The Impostor Prince
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An image of Merrick accosted him.
Could it be…?
He shook his head, unable to wrap his brain around the shocking possibility.
And yet, who was this man who felt compelled to protect his mother from some cold-hearted opportunist?
And what was it he couldn’t justify releasing into her possession?
Glen Abbey Manor?
It would explain much, though how would this man have gained possession of the estate to begin with, when it had belonged to the MacEwens for nearly five centuries?
The rest of the letter was reduced to rants, as though written in some altered state of mind—perhaps the man had been inebriated.
Only one more passage stood out amidst the rest. It was scribbled on the back of the letter, almost as an afterthought: The sound of a kiss is not so loud as a cannon, but its echo lasts much longer. I suffer a ringing in my ears that will not cease to torment me.
It was signed, simply, J.J. had evidently never dispatched the letter.
Had Merrick intended, after all these years, to deliver it to his mother?
Why now?
The answer seemed obvious enough, though Ian wasn’t prepared to accept it. That he could have had a brother all these years and not known—perhaps even a father. That his mother could have lied to him. That she would have abandoned one of her infants…
It was enough to sour his mood all over again—if the bone-seeping mist hadn’t already managed to do so.
Refolding the letter, he slipped it back into his coat pocket, then withdrew the gold-and-silver calling card-case from the waistcoat pocket, removing a single card to inspect it for nearly the hundredth time. The initials J.M.W. were engraved upon the case itself. The calling card read: J. Merrick Welbourne III, HRH, the Crown Prince of Meridian.
J. after his father, most certainly, as the card intimated a third generation of descent. So J. the son was carrying a letter written by J. the father, and the intended recipient was Ian’s mother. Furthermore, J. the son held the title of HRH, the Crown Prince of Meridian, which would make J. the father…king of Meridian?
Ian settled back into the seat to contemplate the overwhelming evidence. As outlandish as it all seemed, there was one thing that just couldn’t be denied—the remarkable resemblance between Ian and Merrick.
Ian’s entire life seemed suddenly a web of lies.
What was true was that his mother had kept secrets from him, and that those secrets had affected the lives of every person in Glen Abbey.
Ian was wholly disheartened by the knowledge.
They were nearing their destination—Ian could feel the driver’s relief in the renewed vigor of his driving. He had kept to himself the entire journey, answering questions only when forced to, but he was beginning to feel the driver suspected something. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell the man to slow down, but as the thought crossed his mind, a woman’s scream curdled his blood.
At once, the coach lurched, careening to one side as the driver struggled to stop. Ian bounced into the window and then into the facing seat as the carriage came to an abrupt halt. He was out of the rig as quickly as he could regain his bearings. The sight that greeted him on the street made his heart falter.
His worst fear was confirmed. They’d hit a woman; she lay sprawled facedown in the middle of the road. For a frightful moment, she didn’t stir.
Ian sprinted to her side, kneeling to inspect her.
Her long ebony hair fell haphazardly from pins to cover most of her pallid cheek. Her wooden box had tumbled from her grasp and had settled in two pieces not more than a foot from her head, spilling silverware into the street like a river of fine silver.
He didn’t see blood—that much was heartening—but she’d yet to move. Then she groaned, and he blew a sigh of relief.
The driver hurried to his side. “We did not hit her!” he swore.
Ian cast the man a censuring glare. Of course they’d hit her, blast it all! Wasn’t her limp body proof enough?
The chatter of voices rose as curious onlookers surrounded them.
It took Claire a befuddled instant to realize she lay kissing the gravel on Drury Lane.
She moaned, more out of embarrassment than in pain, and struggled to her knees to find she had an uninvited audience.
How utterly humiliating!
One man in particular was kneeling at her side, gawking down at her. A prick of annoyance sidled through her at the sight of him. She realized he meant to help, but his regard only filled her cheeks with heat.
He was unnervingly handsome, with his sun-kissed blond hair and magnificent cheekbones. Claire tried not to notice the color of his eyes.
