The Impostor Prince

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “It seems His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince of Meridian, has deigned to return to London at long last.” Lexie rolled her eyes, as though she didn’t care a whit, but Claire knew better.

  “So I read,” Claire confessed.

  “Really?” Alexandra asked, cocking her head. “Since when do you read the society page?”

  Claire shrugged. “I was bored.”

  Alexandra giggled, then rushed back into her story. “At any rate, it seems the gala is to be held after all. And this time, he shall positively make an offer to someone in attendance. Imagine that! Some girl shall have to endure that horrible bore for the rest of her days!”

  “At least it won’t be you,” Claire consoled her, although it rankled her that Alexandra could bother to discuss such nonsense when Ben’s life was at stake.

  “True,” Alexandra said. “I could never stomach his rudeness, though I certainly wouldn’t mind being the recipient of those jewels.”

  Claire’s brows lifted, her interest suddenly piqued. “What jewels?”

  Alexandra plucked at a loose thread on the bedcover. “I heard it was the only way the Duchess of Kent could be convinced of the prince’s sincerity—and you know how much Silly Billy values her counsel. Everyone seeks her approval. She insisted they be presented tomorrow night.”

  Though Claire didn’t much like the duchess, no one could deny that she had great influence. Fortunately, Claire had never caught the woman’s eye, so her despotic ways rarely affected her. But there was no doubt in her mind that the duchess knew her name. She knew everyone’s name. It was quite obvious that her ambition was to sustain her daughter Drina’s position of power as heir to the throne. Drina, on the other hand, seemed a good-natured child. Claire had only met her twice, as the Duchess kept her locked away, but she seemed not to have a single ambitious bone in her little body.

  “So the jewels will be on display tonight?” Claire asked.

  “Yes. And I believe you should attend,” Alexandra said. “After all, this is the first time Meridian’s crown jewels have been on exhibit, and you’re not serving Ben’s cause by remaining holed up in this house.”

  Claire failed to see how mingling at some ball would be to her brother’s benefit. And close on the heels of that thought came another. She couldn’t help but wonder how well protected the jewels would be. Would they remain encased the entire night? Would there be guards posted?

  Not that she would ever have the nerve. But Meridian’s royal family would scarce miss a single gem, so wealthy was the country.

  Meridian was hailed as a hidden paradise of golden beaches on the edge of the Mediterranean. Bordered by impenetrable mountains on the interior, it was inaccessible except by sea. It had long been the haven of seafaring kings and queens who showered the well-guarded country with riches simply for the privilege of spending a night behind its walls. For centuries, Meridian had been a meeting point for Eastern and Western traders alike. It had made it a policy to shelter every man, whether king, shah, or lowly tradesman—for a price. The country covered no more than two square miles, but was one of the most valuable pieces of real estate in all of Europe.

  “Perhaps I will, after all,” Claire relented, considering the jewels. A single diamond from the collection would likely solve all her problems. But she just needed a few smaller ones.

  If she should happen to touch them, and if one gem should happen to come loose, and if it should happen to fall into her hand…she might not return it.

  “Really?”

  Claire shrugged. “As you said, what better things have I to do? Sit and wait for Ben to reappear?”

  “Oh, yes!” Alexandra exclaimed and clapped her hands. She bounced up from the bed and began to pace, her face flushed. “It will be so much fun! You won’t regret it, Claire. I’m certain it will take your mind off all your troubles. Oh, Papa will be so pleased.”

  Claire grimaced at the thought of bearing Lord Huntington’s company. But, God willing, the ball might be just the opportunity she needed to ensure her brother’s safe return.

  Chapter Nine

  Returning from Cameron’s office, Ian hesitated at the door to his father’s house, considering his options.

  After seeing Merrick in Scotland, he’d been so bent upon unveiling the truth that he hadn’t considered the consequences of his actions; he’d simply reacted. And then, caught up in the ruse, he’d had little choice but to carry it through.

  He needed time.

  What if Cameron had somehow discovered the truth? What if Ryo had changed his mind and exposed him?

  What was the worst they could do to him?

  They could arrest him and toss him into gaol, but that wasn’t probable. There was no doubt in Ian’s mind that Merrick’s father was Ian’s flesh and blood, as well. Ian was betting he wouldn’t risk the scandal.

  At any rate, Ian had come too far to simply walk away.

  Blast it all. He’d never been afraid of any challenge laid before him. He’d faced angry men across the barrel of a pistol, and had, without a single moment of reluctance, robbed them of every coin and trinket in their possession. All he wanted now was what was rightfully his. And not even that, so much, as a chance for his kinsmen to have a better life.

  He also wanted to know the truth.

  So why was his gut churning? And why did he feel so apprehensive about opening the door?

  Bloody hell! He could stand on the doorstep for the rest of his life, but what would that accomplish?

  Resolved, he shoved open the door, prepared to steal into his father’s office. There were bound to be papers there that could shed some light on the truth. Besides, he wanted to know what was hidden in that damned drawer.

  He half expected to encounter guards on his way to his destination, but getting into the office proved a far simpler task than Ian had anticipated.

