Dear Impostor by Nicole Byrd Page B

my–um–condolences.”
              The servant nodded in complete
understanding. “I’ll tell ‘im, milord. I know ’e’ll be most appreciative.”
              Gabriel rummaged through the bag
again. “Damn!”
              “Milord?”
              “They took my ivory-backed
razors.” Gabriel fingered the rough stubble that covered his chin and cheeks. In
all his years of wandering, despite his poverty, his sometimes desperate
straits, he had maintained his personal hygiene religiously. Perhaps at times
it had been all that reminded him of what he had been, what he still considered
himself–a gentleman.
              The servant looked sympathetic. “May’ap
I can do something about that, milord. Miss Psyche’s father–his set of razors
might still be put away, for sentiment sake, like. I’ll ask the housekeeper if
she could oblige.”
              “Thank you,” Gabriel told him.
              When the footman left the room,
shutting the door behind him, Gabriel smiled grimly. Despite his losses, they
had still been very lucky. He realized, more than any of them, how fortunate
the footman was to still have his throat uncut and his head in one piece. Gabriel
had not expected the band of ruffians to be so intelligent as to detect another
man coming to fetch his cases.
              On the other hand, the servant’s
livery had likely caused remark in such a lowly inn. It was too late now to
regret his actions; fortunately, the servant would heal, and Gabriel himself
must deal with the loss of his wardrobe. With precious few coins left to spend,
that was enough of a blow. Gabriel winced at his own pun. He had to replace his
ruined wardrobe sufficiently to be seen outside the house without attracting
comment, he had to engage a competent attorney to assure the legal transfer of
title of the estate he had won, and he had to replenish his almost empty
pockets. And for that, he would have to return to the gaming houses, while
still escaping notice of the gang hired to kill him.
              “I think,” he muttered to himself,
“it will be a most intriguing week.”
              In a short time, the footman
returned with an engraved leather case and a brocade robe hanging over his arm.
“The ‘ousekeeper found a set of razors, my lord, and also a robe. Ain’t no more
of the late master’s clothes ’as would fit you. And I took the liberty of
ordering the maids to bring up ’ot water for a bath. Your evening clothes will
be here shortly, as well, but your–um–drawers are still wet, milord; the
laundry maids put them into the wash.”
              “I should like a bath very much
indeed,” Gabriel answered, keeping his tone calm with some effort. A warm bath
in a clean tub–it reminded him forcibly that he was in a real home again, not
just another grimy second-rate tavern or inn. This was luxury indeed, almost
worth the repeated attempts on his life. Bless Psyche for offering him this
haven, this moment of ease that reminded him of all he had lost, and all he
meant to reclaim. Even if her offer was a bit involuntary. . .
              Grinning, he pulled on the robe,
picked up the set of straight razors engraved with H.H.–he would treat them
with utmost care–and followed the footman to the large bath, where the water
emitted pleasant waves of warmth, and fresh soap and clean towels waited
nearby.
              “Do you wish me to shave you,
sir?” the footman asked, his eyes glinting. Did he have ambitions of becoming a
valet? It would be a step up for him, more money and more status. He seemed
more intelligent than the poor fellow Gabriel had sent to retrieve his
belongings, and Gabriel certainly had no man of his own. It wasn’t a bad idea,
Gabriel thought.
              “I’ll call you when I’m ready,” he
said aloud. “What’s your name?”
              The man bowed slightly; he