This moment was certainly not the time to admire pale blue eyes, even if they were the most remarkable blue she’d ever encountered.
“Thank God you’re not injured!” the man exclaimed.
His voice sent an unexpected quiver through her.
It was the chill of the rain, she assured herself.
The fall must have addled her brain. God help her, she’d never entertained such disturbing thoughts in all her life.
She wished he would look away, so intense was his scrutiny.
Shaken as much by the man’s attention as by the fall, she inspected her scuffed hands. Then, remembering the footpad who’d been shadowing her, she hurriedly scanned the gathering throng.
She didn’t at once spy the footpad, but neither did she care to wait around for him reappear. She began to gather up her grandmother’s silver, agitated by her sudden lack of good sense.
The driver of the carriage rambled on, absolving himself of any fault for her injuries. “She ran in front of the carriage,” he explained to his master. “We did not hit her, denka—she fell!”
Claire cast the driver a reproachful glance.
How dare he settle the blame solely upon her! She hadn’t been watching where she was going, that much was certainly true, but he might have driven more thoughtfully, considering that this was London and the streets were riddled with women and children—even if some of those children were nearly as dangerous as the adults.
She shook a spoon at him. “You, sir, were traveling much too fast for these conditions!” she accused him. She reached out to seize the bottom half of her box and turned it over, slamming it down upon the street as she cast the driver a baleful glare.
His eyes slanted sadly.
Claire ignored the prick of guilt she felt.
Her box was a wreck, her silver scattered to the four corners, and he had the audacity to look crestfallen by her censure. She wasn’t about to ease his conscience so quickly.
“Any child might have run in front of your carriage, and how might you have felt then?” she added.
“Hardly any worse than he already does,” his employer said, coming to the driver’s defense.
Claire hurriedly gathered up the remaining silverware, grateful for the distraction of her anger to refocus her thoughts. She tossed the pieces into the broken box, annoyed that both men were still staring, neither of them helping.
Neither was anyone else, for that matter. The crowd was thickening around them, heads cocked like parakeets as they gawked down at her while she gathered her belongings from the street.
“How rude!” she exclaimed.
How morbid, to stop and simply stare. She wanted to tell them all to move on and to mind their own sordid affairs, but she knew it would be a waste of her breath.
She directed her anger at the driver, because his gaze was not nearly so unsettling as his employer’s. “At any rate, it seems to me, sirrah, that if you felt the least bit badly about running me down, you might be a little more inclined to help me pick up my belongings!”
Both men seemed to realize she was the only one cleaning up the gleaming mess they’d made of the street.
By now, carriages were backed up clear to the corner theater.
“Forgive me…allow me to help,” the employer offered.
His driver at once fell to his knees, gathering up her silverware, most certainly scratching the finish as he scooped them into a pile before him. She wanted to tell him to be careful, but in truth, she wanted him to hurry. What did scratches on silver matter when lives were at stake?
The crowd that had gathered began to disperse, apparently bored with the lack of blood and gore. Claire searched the remaining faces for the man who’d been pursuing her.
“Hurry!” she demanded, though not unkindly. “I must be going! It’s much too late!”
“A lady shouldn’t be walking the streets at this hour anyway,” the employer had the audacity to say.
Surely, he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, but Claire took offense anyway. She glared at him. “I beg your pardon! I am hardly walking the streets, sirrah.”
He blinked, probably realizing what he’d implied. “I meant to say that it isn’t safe for a woman to be out and about at this hour,” he explained.
As if she hadn’t already realized that. “I was on my way home until you waylaid me.”
Claire ignored the rain smacking her in the face. She didn’t bother to wipe away the droplets. Her hair was doubtless a sad wreck—if not from the fall, then from the rain.
She wished they would both just go to bloody Jericho!
The blond man couldn’t begin to realize her present chaos of mind.
The sun was quickly waning and she did, indeed, have a long way to go if she couldn’t locate a hansom.
Lord, what if she couldn’t? She almost groaned aloud at the thought. What if the streets grew dark before she could make her way to safety? Panic took a firm foothold in her stomach.
