Dear Impostor by Nicole Byrd

smile. “Very well.”
              ”Looks like no bones broken, Miss
Psyche,” the housekeeper told her, dabbing at a bit of dried blood on the man’s
face. “He’s very lucky indeed. Set upon by a whole gang of footpads, ‘e was.”
              “Tell me what happened,” Psyche
said.
              The man rolled his eyes. “All I
did was go where his lordship tol’me, to the inn down by the docks–shabby place
it’twere, ma’am–and ask for his bags. ‘E gave me a coin to settle his account
and another for me–which they took from me.” The footman’s tone was bitter. “Nicest
bit of coin I’ve ‘ad since–” As if remembering this was not the person to
complain to, he stopped abruptly.
              Psyche pretended not to notice;
she knew that their servants were well paid; her parents had never stinted on
household economy, nor had she, but she could understand his disappointment
over the loss of his unexpected largesse. “Who attacked you?”
              “It ‘appened after I left the inn,
ma’am,” the servant told her. “I ‘ad his lordship’s carpetbags–he don’t seem to
‘ave no trunk, maybe it ain’t arrived yet–and when I turned to head back toward
Mayfair, all these men–must a’been a ‘undred of ‘em–swarmed out of an alley and
jumped me. ‘Ad no chance at all to defend myself.” He shuddered, remembering,
and several of the younger maidservants shrieked in sympathetic alarm.
              The last thing she needed was the
housemaids having hysterics. Psyche spoke firmly. “You are very fortunate, Wilson, to have escaped with only minor injuries.”
              He nodded, shivering again. “A
bunch of sailors came out of a nearby tavern, ma’am, singing and swearing, and
likely they scared the thieves away. I’m sorry bout his lordship’s things,
ma’am. Guess those footpads thought ‘e might have money or jewelry in ‘em. I
‘ope he don’t ‘old me accountable. . .”
              Psyche had forgotten about Mr.
Sinclair’s luggage. She looked around and saw two carpet bags, much slashed and
ripped, which lay on the floor nearby. Poor Wilson had been true to his trust,
bringing back what was left of the luggage. But the bags had been ripped inside
and out; she could see a scrap of a once fine linen shirt hanging out through
one of the slits. The thieves had either been disappointed in what they sought
or very thorough indeed in searching for valuables.
              “Someone must have heard you
asking for the Marquis of Tarrington’s cases,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s
really too bad.”
              “But I was very private, like,” Wilson argued. “His lordship tol’me and I was careful, just like ‘e said. He weren’t even
staying there under his title, miss, but under ‘is Christian name.”
              Psyche raised her brows. Since
Gabriel hadn’t heard of his ‘title’ until she had bestowed it upon her
fictitious fiancé, that was no surprise. The other servants looked a bit
shocked, however. “He was doubtless being discreet until he could find a more
refined hotel,” she said. “He has been out of England for some time, as you
know. However, someone had better take this up to his lordship and allow him to
see if anything here can be salvaged. And take back his evening clothes; he
must have something to wear.” She remembered the naked man upstairs, sheltered
tactfully under his newspaper, and tried not to blush.
              One of the footmen jumped, as if
remembering that he was remiss in his duties and hurried away. Again, Psyche
pretended not to notice. Her mother had been an excellent manager with her
household staff, and she had taught her daughters that, for everyone’s benefit,
there were times to be vigilant and times to turn a blind eye.
              Psyche looked down at the wounded
footman. “Don’t worry about the