She was down to her last possessions and still hadn’t raised nearly enough money to cover Ben’s debts.
To some, twenty thousand pounds might not seem like much, but she had scarcely more than a thousand now after selling nearly everything she owned. The remaining nineteen thousand pounds seemed quite impossible.
Lord, it was a dreary day—as dreary as her mood.
Cursing the mist, she started home, preoccupied with her predicament. 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 on her box. Looking very sinister in his dark overcoat and wide-brimmed hat, he strode with terrifying purpose straight toward her.
Alarmed, Claire quickened her pace.
Could he be one of Ben’s captors, following to make certain she complied with their demands?
More likely, it was some petty thief.
She tried to remember whether she’d spied the man in the pawnbroker’s shop, but she was nearly certain; 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 within?
No, Claire didn’t think so. She hadn’t noticed him before now, and as suspicious in nature as she was becoming, she doubted she would have missed him.
Her heart skipped a beat.
He could have been inside the pawnbroker’s shop—perhaps in one of the privacy closets. From there, 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 true or sentimental value. If he could get the nine guineas from the pawnbroker, that would be motivation enough.
Or this was an entirely new possibility; had the pawnbroker set the man upon her? She didn’t get a sense that he enjoyed losing, and 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 she thought perhaps that the sound of his footfalls ebbed. But 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.
Perhaps he wasn’t following her after all?
Perhaps it was only her imagination? She was certainly beginning to see conspirators on every corner.
She cursed Ben’s infernal habits and said a quick prayer that her brother 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 he was alive. What if she gathered the money and paid off his debts, only to discover Ben hadn’t survived?
She swallowed convulsively over the thought, tears pricking at her eyes. She had considered hiring a private investigator, but how the devil would she pay the man? And besides, 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 the money, after all. As difficult as it had been to raise the sum she’d already raised, spending it on a private investigator seemed folly.
Rain pelted the top of her head and she spit a few strands of bandoline coated hair away from her lips.
By the by, she had so little remaining of the prepared variety, and once her supply was done, there was no buying more. Fortunately, she’d acquired a recipe for a homemade variety, made with quince-seed, rose-water, a bit of cologne and brandy. She would have to resort to that, unless she could locate some of the wax pomatum her grandmother used to use. Regardless, she should have kept at least one good hat.
Weaving through the mob, she ducked beneath umbrellas, clutching her box of silver to her breast as she looked about for a hansom. To her dismay, there were none to be found.
At the instant, she heartily regretted not taking the one remaining phaeton, despite the fact that it was nearly in shambles—nor had she ever handled one. It was a long way to Grosvenor Square and certainly too far to have to dodge footpads in the pouring rain. A profusion of very unladylike curse words paraded through her mind, though she wasn’t desperate enough to resort to vulgarity.
Alas, for all the fine talk about the new Metropolitan Police force, where was a bobby when you needed one?
Chapter 2
The journey to London should have taken longer, but they’d flown through town after town, stopping only when exhaustion demanded it. After having stared 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 precisely that order. They were in London, at long last, and despite his weariness, a sense of anticipation enveloped him. The answers he sought were close at hand.
Wondering about the man he’d left in his place, he peered out the window at the passing throng of people and a sea of black umbrellas. Black. All black—as though the entire city must be in mourning. How dreary. God’s truth. If the sun had ever truly made an appearance in this dingy town, it was gone again, fled behind soot-covered buildings as their carriage emerged into the city.
He’d been to London only once, as a youth of seventeen, but it hadn’t changed overmuch during these past eleven years. The streets were still littered with people and the Thames was rank as ever. Even at this distance, he could smell the unmistakable stink. It was a mystery to Ian what drew people to this squalid city. Already, he craved the fresh Scottish air and rolling hillsides of Glen Abbey. He wasn’t made for city dwelling and didn’t plan to be here long—no longer than it took 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 some time after his grandfather’s passing.
He was an honorable man, the letter professed.
Those who admired him—myself included—will feel his absence deeply.
Staring at the yellowing parchment, Ian felt a momentary pang of loss that he’d never known his grandsire. There was hardly a soul who’d 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 a moment to consider the man to whom the carriage and coat belonged. They shared a kinship, no doubt. It could hardly be a coincidence they looked so remarkably alike, and he felt a prick of guilt for his treatment of the man, but only a prick. He shrugged all doubt away, resolved that he was doing the right thing. “J. Merrick Welbourne III” would have his life returned to him soon enough. Until then, Ian intended to make use of every means available to uncover 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 possible, leaving one to merely assume 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 told him that his father was murdered before his birth. Who, then, was the son this man referred to?