Calm down, she commanded herself.
The footpad had surely fled by now. Anyway, he hadn’t been following her, she tried to convince herself.
“If you’ll allow us the pleasure of your company,” the employer said, “we would love to offer you a ride home.”
Claire tossed a pitifully bent fork into the mangled box. A ride home with perfect strangers was the very last thing she required at the moment. For all she knew, that’s how her brother had disappeared. “I can find my own way, thank you.”
And then she spied the man who’d followed her from the pawnbroker’s. He stood inside a little shop across the street, staring out the window, waiting.
Claire’s heart flipped.
Lord! He was following her.
“Well, then…please accept our humble apologies, madam. I suppose we’ll be on our way.”
Claire snatched up the last of her silver and lifted the box, thrusting it at the employer. “Be a gentleman,” she commanded him. “Carry my box to the carriage.” Then, without a word, fearing they would change their minds, she stood and hurried to their vehicle.
Chapter Three
I an watched her march to the rig and let herself in.
Evidently, she considered him the lesser evil.
The thought brought a wry smile to his lips. There were many folks who would disagree.
He glanced over his shoulder, trying to determine what it was she’d spied that had changed her mind so suddenly.
No one stood out.
Ryo, too, seemed a little befuddled. He scratched his head and they shared a look of confusion before Ian motioned for Ryo to return to the driver’s seat.
The instant Ian mounted the rig, his saucy little passenger snatched the silverware box from his hands and settled it atop her lap.
“Grosvenor Square, thank you very much,” she snapped, and then sat primly before him, doing her damnedest to ignore him, her lovely face a mask—all but the stark green eyes that betrayed her fear.
Ian willed her to look at him.
She refused, denying him even the slightest glimpse into those jade-colored eyes.
Her skin was flawless, save for the fresh scrape on her chin, and he felt aggrieved that he’d had a hand in marring her otherwise perfect complexion.
He eyed the silverware box balanced precariously on her knees, silver protruding despite her efforts to conceal it, and wondered to whom it belonged.
Stolen goods?
It wasn’t unheard-of, a female canter, but she didn’t strike him as one. And he should know a thief when he saw one.
So who was the little she-dragon trying so hard to ignore him?
One needn’t be a London native to know the address she had given him was prime. But why would a woman of her apparent stature walk about London completely unattended with a box full of silverware in tow?
Were the silver a new purchase, the box would have been delivered by the dealer. No upstanding merchant would allow a gentlewoman to risk herself so stupidly.
He studied her while she continued to snub him. Her dark gray gown was neatly pressed, though the cut and material would hardly turn the heads of most women of means. It was as modest as the dresses his mother’s nurse often wore, and God knows Chloe couldn’t afford extravagant purchases on the meager salary Glen Abbey Manor afforded her.
So, then, was his reluctant passenger merely someone’s abigail?
Whatever the case, the lovely little poser was the most intriguing female he’d ever laid eyes upon.
Though he knew better, Ian couldn’t keep himself from baiting her. “Most reputable merchants deliver their wares,” he suggested, and waited for her to respond.
She caught his meaning at once, smart little bird.
Her gaze snapped up, eyes flashing with a brilliance an emerald would envy. Her scraped chin lifted. “Are you implying, sirrah, that I would do business disreputably?”
Like a cornered fox, she was quick to defend herself.
Ian assessed her, taking advantage of the directness of her stare. Her green eyes were striking, with glittering gold flecks that caught the outside light.
Mesmerizing.
Under his scrutiny, her cheeks stained a deeper rose, but she didn’t kowtow to him; nor did she seem moved to explain her possessions, even when he narrowed his eyes. Instead, she straightened her spine, bringing his attention to the lovely shape of her breasts. They strained against the bodice of her gown and he couldn’t help but note the pebbling of her nipples.
An unexpected surge of desire bolted through him, the sensation so keen it made him shudder.
She was waiting for him to respond, he realized, and it took him another befuddled instant to remember what it was they were speaking of.
