The Impostor Prince

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ian had requested the small, impromptu dinner under the premise that it would appear only natural for him to want his father and friends to acquaint themselves with his bride. But he was forced to acknowledge, as he sat at a table where the meal had already been served and cleared and every seat was occupied save one, that it had simply been a ploy to see her—a ploy that had, unfortunately, backfired.

  The duchess pushed her tea away and said what no one else dared. “Well, dear boy, it doesn’t appear she’ll be attending, after all.”

  In keeping with her exalted opinion, the other guests offered apologetic grimaces and shrugs.

  His father sat at the head of the table, his expression not the least unsettled. “Perhaps Lady Claire Wentworth isn’t the right choice, after all,” he said, clearly relishing the opportunity to alter present circumstances.

  “So you have already said,” Ian countered, an edge of annoyance to his voice.

  The duchess defended his father. “Clearly, she hasn’t the least respect for your wishes. Any normal woman would have been pleased to alter her schedule to attend a dinner in her honor, impromptu or not.”

  Ian clenched his jaw. “It was a last-minute invitation. I hardly expect her to leap to my demands.”

  Though, in truth, some part of him had expected her to come running. He’d been certain that, at heart, she was no different from the rest of her breed—willing to do anything in the pursuit of riches and fame.

  Apparently, she wasn’t willing to suffer his company for a single moment longer than she must. The realization stung enough that, instead of turning the conversation toward matters of true concern—Glen Abbey and his own affairs—he’d spent the entire dinner obsessing about a green-eyed vixen who’d soon enough disappear from his life.

  It was hardly time well spent.

  “I would not take it quite so personally,” the duchess suggested. “As I’ve said, Lady Claire Wentworth has somewhat of a reputation for disaffection.”

  Not for the first time, Ian wondered why the duchess was so engrossed in their affairs. What stake had she in the outcome of Meridian’s politics? Clearly, she was ambitious, but what else did she aspire to? Was she enamored of his father? Ian studied the two of them. His father didn’t strike him as a man who was romantically inclined, nor did the duchess seem to be dangling over him. So, then, were they simply two greedy schemers looking for the “most propitious alignment”?

  His brother must have nerves and patience of steel to deal with these people. Or perhaps, like Ian, he just didn’t give a damn, because he was bound to do whatever was necessary—within or without the law.

  In fact, to blazes with propriety. Just now, while his father was otherwise occupied, would be the perfect opportunity to search the king’s private quarters. Ian stood, tossed down his napkin and took a French leave, not bothering to supply an acceptable reason for retiring. He simply left the table and the dining room.

  “Poor dear,” he overheard the duchess say as he departed.

  In this cavernous house there were no such things as whispers.

  “I haven’t a clue what devil has possessed my son,” his father retorted, not bothering with hushed tones. “I’m afraid he’s not himself these days. Please accept my apologies for Merrick’s rudeness.”

  Ian shook his head, disgusted.

  His father still hadn’t a clue which son he was dealing with.

  Old fool.

  Unsure what awoke her, Claire opened her eyes to a still, moonlit room.

  The curtains were drawn, though not entirely. A gap remained where, hours ago, she’d pulled them aside to peer outside. The driver had, indeed, made himself comfortable in his coach. Stubborn codger. The moonlight was bound to keep her awake, but she didn’t really wish to get up and risk the night air reviving her and keeping her awake for the remainder of the night.

  As it was, her brain was beginning to roil with unwanted thoughts.

  Feeling guilty for refusing Merrick’s invitation, she’d removed the ring from her finger and had tucked it underneath her pillow. Like a pebble in a mattress, its stony presence was making her sore.

  How dare he expect her to come running at his command, like some silly puppy?

  Sighing, she flipped away from the window and faced the wall, trying not to think about the way he’d looked at her whilst they’d danced.

  He was using her, she reminded herself.

  Though why would he invite her to a small, private affair, where hardly anyone would see them together?

  Unless he simply wished to see her.

  Poppycock, she chided herself.

  He didn’t know her, and he’d made it quite clear that the farce would be over soon.

  She tried hard not to think about Ben either, because whenever she did, panic nearly overwhelmed her. She was so close to being able to free him, and that’s what she must remain focused on.

  As soon as the sham engagement was over, she could use the ring to pay the ransom. Reaching beneath the pillow, she fingered the precious stones, smiling despite herself at the way Prince Merrick had unceremoniously placed it on her finger. She’d been mortified at discovering his identity. And Alexandra had stared, openmouthed.

  Her eyes drooped as she stared at the faded flowered wallpaper, a French design her mother had chosen to celebrate Claire’s graduation from the nursery. Her father had suggested replacing it some years ago, but Claire had declined the offer. Although she wasn’t a flowery sort of person, she liked her rose-scattered paper just the same.

  Drifting toward more pleasant memories, she let go of the ring.

  A shadow crossed the wall, and her eyes fluttered open. For an instant, she thought it was only the curtains slipping back into position, masking the moonlight, but the shape flitted past, revealing light once more. Instinctively, she turned to see what had moved.

