The Perfect Impostor (3 page)

“To trouble is my guess.” Leo saved Richard’s dog from further torment by ushering his nephews out the door ahead of him.

* * *

Amos Fisher huddled in the doorway of a shabby building in Basing Lane and pulled up the collar of his thin coat. It did little to prevent a chill wind penetrating right through to his bones. A prolonged bout of coughing rattled his lungs, leaving him drained and struggling for breath. He spat on the ground, putting his temporary weakness down to lack of food. Scowling at the world in general, holding it responsible for his straitened circumstances, he continued his vigil. But his disgruntled attitude increased with every second he spent freezing to death, as did his desire for revenge.

Directly opposite, a discreet sign on a modiste’s premises proclaimed it to be the territory of Madame Sinclair.
Madame Sinclair
indeed! Talk about ideas above her station. The nerve of the chit. Not only had she got away with murdering her husband—his brother, the best of men, an indulgent spouse who treated his wilful wife far too leniently—but she’d also calmly walked away with what, by rights, ought to have been his. No one should profit from their crimes, and yet this whore had taken her husband’s hard-earned money without a backward glance and now had the effrontery to set herself up as a fancy dressmaker.

He passed the long hours by plotting increasingly vindictive ways in which to extract revenge, enduring the surly stares of those who thought he was attempting to invade their patch. He growled at anyone who came too close, and thus far his bulk had prevented them from taking matters further. But he knew they suspected his motives and it was only a matter of time before they organised themselves into a gang and chased him away. Life was cheap around these parts, and a man could be done to death just for looking at someone the wrong way.

A hackney drove past at a cracking pace, spraying him with mud as its wheels cut straight through a foul-smelling puddle directly in front of him. He shook his fist at the jarvey, who blithely ignored the gesture.

Amos shooed another urchin away and fumed. He’d spent the best part of a year attempting to track Katrina Fisher to her new lair, and a fair penny he could ill afford it had cost him too. But it was proving to be worth it. Finally a chance remark overheard in a crowded tavern had led him to this most unlikely of situations. He’d been freezing in this doorway for two whole days and had yet to get a clear view of the woman inside. Even so, he knew in his gut that he’d found the murderous doxy, and she’d soon get what was coming to her.

The law might say she’d done nothing wrong but that was what happened when you had influential people fighting on your behalf. The magistrates hadn’t wanted to hear what he had to say, threatening to put him in gaol if he didn’t button his lip.
Him!
That was rich. If anyone deserved to be incarcerated it was that jade swanning about in the fancy shop across the road like she was something special.

Well, if the law wasn’t prepared to do what was right then he would just have to do their job for them.

As soon as she showed herself he would grab her. He didn’t like to risk going in there without first knowing how the land lay. He was no fool. Oh no. He’d learned to be patient. This might not be the most fashionable of addresses but still, she never could have afforded a place like this on what Jeb left her. So she must have a rich lover paying her way, and he didn’t fancy facing up to the gentry for a second time. The law always sided with them, so he’d fight this one on his own terms.

Amos was just thinking about nipping round the back to relieve himself when a fine carriage made slow progress along Basing Lane. It was so out of place here that even the hardened locals stopped to gape at it.

It pulled up in all the muck and filth directly in front of the modiste’s, and his pulse quickened. At last something interesting was happening. Little Katrina wouldn’t be attracting that sort of custom, surely? Unless it was her lover coming to call in broad daylight.

Amos was surprised at the animosity this thought engendered. It was one thing to know she had a fancy man but entirely another to be confronted with him in the flesh. Katrina was his! He intended to exact revenge by using her in any way he wished—and there were plenty of things he’d like to do to a lightskirt who thought she was too good for her own husband’s brother. He’d had plenty of time to think about it and, doing so now, he could feel himself getting hard in spite of his chilled bones.

A dainty foot descended from the carriage. A footman escorted the lady to the door of the modiste’s and waited immediately outside. At first Amos thought it was Katrina pretending to be a lady, but then he realised it was that childhood friend of hers, Julia somebody, who’d married a marquess. He smirked, his suspicions confirmed. It
had
to be Katrina in that shop. What else would bring such a lady to this derelict district?

Just to be sure he sauntered towards the carriage, which was now surrounded by a gang of curious onlookers.

“Who’s rig is this then?” someone asked a footman.