Acutely aware of his unwanted arousal, Ian forced his attention to her face. It was the first time in his life that he’d ever felt discomfited by his reaction to a woman. And certainly, it was the first time since he had been just a lad that he had blushed over it.
“I…wasn’t…suggesting anything,” he lied, and shifted in his seat to hide his indecent evidence. Devil hang him if it didn’t suddenly feel as though he’d erected the Tower of London in his trousers.
She lifted a lovely brow, seeming oblivious to his predicament. “Oh, but I believe you were!” she countered. “And I assure you that it was quite rude.”
Like a good lady, her eyes never wandered south of his face.
But, heaven save him, that mouth was thoroughly kissable, managing to further distract him despite his resolve.
Damnation. Ian willed her focus to remain steady upon his face. In fact, he dared not blink, lest he lose her attention.
He smiled uncomfortably. “I meant to say only that it isn’t safe for a lovely lady to be carrying such a valuable package. It’s quite remiss of your…merchant…to send you home without proper escort.”
She ignored his veiled compliment. “What you meant to say is hardly what you implied. It would appear, my lord, that you require an education in the art of social discourse. Furthermore,” she added, “why I happen to be carrying any package—valuable or not—is hardly any of your concern!”
But her temper did him the greatest of favors. His erection diminished at once.
Bloody shrew.
It was clear from the fire in her eyes that she wasn’t quite through with him.
“First, you run me down,” she pointed out with cool disdain, “then you impugn my character. What next?”
Her lucid green eyes flashed as she tapped her box. “Will you now rob me?” she asked, clearly quite certain of his answer.
Ian choked back startled laughter.
She hadn’t a clue how close she was to the truth of his nature. That box would likely feed and clothe a family of four for a lifetime.
Both her brows lifted as she prompted, “Well? Shall I hand over my silverware now and save us both the trouble?”
If only his victims were all so accommodating.
So many quips might have tumbled from his lips just then, if this had been any other time and she had been any other woman. But he was too weary to voice them.
She made no move to hand him the box, he noticed with some amusement. Instead, she drew it closer, looking for the entire world as though she would shred him to tatters if he so much as made an advance toward her.
He half expected her to demand that he halt the carriage at once, no matter what his response.
Despite his reputation with the ladies, it had been some time since a woman had turned his head, much less warmed his bed. But, bloody hell, no woman had ever made him blush then burn, only to dash him so coldly.
He studied her stiff posture and wondered if she were a virgin. It was hardly a proper notion to entertain, but then, he’d long ago divested himself of pretensions. One could not engage in highway robbery, after all—no matter how noble the motive—and walk away a perfect gentleman.
Still, he could be quite charming, he’d been told. So he affected his most disarming tone, hoping for a truce, at least.
He extended his hand, realizing it was presumptuous but needing to know if her skin was as electric as the air surrounding her. “Madam, it seems I am perpetually apologizing.”
She eyed his hand as though it were a viper.
Ian persisted. “Let us begin anew, Miss…”
She said nothing, merely glowered at him, and continued hugging her box.
“How is it that your friends address you?” he was bold enough to ask.
Her hand remained planted upon her battered box and she tipped him a smug glance. “If you were a friend, then you would know, wouldn’t you, sirrah?” She followed that announcement with an haute little nod.
Whatever response Ian had expected from her, it certainly wasn’t that one.
He lifted his brows, withdrawing his proffered hand. Clearly, she hadn’t the least interest in furthering their acquaintance.
Damn it all to hell.
Apparently, only Ian perceived any attraction between them. She was as frosty as a Scotsman’s arse in winter.
He tried to remember—and couldn’t—the last time a woman had so thoroughly rebuffed him.
Considering her refusal to share her name, he didn’t bother to introduce himself; it was a moot point, anyway. He wasn’t who he was pretending to be. And he wouldn’t be in London long enough to make new friends, even though the vixen sitting before him was the most annoying, beautiful fishwife he’d ever encountered. He didn’t need complications. He was here to find answers, not to fill his bed.