  A male hand covered her mouth. Claire was forced to turn and stare at a twisted silhouette on the wall, though not before she caught a glimpse of him. He was the same man who had followed her from the pawnshop.

  “Don’t say a bloo’y word,” a raspy voice commanded her.

  Claire’s heart pounded.

  “I’m not going t’ hurt ye—not this time.”

  She tried to speak, to ask what he wanted, but her words, forced through the knot in her throat and muffled by the hand clasped about her mouth, came out indecipherable.

  “Shh,” he said. “Do ye wish t’see your brother alive, princess?”

  Claire nodded.

  “Well, then, princess, just gi’ me the bloo’y ring.”

  Claire shook her head as he groped for her fingers. Finding nothing, he demanded, “Where is it?”

  He loosened his grip on her mouth to let her speak. “I—I don’t have it,” she lied, realizing that there would be no assurances that he would release Ben if he absconded with the ring now.

  “I don’ believe ye,” he growled, and pressed her face into the pillow.

  Claire’s heart flipped as the ring dug into her cheek. He was pushing so hard that she could feel it cutting through the down. “It’s true,” she swore. “Prince Merrick is keeping it until after the wedding.”

  “Well, then, the sum is now two-hundred fifty thousand pounds,” he told her, shoving his hand against her mouth once more and jamming her face way down into the pillow.

  Claire cried out. She tried to turn to plead with him, but he shoved her forward and pinned her to the bed. She felt the prick of cold steel against the back of her neck. “Uh-uh,” he said, his breath smelling of sour ale. “You just get me another fifty thousand pounds, or I’ll be tying ye both up by the ankles and dropping ye into the Thames. And your spoiled prince won’t be able to save you.”

  Claire wanted to assure him that she would have the money soon, but he buried his face into the back of her hair, and she swallowed every word she was about to utter.

  “I’m going t’ go now, but don’t scream o
r turn about, or I’ll be cuttin’ my losses here and now. Do ye get my meaning, princess?”

  Claire didn’t dare tell him she’d already recognized him. She hesitated in responding and he licked the back of her neck, drawing a shudder of disgust from her.

  “Understand?” he asked again.

  Claire nodded.

  “Good,” he said, and released her at last.

  She didn’t hear him walk away, so thunderous was the beating of her heart, so silent were his footsteps.

  She watched the retreat of his silhouette into shadow with bated breath. And then, even after he’d been gone what seemed an eternity, she did not stir. Only when she was certain she was alone did she turn. Finding the room empty, she seized the ring and bounded up from the bed, her heart racing as she made her way to the hall door.

  Greeted by silence, she peered into the corridor. Finding it empty, she flew down the hall and down the stairs toward the front door. Only when she reached the foyer did she dare scream.

  Chapter Fourteen

  With Ryo gone to fetch Claire, and his father preoccupied with the guests, Ian headed to the master’s quarters.

  After searching the room thoroughly, he found a small box in the closet. It had been tucked away behind a stack of hatboxes. For some reason, its placement struck him as odd. He sat in the chair nearest the closet to sift through it. Its contents took him aback. The box was brimming with letters that had never been dispatched, all addressed to his mother.

  He sat in the chair reading and hadn’t the first inkling how long he sat, or how much time passed.

  God’s truth, he no longer gave a damn if he were discovered.

  From the letters, he gathered that his mother had once been betrothed to his father, a fact that both relieved and dismayed him. In anticipation of the coming wedding, his grandfather had signed away Glen Abbey as a dowry gift. It was the only thing he’d had of value to offer. He’d been so thrilled to have his daughter marry so well that he hadn’t considered the consequences were they to part, so he’d made no provisions for that possibility. From what Ian gathered, the wedding had nearly occurred but had been called off at the last moment. Though his mother hadn’t quite been jilted at the altar, she’d been jilted nevertheless. Apparently, his father had been forced to keep a childhood engagement with a Spanish heiress of royal blood. Only by then his mother was pregnant, with twins. And his father had forced her to choose between her two infants, keeping one to claim as his heir.

  It was unthinkable, and yet…

  In reading the letters, it seemed his father felt some remorse and that he wished to absolve himself.

  So why hadn’t he?

  More disconcerting than shocking, Ian found countless vials of laudanum in the box—empty ones, full ones. Was the king drugging himself into apathy? Or was he taking the drug to ease the symptoms of some illness?

  Why the hell should Ian care?

  And why, by God, was his father bound and determined to foist his same mistake on his son?

  It was obvious he must have loved their mother. If the quantity of letters didn’t betray it—so many it could be called an obsession—his words spoke volumes.

  How could he justify forcing Merrick to marry for political gain when he’d clearly regretted his decision every day of his life? In fact, he had made his Spanish heiress suffer for it. According to the letters, she’d never borne him any children and had died a miserable young woman.

  And Merrick—what sort of life had his brother led, when his own father did not seem to know him?

  At least Ian had been gifted with his mother’s love. His mother might have lied to him, and he wasn’t pleased to know it, but she certainly wasn’t as cold as the man who had fathered him.

  Whatever truth Ian had set out to uncover, his discovery tonight was entirely unexpected.

