Dear Impostor by Nicole Byrd Page A

loss of your own money,” she said kindly. “I’m
sure that when his lordship hears of your ordeal, he will replace your coin,
likely even increase it.” She would make sure of it, she told herself.
              Wilson brightened at once. Then,
as she was about to turn away, he said timidly, “Umm, ma’am, if I might be so
bold–”
              ”Yes?” She looked back, her mind
already engaged once again with the bigger problem of ridding herself of an
unwanted fiancé.
              “You won’t–won’t ‘old me
responsible for me ruined livery, will you, ma’am?” he asked anxiously.
              It took her a second to realize
what he meant. Servants were provided with household livery as part of their compensation
and received new clothing once a year, but they were responsible for the upkeep
of their uniforms.
              “Of course not,” she said briskly.
“Jowers will see to getting you a new set of livery right away; you certainly
can’t be seen above stairs in such a state.”
              The elderly butler nodded.
              “Thank’ee, ma’am,” Wilson said. He settled back into the chair to accept the ministering of the housekeeper
and several maids, happy enough now in his role of the brave, abused victim.
              Psyche returned to the main floor,
thankful that her servant would recover. It had been most thoughtless of the
actor to have sent the man out so late at night, but perhaps Gabriel had really
not considered the dangers. Likely, the thespian was accustomed to the peril of
the streets and had come to consider it simply another fact of life. Psyche
sighed, recalling her mother’s lectures on social systems and understanding the
world of the under classes.
              As she entered the morning room,
she remembered the stack of mail. She would have to decline three luncheon
invitations, since her ‘fiancé’ had no clothes to wear, and she herself was too
distracted to leave the house and make polite conversation. Sighing, she headed
toward her bedroom and the small desk littered with notes and cards.
              In his chamber, Gabriel had
groaned when he saw the damaged bags. The footman who brought up his luggage
had also detailed, with much colorful embellishment, the story of Wilson’s return and of the attack he had suffered. Gabriel, who had just pulled his best
linen shirt from the bag and was frowning at the slashes that now rendered it
useful only for the housemaid’s rag bag, forgot about his clothing. He turned
and listened with all his attention.
              “They jumped him outside the
tavern, after he had collected my things?”
              “Yes, milord. If there’s aught
missing from the bags, it really ain’t his fault, milord.”
              This household staff’s loyalty to
each other was commendable, Gabriel thought. In his own father’s house, the
staff was so browbeaten they would have sold their own grandmother to have
escaped censure from their overbearing employer. But he pushed that thought
away. He never cared to think about his father.
              “No, of course not,” he agreed. Fortunately,
he had left no money in such a rowdy inn, which had been chosen only for its
cheap rate. The note turning over ownership of the estate which Barrett had
lost during the card game–which must have been the thieves’ true target–had
been tucked inside his evening jacket, but still . . . he rummaged through the
bag and sighed.
              “Milord?”
              “My gold stick pin is missing, of
course. I thought I had it well hidden, but–it can’t be helped”. It was a
trifle, worth only a few pennies, but he had valued it for other reasons. As
usual, he pushed the deeper emotion away and focused on the needs of the
moment.. “Tell Wilson I shall see him presently when he has recovered and offer
him