Claire tossed a pitifully bent fork into her mangled box. A ride home with perfect strangers was the last thing she required at the moment. For all she knew, that’s how her brother disappeared. “I can find my own way, thank you.”
But then she spied the footpad who’d been following her since the pawnbroker’s, standing inside a little shop across the street, staring out the window, only waiting.
Claire’s heart flipped.
Good lord! He was following her.
“Alas, then… please accept our humble apologies, madam. I suppose we’ll be on our way.”
Claire snatched up the last of her silver and lifted her box, thrusting it at the employer. “Do be a gentleman,” she commanded him. “Carry my box to the carriage.” Then, without a word, fearing they might change their minds, she stood and hurried to their vehicle.
Chapter 3
Ian watched her march straight to the rig and let herself in. Evidently, she considered him the lesser of evils, and the thought brought a wry smile to his lips. There were quite a number of folks who would disagree. Glancing over his shoulder, he tried to determine what it was she’d spied that changed her mind. No one stood out, but something did change her mind. He didn’t miss the look of fear on her face, or the rush to be out of harm’s way.
Ryo, too, seemed a bit befuddled. He scratched his head and the two men shared a look of confusion before Ian motioned for Ryo to return to his driver’s seat.
The very instant Ian mounted the rig, his saucy little passenger snatched the silverware box from his hands and settled it atop her own lap.
“Grosvenor Square, thank you, please,” she snapped, and then sat primly before him, doing her damnedest to ignore him, her lovely face a mask—all but those stark green eyes that betrayed her fear.
Ian willed her to look at him, but she refused, denying him even the slightest glimpse into those lovely eyes. Beautiful, he thought. Her skin was flawless, save for that fresh scrape on her chin, and he felt aggrieved that he’d had a hand in marring her otherwise perfect complexion.
Lifting a brow, he eyed the silverware box balanced precariously upon her knees, with silver protruding despite her efforts to conceal it, and wondered to whom it belonged.
Stolen goods?
It wasn’t unheard-of—a female canter—but she didn’t strike him as one. And, really, he should know a thief when he saw one.
So, then, who was the little she-dragon trying so hard to ignore him?
One needn’t be a London native to recognize the address she’d given him was prime. But why would a woman of her apparent stature walk about London unattended with a box full of silverware en tow?
Were the silver a new purchase, that box would have been delivered by the dealer. No upstanding merchant would ever allow a gentlewoman to risk herself so stupidly.
He studied her while she continued to snub him. Her dark gray gown was neatly pressed, though the cut and material would hardly turn the heads of most women of means. It was as modest as the dresses his mother’s nurse so often wore, and God knows Chloe couldn’t afford extravagant purchases on the meager salary Glen Abbey Manor afforded her.
So, then, was his reluctant passenger merely someone’s abigail, running errands?
Whatever the case, the lovely little poser was the most intriguing female he’d ever laid eyes upon. And despite that he knew better, he couldn’t keep himself from baiting her. “Most reputable merchants deliver their wares,” he suggested, and waited for her to respond.
She caught his meaning at once, smart little bird.
Like a cornered fox, she was quick to defend herself. Her gaze snapped up, eyes flashing with a brilliance that an emerald would envy. Her scraped chin lifted a hair. “Are you implying, sirrah, that I would do business disreputably?”
Ian assessed her, taking advantage of the directness of her gaze. Her green eyes were striking, with glittering gold flecks that caught the light.
Mesmerizing.
Under his scrutiny, her cheeks stained a deeper rose, but she didn’t kowtow to him; nor did she appear moved to explain her possessions, even when he narrowed his eyes.
Instead, she straightened her spine, bringing his attention to the lovely shape of her breasts. They strained against the bodice of her gown and he couldn’t help but note the pebbling of her nipples.
An unexpected surge of desire bolted through him, the sensation so keen it made him shudder.
She was waiting for him to respond, he realized, and it took him another befuddled instant to remember what it was they were speaking of. Acutely aware of his unwanted arousal, he forced his attention to her face. It was the very first time in all his life that he’d ever felt discomfited by his reaction to a woman. And certainly, it was the first time since he was a boy that he’d blushed over it.
“I wasn’t suggesting anything,” he lied, and shifted in his seat to hide the indecent evidence.
Devil hang him if it didn’t suddenly feel as though he’d erected the Tower of London in his trousers.
She lifted a lovely brow, seemingly oblivious to his predicament. “Oh, but I believe you were!” she countered. “And I assure you it was quite rude.”
Like a good lady, her eyes never wandered south of his face, but Heaven save him, that mouth was entirely too kissable, managing to further distract him despite his resolve.
Damnation. Ian willed her focus to remain steady upon his face. In fact, he dared not blink, lest he lose her attention.