  As he stepped into the house, instead of a fat, burly constable with a looking glass shoved into his eye socket, a lovely servant girl with soft blond curls and cherry-stained lips accosted him. Her face was radiant as she revealed that, in his absence, a package had been delivered for him.

  “It appears to be very, very important, Your Highness,” she said, and batted long pale lashes at him.

  “Really?” Ian asked, though naturally the unseen package wasn’t intended for him.

  The servant girl cast him a sultry smile and waved him forward, then hurried in that direction, obviously expecting him to follow. Ian did so, grateful for the distraction of another pretty face, so that he could eradicate a certain pair of defiant green eyes from his memory. Who Claire was and what she was after were not his concern.

  Nor did it behoove him to dwell on the anguish she’d hidden behind her mask of anger, though never in his life had he witnessed such a look of despair.

  As the servant made her way through the maze of halls, she cast flirtatious glances backward at Ian.

  He smiled back, though he hadn’t the least interest in dallying with her.

  Neither did he care to recall the saucy sway of Claire’s hips as she’d marched away from him, her ugly dress caressing that perfectly round bottom.

  His immediate arousal had nothing to do with the servant girl’s cute arse bouncing before him.

  She ducked into his father’s office and went to the desk, lifting up a small package and spinning about to face him.

  Ian half expected to find his father seated behind the desk, but the room was empty.

  “I hope you don’t mind. It’s from me,” she said, her tone seemingly more intimate now that they were in private.

  Ian looked at the neatly wrapped gift and felt ill at ease. Apparently, Merrick knew the girl on a personal level. She was cute, he was forced to confess, but he hadn’t the least bit of interest in his brother’s leftovers.

  Her expression turned to one of concern. “Have I somehow displeased you? Do you not remember me?”

  “I’m not upset in the least,” Ian assured her and came
forward to accept her gift. “Of course…I—” don’t, he interjected silently “—remember you.”

  Her smile returned. “I’m so glad you returned to London.”

  Ian stared at the gift. He was acutely aware that the girl had moved away and closed the door. She returned to his side, watching as he fumbled with the bindings.

  “I knew you wouldn’t like it if I visited you on your first night back, so I didn’t. And then you left, and everyone was worried—especially me.”

  “I had business to tend to,” Ian said, and continued to struggle with the wrappings. Evidently, she’d put quite some effort into the adornment of the package, because it was bound by more strings than a puppet. He tore away the last of the bindings and opened the box to reveal a modest wooden heart.

  “I carved it myself!” she said. “Do you like it?”

  Ian lifted the heart out of the box. “Yes,” he said, examining it. It was handpainted—a little too lovingly for his comfort.

  The servant moved around him and sat on the desk, casting him a naughty glance. Then, she lifted her skirt ever so slightly, revealing silky white calves. “Do you remember this?” she asked.

  Most men would greedily accept her invitation.

  Ian tried to determine how best to deny her.

  When he didn’t take advantage of her offer, her smile faded. “I know. You don’t have to say it.” She jumped down from the desk, her face darkening with color as she straightened her skirts. “I realize you’ve come to London to choose a bride. I only thought…maybe…just once more wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Ian said, realizing she must feel mortified. He put out his arms to offer her a hug and wondered what the devil was wrong with him that he was turning down a beautiful woman’s invitation, when he’d never before felt inclined to. He loved women—all of them. And girls of her station knew, without explanation, that a dalliance was bound to be simply that—a dalliance. This sweet lass was quite the tasty morsel, besides, with bright blue eyes that watered as she withdrew from his embrace.

  “Well, I should be going,” she said. “I only wanted to give you a gift to remember me by.”

  “I shall never forget you,” Ian swore, bending to kiss her temple.

  He wished like bloody blazes that he at least knew her name.

  She nodded, her lips quivering. “I’ll leave you to work. I know you have much to do before tomorrow night.”

  Ian winced, wishing he could say something to soothe her feelings. He simply wasn’t willing to make her body feel better; nor did he relish the reminder that tomorrow he would bind his brother to a perfect stranger. Despite his earlier resolve, he felt just a wee bit of guilt over it.

  He moved around the desk, placing a barrier between himself and the girl, and then sat and watched as she shuffled toward the door. She hesitated in the doorway, and gave him a brief, sad smile.

  He smiled wanly, aware that his arousal had vanished, and waved her away.

  What the devil ailed him?

  The girl was lovely—there was no question as to why Merrick had been drawn to her. And she evidently harbored no illusions; she wanted nothing more than a moment of affection.

  Still, he’d let her go.

  She closed the door behind her, leaving Ian to contemplate the irony of the situation. One woman glares at him, looking as though she’d like to pluck out his eyes, and he finds himself cocked and ready to fire. Another woman throws herself on a proverbial platter and serves herself up ripe, and he finds himself limp as a wet rag.

  At least she had led him to the place he most wanted to be. And, better yet, he was alone.

  He rifled through the drawers, looking for any financial or legal records that might be traced to Glen Abbey Manor.

  It proved to be a wasted effort. He found nothing, save a vial of laudanum and a wrinkled portrait at the bottom of a stack of papers in the bottom drawer.

