Dear Impostor by Nicole Byrd Page B

the
night. I don’t understand it.”
              “Nor do I,” Psyche admitted. In
the back of her mind, she thought of the bold glimmer in his eyes when he
looked her up and down. The spark she had felt between them–no, no, it didn’t
do to think on that. Besides, the man must know that it was impossible! There
was no way for a lady of quality and a low-born actor to form any real connection.
It had to be a baser motive. If he hoped to blackmail her–
              “I think he means to hold out for
more money,” she told her maid. “And since I told him I will have no extra
funds to give him unless this scheme works, he is waiting to see if my uncle
releases the purse strings.”
              Simpson still looked anxious. “He
didn’t seem the type for blackmail. I never would have thought he had that much
gumption, Miss,” she worried aloud. “Trying to pretend to be something he’s not
. . .”
              Despite her worries, Psyche
smiled. “But that is what actors do.”
              Simpson’s lips tightened. She had
served the household since her young mistress first put up her hair and
lengthened her short skirts, and she could afford to be blunt. “But that’s on
stage, Miss. This is very different.”
              “So it is. We shall just have to
put up with him for a day or two until I can think of some way to rid ourselves
of this threat. In the meantime, try to dampen any suspicion that may arise in
the servants’ hall.”
              Simpson hesitated.
              “What?” Psyche braced herself. Trouble
already? Curse the man!
              “Wilson has disappeared.”
              Psyche frowned. “Which one is Wilson?”
              “The new under-footman, Miss. He
was the one who took the actor up to his bed chamber last night. And–” Simpson’s
voice sank into an ominous whisper. “He hasn’t been seen since!”
              Psyche bit her lip. Strange ideas
whirled in her head for an instant, but she pushed the wilder notions aside. There
was no reason for the actor to murder an innocent servant. Was there? Had the
actor let his guard slip, said something which gave too much away, and he had
to get rid of Wilson to avoid. . . no, the cool ease with which the impostor
had handled her family all evening would not have cracked in a few brief
moments with a house servant. Then what could have happened?
              “There’s a logical reason,” she
said aloud, trying to convince them both. “There must be. Wilson will turn up.”
              She prayed it were true, and her
scheme had not harmed an innocent person. Psyche pushed the tray aside. Her
appetite was gone. “I must get dressed,” she told her maid, “And go downstairs
to see what is happening.”
              With Simpson’s help, she made a
quick toilette. Dressed in a pale blue, completely proper high-necked muslin
day dress, hair pulled into a simple twist, only a few pale curls escaping the
knot to soften its severity and frame her face, she headed for the formal
rooms.
              But the dining room was empty. She
knew her Aunt Sophie seldom ventured from her own room till later in the day,
and Circe would have had her breakfast in the schoolroom. The morning room had
a cheery fire, but it, too, was vacant, as was the larger drawing room and the
library. Where on earth was the man? Was he lying in bed all day?
              Simpson had departed to the
servant’s quarters, with orders to report to her mistress when–or if–the
missing footman returned, but so far, she had not returned with any reassuring
news.
              Psyche lingered in the upstairs
hall, trying to think what she should do, when she heard the sound of the bell.
It could not be the footman; he would return to the back door, of course, and
she was in no mood for any callers come to congratulate her