“I will publicly announce that I have chosen my bride.

“You need only make up some reason as to why you cannot wed with me—perhaps you don’t love me, after all?”

“Of course I don’t love you!” Claire protested. What a ludicrous notion! How could she love a man she didn’t even know? “I’ve only met you twice!” she pointed out reasonably.

“Three times,” Ian corrected her. “And that’s enough to establish at least an attraction, don’t you think so?”

Claire gasped softly. “I am not the least bit attracted to you, I assure you!”

“Are you not?” he asked.

Claire’s heart did a telltale flip against her breast. She was horribly afraid he might feel it, as well. “Not at all!” she lied.

He grinned wickedly, as though somehow he knew differently. “Pity,” he said. “Because I’m quite attracted to you…!”

Praise for Tanya Anne Crosby

“With remarkable insight and soul-stirring emotions,

Ms. Crosby…gives readers an enthralling

glimpse into the human heart.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on

The MacKinnon’s Bride

“With her talent for spinning engrossing yarns and

painting vivid characters and setting, Ms. Crosby will

again capture your heart.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on Perfect in My Sight

The Impostor Prince
Tanya Anne Crosby

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Prologue

Northern Scotland, 1831

R eady to strike when the leader gave the word, seven men watched from their perches within the trees as the unfamiliar vehicle approached—for the third time.

They needed this loot, but something about the closed carriage left the leader ill at ease. Though unmarked, it was far too luxurious to leave itself so vulnerable.

Either the occupant was foolish or lost…or the carriage was bait to catch a thief.

Ian MacEwen cupped his hand over his mouth to call out a signal, but indecision froze his lips. Twice before he’d let it pass, but the carriage’s presence was like a frosted pitcher of ale set before a thirsting man. It didn’t matter that it might be laced with poison; its sparkling contents were tempting beyond reason.

“His direction’s as bad as me Minny’s haggis,” remarked one of his men.

“A week ago, I’d ’a given the use of my cock for that haggis,” commented another, almost too quietly to be heard.

But everyone heard.

No one answered.

What did one say to a man who’d lost his youngest daughter to a battle against hunger? Almost three years old, Ana had been her name—sweet and shy, with little red curls and a button nose. Everyone understood why Rusty Broun was here tonight. He had three more little birds waiting at home with their mouths open wide and their bellies as empty as Glen Abbey’s coffers.

“Trust me,” Ian said to his men.

And he knew they would.

They followed him blindly, consumed with hope. Good men, all of them. They’d leave this place if they could, but where would they go? To London to feed off sewer scraps? Who would take them in with their wives and their bairns?

No, he had to do something. But what?

Silence was his answer, a ponderous, weighted silence that trampled heavily over bracken and snapped twigs below.

Anticipation was as thick as the lowering fog.

As yet, they hadn’t killed for their loot, but tonight…they might be forced to wield their weapons if the approaching vehicle was a trap.

Someone could die.

How many more children would die without their aid? The image of little Ana’s suffering face spurred his decision once and for all. He called out the signal for his men to strike.

Let consequences fall where they may.

“Kiak-kiak-keiek-keiek!”

Within the instant, the carriage was beneath them.

Ian was the first to descend.

Drawing the black hooded mask down over his face, he landed cleanly upon the rooftop. Before the driver could shout, he had his blade at the Asian’s throat. Rusty Broun came down behind him, motioning for Ian to move below into the carriage. His blade replaced Ian’s at the driver’s throat. The rest of his men dropped to the ground, surrounding the vehicle, barring its path through the woods. Forced to slow down, the carriage careened sharply. Ian nearly lost his grip, but swung back and managed to open the door.

Stunned by what he saw inside, he dropped to the ground, staring stupidly at the occupant.

All thought of highway robbery vanished.

It was like staring into a looking glass.

His hesitation cost him a jab in the jaw.

Ignoring the bone-splitting pain, he sprang into action and flung himself into the carriage, hurling the stranger backward and knocking the blade from his hand. The knife flew upward, smacked the rooftop and ricocheted downward, skimming the man’s head, drawing blood.

The carriage bolted into movement.

Ian struggled, pinning his opponent to the floorboard, slamming his head down. He tried to tell the man to stop so that he could remove his mask and reveal himself, but the man fought like a lion.

Frustrated, Ian slammed his head down into the man’s face. “Stop!” he commanded.

Finally, the stranger ceased struggling long enough to allow Ian to reach up and snatch the hood from his face.

For an interminable moment, he stared down into uncannily familiar eyes.

Bloody hell—the man could have been his twin.

It just wasn’t possible. “Who are you?” Ian demanded, confused.

“Who are you?” the man countered. Without warning, he bucked, renewing his struggles. Ian had little choice but to head-butt the fool again, but the devil hang him if he’d meant to butt so hard.

The man’s eyes rolled back into his head and he ceased struggling at once, going limp. Ian checked for a pulse and exhaled in relief when he found it strong. There wasn’t much time before the man regained consciousness.

Blast it all, what was he supposed to do now?

Certain it was no coincidence that they shared the same face, he snatched off his hood and jerked the man up to quickly remove his coat, waistcoat and shirt. He switched shirts with the man while the carriage thundered over uneven terrain, drew his own hood over the man’s head, then shrugged into the man’s coat, leaving the waistcoat for later. He opened the door and yelled for the driver to stop.

The man complied at once, and Ian dragged the former occupant of the carriage out onto the grass and laid him down.

“You are not dead yet, denka-sama,” an unfamiliar voice remarked, unmistakable relief in his tone.

Ian peered up at the driver. Somehow, the little bugger had managed to escape Rusty’s blade.

Ian didn’t respond immediately.

The shouts of his men were coming nearer now.

They would find the man, he was certain, and whether the stranger revealed himself, or not, Rusty would know what to do with him.

“Let us return home, denka-sama?” the foreigner asked. “We should never have come here.”

Home.

That’s where the answers to Ian’s questions lay waiting to be discovered. Somehow he knew it. Still, he stared down at the hooded stranger, undecided.

“He is alive?” the driver asked.

“Alive as you and me.”

“Then let us go quickly!” the driver persisted. “No good can come of this now!”

“Over there!” he heard Rusty Broun shout in the distance.

His men gave a frenzied battle cry, and he knew they’d been discovered.

“Go!” Ian ordered the man, bounding into the carriage.

At once, the driver whipped the horses into motion.

He didn’t even give a backward glance as they sped away. There would be no turning back.

Instinctively, Ian knew the answers to Glen Abbey’s troubles lay at the end of their destination.

Chapter One

One week later

T he door to the pawnbroker’s stood slightly ajar, beckoning the wary. A swinging wooden sign read: Money Advanced On Jewels, Wearing Apparel And Every Description Of Property.