  At least he thought he had found nothing, until he looked more closely at the stained, yellowed portrait. A scratch, as though from broken glass, marred the left eye, and ink bled through the forehead, but he recognized the face nonetheless. It was the image of his mother, though she was much younger.

  Flipping over the portrait, he tried to make out the writing that bled through the thinning paper: It read “The sound of a kiss is not so loud as a cannon, but its echo lasts so much longer. I suffer a ringing in my ears that will not cease to torment me.

  With all my love, Fiona.”

  Ian recalled the phrase from the letter Merrick had carried. He returned the portrait to its place in the bottom drawer, contemplating its meaning.

  Why would two people who obviously longed for each other choose to live apart?

  Unless they hadn’t done so by choice?

  Chapter Ten

  The following evening, Claire dragged her two finest black evening dresses out from the wardrobe.

  She was still in mourning, and it wouldn’t serve to appear in public dressed in vivid plumage. But even with her choices narrowed to two, she couldn’t decide which gown to wear. One was entirely black, made of silk crepe. She’d purchased the garment from Courtauld’s before she’d realized the family’s pockets were to let. The other was made of velvet—quite scandalous—with hints of black lace peeking beneath the hem and sleeves. It was slightly shocking, she knew, but her father would have been amused by the choice.

  She laid both gowns on the bed and wished Alexandra would arrive to help her decide, but she knew Lexie would choose the silk crepe. It was the more proper of the two. If the truth were known, on some level, Claire wished she were more proper. She just couldn’t bring herself to care overmuch what people thought about the fabric of her gown.

  Anyway, why did it matter what she wore? She wasn’t the least bit interested in gaining the prince’s favor. And she wasn’t really in the mood to be proper. It was enough that the dress was black, she decided, choosing the velvet and lace.

  She dressed almost entirely without help before making her way below stairs to ask Mrs. Tandy to help her make the final adjustments.

  With every passing moment, Ian envied Merrick less and less.

  In fact, he was starting to pity the poor bastard.

  In preparation for the evening’s celebration, he’d been dragged about by the proverbial collar, scrubbed, trimmed and polished until even his nose shone. He’d been fitted with a pair of trousers and a jacket that had had to be adjusted to fit his width and breadth. Apparently, Merrick was of slightly smaller build, and the tailor had shaken his curly red head, wondering aloud if the prince had gorged himself during his absence from London.

  Bloody hell, did they even dictate Merrick’s diet?

  It seemed they told Merrick what to wear, where to go, how to speak, whom to speak to and—he clenched his jaw—whom to marry. You’d think by the age of twenty-eight, Merrick could be trusted to make a few decisions for himself.

  In contrast, even as a child, Ian had been allowed to run free. He woke when he wished, ate when he was hungry, and never, in his wildest dreams, could he imagine his mother dictating whom he should wed.

  Ryo, for his part, had become his bloody shadow, always watching, his black eyes unreadable. Although Ian had managed to evade him during the brief outing to High Street yesterday, the servant had caught him in the hall outside his father’s office and had remained by his side ever since.

  A fish that nibbles at every bait will soon be caught, Ryo had warned.

  More bloody riddles. Ian had had almost enough of his cryptic lessons.

  With mere moments remaining before the evening’s guests arrived, Ian ducked into the library, hoping for a moment’s respite from Ryo’s scrutiny.

  As he entered the room, one portrait caught his attention. Something about it seemed oddly familiar. On closer inspection, he realized it was a depiction of Merrick standing in a field that looked like Glen Abbey’s parklands—at least, he presumed it was Merrick. The image
had been painted at a considerable distance and the figure was blurred. Perched on the young boy’s arm was a white saker preparing to take flight. The bird was similar to one Ian had owned as a child. He tried to remember how he’d acquired the bird—a gift, perhaps—but he couldn’t recall.

  He continued studying the portrait. There was no house depicted. Were it Glen Abbey, the white house would have been directly behind the boy. But there was no house. And the portrait was painted at an odd angle, almost as though the painter were seated up high, looking down through a pane of smoky glass. Details were undistinguishable. Still, the woodlands in the background were familiar, and the field was covered with a purple haze that reminded Ian of a blanket of wild heather.

  “That was a very, very good day,” Ryo commented, appearing at his side. He joined Ian in perusal of the painting.

  Ian frowned, peering down at the top of Ryo’s balding head.

  “You will be expected to join your father soon,” Ryo announced.

  “Of course.”

  “The duchess has arrived.”

  “Splendid,” Ian said, his tone intentionally sardonic.

  He returned his attention to the portrait, determined to make his way into the hall at his own pace. In fact, it was on the tip of his tongue to tell Ryo to go to the devil, but he wanted to learn more about the painting…and that very good day.

  “There is an old saying in my language,” Ryo said.

  “I’m certain you’ll share it.”

  Ryo seemed oblivious to his sarcasm. “‘First I saw the mountains in the painting—then I saw the painting in the mountains.’”

  What the devil was that supposed to mean?

  And then, as though Ian hadn’t the sense to decipher his annoying proverb, Ryo continued. “Not everything is as it seems.”

  That was rather obvious, wasn’t it?