“Move along,” the man said, wrinkling his nose as though he could smell something unsavoury. He probably could. “The Marquess of Lanarkshire don’t want you lot mucking up his carriage and frightening his horses.”

“What’s a marquess then?” a grimy child with a cheeky grin asked his mother.

“Someone what’s got more money than you could ever dream of,” she said, giving the child an affectionate clip round the ear.

Amos wandered back to his doorway, deep in thought, and waited. For a long time.

Finally the woman emerged, pausing in the doorway to hug another woman who was unmistakably Katrina. Amos had seen enough. He urgently needed a meal and a wench and he knew where to find a plentiful supply of both. But he’d be back tomorrow to see what transpired. He needed to be sure that Katrina’s well-heeled connections were out of harm’s way before he started having some fun with her.

Katrina changed her mind a dozen times a day following Julia’s visit, doubting her ability to carry off the deception. But in spite of her grave misgivings she couldn’t find it within herself to let her friend down when she required her help so desperately. Whenever her courage faltered or her conscience put up objections, she thought about all Julia and her father had done for her, and knew she would have to go through with it.

Unless Julia came to her senses and called it off. But that was too much to hope for.

She was giving her final instructions to her apprentices, making sure they knew exactly what to do in her absence, when Julia’s town coach arrived at her door. The grand equipage drew curious glances from passersby. The doors were emblazoned with the marquess’s coat of arms—not an everyday sight in Basing Lane. The two liveried tigers up behind looked down on their surroundings with attitudes of superior disdain, adding to the incongruity of the spectacle. They clearly thought their mistress had taken leave of her senses in bringing her custom to such a lowly establishment.

Julia appeared even more distrait today as she entered the salon, her maid Celia following briskly in her wake. Katrina dismissed her apprentices, who curtsied and disappeared into the back room.

“What have you told them?” Julia asked, watching them go.

Katrina embraced Julia but her friend was rigid with tension and barely returned the gesture. “That a lady has asked me to call upon her and give her some advice on her wardrobe, and that I was going on to visit my family afterwards.”

Julia frowned. “You no longer have any family.”

“They don’t know that, silly. Don’t worry, they wouldn’t presume to check.”

“I suppose not.” Julia fell into a nearby chair. “Forgive me, I’m a little preoccupied today.”

“Julia, are you really, absolutely sure about this?”

“Yes, yes, of course I am.” She clapped her hands. “I was never more sure about anything. Now come on, there’s no time to spare for idle chatter. You agreed to help me and it’s too late to change your mind.”

Celia helped Julia take off the elegant travelling dress Katrina had made for her. She seemed reluctant to do so, causing Katrina to hope she was having last-minute doubts. But when Julia cautioned her to hurry, Katrina resigned herself to the inevitable and stepped into the gown Celia was holding out for her. In pale blue velvet, the spencer fastened with twisted braid and pretty pearl buttons, and the entire ensemble was edged with an extravagant swathe of swan’s down. The hem had been adjusted to exactly fit Julia, and there was probably a two-inch difference in their respective heights. It meant that her half boots were clearly visible as she moved, displaying more of her ankle than was strictly respectable. But that was the least of her worries. She looked in the mirror and added the plumed casquet bonnet, which concealed most of her hair. The half veil was a bonus in that it hid the fear in her eyes.

She grimaced. “We might have resembled one another when we were younger, but I don’t look a bit like you now.”

“You’re working yourself up over nothing.”

“Nothing, you call it!”

“And you worry too much. You look ravishing, doesn’t she, Celia.”

“Very elegant, milady.”

Julia put on a gown Celia had carried into the salon and covered herself with a plain hooded cloak. It engulfed her body and entirely covered her hair.

“Go with Celia.” Julia clutched Katrina for a prolonged period. “She will see you right for she knows me and my habits better than I know myself.”

Katrina wondered if that was supposed to reassure. “What about you?”

“I shall be fine. Someone is meeting me.” She turned back. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She carelessly pulled off her rings and handed them to Katrina. “Here, put these on.”

“I can’t.” The rings had to be worth a small fortune. The diamond in the betrothal ring alone was the size of a small duck egg. Another ring with the marquess’s crest picked out in diamonds and rubies was intended for her small finger. The jewellery felt heavy and looked unnatural on red fingers raw from so much sewing. She would need to wear gloves at all times to hide the condition of her hands.