The large display window held but a meager sampling of the wares offered within. Today’s teasers included a distinguished-looking portrait of someone’s grandfather with a pipe dangling from his lips, a few prayer books, a mismatched set of spoons displayed fan-style and a multitude of brooches.

Claire Wentworth stood outside the little shop, clutching the heavy wooden box that contained her grandmother’s fine silverware. Hesitating before going inside, she stared into the display window, examining an old brooch. The brooch, too, had belonged to her grandmother, along with one of the prayer books stacked atop a pyramid-style display. Claire hadn’t been able to redeem them, and now the items sat awaiting a new owner.

It couldn’t be helped.

Her brother was all she had left in this world. No amount of money or possessions could compensate for his death. The silverware could be replaced, she decided. Whatever memories they inspired were hers to keep, despite their loss.

But there was only one Ben.

Resolved, she took a deep breath and pushed open the whitewashed door, stepping into the now all-too-familiar shop. As the sign promised, inside were all manner of wares: furnishings, tapestries, snuffboxes, jewelry, blankets, an assortment of dusty hats, clothing and just about anything else one might imagine, including a heavy old sword that must have been wielded by somebody’s noble ancestor in some ancient battle. Its hilt was worn to the wood and the blade bore the scars of many blows—someone’s history sold for the price of a week’s rent. The thought of it sickened Claire, but such was life and there was no use bemoaning her circumstances.

No prayer or rueful wish could change the facts: Their father’s death had left them in debt. Ben had intended to honor those debts, but he’d chosen to do so by gambling away the remainder of the estate and he’d ended up in far worse trouble than debtor’s prison.

Now, it was up to Claire to rectify the situation.

Making her way toward the privacy closets, she passed through the common shop, choosing the compartment second to the end. (The last one was, apparently, occupied because the door was closed.) Once inside, she bolted the door, feeling safer even though she knew that was an illusion. With a sigh, she heaved the silverware box onto the counter to await the clerk.

At least four gas lamps lit the dust-filled shop, but none of their dusky light reached the privacy closets, which were open only to the counter. The goods offered here were cast in shadow, along with the faces of their owners. Either the occupants were ashamed of their circumstances or they were thieves peddling ill-gotten wares.

The clerk was occupied with someone in the last stall. That door had been closed, or Claire would have chosen it instead. The occupant of the darkest little closet was weeping softly. Fortunately, the clerk on duty seemed the most compassionate of the three—Claire recognized his voice—and he spoke to the girl gently.

“What name shall I write?”

The girl paused. Claire imagined she swallowed before answering. The first time Claire had ventured in here, she’d been unable to find her voice.

“Sarah…Sarah Jones.”

Claire didn’t recognize the name. But then, she hadn’t used her true name, either.

Once released into the shop’s inventory, Claire’s possessions would be lost forever. Even if she could manage to raise the funds, she wouldn’t raise them in time to redeem her belongings, of that much she was quite certain.

“Your own property?” the clerk interrogated.

It was an obligatory question, but Claire doubted it was a true concern for the shop owner. She’d noted the shady sorts who frequented the shop, and not once had a clerk requested proof of ownership from Claire. For all the clerk knew, Claire might have stolen the items from an employer.

The girl’s reply was soft. “Yes, of course.”

“Three shillings,” the clerk offered.

Claire wondered what the girl was selling.

The girl gasped, clearly affronted. “But, sir! This is fine—”

“Three and six,” the clerk snapped, and Claire recognized the finality in his tone.

“Please…take a look at the stitching,” the girl argued. “The gown was purchased from one of London’s finest—”

“My patrons won’t pay more,” the clerk interrupted, unimpressed. “Three and six—take it or leave it.”

Silence.

He wouldn’t offer more. Claire had sold the man enough by now to recognize when negotiations were over. He would stand silently, his face an emotionless mask, waiting for the decision to be made.

“Very well,” the girl relented, sounding defeated. “Three and six.”

As though he had expected her decision, Claire heard the clerk count out the coins at once. The compartment door opened and closed and the girl’s footfalls hurried away. Claire waited patiently, knowing her position in this gloomy place. Here, the shopkeeper ruled and the genteel were no more respected than the downtrodden.

Fortunately, she didn’t have long to wait. The clerk appeared at once, his graying hair hanging over thick, dirty glasses. He brushed his greasy bangs aside and gave her a nod, recognizing her. And well he should; he owned nearly half her possessions by now. With a heavy heart, Claire lifted the latch of the box, then the lid, revealing the precious contents.

“Splendid!” he exclaimed, dispensing with formalities. He gave her an assessing glance. “And you’re quite certain you wish to part with it?”

Claire shrugged.

She wasn’t certain about anything except that she was in a terrible pinch.

He seemed to think about it a moment, and then offered, “Eight guineas.”

Claire’s gaze snapped upward. “Eight guineas!” she repeated, aghast.

Whatever pleasure the clerk had expressed at seeing her offering now vanished behind his mask.

Claire arched a brow, knowing better than to bait him, but she couldn’t help herself. She had at least a shred of pride left. “Surely you mean eight guineas just for the box, sirrah!” The box alone was worth far more, as the lid was inlaid with ivory.

The man smiled, amused, though he shouldn’t have been. Claire was hardly in the frame of mind to be entertaining.

“Nah. I’m overstocked on silverware as it is—be rid of the lot. Eight guineas it is.”

Claire tried to reason with him. “But these are pure silver!” she explained, laying a hand protectively over her grandmother’s heirlooms.

His mask didn’t crack.

Claire used the clerk’s own bargaining tactic against him. She remained silent, waiting for him to speak, realizing that the first to open his mouth would be the one to lose.

It didn’t work quite as well as she’d hoped.

“Bah!” the clerk exclaimed. “Silver isn’t worth as much as it once was. Nine guineas is my final offer.”

Claire narrowed her eyes at him. “Nine guineas wouldn’t buy me a hat and a blessed pair of shoes!” she informed him tautly, slamming down the lid. A lady didn’t use vulgarities, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself. “No thank you, sir!” she said with as much aplomb as she could muster and, with some effort, lifted the box from the counter, fully prepared to lug it the entire distance home. For that insulting price, she’d take the silver to her grave! Nine guineas wouldn’t put a dent in the remaining one hundred-fifty thousand pounds she owed for Ben’s ransom.

“Be seein’ you,” the clerk said a little smugly.

Claire was so furious she didn’t even bid him farewell. Seething, she marched through the common shop and right out the door, tears of frustration pricking at her lids.

What was she supposed to do now?

