The Impostor Prince

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  The canny Asian remained silent while Ian digested the information. Clearly, the letters revealed regret. It was obvious that harsh words lay between his parents. And yet their entire lives had passed without either attempting to make amends. How many opportunities had each let slip by?

  “You must take care that you do not follow his path,” Ryo added.

  In the distance, a pair of lovers strolled their way, spotted them, giggled and veered onto another lane.

  Ian thought of Claire and felt a stab of impatience.

  He had never been one to waste opportunities. He’d be damned if he’d let anything slide by: not Claire, not the chance to confront his father, not this moment to uncover more truth. With the fireworks over, it wouldn’t be long before guests ventured back into the Dark Walk. “Why did you not go back after Merrick when you realized your mistake?” he pressed.

  “What makes you think I did not?”

  Ian arched a brow. “And still you left him?”

  Ryo nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Life is the wisest teacher, denka. My greatest concern was for his welfare and your friends took him well in hand, so I left him to follow his chosen path.”

  Ian had had little doubt his men would lead Merrick to safety once they recognized his face. “They’re good men,” he acknowledged. “But that doesn’t explain why you didn’t reveal me. For all you knew, I may have intended harm. I didn’t exactly welcome Merrick with open arms.”

  Ryo’s eyes narrowed. “It is said that when the character of a man is unclear, one need only to look to his friends. I knew.”

  The question slipped from Ian’s tongue. “Who are Merrick’s friends?”

  Ryo lowered his gaze. “True friendship is rare, denka. In this way, you are a far richer man than your brother.”

  Ian felt a keen pang of loss for Merrick—for the friend and brother he might have had. “Tell me, Ryosan. What role do you play in my brother’s life that you know him better than does his own father?”

  “I am his sensei…his teacher.”

  “And his only friend?”

  Ryo’s black eyes twinkled. “I believe it’s time you made an appearance at your celebration, denka, or your bride will soon greet you with her own manner of fireworks.”

  “In other words, the lesson is over, old man?”

  Ryo shook his head. “I can only advise you,” he countered. “If you do not soon listen to your heart, I’m afraid your lessons will only have begun.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was nearly three in the morning before the party left Vauxhall Gardens. His father, accompanied by the duchess, led the convoy of carriages returning to Berkeley Square. In the following carriage, Merrick and Claire rode in silence, in much the same mood in which they had ridden together the day of their first meeting, with one notable difference: Claire was coming home with him. That fact kept Ian grinning despite the baleful glances she continued to cast in his direction.

  She had yet to forgive him for some imagined slight and they’d spent the remainder of the evening standing side by side, making idle chatter with well-wishers while she tossed verbal daggers at him beneath her breath.

  In spite of that fact, Ian was enjoying the sight of her sitting so primly before him. He admired the spitfire in her. Somehow, she filled his moments; when she was near, everything seemed vivid and full. When she was not, he felt a strange void he’d never known had existed before now. He could easily grow accustomed to her presence, he thought. And it would be incredible to see her face every evening before going to sleep and each morning when he awoke.

  Och, he was smitten, and he hadn’t the first qualm about admitting that simple fact.

  She was tired, he could tell by her drooping lids, and he longed to tell her to lay her head upon his lap, so that he could remove her pins and run his fingers through her silky hair.

  “What was it like to have a brother?” he asked, trying to make conversation, wanting to know more about her and curious as to what he had missed as a child.

  She tilted her head, peering up at him quizzically, brows drawn together. “Why do you ask?”

  “I simply wondered.”

  She crossed her arms, rubbed them, and turned to stare out the window, even though there was nothing to see but darkened houses. “Ben and I are only two years apart,” she yielded. “He took care of me. He vexed me. But he was always there for me.” She sighed. “I only hope he’s well.”

  “As do I.”

  She met his gaze, her irritation softening just a bit, her green eyes filled with anguish.

  “You don’t blame yourself for Ben’s circumstances, do you?”

  She shrugged. “When my father died and Ben discovered the debt we were in, he was concerned mainly for me. He worried something would happen to him and that we’d not have the means to support me through my old age.” She turned again to stare out into the night. “He and Papa used to jest that no man would know how to handle me—even were I not such a solitudinarian and I chanced ever to meet someone.”

  “A what?”

  She shot him an embarrassed look. “I don’t really like to be around strangers,” she explained.

  “You don’t strike me as being particularly timid.”

  “I’m not. I simply despise idle chatter. And I don’t like frilly dresses, shoes or politics.” She lifted an accusing brow. “Or, for that matter, rude people.”

  Ian smiled, amused by her mettle. Even as fatigued as she seemed, she had the heart to reprove him. “And what is it you do you like, lass?”

  “Philosophy,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Science, solitude, and truth. And butterflies. Tell me, why do you have such a strange accent? At times, it sounds slightly…Scottish.”

  Ian considered his answer in light of her revelation and chose not to lie. Instead, he changed the subject. Soon enough, he would reveal the truth. “Why butterflies?” he asked her.

