“Good morning, Harold,” Ian greeted him.
Surprise registered in the servant’s eyes. “Why, thank you, sir!” he replied at once. “Did you sleep well?”
“Indeed,” Ian returned.
“I did come to prepare your bath last evening as I said I would, but you were sleeping sound as a babe in the womb and I didn’t have the heart to wake you,” the servant was quick to explain.
“Thank you,” Ian replied, and meant it profoundly.
This morning was soon enough to slice his way through the web of lies.
The servant seemed uncomfortable with their discourse. He peered down at his unwieldy load, avoiding his eyes. “Well, I won’t keep you, sir,” he said, and started to drag away his burden.
“Just one moment,” Ian demanded.
“Yes, sir?”
Ian stood, tongue tangled, trying to determine how best to ask for direction to his father’s office without drawing attention to the simple fact that he’d never stepped foot in this accursed mausoleum before last evening.
Damn Ryo. The least the bugger could have done was lead him to his father.
“Your Highness?” the servant prompted, his expression turning sober. “Are you quite alright?”
“Quite,” Ian replied, then asked, “Have you seen my father, Harold?”
“Oh, yes!” Harold replied at once. “I believe His Majesty is waiting in his office.”
Bloody hell—Ian knew that much. What he didn’t know was where the office was.
“Yes, well…please go tell him I will be there directly,” Ian demanded of the servant.
The good man didn’t hesitate. He cast down his load and hurried to do Ian’s bidding. “Of course, sir!” he said, and tripped over the roll of carpet before scurrying down the hall.
Ian followed, grateful that the servant was too preoccupied with his important new task to realize he was being trailed. Finally, Harold stopped at a door at the end of a twisting corridor and hesitated before knocking on the doorframe.
Ian brushed past him. “Good morning, Father,” he said with false charity, before Harold had the opportunity to announce him. “Thank you, Harold,” Ian said, dismissing the servant.
“Yes, sir,” Harold said. He scratched his head as he walked away.
Ian looked at the older occupant of the room. His father seemed to shrivel behind the shield of his desk. He quickly opened a drawer and set something inside, then closed the drawer again.
Ian had the feeling he’d interrupted something of import.
“Come in,” his father said.
His hand clenching at his side, Ian did as he was told and stepped into the room.
“Close the door,” his father directed.
Ian complied, studying the man who’d abandoned him as an infant. There was no question in his mind that they shared the same blood. Looking at him now, he experienced the same shock he’d felt when he’d first stared into Merrick’s face.
As he stood there, considering the years of deceit, a battery of emotions assaulted him. Anger rushed in at the forefront, though he couldn’t ignore the painful swell of bitterness that surged up from his bowels like a raging tide.
Why had their father accepted one son, evidently showering him with riches and titles, only to reject the other?
Why had Ian and his mother been cast away like so much trash?
What relationship had his parents shared that could possibly justify either of their actions?
And who the bloody hell was the woman he called Mother?
“You caused me quite a scare,” his father said.
You caused me a lifetime of despair, Ian countered silently.
The old man sighed and his expression suddenly softened, the worry lines easing from his brow. “I refused to believe you would abandon your duty, Merrick. Rather, I thought you dead—or worse, kidnapped. I even half expected a ransom letter. When it did not come, I hired a private investigator to seek you out. Where in creation did you go?”
Why did you go? Ian wanted to ask him. What could an infant possibly have done to send you away?
He relaxed his fist, carefully considering his answer.
Truth sat upon the edge of Ian’s tongue, ready to leap off it like a raging lion.
His father waited patiently.
Recalling the letter Merrick had carried in his coat pocket—the letter intended for their mother—he said, “I was searching for…a woman.”
It was the truth, but not the entire truth.
His father smacked the desk. “Is that what you nearly gave me heart failure over? Dash it all, Merrick! A woman? You needed only wait two measly weeks before every available chit in London would be lying pandering at your feet! Or did you forget that you have agreed this time to choose a bride?”
Ian didn’t answer.
Let the man think whatever he may. The letter to his mother—the real reason his brother had fled London—would be broached soon enough.
“Sit down!” his father commanded him, evidently disgusted with Ian’s lack of response.
Ian didn’t budge.
The time for a father’s demands were long past.
“Merrick,” his father said, his tone softening again. He pleaded with his hands, mistaking Ian’s silence. “Son, I know you don’t wish to wed, but please don’t embarrass me yet again.”
Ian held his tongue. He tried to keep his expression devoid of emotion. The fool still had not a clue to whom he was speaking. It fueled his anger.
“Victoria has gone to great lengths to accommodate us.”
Who the devil was Victoria? And why should Ian give a bloody damn what lengths she’d gone to, to accommodate Merrick—or the bloody liar Merrick called Father?
“In your honor, Victoria has gathered the most influential of London’s families and many of England’s loveliest ladies. It is imperative that, this time, you take your responsibility seriously. You must finally choose a bride.”