  He read from a letter dated November 23, 1816:

  I am sending Ryo with a gift of a saker for Ian’s thirteenth birthday. You may tell the boy…

  He couldn’t refer to him by name?

  …it was a gift from whomever. I have also commissioned a portrait to be painted by a certain acquaintance, a man by the name of John Constable. Please allow him to record the moment of gift giving, as I would greatly relish the opportunity to further John’s name and reputation. I think you will agree that his talent has been greatly overlooked and you should feel free to set aside funds to commission a piece for yourself while he is yet available.

  The letter ended in an angry scribble of black ink that bled profusely into yellowed paper. A first draft, perhaps? Had he bothered to pen another? So his father wanted to further the man’s reputation, did he? Was that his primary objective? Had he said as much to Ian’s mother? Was that why she’d been angry enough to burn down the carriage house? Had she watched the man peer down at them, prying into their lives, and burned inside with rage?

  Ian tossed the letter back into the box. Were it put to Ian like that, he might have strangled the poor messenger where he stood.

  Ryo had been there the day Ian had been presented with the bird, he realized. Ryo knew everything and yet he’d never told Merrick.

  The bedroom door opened. Ian didn’t bother looking up. He twirled a vial of laudanum in his right hand, acutely aware of the fragility of its glass.

  “Merrick?” his father said, obviously startled to find him in his private quarters.

  Ian peered up at him, his eyes stinging.

  “What are you doing?” his father asked.

  Ian didn’t blink. “Looking for answers.”

  It was time to face the truth, no more sorting through lies.

  His father averted his gaze. “I see.”

  He saw nothing at all.

  Ian stared hard, willing the man to look at him.

  He refused. “Your bride has finally arrived,” he said.

  Ian blinked. “Claire?”

  “Do you have another stashed somewhere?” his father asked, daring now to look his way.

  “Do you?” Ian countered.

  His father’s eyes glittered. “She’s quite distraught,” he disclosed, changing the topic, maintaining his composure. “You should tend to her at once.”

  “She can wait,” Ian snapped, annoyed that his father could dismiss the situation so easily.

  “She’s weeping,” his father announced.

  Dread ripped through Ian. He bounded up from the chair, dropping the vial of laudanum at his feet as he brushed past his father.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “She refuses to speak to anyone but you,” the duchess announced as Ian approached the drawing room.

  It was evident by the woman’s florid complexion that she was agitated by her lack of command over the situation.

  Ian could hardly blame Claire for holding her tongue. She was wise enough to realize nothing she said in the duchess’s presence would remain in confidence.

  Inside the drawing room, Claire was perched on the edge of the settee, her eyes red rimmed. She had, indeed, been weeping, but she was settled now, wrapped in a blanket that didn’t quite conceal her bare ankles. Evidently, she’d left her home in quite a rush.

  Ryo stood guard at her side, looking very protective of her, despite their previous dissention.

  He wasn’t alone in his solicitude.

  If anyone had harmed Claire, Ian swore he’d strangle the fool with his bare hands.

  Still attempting to manage the situation, the duchess followed Ian into the drawing room. “I took the liberty of sending the guests home,” she explained, as though she were mistress of this house and not a guest herself. “And I sent for tea. It should help to calm her.”

  “I’d like to speak with Claire alone,” Ian said at once, not bothering to wait until Claire requested it. It was obvious Claire had little to say in Victoria’s presence.

  The duchess halted, tapping her heel in a telltale gesture of disapproval. “Of course,” she replied, but Ian knew he had offended her.


  He didn’t give a tinker’s damn. If his father was concerned about Victoria’s sensibilities, he could get his arse downstairs and pander to her all he wished.

  Ian and Ryo shared a look of understanding, and Ryo moved forward to see the duchess out, closing the door behind her.

  Claire waited until Ryo stepped out of the room, not that she minded his presence terribly. He’d been kind to her since the ordeal, coming at once to her rescue and whisking her away from the house. But she wanted to speak to Merrick alone. She needed to be certain he wouldn’t refuse to let her keep the ring. It was her only hope for Ben. This morning, she had been so certain her troubles were nearing an end. She’d felt safe in her own home. Tonight, she felt violated and afraid—not merely for Ben, but for herself, as well.

  These men were greedy and ruthless; that much was clear.

  What if she were to give them everything they wanted, and still they wanted more?

  She was grateful Merrick had sent the duchess out. It was horrid enough that the duchess had witnessed Claire dressed in a night rail, a blanket and little else. No doubt everyone would hear of it tomorrow. It couldn’t be helped. Claire hadn’t dared to go back into the house. She had insisted, even, that Jasper and Mrs. Tandy spend the remainder of the evening at their daughter’s home.

  Despite their earlier discord, she was glad to be with Merrick now. He was the first person she’d thought of as she’d run screaming out the door, the only person she could imagine sharing confidences with now. She didn’t dare go to Alexandra or back to Lord Huntington.

  “Thank you so much for seeing me,” she said, knowing he must be piqued that she had refused his invitation. In fact, he seemed quite put out, towering above her now, his hands resting on his hips. She shivered, though she wasn’t cold. “I—I realize it is late.”