half his attention, he was aware of symptoms of the same malady that had once beset a much younger Gabriel. This lad was starved for male company, male approval, and it touched something deep inside Gabriel’s more hardened breast. He would have sworn that those feelings were all behind him, all except a burning desire to prove to his father that Gabriel could surmount the exile to which he had been sentenced, a desire for a revenge of principle that he could only accomplish by his successful return to the life he had once known.

  But if that were his only remaining emotion, why did he respond so keenly
to the undertones he heard in David’s words? Gabriel pushed the thought aside, but he no longer felt any inclination to laugh at the boy who walked beside him.

  When they reached White’s, David led the way proudly, introducing Gabriel to several fellow members. Gabriel shook hands and nodded to a couple of men he had met earlier when he had come here with Freddy. His schoolmate was not here tonight; no doubt he had another social engagement, unencumbered by murderous assailants who lurked in shadows.

  “We’ll have to put you up for membership,” David said after he had ordered the drinks from a footman.

  “Yes, Freddy said the same,” Gabriel agreed. “I should like that, presently.” First, he would prefer to have his own name back, uncluttered by any spurious title, but he could not explain that reasoning to the lad beside him. The thought of achieving membership in London’s most exclusive male bastion, with no help at all from his father, amused him.

  The footman brought their drinks and held out the tray; Gabriel took his glass and saluted David.

  “To old comrades,” he said seriously, as he would to an equal.

  David flushed with happiness, and some of the tenseness that usually marked his body eased. “To a renewed friendship,” he agreed.

  They both drank; around them could be heard the murmur of men’s quiet voices, and in the next room, someone cursing over a bad draw of cards. The fire in the hearth crackled., and he sniffed the pungent smoke of Spanish cigars. Gabriel felt strangely at peace.

  When they returned from the theater, Jowers awaited them in the front hall, along with one of the new footman, a burly man with wide shoulders and steady eyes.

  “Well done,” Psyche said quietly to the butler as she glanced at the new servant. He seemed big enough to discourage anyone with thoughts of attack.

  “Thank you, Miss,” Jowers said; and although his expression was impassive, she was sure he understood her comment.

  “Good night, Niece,” Sophie said. “Do not stay up too long.” She ascended the staircase with deliberate care, taking Psyche’s acquiescence for granted.

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  Psyche watched her aunt climb out of sight, then thought of the man she had left to while away the evening on his own; had he been bored by this inactivity? Perhaps she should say something to him, just as a gesture of friendship, she assured herself.

  “Is Lord Tarrington in the library?” she asked Jowers after he had lifted her satin evening cloak off her shoulders.

  “I believe Lord Tarrington is no longer in the library,” the butler said. He paused, and Psyche waited for him to continue. But the man was silent.

  Psyche blinked. “Then where is he? Surely he hadn’t gone up to bed already?” she said. “It’s only half past eleven.”

  Jowers looked almost confused. “No, Miss, that is–”

  A door opened, and a familiar male voice said, “And how was the theater?”

  Psyche relaxed. “Boring. That’s why we came home early. What are you doing in the bookroom?”

  “Checking on my–um–secretary’s scribbling. His spelling is most inventive.” Gabriel’s lazy smile lifted his lips, and his blue eyes brimmed with even more laughing mischief than usual.

  “But he’s copying from a book of sermons,” Psyche pointed out. She couldn’t hold back her answering smile. How did Gabriel always make one feel more light-hearted just with one lift of those elegantly curved dark brows?

  “Then I fear we may need to purchase him a pair of spectacles,” Gabriel noted. “Would you join me in the library for a drink before bed?” He gestured toward the next room.

  “Tea will be fine,” Psyche said, her tone demur, but she was still smiling as she followed his motion and turned toward the library.

  “A tea tray, then,” her bogus fiancé told the butler. “And a brandy for me, if you please.” There was a movement at the corner of her vision, as if a coin had passed from one hand to another, but Psyche paid it no mind. She somehow felt happier than she had all evening.

  The library was serene, filled with the smell of leather and books and the glow of candlelight, although the fire seemed to be dying. She held out her cold hands to the fading flame. When Gabriel came into the room behind her, she glanced up and surprised a quizzical expression on his face, almost one of yearning. The man was full of surprises. And not all of them good, she would warrant, she tried to remind herself, but it was no use. She was still happy to be here in his company.

  She remembered the reason she had wanted to see him. “I just wanted to commend you for being willing to stay in tonight,” Psyche said. “I know you must be bored with the confinement.”

  His expression was impossible to read. “I don’t deserve your commendation,” he said.