“You must. I never go anywhere without them.”

“What if I lose them?” Katrina’s fingers were slimmer than Julia’s and the rings slipped easily over her knuckles.

“Stop making difficulties. You’re far too cautious to let that happen.”

Julia ushered them from the salon. Katrina was quaking with nerves as she approached the carriage. One of the tigers held the door open for her. She was convinced he would immediately sense that something was wrong and cry foul. She half hoped he would. That way she couldn’t be held to blame. But much to her astonishment he merely bowed low and shut the door after Celia had climbed in behind her.

“There, that was easy enough, milady.”

“I’m not a
lady,
Celia.”

“Best get used to being addressed in that fashion.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Katrina glanced out the window as the carriage made slow progress along Cheapside, convinced she was being watched. Some sixth sense made her skin crawl. She resisted the urge to order the coachman to stop so she could get out and run away. Then she laughed at her own folly. Of course she was being watched. Everyone in Basing Lane had stopped what they were doing to stare at the carriage. “But I really don’t see how I can expect to get away with this for an entire week. Someone’s bound to notice that something’s not right.”

“People see what they expect to see,” Celia said prosaically. “You are arriving in the marquess’s carriage, the marchioness is expected to be inside it, and you look enough like her to fool her own father.”

Katrina laughed, relaxing a little. Celia’s confidence was infectious. “Well, we did that often enough when we were children.”

“I remember it well, milady.”

Katrina wanted to look over her shoulder every time Celia addressed her as such, wondering whom she was talking to. But by the time they reached the coaching inn, the halfway stage on their journey, she was already becoming accustomed to it. She swept through the inn in the wake of the landlord as though she’d been born a marchioness. Not deigning to spare a glance for the lesser mortals assembled there, she took possession of the private parlour that had been prepared for her. As soon as the door closed behind the landlord, she sank into a chair with a long sigh of relief.

“There we are, milady.” Celia briskly removed Katrina’s spencer. “That was easy enough.”

“That was only the beginning. I have to face Lady Marshall soon. I’m willing to wager that she’ll see straight through me.”

“Nonsense!”

Katrina wanted to ask Celia where her mistress was now, whom she was with, what she was doing. Surely she knew. She was unswervingly loyal, which was why she was helping with this deception with no indication that she disapproved of it. But Katrina wouldn’t put her in the position of having to betray a confidence. If Julia had wanted her to know where she was going she would have told her. Besides, Katrina had a feeling she would need to rely heavily on Celia as the week progressed, so it wouldn’t do to set the maid against her by asking intrusive questions.

Katrina picked at the food supplied by the inn, too nervous to have any appetite. Far sooner than she would have liked, they were back on the road.

“Perhaps you will drink some of the spring waters whilst you’re here, milady,” Celia remarked as the carriage made its way sedately through Tunbridge Wells.

She had probably only spoken because she could sense Katrina’s apprehension increasing with every mile they travelled. Grateful for the maid’s sensitivity, Katrina made an effort to appear more confident than she felt.

“It’s a great shame that the springs aren’t thermal, nor nearly so copious as those at Bath. I should have enjoyed bathing in them otherwise. Never mind, I understand they’re impregnated with iron, which is supposed to be good for one.”

“They also have a fine souvenir industry, ma’am, known as Tunbridge ware. I remember visiting some of the shops when her ladyship called here several years back. They make trinkets that are patterned in coloured woods.”

“Then perhaps I shall buy one as a present for Julia.”

The conversation and passing scenery had distracted Katrina and she gave a little shriek when she realised that the carriage was now passing along the driveway to Upton Manor, Lady Marshall’s palatial home.

“Courage, milady.” Celia patted her hand. “You’ll be fine, just so long as you appear confident and don’t permit your anxiety to show. My mistress is never anything other than entirely sure of herself in company.”

Good advice but not so easy for Katrina to follow. She and Julia closely resembled one another in physical appearance but that was as far as the similarities went. Julia bore the self-confidence of a woman born into privilege whereas Katrina, although made to feel part of the family in many respects during her formative years, couldn’t even claim the status of poor relation. She was a servant’s daughter and never likely to rise above that status. Julia was charming to other women, flirtatious with the men, totally at home in mixed company and never at a loss when it came to finding exactly the right light remark to suit any situation. Katrina suspected that she would fail spectacularly in that regard, especially if the gentlemen sought to flirt with her.