He smiled uncomfortably. “You mistake me, Madam. I only meant to say that it isn’t safe for a lovely lady to be carrying such a valuable package. It’s quite remiss of your… merchant… to send you home without a proper escort.”
She ignored his veiled compliment. “Well, what you meant to say is hardly what you implied. So, it would appear, my lord, you require an education in the art of social discourse. And furthermore,” she added, “why I happen to be carrying any package—valuable or not—is hardly any of your concern.”
Thankfully, her temper did him the greatest of favors. His erection diminished at once.
Bloody shrew.
It was clear from the fire in her eyes that she wasn’t quite through with him. “First, you run me down,” she pointed out with cool disdain, “then you impugn my character. What next?” Her lucid green eyes flashed as she tapped her box. “Will you now rob me?” she asked, clearly certain of his answer.
Ian choked back startled laughter.
She hadn’t a clue how close she was to the truth of his nature. That box would likely feed and clothe a family of four for a lifetime.
Both her brows lifted as she prompted, “Well? Shall I hand over my silverware now and save us both the trouble?”
If only his victims were all so accommodating. So many quips might have tumbled from his lips just then, if only this had been any other time and she had been any other woman. But he was too weary to voice them, and for some odd reason, he didn’t care to vex her any more than he already had.
She made no move to hand him the box, he noticed with some amusement. Instead, she drew it closer, looking for the entire world as though she would shred him to tatters if he so much as made an advance toward her.
Ian half expected her to demand that he halt the carriage at once, no matter what his response.
Truly, despite his reputation with the ladies, it had been some time since a woman had turned his head, much less warmed his bed. But, bloody hell, no woman had ever made him blush then burn, only to dash him so coldly.
He studied her stiff posture and wondered if she were a virgin. It was hardly a proper notion to entertain, but then, he’d long ago divested himself of pretensions. One could not engage in highway robbery, after all—no matter how noble the motive—and walk away a perfect gentleman.
And nevertheless, he could be quite charming, he’d been told. So he affected his most disarming tone, hoping for a truce, at least. He extended his hand, realizing it was presumptuous but
needing to know if her skin was as electric as the air surrounding her. “It seems as though I owe apologies,” he said.
She eyed his hand as though it were a viper, but Ian persisted.
“Let us begin anew, Miss…”
She said nothing, merely glowered at him, and continued hugging her box.
“How is it your friends address you?” he was bold enough to ask.
Her hand remained planted upon her battered box and she tipped him a smug glance. “If you were a friend, you would know, wouldn’t you, sirrah?” She followed that announcement with an haute little nod.
Whatever response Ian had expected from her, it certainly wasn’t that.
He lifted his brows, withdrawing his proffered hand. Very clearly, she hadn’t the least interest in furthering their acquaintance.
Damn it all to hell.
Evidently, only Ian perceived any attraction between them. She was as frosty as a Scotsman’s arse in winter.
He tried to remember—and couldn’t—the last time a woman had so thoroughly rebuffed him.
Considering her refusal to share her name, Ian didn’t bother to introduce himself; it was a moot point, anyway. He wasn’t who he was pretending to be. And he wouldn’t be in London long enough to make new friends, despite that the vixen sitting before him was the most beautiful fishwife he’d ever encountered. More’s the pity, he didn’t need complications. He was here to find answers, not to fill his bed.
He smiled curtly, resigned to their mutual discord.
She returned an equally false smile—one that indicated she was out of patience with him—then turned to stare out the carriage window.
They continued in silence until they neared Grosvenor Square.
Ian recognized the stately mansions lining the street. His passenger leaned forward, as though prepared to leap out the door the instant the carriage stopped. He couldn’t blame her. The tension between them was thicker than a lowland fog.
Still, he had to accept some measure of responsibility for his actions. He had nearly run the lady down and despite his refutations, he had, indeed, questioned her honor.
Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew a handkerchief, offering it to her. No matter that he thought her a shrew, he couldn’t let her face her employer with a bloodied and dirtied face.
Like a white flag of surrender, the hanky caught her attention.
She lifted her deep green eyes, narrowing them at the offering. “Do I appear to be weeping?” she asked, making no move to take it.
Ian arched a brow at her.
She lifted her chin even higher. “Simply because I am a woman does not mean I must sob at the first sign of distress. I am quite all right, thank you very much.”
He tried to keep his amusement at bay, but the curve returned to his lips. “Your chin is bleeding,” he said gently, and tried not to feel smug at the immediate change in her expression.
Her eyes widened. “Oh!” Snatching the handkerchief from his hand, she said, sounding a little chagrined, “Thank you. I didn’t realize.” The look she gave him was, for the briefest second, entirely too vulnerable, and for the first time in his life, Ian hadn’t any inkling how to respond.