  She shrugged again. “Because they are born absolutely hideous and reveal their beauty only after time and to those who linger to see it.”

  He considered her explanation. The woman was, by far, one of the most beautiful human beings he’d ever encountered, but she seemed to take great pains not to call attention to that fact. Her dress was understated, she wore no face paint and her coif was simple.

  “Are you a butterfly, Claire?”

  Her head snapped up, her eyes were slightly glazed. “What I am is fagged,” she replied tartly, dismissing the question. “If you don’t mind, Your Highness, I would rather not share my private thoughts with you. I continue to be grateful for your help but would very much appreciate keeping our arrangement on a professional level.” Then she turned again to stare out the bloody window.

  Ian was taken aback.

  “Certainly,” he relented, and sat back to mull over the evening, trying to determine what he had done to anger her. Kisses didn’t lie—she must have some feeling for him. He must have said something stupid to hurt her, but for the life of him he couldn’t think what it could have been.

  Ian was already gone the following morning when Claire descended below stairs to break her fast. The scent of sausage and bacon drifted out into the foyer, making her ravenous, despite the fact that she had a small, lingering headache after last night’s imbibing. Alexandra had warned her she might experience a little twinge.

  In the dining room, His Majesty sat perusing the morning paper. Claire hesitated in the doorway, reluctant to disturb him.

  “Good day,” the king said, peering up from The Times. “Please join me, Claire.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and entered the dining room, whispering good-morning to the attending servant as she chose a seat at the opposite end of the table. She was hungry, certainly, but there were boundaries she didn’t wish to cross, and disturbing Merrick’s father at his breakfast was one of them.

  “Why don’t you sit closer,” he suggested before the attending servant could pull out her c
hair. The servant immediately pushed the seat back under the table. Giving her an apologetic look, he barred its use by placing his hand firmly upon the back as though she would tussle him for it. She gave him a puzzled glance and chose a seat closer to His Majesty.

  Apparently, His Majesty’s every request was law, she thought with some amusement and felt instantly sorry for the child Merrick had been. No wonder he didn’t know how to ask for anything. He’d had a rotten example. Her own father would never have forced his will upon either of his two children.

  “You are, apparently, quite the darling this morning,” he said, pushing a section of The Times toward her. Something about his expression provoked her.

  The headline read: Rags To Riches?

  She drew it closer to read.

  The article cited rumors about her brother and hinted at possible scandals of financial debt and gambling problems. But, overall, it was a somewhat more positive recounting of Claire’s fairy-tale engagement, though she took exception to the reporter’s comment that she was not to be blamed for her brother’s suspected extracurricular activities. In the same breath he hailed Claire as “London’s darling” and called her an English success story. In great detail, the article expounded upon her very proper choice of dress and highlighted the evening’s festivities, which were offered through the “boundless generosity” of the Duchess of Kent, with the remainder of the account being a rather boring list of “attendees of consequence.”

  “I wonder if people believe everything they read,” she commented, trying to keep the contempt from her voice. She pushed the paper back gently, so as not to offend him.

  “Of course, they do,” His Majesty assured her, eyeing her. “Have a biscuit. Those are my favorite.”

  Before Claire could reach out to take one from the platter before her, the attending servant retrieved one and placed it on her plate.

  Claire eyed the biscuit a little warily.

  Good Lord, what if they had poisoned it?

  It was a ridiculous notion that somehow didn’t seem quite so ludicrous as she squirmed under His Majesty’s scrutiny.

  His Majesty’s plate, on the other hand, was filled to brimming with sausage, eggs, bacon and just about everything else that was available.

  “I must tell you…I engaged in a bit of rebellion once upon a time,” His Majesty began.

  “Really?” Claire asked, her attention still centered on the lone biscuit sitting on her plate.

  “You understand rebellion,” he proposed. “As I hear tell, you have a history of noncomformist behavior.”

  Claire’s brows drew together at his implication. She looked at him, confused by their dialogue and slightly annoyed by his casual assassination of her character. Just because she needed the money and had agreed to this farce didn’t mean that she should be forced to suffer such rudeness.

  It will be over soon enough, she consoled herself.

  Still, she couldn’t quite hold her tongue. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t think I would describe reading as any sort of rebellion. And my dear father, God rest his soul, never had the first objection to my exploring the sciences. In fact, he had very few objections to any of my interests. His only lament was that I wasn’t more sociable, like my brother.”

  He lifted a biscuit from his plate, waving away her objections. “Yes, well, that brings me to another matter entirely, but I digress.”

  Claire braced herself. She had the sudden sense that she had walked right into the middle of an ambush.

  “Let us not mince words,” His Majesty proposed. “You must realize that my son only chose you, Claire, because you were the least suitable candidate. In fact, we were discussing your lack of merits,” he explained, “when Merrick simply decided without a proper discussion. Well, I could hardly object publicly. Though, in the end, my son will do the proper thing, I assure you—as did I. And, naturally, you will only have gained a reputation for gold digging after your brother’s antics are made public. I really don’t think that’s your intent, is it?”

  Claire sat, stunned by his frankness.