She was down to her last possessions and still she hadn’t raised nearly enough money to cover Ben’s debts. To some, two hundred thousand pounds might not seem like much, but she had scarce more than fifty thousand now after selling nearly everything she owned. The remaining one hundred and fifty thousand pounds seemed quite impossible.

Lord, but it was a dreary day—as dreary as her mood.

Cursing the mist, Claire started home, preoccupied with her thoughts. As she reached the corner of Drury Lane, sensing a presence at her back, she turned to find a stranger about twenty paces behind her, his focus settled unmistakably upon her box. Looking sinister in his dark overcoat and wide-rimmed hat, he strode with terrifying purpose toward her. Alarmed, Claire quickened her pace.

Could he be one of Ben’s captors, following her to make certain she complied with their demands?

More likely, it was just some petty thief.

She tried to remember whether she had spied the man in the pawnbroker’s shop, but there had been no else one inside she could recall except the weeping girl and the clerk.

Had the man followed her to the shop and waited outside while she took her business inside?

No, Claire didn’t think so. She hadn’t noticed him before now, and as suspicious as she was becoming, she doubted she would have missed him.

Her heart skipped a beat.

He could have already been inside the pawnbroker’s shop—perhaps in one of the privacy closets. He would have been able to overhear everything she had been saying. Nine guineas might not be motivation enough for her to sell her grandmother’s fine silver, but she was quite certain a thief wouldn’t care about its real or sentimental value. If he could get the nine guineas from the pawnbroker, that would certainly be motivation enough.

Or had the pawnbroker set the man upon her? She trusted no one these days. It behooved her to remain wary.

The mist turned to rain. She could almost hear the man’s footfalls behind her, but she was afraid to turn around. Her breath caught painfully in her lungs as she hurried through the crowd.

Please God—don’t let him be after me! she prayed silently, and thought perhaps the sound of his footfalls ebbed. It was difficult to tell with the rain pattering down on her head. Her hair must be a horrid mess by now—her curls were stuck to her face.

Calm down, Claire, she commanded herself. Think clearly.

Maybe he wasn’t following her after all? Maybe it was just her imagination? She was beginning to see conspirators on every corner.

She cursed Ben’s infernal gambling habits and said a quick prayer that he was well—wherever he might be. She hadn’t actually spoken to him since the morning he’d gone missing. She had only his captor’s word that he was alive and well.

She had considered hiring a private investigator, but how would she pay the man? And even if they were able to find Ben and free him, there would be no guarantee the criminals wouldn’t come after him again. He would still owe them the money, after all.

Rain pelted her and she spit a few strands of hair away from her lips. Lord, she should have kept at least one good hat. Weaving through the mob, she ducked beneath umbrellas, clutching the box of silver to her breast as she looked about for a hansom. To her dismay, there were none to be found.

At the moment, she heartily regretted not taking the one remaining phaeton, despite the fact that it was nearly in shambles and that she’d never handled one. It was a long way to Grosvenor Square and certainly too far to have to dodge footpads in the pouring rain. For all the fine talk about the new Metropolitan Police force, where was a bobby when you needed one?

Chapter Two

T he journey to London should have taken longer, but they’d flown through town after town, stopping only when exhaustion demanded it.

After staring at the blue-velvet interior of the coach for a week, Ian was anxious for a bed, a bath and a fresh change of clothing—in just that order.

They were in London, at last, and despite his weariness, a sense of anticipation enveloped him. The answers he sought were near at hand.

He peered out the window at the passing throng of people and a sea of black umbrellas. If the sun had ever truly made an appearance in this dingy town, it was fleeing now, retreating swiftly behind soot-covered buildings as the black, unmarked carriage emerged into the city.

He’d been to London only once, as a youth of seventeen, but it hadn’t changed much in the eleven years since. The streets were still littered with people and the Thames was as rank as ever. Even at a distance, he could smell its unmistakable stink. It was a mystery to Ian what drew people to this squalid city. Already, he craved the fresh Scottish air and the rolling hillside of Glen Abbey. He wasn’t made for city life and didn’t plan to be here long—no longer than it would take to settle his bloody affairs.

Sinking back into the seat, he drew out the letter he’d discovered in his newly acquired coat pocket and read it again, carefully, digesting the information.

My dearest Fiona,

Obviously, it was a letter to his mother. But the writer must have known her intimately to address the letter so informally.

Please accept my sympathies on the loss of your father.

Evidently, it was written sometime after his grandfather’s death.

He was an honorable man, the letter professed. Those who admired him—myself included—will feel his absence deeply.

As he stared at the yellowing parchment, Ian felt a momentary pang of loss that he’d never known his grandsire. There was hardly a soul who had met him who didn’t have a kind word to speak of him.

How well had the author of the letter known him?

He paused to consider the man to whom the carriage and coat belonged. They shared a kinship, Ian was certain. It could hardly be a coincidence they looked so remarkably alike.

He felt a prick of guilt for his treatment of the man, but just a prick. He shrugged it away, resolved that he was doing the right thing. Merrick would have his life returned to him soon enough. Until then, Ian intended to make use of every means available to reveal the truth.

Raking a hand through his hair, he continued reading the letter. The remainder was somewhat more cryptic, referring to events in the vaguest manner, leaving one to merely guess at the meaning.

By now, you will have realized my intentions.

Precisely, what intentions were those?

For your own good and for that of my son, I cannot, at present, justify releasing it to you, lest you fall prey in your aggrieved state to some cold-hearted opportunist.

This particular passage disturbed Ian more than any other. His mother had told him that his father was murdered just before his birth. Who, then, was this son the man referred to?

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.

“I don’t know what we’ll do,” she worried aloud.

Jasper didn’t reply. He’d never been one to dwell on negativity and there was certainly little positive to say. He retrieved The Times from the desk across the room and returned, offering it to her. Claire took it and he patted her shoulder.

“I shall have Mrs. Tandy fetch you some tea,” he offered.

It still amused Claire that he spoke of his wife so formally.

She wanted to tell him not to bother. Both Jasper and his sweet wife worked hard enough as it was and it was late. And yet, she would, indeed, love a spot of tea. “Thank you,” she relented.

He left her to peruse the paper.

Though it was an empty-headed thing to do, Claire ignored the front-page headlines, unable to bear the thought of adding more discord to her life. She turned to the society page and rolled her eyes at the frivolous headlines plastered there.

Lord Burton had eloped with Emma Percy, a mere merchant’s daughter. Everyone was up in arms about it. Claire could think of far worse things, such as losing a father, then a brother.