“Imperative for whom?” Ian dared to ask, trying to sound casual. He suspected the only person his father cared about was himself. But what of Merrick’s wishes?
“I would have Meridian align itself propitiously, of course. What manner of question is that?” his father asked, the color of his face heightening.
Ian shook his head.
So, Merrick’s marriage was to benefit their father…just as he suspected. “Let me be clear. When do you wish me to choose a bride?”
“Tomorrow evening, as agreed upon,” his father said defensively. “You are behaving as though you had no part in this decision. We made an agreement, and I will not be swayed. It would behoove us to consider Victoria’s protégées. Her favorites will do very well in William’s court.”
“So you wish me to choose my bride tomorrow evening from among Victoria’s protégées?” Ian repeated. “Because they will have the king’s ear?”
His father’s expression revealed little remorse. “If at all possible, yes, of course.”
Ian suddenly didn’t envy Merrick’s life at all. “It will be that simple? You want me to choose the woman I will spend the rest of my natural life with, and you wish me to choose her during the course of a single evening, amidst a select crop of spoiled chits whose mothers and fathers owe Victoria their favors?”
His father’s face turned florid, though his voice remained calm. “Merrick, you’ve had ample time to make up your mind before now. If you recall, this is hardly the first time we’ve been through this process. Victoria’s daughter Drina is merely twelve or the decision would be simple enough and I would make it for you!”
Process?
Merrick’s life was a process?
“Three years ago, all of London practically set itself ablaze for you—fireworks, galas—and you treated their daughters with little more than bored disdain. It took years, not to mention great expense, to unruffle feathers. I will not continue to discuss this. I have never asked anything of you but this one thing, and in this request
you will obey me.”
“Or else what?” Ian baited him. “Or you will disown me?”
His father lifted his chin. “You will leave me little choice.”
Old fool, he already had. Long, long ago.
He didn’t even realize with whom he was speaking. That’s how well he knew his chosen son.
“I would die a brokenhearted man, Merrick. But I must be assured Meridian will have a worthy prince to succeed you. And I must look into my grandson’s eyes before I die!”
Some unnamed emotion twisted Ian’s gut at his father’s disclosure, but he was determined to ignore it. What did he care if the old fool was dying? It wasn’t Ian’s problem. Whether they shared the same blood or not, the man was a complete stranger to him.
“And what if my son should prove unworthy, Father? What will you do then?”
Will you abandon him, too?
The old man’s brows collided, his expression turning to one of utmost concern. “Merrick, what is this strange tone I hear in your voice?” He seemed genuinely confused and wounded. “I have never known you to be so insolent. Why do you mock me?”
Ian didn’t answer. He dared not part his lips lest everything come spewing out.
His father’s expression remained troubled as he continued his argument. “At least I offer you the opportunity to choose your queen. I was never afforded that luxury myself. My marriage to your mother was preordained, and my father’s marriage before mine! It is a tradition I have forsaken at your request, but I have been patient long enough. We are running out of time.”
Again, Ian’s stomach roiled. His pulse beat against his temple, sounding far too much like an iron clock ticking in his head.
Time, indeed, was running out.
Soon, he would be discovered.
Was their father dying?
His father said, his tone brooking no argument, “Choose your bride, Merrick, or, by God, I will choose her for you.”
“Very well,” Ian agreed, forcing himself to answer calmly.
Anger warred with fear and sorrow in his mind.
The anger he understood, but the fear and the sorrow were completely illogical. He didn’t know this man. He shouldn’t care if he turned up his toes right before his eyes.
“Don’t worry,” he assured the king. “I fully intend to satisfy my duty…to Meridian.”
A motherland he had never set foot upon. He had never even heard its name in all his given years.
To bloody hell with Meridian.
But he would choose a bride for Merrick, if only so that he could concentrate on other matters. And if his brother didn’t wish to go through with the betrothal, he could bloody well explain to all of London that his father had two sons, not one, and that his brother had chosen his bride for him.
His father relaxed. “I knew you would not disappoint me. You have always been a good son.”
Ian’s gut turned violently, the sensation twisting through his chest like a viper, striking at the muscle of his heart. It left him wounded and poisoned with rage.
Merrick was the good son, was he?
Devil hang Merrick, too!
What, in God’s name, could a helpless infant have done to deserve being designated the bad son?
“You may go now,” his father proclaimed. He opened the topmost drawer and removed an ivory card with bold, black lettering. He handed it to Ian. “I would advise you to discontinue Cameron’s services at once.”
Ian was, for the briefest instant, too overcome to respond.
“He has connections from St. Giles to Bow Street, and even Westminster. The last thing we need now is a scandal.”
The man seated before him was a living scandal.
Ian eyed the card with a keen sense of vengeance, ignoring Ryo’s warning. The card read: Wes Cameron, Private Investigator. He should bloody well let Cameron do his job and expose His Majesty to the masses—except that Ian wanted to be the one to reveal the man. And once he had the proof he required, he would enjoy seeing him squirm.