She took a footman’s hand and alighted from the carriage, tilting her chin in a defiant manner. Flirtatious behaviour notwithstanding, for the next seven days she would emulate her friend to the very best of her ability. No matter what it took.

She’d do it for Julia.

Lady Marshall descended upon her as she entered the grand vestibule. Katrina recalled her visiting Julia’s parents’ estate. But that was over ten years ago and naturally Katrina had never been introduced to her. Even so, she remembered her as being kind-hearted and not above herself. She was quite elderly now but her eyes remained bright and there was a kindly twinkle in them as she extended a hand towards Katrina, who sank into a deep curtsey.

“My dear, marchionesses ought not to bend their knees quite so deep to their lessers.”

“Forgive me, ma’am, but I could never look upon you as my lesser.”

Lady Marshall chortled and kissed her cheek. “You are as beautiful as ever,” she said, screwing up her eyes and peering myopically at her. Katrina was grateful that the plume on her hat had fallen across her face, making closer scrutiny difficult. “Marriage seems to agree with you.”

Katrina forced herself to smile. “I believe it does.”

“And your husband couldn’t spare the time to join you? Not even for a day?”

“No, unfortunately not. He sends his regrets along with his very best wishes. He’s ensconced in Brighton with His Royal Highness and some dignitaries from India.” Katrina flapped her hand in a manner she’d seen Julia adopt on many occasions. “I prefer not to think too deeply about what they get up to down there.”

“Very wise. And I dare say we shall do well enough without him. A maid will show you to your room, and when you feel refreshed do join us for tea on the terrace. There are already some people here anxious to reacquaint themselves with you.”

That was precisely what Katrina was worried about.

* * *

Her chamber was sumptuous. And enormous. A huge bedroom and adjoining sitting room. Her entire premises at Basing Lane would easily fit into the bedchamber alone. Celia bustled about, busying herself with unpacking.

“Lord and Lady Ainsworth and their daughters Isabel and Christina are already here,” she said, answering Katrina’s unasked question. “They all attended your wedding. Lady Chester is here with her son Charles, who’s always had a soft spot for you. You always encouraged him because…well, because—”

Katrina grimaced. “Because I can’t help myself.”

“Precisely, milady. I would suggest that you treat him kindly today but keep your distance.”

“That I shall certainly do.” She shuddered at the games she was required to play, the rules to which no one had troubled to explain. “Who else is here?”

“Mrs. Nugent. Her husband is in trade, some sort of financial guru. Not quite up to snuff but clever enough with money that it opens society’s doors for him.” Celia gave a disdainful sniff, causing Katrina to stifle a giggle. Servants were often more snobbish than the masters they served. “She has a remarkably pretty daughter called Emily who’s only just out and a son Peter who’s down from Eton for the summer. Both children are here but Mr. Nugent isn’t yet in residence and no one else is expected until tomorrow.”

“How have you found this all out so quickly?” Katrina asked, curiosity overcoming her anxiety.

“Us servants have our uses, milady.” She helped Katrina off with her spencer and poured water into an ewer. “The footman who brought up the bags told me,” she added, grinning. “Best wash your hands, allow me to tidy your hair and then go on down. The sooner you get it over with, the better you’ll feel. Wear those pretty cream lace gloves and put your rings on the outside of them. They will help to disguise your hands. And keep that bonnet on. The veil will give you something to hide behind.”

Too nervous to do anything other than comply, Katrina unwillingly left the room and descended the stairs on quaking legs. She stepped out onto the terrace and all the ladies stood and curtsied. She was the most senior-ranked person currently present, but she still wasn’t prepared to be greeted in such a fashion. Of the gentlemen there was no sign.

She reminded herself that she was Julia Dupont, Marchioness of Lanarkshire, and smiled at the ladies before taking the seat nearest her hostess.

Let the deception begin.

“It hardly seems like two weeks since we were all at Lady Harley’s house party,” remarked Lady Chester. “And now, here we all are again. We have been so much in one another’s company that it’s almost as though we are family.”

Katrina swallowed, her heart racing at twice its normal rate. She smiled and somehow forced a noncommittal reply past the lump in her throat. So Julia had deliberately deceived her. She
had
seen all these people recently. Not at crowded soirees but for an entire week at a party such as this. Why in the world hadn’t she said so?