Her eyes stung as she recalled the tears in her father’s eyes during his final moments. He hadn’t wished to die so soon, but he’d known it was his time and he’d held her hand tightly as he’d said his goodbyes. Even some four months later, some nights as she drifted to sleep, the memory of his final breaths haunted her. There had been nothing peaceful about his parting. Riddled with pain, his every breath had been labored and his last had frozen in an openmouthed gasp.

She pushed the images away, searching the paper for something frivolous.

She found her distraction in another headline.

HRH, the Crown Prince of Meridian had gone missing after his much-celebrated arrival in London. Speculation had it that his royal father expected him to find a suitable bride and he, apparently, had no wish to do so. And, much in the fashion of any spoiled, cornered monarch, he’d run away from London.

What a pity.

She rolled her eyes. Why should anyone care about some ungrateful prince from some inconsequential province?

Claire had never met him, but she recalled the hullabaloo after his first visit to London some three years past. Her good friend Alexandra, who’d been invited to a royal soiree in the prince’s honor, had told Claire the prince had seemed arrogant and bored with everyone but himself. Alexandra had said he was rude, rebuffing all attempts at polite conversation. In fact, Alexandra had had a terrible crush on him until she’d suffered the misfortune of sharing a dance with the man. Forced upon her by Lexie’s mother, Lady Huntington, he’d treated Alexandra to a painful ten minutes of unrelenting silence and then had deposited her without a word at her mother’s side. Embarrassed, Alexandra had wept for two days after.

Disgusted, Claire tossed the paper aside, ignoring the voice in her head that cautioned her to retrieve it before the ink could mar the fine ivory cloth of the settee.

God’s truth, she couldn’t care less who was doing what to whom. Didn’t anyone have anything better to worry about?

God bless Emma Percy; may she be blissfully happy every last day of her life! And Mr. Runaway Prince would come home as soon as his royal papa snipped his purse strings.

In the meantime, how was Claire supposed to raise the remaining banknotes to ensure her brother’s safe return?

Jasper returned suddenly…without the tea.

In his right hand, he held a small parcel. He stood in the doorway, his color ashen, a look of horror on his face.

Mrs. Tandy came to look over his shoulder.

Claire sat upright, her skin prickling with fear. “What is it, Jasper?”

For an instant, the steward seemed unable to speak. He lifted up a trembling hand, offering Claire the package. But he seemed hesitant to come forward.

“Forgive me, madam. I—I would have spared you…b-but I fear it’s important.”

Claire bounded to her feet, her heart tripping as she approached the steward. Without a word, she took the jewel box from his hand and lifted the lid.

She swooned at the sight of its contents.

Even before the carriage had come to a halt, it seemed half of London swarmed them.

In all Ian’s life, he had never had so many lackeys nipping at his heels.

Ryo did not alight from the vehicle. The older man sat watching while servants greeted Ian, then ushered him inside, spit-shining his boots and brushing off his coattails while they babbled on about missed appointments with faceless names.

One servant, apparently about to swipe Ian’s boot with his sleeve, paused and peered up at him curiously. They were Ian’s best pair of boots, but they were worn and dusty from too many days on too many roads. No amount of spit-shining would bring back their original luster. He hadn’t had the luxury of time to trade shoes with Merrick. He’d left Merrick wearing his own pants and boots and had absconded with his jacket and just about everything else.

Ian gave Ryo a single, backward glance as he was dragged away, wondering how much the driver knew. Something about the look in the Asian’s eyes gave him pause.

Inside, the house was like nothing Ian had ever encountered—a far cry from Glen Abbey’s ancient, neglected appearance. From the street, the Berkeley Square residence had appeared much the same as any other London manor. However, one step within revealed a decor that bordered on the ostentatious. Mediterranean in flavor, it gave the impression of embarrassing wealth.

Whereas Glen Abbey’s windows wore faded, brittle draperies, here the gold-velvet coverings were rich and fresh. Not a speck of dust marred the portraits or furnishings, which were constructed mainly of gold-painted wood. The foyer itself was enormous, with a massive, domed ceiling bearing angelic images that brought to mind a painting Ian had once seen of the Vatican’s Cappella Sistina.

An enormous claw-foot table graced one side of the entry; upon it sat a golden chalice he imagined could be a replica of the Holy Grail. It was ornately carved with twisting grapevines embedded with jewels in place of grapes. If they were, in fact, real, each separate gem would feed a township for a year.

Alongside the chalice sat a mother-of-pearl lined dish that was overflowing with calling cards. Above the table hung a massive, gold-framed portrait with the image of a man who looked uncannily like Ian, though much older, with graying sideburns and crow’s feet about the eyes.

The sight of it gave Ian a momentary startle.

He paused before it, oblivious to the chattering of servants surrounding him.

It was like gazing at his own face eroded by time.

The man’s head was bare, but though his hairstyle was thoroughly modern, he wore a baroque-style, gilded blue coat that appeared to belong in some bygone era.

“Sir?”

Ian looked down at the older man who stood at his side and tried to clear the fog from his brain.

“Your Highness?” the man prodded, his voice tinged with concern. “Are you quite all right?”

Ian blinked.

Not quite.

But he didn’t confess it. The less he said, the less he must worry about concealing his accent.

He nodded, biting his tongue. There were so many questions he wanted to ask. All in due time.

Ian gazed back at the portrait, wondering who the man was. Sire? Grandsire? There could be no doubt they shared the same blood.

“I never get over the resemblance myself,” commented the servant at his side, obviously resigned to Ian’s moment of sentimentality. “Though I must say, His Majesty resembles him so much more.”

Ian nodded, clenching his jaw. It was becoming more and more apparent that his entire life had been a bloody sham. Your Highness? His Majesty? What the blazes? The title had been embossed upon Merrick’s carte de visite, but Ian hadn’t believed it. It seemed incredibly absurd to think Ian had spent his entire life scraping for copper while his flesh and blood dined on pheasant and fine wines.

The portrait hanging before him called his mother a liar. The blue eyes of its subject seemed to be smirking at him, taunting him with long-kept secrets, secrets he was determined to discover.

And God save everyone who’d had a hand in deceiving him—his mother included—because there was going to be hell to pay.

“Sir,” the man prodded again, “I don’t mean to hurry you, but His Majesty wishes an audience in one hour. Perhaps we should refresh ourselves?”

Ian cocked a brow and looked down at the servant, amused by his choice of words. “We should refresh ourselves?” he asked.

Did the man plan to crawl into Ian’s bath along with him?

The man fidgeted under Ian’s scrutiny. “Yes, sir.”

“Very well, then…we wouldn’t wish to keep His Majesty waiting,” Ian relented, taking pity on the man.

He started once more down the hall. “Lead the way,” he directed the servant, walking slowly so the man could overtake him.