His mother was another matter. He loved her fiercely, but he wasn’t certain he could bear to look her in the face again.
He would deal with that later.
He reached out and snatched the card from his father’s hand, then spun away, vaguely aware that a drawer opened and closed as he walked out the door.
In polite society, Wes Cameron’s name was whispered, never spoken. When his services were employed, one could be certain the circumstances were dire and the means of resolution would never be questioned. If one were desperate enough to seek his services, one must also be bold enough to seek him out, as his office was located at the edge of civilization—on the fringe of London’s rookeries, where thieves were as thick as the city’s fog.
Claire was beyond desperate.
After her experience on Drury Lane, however, she made certain to hire a hansom to take her all the way to High Street. It was an extravagance she could scarce afford, but neither could she afford not to spend the money—not if she wished to live to see the sunrise.
Rather than turn into the one-way street, the hansom dropped her at the corner, leaving her just a few yards to walk. She took a deep breath and forced her feet forward, hoping the cabbie would keep to his word and wait for her.
The streets were filled with dirty little children. Claire’s heart went out to every one of them, though she knew they were not the innocents they appeared. She’d heard the tales; footpads and cutpurses made their livings here, and many of the younger children stole to pay off their guardians.
A mangy gray dog lunged at her from a doorway as she passed, yapping and snapping at thin air. Claire shrieked and leaped away. She loved animals, but this one clearly did not love her. A face appeared in the window, likely the dog’s owner, and Claire cursed him for starving the dog simply to use him as a guard. She’d be certain to keep to the other side of the street on her way back.
Despite her frame of mind, she found Cameron’s office easily enough just a few buildings down, though only the address (and not his name) was visible on the door. She knocked first, then pushed open the door. A little bell jingled as it swung open.
Brave man not to lock his door. She had once read that William the Conqueror had purposely left his treasures in plain sight, so certain was he that no one would disturb them. And so fierce was his wrath, no one dared. Such was the impression she had of Cameron.
“Mr. Cameron?” she called.
No answer.
What if she had the wrong address?
Shouldering the door to keep it from closing, she opened her reticule and examined the card Lord Huntington had given her. It read “19 High Street.” She peered up at the address on the door. It was plainly marked “19 High Street.”
“Mr. Cameron!” she said a little more loudly.
No answer.
Claire frowned.
Please God, don’t make me have to come back.
Her nerve nearly failed her, but she entered the building anyway. The office was a single, nondescript room, with nothing on the walls and nothing adorning the solitary desk. In fact, it appeared to be abandoned, but that didn’t make the least bit of sense.
“Mr. Cameron?” she persisted.
Again, no reply.
Hoping to discover something about the man she would face, she walked to the desk and opened a drawer. It was filled with papers. She closed it and opened another, discovering a handful of calling cards and a sinister-looking dirk with an ornate ivory handle emblazoned with the letter C. It was clearly old and very valuable. She flipped over a card. It read: Wes Cameron, Private Investigator.
She was in the right place but evidently at the wrong time.
Her gaze returned to the dirk, her brows lifting at the confirmation of his character.
She began to reconsider the wisdom in dealing with such a man. But she’d come too far to turn back.
Noticing a door in the back of the room, she went to it and knocked. Again, no answer
. She opened the door and peered into a small room filled with boxes and books. Against the wall, half-covered by a large box, a portrait of a man leaned crookedly, as though forgotten. Depicted in military uniform, the subject was handsome, but something about his pale blue eyes was disconcerting; they were like shards of ice, devoid of emotion. The sight of them made her shudder.
Deciding the visit was, after all, a mistake, Claire pulled the door shut and turned to find that she had an audience.
“You!” she exclaimed.
Chapter Seven
Ian was too stupefied to find his tongue.
No matter that she’d taken pains to alter her appearance, he couldn’t mistake that face or the green eyes that sparkled with intelligence.
Her manner of dress had deteriorated, but she was definitely the same woman they’d nearly flattened yesterday evening.
Her eyes narrowed at the sight of him. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same of you,” Ian countered.
Obviously, she wasn’t bothering with pretenses today.
His thoughts settled on the silk purse she carried; it was out of place with her threadbare gown. Some unfortunate gentlewoman’s possession? Evidently, she was no more than a common thief. Well, they had much in common, he thought.
“What I am doing here is not at all your concern!” she answered, lifting her lovely little nose into the air. But as he watched, the color brightened in her cheeks.
Anger at being caught?
Embarrassment?
She walked toward him, evading his gaze, evidently intending to pass by and escape through the door behind him.
“I believe I shall take up my affairs with Mr. Cameron at a later date,” she said. “Good day to you, sirrah!”
What affairs would those be, precisely? Ian wondered. Even as he considered the possibilities, his mood soured.
He waited until her hand was on the knob and considered letting her leave without comment—it would doubtless be the better choice—but couldn’t keep himself from baiting her. “Couldn’t find anything shiny enough to steal?” he asked.
The Impostor Prince Page 6