  At least he wasn’t being coy like the duchess would have been, smiling to her face and stabbing her in the back the instant she turned about. Her skin was tingly and moist and her stomach felt as though it would sink somewhere beneath her chair.

  “What I am proposing, you see, is that I give you the funds you require, now, so you can ransom your brother at once. For that payment, what I would require is that you pen my son a letter giving him your deepest regrets. And then you simply go. Leave the ring, of course.”

  He allowed her a few moments to digest the offer.

  Her head began to spin and her heart beat frantically.

  Claire swallowed. It was what she most wanted, after all—her brother’s safe return. If he gave her the funds now, there would be no more waiting. She could free Ben and put an end to this farce once and for all.

  “Naturally, I would also require your complete discretion, as my son should never know.”

  Claire thought she might be ill. She stared down at her hand on the table, at the enormous ring on her finger.

  He was offering her a way out, so why was she hesitating?

  And why did she suddenly feel as though she would retch?

  “The ransom is two hundred and fifty thousand pounds,” she reminded him, thinking that he would surely object.

  He straightened in his chair. “I’m willing to provide five hundred thousand—enough to ransom your brother and a little extra to help repay your family’s debt.”

  There was nothing more she could say.

  “Yes, of course,” she agreed for Ben’s sake, feeling instantly ill-used and sickened by the arrangement. Though, God’s truth, why she should feel so horrible about accepting Merrick’s father’s proposal and not Merrick’s was beyond her. Both were cut from the same cloth.

  “Excellent!” His Majesty exclaimed, sounding more chipper than he ever had before in her presence. “I shall have the funds drawn at once!” He popped the remainder of a biscuit into his mouth, brushing the crumbs off his hands into his plate. “Well, that should conclude our business,” he said after he had swallowed.

  Just like that, he dismissed her.

  “Thank you,” Claire said, and tried to rise from her seat without embarrassing herself. Her legs felt weak. Dazed, she turned to go.

  “Oh, and Claire…as a courtesy to my son, let me reemphasize that we should handle this affair as discreetly as possible.”

  “Of course,” Claire agreed. He needn’t continue to emphasize discretion. What did he suppose she would do? Shout it from the rooftops? She held onto the table for support, unable to look at him.

  “And I shall be certain to squelch whatever rumors may arise concerning your brother’s activities and your subsequent engagement to my son,” he added.

  “Thank you,” she said again, and walked away before she could disgrace herself by weeping.

  Ignoring the prick of tears behind her lids, she hurried away, refusing even to look at the attending servant as she passed him by.

  “He’s not going to lead us to Ben,” Ian said, trying one of the doors and finding it locked. They’d had Claire’s attacker cornered, both he and Cameron blocking entrances and exits to the alley, but the man seemed to have realized he was being pursued and had, somehow, eluded them, slipping into one of the alley’s back doors. “He knows he’s being followed.”

  “Then we’ll just have to beat it out of him,” Cameron countered, trying yet another door.

  Ian chortled, though Cameron likely wasn’t jesting. Actually, Ian would do it, too, if only he were certain it was the same man who had attacked Claire. He would do it simply to make him pay for mistreating the woman Ian loved.

  Damn her, by the way.

  Why had she turned so sullen last night? Whatever he had said or done to upset her, there must be something he could do to make it up to her.

  “You seem distracted,” Cameron sa
id.

  When wasn’t he of late? “Just tired. Last night was enough to curdle one’s liver.”

  “You’re just not accustomed to it,” Cameron told him, trying another door and finding it unlocked.

  Ian’s brows shot up as the door clicked open. “Probably,” he admitted, and cast Cameron a questioning glance.

  From inside, the sound of clinking glasses and drunken voices drifted out to the alley. High-pitched female laughter made both of them wince.

  “Sounds like a pub.”

  “Shall we enter?”

  “I could use a shot of cheap whiskey,” Ian replied.

  “On one condition,” Cameron bargained. “I never drink with blokes until I know their names.”

  Ian chuckled. “Ian,” he supplied, “though I’d rather you call me bloody bastard than use my given name just now.”

  Cameron shook his head. “I’m the bloody bastard,” he contended. “But will ‘whoreson’ do?”

  Ian grinned.

  “Whoreson it is, then,” Cameron announced. “Now let’s go have that shot of rotgut. Maybe we’ll happen upon our little friend while we’re at it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ian stumbled into the house in Berkeley Square somewhere near midnight, completely soused.

  It felt damned good to speak his mind to someone with some bloody common sense. Cameron excluded, these city bastards were nothing like his kith and kin.

  He tried not to wake anyone as he made his way upstairs, but he slipped on the bottom step, landing on his face. At once, he checked his pocket to be sure he hadn’t damaged his gift for Claire. Finding it intact, he smiled and gently patted his coat. Pulling himself up, he stumbled up the stairwell, cursing himself for drinking so damned much.

  The last time he’d come home this foxed he was but a green boy with too many oats to sow. Well, he still had oats to sow, damn it all, but the problem was that he only wanted to sow them in one place.