But the man also slowed his gait to keep at Ian’s heels. Damn, what was he—a wretched dog?

By now, their multitude of followers had fallen away, dispersed to the four corners of the gargantuan house, leaving only two sets of footfalls to echo along the hall.

Ian stopped, gave the man an impatient wave and said again, more firmly, “Lead the way.” He hadn’t a clue where to go in this bloody museum.

The servant nodded and scurried ahead of him. All the way down the hall, the man continued to look back uncomfortably over his shoulder.

As they made their way through a maze of corridors and stairwells, all dotted with closed doors, Ian examined the portraits he passed along the way—all similar faces with similar expressions. None seemed the least contented with their lot in life.

Halting before an open door, the servant turned him to the wall, clasping his hands behind him in a military fashion. “Here we are, Your Highness! I shall have your bath drawn at once,” he promised, without looking again at Ian. “Welcome home, sir.”

Welcome home.

To a place he’d never set eyes upon.

What a damned hum.

“Thank you—” Ian hesitated, uncertain what name to call the servant.

“Harold,” the man supplied, still without looking at him.

“Sorry,” Ian said automatically. Where he was raised, men respected other men—including one’s servants—by learning their names.

“Not to worry, sir,” Harold replied, meeting Ian’s gaze briefly. “I hardly expected you to recall; it has been three years, after all, and you’ve hundreds in your employ.”

Hundreds.

Glen Abbey had merely a handful of employees.

Though he hadn’t a clue why, his thoughts returned to the girl from Grosvenor Square. Did her employers treat her well? Did her mistress know her name?

Ian wished she’d shared it. Now, she was destined to remain a nameless face in a memory bound never to fade. Regret would have lowered his mood, if it could have gone any lower.

“Right,” Ian said, and gave the man a rueful smile that went unnoticed.

He stepped into the room assigned to him and the door closed behind him, allowing him the first moments of privacy he’d had in a week.

Like the rest of the house, this room was big, but the style was indefinable—not Mediterranean, precisely, not Arabic, nor Oriental, but some odd mixture of every culture.

The iron-and-wooden bed was like something out of an Arabian tale, with fine, pale blue fabric draped over it from a wrought iron-wheel suspended from the ceiling. The muted midnight-blue satin spread stretched upon the bed was unmarred by even a single crease.

Oversized blue-and black-satin pillows gilded with Far Eastern symbols were littered across an uncarpeted, dark-wood floor, lending the room a sense of calculated chaos.

The draperies, too, were pale blue and sheer, flowing into the room like a billowing moonlit mist.

On the far side of the room sat a dark-wood table that was too low for chairs. Gathered at its center were half-a-dozen fat candles of various heights and widths—a luxury to his people. And surrounding the short, stocky table were more pillows in shades of blue and black; these were plain, without the gilded symbols.

Two sets of double doors led from the room; one set at his back, another to his left. He made his way across the room and opened one set, revealing a closet in which every nook and cranny was filled with hanging black, blue and white garments. It wholly embarrassed the single, freestanding wardrobe that occupied Ian’s room in Glen Abbey.

In fact, this was not a bedroom at all, he decided. It was an apartment. And when he thought of all the bellies that could have been satisfied for the cost of a single item within it, it made his belly churn.

Unbidden, the memory of Rusty Broun’s little Ana accosted him. The child would have been three years old the week after her death. Her face, gaunt with hunger, would bedevil him for the rest of his days. It was for her, as much as for anyone, that he had come seeking answers—for Rusty’s sweet Ana, and for all of Glen Abbey’s wee innocents who depended on Glen Abbey Manor for support.

He turned his back on the luxurious fabrics hanging in Merrick’s closet and went to the bed, settling down on it as he glanced about the room.

How could any man surround himself with so much rubbish when babies were literally starving to death?

Ian experienced an unholy stab of guilt merely standing in the midst of it all.

He collapsed on the bed, wondering how Merrick could lie amidst the cool satin sheets and not feel…

Devil hang him, but it did feel good, he thought, as he dragged himself backward and stretched out on the massive piece of furniture. Hell, his feet didn’t even reach the edge, and he was taller than most men.

He shook his head in disgust over his lapse in character, but guilt fell at the heels of exhaustion. God save his rotten soul, but it couldn’t hurt to wallow in a wee bit o’ comfort for just a bit.

He was fagged to bloody death.

As he sprawled in the silky bed, closing his eyes, Ian thought not of little Ana, nor of Glen Abbey, nor even of his mockery of a life, but of a green-eyed beauty with disheveled hair and a wit as sharp as his grandfather’s claymore…and lips that looked to be as soft as the satin caressing his cheek.

What he wouldn’t give to have a taste of that mouth.

He drifted toward sleep imagining his mystery woman in the most wicked of positions, her mouth coaxing him to climax.

So what the blazes if she wouldn’t even give him her name? His thoughts were his own and she couldn’t very well slap him in his dreams.

Chapter Five

N o longer was the preservation of honor a luxury to be considered. The contents of the box—a severed finger and a threatening note—necessitated that even the lowliest of solutions must be weighed.

Until now, Claire had not resorted to begging, but today she would add that particularly distasteful endeavor to her growing list of embarrassments.

To that end, her greatest opportunity lay with Lord Huntington, Alexandra’s father. Though he was known to be a frugal man, he was kind at heart, and if anyone might feel compelled to help her, it would be he. He had, after all, known her most of her life.

At any rate, she didn’t know anyone else well enough to solicit money from them. It was Ben who was everybody’s friend. Claire had always been content to remain in his shadow. She’d never been particularly fond of, or very good at, idle conversation. And though she had many acquaintances, her circle of true friends was quite small.

In fact, it numbered the grand sum of one.

Hoping her best friend wouldn’t wake this morning while she was visiting with her father, Claire awaited Lord Huntington in his office, gnawing anxiously at her thumbnail as she inspected the heads of exotic animals hanging about the room.

Lions bared their teeth at her. Small, doglike creatures seemed to be cackling down at her. Great, deer-like beasts, taller than Claire, turned their noses up at her disapprovingly.

In all the years she’d known Lexie, she’d never entered her father’s office. Lord Huntington was most often abroad, managing his business affairs from behind the telescope of a hunting rifle. When in residence, though, he’d always had a kind word for Claire and for Ben.

Ben, in fact, had turned to Lord Huntington for financial advice after their father’s death, and Lord Huntington had, in the beginning, taken Ben under his wing. Claire only knew this because she’d overheard a discussion between the two concerning debts and assets when they’d joined Lexie and her father for dinner one evening.

“Sorry to have kept you,” Lord Huntington said as he entered his office.

Claire bounded to her feet, sucking in a breath to calm her ravaged nerves. “My lord!” she exclaimed. “Please, no need to apologize.”