An image of Merrick accosted him.
Could it be?
He shook his head, unable to wrap his brain about the shocking possibility. And yet, who was this man who felt co
mpelled to protect his mother from some cold-hearted opportunist? And what was it he couldn’t justify releasing into her possession?
Glen Abbey Manor?
That would explain much, though how would this man have gained possession of the estate to begin with, when it had belonged to the MacEwen clan for nearly five centuries?
The remainder 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. but he 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 yet prepared to accept it. That he could have had a brother all these years and never known—perhaps even a father. That his mother could have lied to him. That she would have abandoned one of her infants…
God’s truth, 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 neatly, 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, 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? It belabored his mind.
Settling back into the seat, he contemplated the overwhelming evidence. As outlandish as it all would seem, there was one thing that simply couldn’t be denied—the remarkable resemblance between Ian and Merrick.
Ian’s life seemed suddenly a nasty web of lies.
Clearly this much was true: His mother had kept secrets from him, and those secrets had affected the lives of every person in Glen Abbey. He was wholly disheartened by the knowledge.
Finally, they were nearing their destination—Ian could feel the driver’s relief in the renewed vigor of his driving. For the entire journey, he had kept to himself, 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.
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. But 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 face down in the middle of the road, and 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 into pieces not more than a foot from her head, spilling silverware into the street like a river of fine silver.
Thankfully, he didn’t see blood—that much was heartening—but she’d yet to move. Then suddenly, she groaned, and he blew a sigh of relief.
The driver hurried to his side. “We did not hit her!”
Ian cast the man a censuring glance. Of course they’d bloody hit her, blast it all! Wasn’t her limp form 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 discover she had an uninvited audience.
How utterly humiliating!
One man in particular was kneeling by her side, gawking at her. A prick of annoyance sidled through her at the sight of him. Though she realized he meant to help, 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 was not the time to admire such pale blue eyes, even if they were the most remarkable shade of blue she had ever encountered.
“Thank God you’re not injured,” the man said.
His voice sent an unexpected quiver down her spine. It was only 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.
More than anything, she wished he would look away, so intense was his scrutiny.
Shaken nearly 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 crowd. Thankfully, she didn’t at once spy him, but neither did she care to wait about 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 treacherous as the adults.
She shook a spoon at him. “You, sir, were traveling 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 onto the street as she cast the driver a baleful glare.
His eyes slanted sadly.
Claire ignored the prick of guilt she felt for admonishing him. But 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,” she added. “And how might you feel then?”
“Hardly 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. Quite vexed, she tossed the pieces into the broken box, annoyed that both men were still staring, neither of them offering to help.
And neither was anyone else, for that matter. The crowd was thickening around them, heads cocked like parakeets as they gawked down at Claire whilst she gathered her belongings from the street. “How rude!” she exclaimed.
How morbid, to stop and 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. “It seems to me, sirrah, that if you felt the least bit of compunction over running me down, you might be a little more inclined to help me pick up my belongings!”
Both men seemed to only suddenly realize she was the only one cleaning up the mess they’d made of the street. By now, carriages were backed up clear to the corner theater.
“Forgive me,” the employer offered. “Allow me to help.”
His driver at once fell to his knees, gathering up her silverware, most certainly scratching the finish as he scooped them into a pile. She wanted to tell him to be careful—please!—but in truth, she
wanted him to hurry. What did scratches on silver matter when lives were at stake?
At long last, 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 away! It’s much too late!”
“A lady shouldn’t be walking the streets at this hour at any rate,” the employer had the audacity to say.
Surely, he didn’t mean it the way it sounded, but Claire took offense anyway. She glared at him. “I beg pardon, sirrah! I am hardly walking the streets!”
The man blinked, probably realizing what he’d implied. “I meant only to say that it isn’t safe for a woman to be out and about at this hour,” he explained.
Good grief! As though she hadn’t already realized as much. “I was on my way home until you waylaid me,” she told him, ignoring the rain smacking her in the face.
She didn’t bother to wipe away the droplets from her cheeks. Her hair was doubtless a sad wreck—if not from the fall, then certainly from the rain. She wished they would both go to Jericho!
The fools 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 manage to locate a hansom. And what if she couldn’t? She almost groaned aloud at the thought. What if the streets grew dark before she could make her way home to safety?
Panic took a foothold in her stomach.
Calm down, she commanded herself.
The footpad had surely fled by now. And perhaps, he hadn’t been following her, she tried to convince herself.
“If you will allow us the pleasure of your company,” the employer said, “we would love to offer you a ride home.”
The Impostors: Complete Collection Page 21