He smiled curtly, resigned to their mutual discord. She returned an equally false smile—one that indicated she was out of patience with him—then turned to stare out the carriage window.
They continued in silence until they neared Grosvenor Square.
Ian recognized the stately mansions lining the street. His passenger leaned forward, as though prepared to leap out the door the instant the carriage stopped. He couldn’t blame her. The tension between them now was thicker than a lowland fog.
Still, he had to accept some measure of responsibility for his actions. He had nearly run her down and he had, in fact, questioned her honor.
Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew a handkerchief, offering it to her. No matter that he thought her a shrew, he couldn’t let her face her employer with a bloodied, dirtied face.
Like a white flag of surrender, the hanky caught her attention.
She lifted those deep green eyes, narrowing them at the offering. “Do I appear to be weeping?” she asked, making no move to take it.
Ian arched a brow at her.
She lifted her chin higher. “Simply because I am a woman does not mean that I must sob at the first sign of distress. I am quite all right, thank you very much.”
Although he tried to keep his amusement at bay, the curve returned to Ian’s lips. “Your chin is bleeding,” he said, and tried not to feel smug at the immediate change in her expression.
Her eyes widened. “Oh!” She snatched the handkerchief from his hand and said, sounding just a little chagrined, “Thank you. I didn’t realize.”
The look she gave him was, for the briefest second, entirely too vulnerable. For the first time in his life, Ian hadn’t an inkling how to respond.
The carriage came to a halt, and just as quickly as the look had appeared, it vanished. She snatched up her box and shoved open the door before Ryo or Ian could assist her.
“Thank you!” she said, stepping down to the street. “No need to see me to the door.” She slammed the carriage door as he rose to follow her.
Had he moved forward a single inch more, it would have earned him a broken nose. As it was, she left him staring eye-to-eye with blue velvet.
As the carriage lurched forward, the interior seemed emptier than it had before.
Outside, thunder flared and rain began to pelt the rooftop.
Or maybe it had been storming all along, because it occurred to him in that instant that, in her presence, he hadn’t been aware of anything but her.
Chapter Four
C lutching the battered box of silver, Claire waited until the carriage was gone and then hurried to her front door, closing it quickly against the rain and the prying eyes of neighbors.
From outside, the Grosvenor Square residence might appear as venerable as ever, but inside it was little more than an empty shell. Room by room, Highbury Hall had been stripped of its dignity—pictures removed from the walls, vases and furnishings diminished.
Only the drawing room remained intact, a facade for the benefit of guests Claire no longer received. She would be too ashamed for anyone to witness the decline of their home since their father’s death. Their good name was sure to follow.
No one greeted her at the door as she entered the once-grand foyer. Many of the servants had abandoned them. Jasper, bless his ancient soul, had remained, despite the fact that she couldn’t pay him. The old steward and his wife had been with the family as long as Claire could recall, but even Jasper and Mrs. Tandy couldn’t revive the spirit of their dying abode.
Claire made her way to the dining room and set the box of silverware on the table, patting it once, lovingly, before turning and leaving it to collect dust.
In the drawing room, she slumped into her father’s favorite chair, easing into the familiar mold his body had etched into its worn fabric.
She took comfort in the sweet scent of his pipe that lingered, even after so many months. It was hardly ladylike to forget her posture, but she didn’t care—not today.
“Did everything go as planned, madam?”
Claire peered up to find Jasper standing in the doorway. She shook her head.
“I am sorry, madam.”
“Have we any news?” Claire asked, though she dreaded the answer.
“No, madam. It has been quiet today.”
It was always quiet.
No more male laughter rang through the halls.
No more giggling maids.
Claire sighed.
Well, no news was good news, she supposed. At least, it wasn’t bad news.
Jasper came into the room, retrieved a folded blanket from the settee and brought it to her, settling it over her lap. “You’ll catch a cold,” he admonished her.
Claire took comfort in his solicitude but didn’t move or acknowledge his complaint. She had truly never felt so bone weary.