“Sit down, my dear,” Lord Huntington directed her as he approached the desk. He flicked his hand when she didn’t at once sit.

Claire plummeted into the chair, though her stomach seemed disinclined to follow.

“I do realize you’re busy, my lord,” she offered, wanting him to understand how truly grateful she was even for a moment of his time. “You know I would never intrude unless the matter were urgent.”

Lord Huntington took a seat behind the enormous cherry-wood desk that dominated his office. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the surface. He was a rather handsome man, despite his advanced age, and his smile reminded her of her father’s. He clasped his hands together and set his chin on two steepled fingers, waiting for her to speak.

Claire suddenly couldn’t find her voice. She opened her mouth, but words became difficult.

He lowered his fingers and dropped his chin to rest on his joined hands, his look concerned now. “What is it you need, dear girl?”

Claire was grateful for his directness.

Averting her eyes for an instant, she said a silent prayer that her father would forgive her for this moment of utter disgrace. Then she met Lord Huntington’s gaze, secure in the knowledge that her father would never accept his only son’s demise over the salvation of his family estate or his name.

“I—It’s Ben,” she stammered. “My lord, please don’t speak a word of this to anyone—not even Lexie—but Ben…he’s…gone missing.”

Lord Huntington sat up straight in his chair, dropping his hands to the desk. “What do you mean, ‘gone missing’?”

Tears pricked at Claire’s eyes. “Well, someone has kidnapped him and is holding him for ransom. And I am expected to raise two hundred thousand pounds—one hundred fifty more—or they tell me…” Her eyes misted. “They say they will kill him.”

Huntington slapped on the desk. “What?”

“I’m afraid it’s true, my lord,” Claire assured him. “In fact, last night, they sent a particularly gruesome gift as a testament to their sincerity.”

Choking back more tears, Claire disclosed everything—her father’s debts (of which he was already aware), Ben’s gambling (of which he was not), Ben’s disappearance and the box that had been delivered to Jasper last evening.

Lord Huntington pursed his lips. She wondered if he didn’t believe her.

“I have heard of this sort of thing before,” he said finally. “But, my dear, there is no need to panic as yet. They will not harm your brother as long as they know you are willing to deal with them. I have a friend with the Met,” he began.

“No!” Claire exclaimed. “They said no bobbies!”

He cocked his head.

“They are watching. A strange man followed me from the—” She stopped, not quite able to share the indignity of having to sell her most-treasured family possessions. “Someone is following me. Were it not for the incompetence of this lunatic driver last evening and his arrogant…”

The image of the man’s employer came into her head and momentarily dazed her. The memory of that smile—startling white teeth and crooked, mocking lips—accosted her.

Claire blinked, forgetting for the briefest instant what she was saying. She fingered the scrape on her chin.

“Were it not for this driver?” Lord Huntington prompted her.

“Well, I might not have arrived safely home,” she finished a little breathlessly, embarrassed by her moment of absentmindedness.

Lord Huntington didn’t bother to question her about the particulars of the accident, nor did he comment on her scratched chin. She must have concealed it well enough, she reasoned, and dropped her hand into her lap.

There was an interminable silence.

“So, then, what is it you need from me?” he finally asked.

Gone was the fatherly aura. His visage was suddenly more like that of the pawnbroker’s, like that of a man considering his own affairs.

In truth, Claire had hoped he would offer something without being asked.

“I thought…perhaps…that you might let us…borrow the money …”

Huntington lifted a brow. “Borrow?”

“Yes, my lord. I am quite certain Ben would relinquish Highbury Hall to you upon his safe return.”

She refused to consider the unthinkable—that he might not return. But if Ben should die, Claire would inherit the house and she would honor her agreement.

“You could sell the house,” she persuaded him, “or keep it. It’s worth at least one hundred thousand pounds, and I am quite certain it is worth far more. I was told that Lady Kensington recently remodeled their home for the sum of seventy-three thousand.”

“Nash’s services do not come cheaply,” Lord Huntington allowed, speaking of the architect who had been hired to do the task.

“Yes. But their home is scarce the size of Highbury Hall. And they merely remodeled. The property itself is worth much, much more.”

Lord Huntington sat back in his chair and eyed her. “And what would prevent Ben from reneging once he is released by his captors?”

Claire leaned forward, hoping, praying for his agreement. “I could sign a note,” she offered.

Lord Huntington said nothing for a moment and then shook his head. “No, that just wouldn’t do. Forgive me for speaking frankly, my dear, but your signature isn’t worth the paper it’s written upon. Not to disparage you, but your brother could very well renege and no one would so much as slap his hand for doing so.”

It was true that she hadn’t the least bit of control over her father’s estate. She was a woman, after all. Claire’s hopes were dashed as quickly as they had been raised. Her shoulders slumped. “But, my lord, Ben wouldn’t!”

“You cannot know that,” Lord Huntington countered. “He might very well claim I took advantage of your…predicament. And perhaps it would be true,” he admitted. “Certainly, many would believe it.”

“But, my lord, I am offering,” Claire pointed out. “You are not taking advantage!”

“No, I’m sorry,” Huntington replied.

He wasn’t going to help; it was obvious by the tone of his voice and the stubborn set of his shoulders.

Claire couldn’t entirely blame him.

“However…”

Claire’s head snapped up.

“I have always thought you a lovely girl,” he suggested.

“Thank you,” Claire said, blinking.

“You must know that Lexie’s mother and I have been estranged for some time.”

Claire’s gasp was almost inaudible. She was suddenly afraid of what he would say next.

“In fact, as you know, she has taken up residence at our country estate.”

Claire swallowed.

“Let us not mince words, Claire. If you would, perhaps, be interested in an arrangement, I might consider the loan, after all.”

Claire’s mouth opened to reply. Then she closed it again.

She’d never expected such a scandalous proposition.

She stared at Lord Huntington, horrified by the possibility that she might have, at some point, given him the wrong impression. He had never intimated that he was romantically interested in her.

He was her father’s good friend. Her best friend’s father.

“In fact,” he continued. “I might even be persuaded to make the loan a gift.”

Claire shook her head. “My lord—”

“You needn’t answer just now,” he said, and opened a drawer. He removed a card. “Take some time. Think about it. And if my offer does not suit you, I know a man who may be able to assist you in locating your brother.”

He snatched his pen from the inkwell and scratched something on the card.

“Thank you,” Claire said numbly. She stood, her mind reeling. “I’m so sorry for having burdened you.”

Her stomach turned.

He handed her the card. “Keep in mind that Ben is a grown man,” he said. “And whatever befalls him is of his own doing.”