  She thought she had misheard. “I mean, I just know you would prefer–”

  He waved her words aside. “Actually,” he turned away slightly and gazed into the smoldering embers, bending to add a piece of coal from the scuttle. “I am more content now than I have been all evening.”

  She had been about to tell him not to bother; the footman would repair the fire when the tea tray was brought in, but she caught herself. He was not accustomed to being waited on; it was easy enough to see that. He had been on his own for a long time. She wanted to tell him that she realized how hard it must have been, thrust outside of his own social sphere, but she knew he would reject any sympathy, even from her. Perhaps especially from her.

  Then she realized the meaning of his last sentence and she looked up, startled. She was afraid she might be blushing. “I–”

  ”You don’t have to answer that,” he said, and the reserve, the laughing mask that he usually wore to protect his deeper feelings, was back into place. “Obviously, I am indeed bored with staying too much indoors. Hopefully, my solicitor will win through the tangle of legal maneuvering very soon, and I will not longer be a burden to you.”

  Psyche felt cheated. How dare he say such a thing, and then retract it in the next second. Of course, it could be true, he had not meant to imply–oh, drat the man. “No one hopes it more than I,” she snapped, then bit her lip. “That is, I hope for your sake that the claim on the estate goes through.”

  “I appreciate your good wishes,” Gabriel answered, his tone dry.

  And the happiness Psyche had felt, the indefinable feeling of all’s well with the world that his presence had induced, had gone. She felt suddenly very tired.

  A footman came in with the tea tray, and Gabriel’s glass of brandy. “I am fatigued,” she said. “I don’t believe I wish for any tea, after all. Good night, Lord Tarrington.”

  He nodded, accepting the dismissal, and his answer was also blank and non-revealing. “Good night, Miss Hill.”

  They might as well be strangers, she thought bitterly as she walked out of the room. They were strangers, and it was foolish to think she understood him, that they shared any feelings of–that they shared anything except a mutual business arrangement.

  But when she reached her own bed chamber and Simpson came in to help her out of her evening dress, Psyche was silent.

  “How was the play, Miss?” her maid inquired.

  “Insipid,” Psyche said, knowing that her tone was peevish, but too weary to care. “And I have a headache.”

  Her dresser tut-tuted in sympathy. “I’ll make you a tisane right away, Miss.”

  Somehow, Psyche thought the healing draught would not be enough. She wanted–something else–and relief did not seem likely to come.

  But she thanked her faithful servant and climbed into bed, pulling the smooth sheet up to her chin and blinking hard against sudden unreasonable tears.

  The next morning the Earl of Westbury knocked on the mahogany doors of the Hill townhouse before nine, a little heavy-eyed but his expression eager. David nodded carelessly to Jowers when he was admitted and then sank into a damask-covered settee against the foyer wall. Holding his achy head in his hand, he gestured to Jowers.

  “I
nform Gabriel I have arrived, won’t you?”

  If Jowers felt any amusement at the sight of the young Earl, he was too well-trained to show it.

  “At once, my lord.” Bowing, he walked smartly away.

  As David waited, he held tightly to his head lest it finally roll off his neck as it had been threatening to do since he had risen. At this point, he would hardly care.

  “Are you ill?”

  David jumped so sharply at the unexpected question that he had to take a few deep breaths to control the nausea. When he could speak, he looked around for the phantom voice. The salons on either side of the foyer were untenanted; his foggy mind could not think further than that.

  Circe crouched down at the top of the landing, where she often sat quietly to survey visitors; an artist had to be observant, after all. She was about to speak again when Gabriel’s footsteps rang on the marble foyer floor.

  “Right on time, David,” Gabriel said. He had been finishing his coffee, toast and marmalade in the dining room as he waited for David to arrive, hoping the young man would be out of bed in time to make his appointment. But apparently, a session at the boxing saloon was worth the lad dragging himself from his slumbers. Pulling on his buff-colored gloves, Gabriel paused as he noticed the green tinge of David’s skin. “Celebrated a bit longer last night, did you?”

  “I’m never drinking again,” David moaned, breathing deeply through his mouth.

  “Oh, the promises of youth.” Gabriel chuckled. “You’ll learn.”

  David groaned. Was it necessary to speak so loudly?

  “Maybe more painfully than necessary, but you’ll learn.” With sadistic unconcern, he pulled David to his feet and steered him towards the open door. “Let’s sweat it out of you. Come along; I have to see my solicitor, Mr. Theobald, after we leave the saloon.”

  Circe watched silently as Jowers shut the door behind the two men. Slowly, she climbed the stairs to the schoolroom; the morning light would be striking her easel at just the right angle. Besides, she had much to consider.