“Yes…thank you,” Claire repeated. “Please…give my love to Lexie when she awakens.”

“Of course, my dear.”

Claire didn’t wait for him to see her out.

She hurried to collect her belongings and practically ran out the door, clutching the card in her hand.

It wasn’t until she reached the street that she dared even to examine it. On one side of the calling card was Lord Huntington’s full name and address. Scribbled on the other side was the name and the address of one Wes Cameron, Private Investigator.

She shuddered, uncertain whether it was Lord Huntington’s offer or the name and address he’d offered her that caused it.

Tears pricked at her eyes as she walked down the street toward Highbury Hall.

They were neighbors, for God’s sake!

She had supped with his entire family!

She had considered Lady Huntington a second mother in the absence of her own, and Claire and Lexie had practically grown up together, spending summers at each other’s country estates.

The idea of lying with Lord Huntington—and more—was worse than unthinkable—it was utterly distasteful. It would be tantamount to carrying on with her own father.

First thing in the morning, she would seek out Wes Cameron. It was the only acceptable solution.

Chapter Six

T he following morning, Ian awoke fully dressed sprawled atop a strange bed.

Disoriented by the unfamiliar environs, he tried to regain his bearings.

London.

Berkeley Square.

He was lying on an enormous bed, pretending to be someone else, with no one seemingly the wiser.

And thanks to complete exhaustion, he’d had the first sound night’s sleep he’d enjoyed in nearly six months.

He lay still a moment, determining how best to proceed and wondering how Merrick fared in Glen Abbey. Had he revealed himself as yet? Or did he, too, have cause to hold his tongue?

Only time would tell.

One thing was certain—the man was bound to have had one hell of a headache after Ian’s head butt. Only Angus McPherson had a harder head than Ian.

Morning light streamed in through draperies that had, apparently, never been drawn. The sun’s rays cut a gilded path across the room, illuminating the figure of a man seated cross-legged on the bare floor at the far end of the apartment.

The unexpected presence gave Ian a start.

It took him a groggy instant to realize it was only Ryo, who sat facing the bed, his eyes closed. He remained still, his palms resting on his thighs. Was he praying? Meditating?

In either case, what the devil was he doing in Merrick’s bedroom?

“You are awake, denka,” the little man said, though he hadn’t bothered to open his eyes.

Ian dragged a hand across his whiskers. “Bloody hell! It’s damned fortunate for me that you weren’t bent on my demise,” he groused. “I never even heard you enter the room.”

The foreigner opened his eyes, tilting Ian an undecipherable glance. “A man at peace has little to fear. But he who seeks revenge should remember to dig two graves,” he said cryptically.

A warning?

Ryo sat unmoving, his passive posture scarcely any threat. Ian studied him, wondering what role he played in Merrick’s life. It was quickly becoming apparent he was something more than a driver.

A bodyguard, perhaps?

But the notion nearly made Ian laugh out loud. Ryo was hardly of a stature to protect himself, much less anyone else. And yet, he had somehow managed to evade Rusty Broun.

“You have much to do today,” the little man announced, ceasing with the riddles and disregarding Ian’s scrutiny. “Your father wishes an audience. He was much displeased that you did not seek him at once upon your return.”

So bloody what.

Let the bastard wait.

Considering how best to evade everyone for the remainder of the day, and Ryo in particular, Ian dragged himself to the edge of the bed to remove his boots.

Ryo was right about one thing: Ian did have much to do today. However, none of it had a bloody thing to do with Ryo’s, Merrick’s or his father’s agenda.

“I must first speak with you regarding a matter of some importance,” Ryo said.

Ian grimaced. He wasn’t entirely certain he wished to hear what the man had to say. He stood and turned his back to Ryo, pretending to occupy himself with his morning ministrations.

Someone, presumably Ryo, had arranged a fresh set of clothing upon the valet at the foot of the bed. Ian examined the shirt he was wearing, unbuttoned the wrinkled garment, removed it and tossed it upon the bed, glad for the change of clothes.

So, he determined, Ryo was a driver, a bodyguard, a secretary and a valet. What else?

“I have a tale I wish to share, if you will allow it.”

“Go on,” Ian allowed, though reluctantly.

“In my country,” Ryo began without further invitation, “there is the tale of a man whose horse escaped him and wandered into the territory of the northern tribes.”

Whatever he’d expected the man to share, it certainly wasn’t a blessed bedtime story. He cast Ryo a questioning glance.

Ryo ignored it, continuing with his tale. “Everyone consoled this man, except his father, who said, ‘Perhaps this will turn out to be a blessing.’”

Unbidden, Ian’s thoughts wandered to the girl from Grosvenor Square.

It was doubtful he would ever see her again, so why did he persist in thinking of her?

He’d dreamed of her this morning. Thank heavens he hadn’t pleasured himself in Ryo’s presence. He didn’t embarrass easily, but a little privacy was certainly in order. It seemed a man couldn’t even relieve himself in this place without a bloody audience.

“After a time,” Ryo persisted, “the man’s horse returned with a mare. And everyone congratulated him, except the father, who said, ‘Perhaps this will soon turn out to be a curse.’”

Ian fastened his trousers, willing away the evidence of his unwanted arousal. Damn, he apparently needed only think of the woman to lose control over his body’s reaction.

“Is there a point to this fairy tale?” Ian snapped.

“Well, since this man now had two horses,” Ryo went on, ignoring Ian’s question, “his young son became fond of riding and eventually broke his leg by falling from his horse. Everyone consoled him, except his father, who said, ‘Perhaps this will soon turn out to be a blessing.’”

Ian finished dressing and sat on the bed, waiting for the end of Ryo’s nonsensical tale.

“So what’s the moral of the story?” he asked.

“One year later, the northern tribes invaded. All able-bodied men took up arms and nine out of ten men died. But the man’s young son did not join the fight because he was crippled, and so, both the son and his father survived.”

Ryo sat quietly, staring back at him.

He seemed to be looking for some reaction to his story, Ian thought, though what he was searching for, Ian hadn’t a bloody clue. “That’s it?” he asked.

Ryo nodded.

Bloody hell.

Ian had never been one to mince words. If he’d been discovered, let the man say so instead of speaking in riddles. “Is there something you’re trying to say?”

Ryo heaved a sigh, then finally spoke clearly, “Only time will tell whether the journey to Glen Abbey will be, not merely your father’s misfortune, but yours as well, denka.”

He leveled Ian a look that spoke volumes, and Ian realized that Ryo knew more than he was willing to reveal—much more.

The driver added, “Last night I was summoned to give my report. I revealed nothing.”

“Why?”

He narrowed his eyes at Ian, reaching up to stroke his short beard, as though in contemplation. And then he returned to his riddles. “It is said that three things cannot long be hidden: the sun, the moon and the truth.” He sighed. “The wine of fate has been poured. Now, everyone must drink.”

Claire swallowed her pride and revealed her destination. It was far more palatable than Huntington’s offer.

How could she ever face Lexie again after her father’s indecent proposal? How could she ever bear to show her face to the world if she were to commit such a disgraceful act?

“Madam!” Jasper argued with her. “Surely Lord Huntington could not mean for you to go there?”

Claire ignored his protest. “I haven’t any choice,” she told him.

And truly, she didn’t.

She most certainly didn’t need the distress of an argument this morning. Jasper had never dared question her before her father’s death and before Ben’s disappearance. She forgave it now only because she understood he felt a certain obligation as the only remaining male in the household. She tried to exercise patience—she truly did—despite the fact that his solicitousness rankled her in her present state of mind. But she was quite certain he would never say such things to Ben, were Ben in her position. And God forbid that he should ever have parted his lips to second-guess her father.

“I cannot fathom how Lord Huntington could think to direct you to such an unhealthy address. Not only is that place unseemly, it is unheard of—”

“Really, Jasper,” she interrupted. “You have nothing to be concerned about.” She lifted a brow. “As you can plainly see, I am in disguise.”

The steward scrunched his nose as he examined her dress. “As what, madam?”

Claire thought it rather apparent. “As an honest but poor working woman,” she replied reasonably, and gestured down at the plain brown, threadbare dress and weathered black boots she’d discovered in the servants’ quarters.

“But, madam, surely you do not wish to be confused with the working women of that quarter?”

Claire had to think about his question an instant, and then her eyes widened as she caught his meaning. That wasn’t at all her intent! “You don’t mean…?”

His cheeks stained red. “Not that!” the steward exclaimed, realizing now that he had insulted her.

That was thrice her honor had been questioned in the past twenty-four hours!

She seized her reticule from the foyer table, then reconsidered the wisdom of carrying a purse with her at all. It certainly didn’t do much for her disguise. Poor women didn’t carry purses, did they? Frowning, she set it down again.

“You simply don’t belong there,” Jasper persisted.

Claire refrained from telling him that it wasn’t the first time she’d visited the rookeries. Her hands flew to her hips. “What would you have me do instead, Jasper?”

No one would simply hand over the amount of cash she required. She didn’t have any favors to call in, and she didn’t have much left of value to sell—nothing but her body, and she hardly relished the thought of lying with Lord Huntington.

And it wouldn’t do much good to offer anyone else the house. Lord Huntington had made it perfectly clear no one would deal with her simply because she was a woman.

She eyed the reticule, wondering how Cameron would know who she was if she hadn’t any proof. Besides, as sad as it might be, she planned to offer him the set of silverware for his services. She picked up the reticule again and opened it, revealing a calling card and a butter knife. She had considered carrying a spoon as an example of what she was offering as payment, but the knife would serve a dual purpose. She withdrew the calling card, tapped it against her chin as she considered it and then shoved it back into the purse. Anyone could print a carte de visite.

Ignoring Jasper as he babbled on, she considered her locket as proof instead. She put down the purse and removed the necklace from her neck, then opened the locket and examined the miniature of her mother, reading the inscription although she knew it by rote: To my darling daughter, Claire. Tears pricked at her lids and she closed the locket again, shoving it into the purse, not wanting anyone to see it.

The locket would do. She and her mother bore a striking resemblance and the inscription was clearly written to Claire. She would carry the purse, she decided. It was plain enough.

That decided upon once and for all, she turned her attention to her querulous servant. “I appreciate very much that you are concerned,” she said, “but please remove yourself from the door at once.”

“Madam!” Jasper continued to protest.

“Jasper, this behavior is entirely inappropriate,” she advised him. “You are not my father. I am the mistress of this house and you are to do as you are told. Now, please remove yourself.”

“Yes, madam,” he relented, looking properly chastised, though he still seemed unwilling to budge. “What will you do if someone gives chase?”

The answer was quite obvious, Claire thought. “Run, of course.”

The note of alarm in his voice escalated in response to her calm, rational reply. “What if they should try to snatch you?” he persisted.

“I shall scream,” she answered without hesitation and with entirely more confidence than she felt.

He was certainly succeeding in his attempt to unnerve her.

“But, my lady, what if they should cover your mouth?”

Claire’s brows drew together. “Then, I suppose I will be forced to bite them,” she replied, though, in truth, she’d never, before this instant, even considered committing such a crude act upon any human being.

She had not even considered it at five years of age, when Ben had snatched her braids and pulled her, screaming and kicking away from the stables where she’d hidden away to watch the birth of their new foal. Ben had insisted it was unseemly for a girl to watch such a crude act of nature, and threatened to tell their father if she didn’t come away from the stable at once. Claire had refused and he had dragged her willy-nilly away.

“But, madam, please…what if they catch you unaware?”

Claire tried to skirt around him in an attempt to reach the door. “Jasper, I am venturing into a very unsavory area. I assure you I will not, for a single instant, be caught unaware.”

The old servant sighed, realizing at last that Claire was unwavering in her decision.

He should have realized sooner.

When her mind was made up, she wasn’t likely to change it. How many times had Ben called her stubborn, and how many times had her father merely laughed at the accusation? It might not be her most endearing trait, but her father had often told her, with a hint of admiration, that he felt sorry for any man who thought to take her reins.

“At the very least, allow me to drive you,” the servant offered.

Claire shook her head. “No, that won’t do. The coach is in shambles,” she reminded him. “And besides, you can’t see well enough to drive. I shall do well enough on my own, thank you very much!”

It wasn’t her habit to point out a man’s handicaps, but this might well be a matter of life and death. The last thing Claire needed was to have an old man hobbling after her while she was running for her life. It was enough she was putting herself at risk.

“Very well,” Jasper relented. “But if you must go, let me tell you something about a man’s greatest vulnerability.”

Despite the fact that there was no one about to hear what he had to say, Jasper leaned forward to whisper in her ear.

Claire felt her face burn as he proceeded to explain where best to strike a man.

She gasped in surprise. It seemed the southern-most region of a man’s…territory…could be quite delicate.

When Jasper straightened, color bloomed in the old man’s cheeks. He couldn’t quite look at her and for that Claire was grateful. “A swift lift of the knee should do it,” he said, as he moved away from the door.

“Thank you,” Claire replied. “I shall remember that.”

“God be with you, madam.”

Ian didn’t fool himself. Merrick was certain to return, and it was inevitable he would be discovered. Until then, he intended to make good use of the time Ryo had offered him.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.