The carriage came to a halt, and as quickly as the look appeared, it vanished. She snatched up her box and shoved open the door before Ryo or Ian could assist her.
“Thank you!” she said, stepping down to the street. “No need to see me to the door!” She slammed the carriage door as Ian rose to follow. Had he moved forward a single inch more, it would have earned him a broken nose. As it was, she left him staring eye-to-eye with blue velvet.
As the carriage lurched forward, the interior seemed emptier than it did before.
Outside, thunder roared and rain began again to pelt the rooftop. Or maybe it had been storming all along, because it occurred to him in that instant that, in her presence, he hadn’t been aware of anything but her.
Chapter 4
Clutching her battered box of silver, Claire waited until the carriage was gone and then hurried to her front door, closing it quickly against the rain and the prying eyes of nosy neighbors. From outside, the Grosvenor Square residence might appear as venerable as ever, but inside it was little more than an empty shell. Room by room, Highbury Hall had been stripped of its dignity—pictures removed from the walls, vases and furnishings diminished.
Only the drawing room remained intact, a facade for the benefit of guests Claire no longer received. Indeed, she would be too ashamed for anyone to witness the decline of their home since their father’s death. Their good name was sure to follow.
As to be expected, no one greeted her at the door as she entered the once-grand foyer. Many of their servants had abandoned them. Jasper, bless his ancient soul, had remained, even despite the fact that she couldn’t pay him. The old steward and his wife had been with her family as long as Claire could remember, but even Jasper and Mrs. Tandy couldn’t revive the spirit of their dying abode.
Claire made her way to the dining room and set the broken box of silverware on the table, patting it once, very lovingly, before turning and leaving it to collect dust.
Down the hall, in the drawing room, she fell into her father’s favorite chair, easing into the familiar mold his body had etched into the well-worn fabric. Inhaling deeply, she took comfort in the sweet scent of his pipe that lingered, even after so many months. It was hardly ladylike to forget her posture, but she didn’t care—not today.
“Did everything go as planned, madam?”
Claire peered up to find Jasper standing in the doorway. She shook her head.
“I am sorry, madam.”
“Have we any news?” she asked, though she dreaded the answer.
“No, madam. It has been quiet today.”
Of late, it was always quiet.
No more male laughter rang through the halls.
No more giggling maids.
Claire sighed despondently.
Well, she supposed, no news was good news. At least, it wasn’t bad news.
Jasper came into the room, retrieved a folded blanket from the settee and brought it straight to her, settling it over her lap. “You’ll catch a cold,” he admonished.
Claire sighed again, taking comfort in his solicitude but she didn’t move or acknowledge his complaint. She had truly never felt so bone weary as she did today. “I don’t know what we’ll do,” she worried aloud.
Jasper didn’t reply. He’d never been one to dwell on negativity and there was certainly little positive to say. Without a word, he retrieved The Times from the desk across the room and returned, offering it to Claire. She took it and he patted her atop the shoulder.
“I shall have Mrs. Tandy fetch you some tea,” he offered.
It still amused Claire that he spoke of his wife so formally. She wanted to tell him not to bother. Both Jasper and his sweet wife worked entirely too hard as it was, and it was quite late. And still, she would, indeed, love a spot of tea. “Thank you,” she relented.
He left her to peruse the paper.
Although it was an empty-headed thing to do, Claire skipped the front-page headlines, unable to bear the thought of adding more discord to her life. She turned to the society page, rolling her eyes over the frivolous headlines plastered there.
Apparently, Lord Burton had eloped with Emma Percy, a mere merchant’s daughter. Everyone was up in arms about the scandal, but Claire could think of far worse things to endure, such as losing a father, and then a brother.
Her eyes stung as she recalled the tears in her father’s eyes during his final moments. He hadn’t wished to die so soon, but he’d known it was his time and he’d held Claire’s hand tightly as he’d said his goodbyes. Even some four months later, some nights as she drifted to sleep, the memory of his last breaths still haunted her. There had been nothing peaceful about his parting. Riddled with pain, his every breath had been labored and his last froze in an openmouthed gasp that assaulted her daily.
&nb
sp; She pushed the painful images away, searching the paper for something frivolous to amuse her.
She found her distraction in another headline.
Evidently, HRH, the Crown Prince of Meridian had gone missing after his much-celebrated arrival in London. Speculation had it that his royal father expected him to find a suitable bride amidst the ton and he, apparently, had no wish to do so. And, much in the fashion of any spoiled, cornered monarch, he’d run away from London.
What a pity.
She rolled her eyes. Why should anyone care about some ungrateful prince from some inconsequential province?
Claire had never met the man, but she recalled the hullabaloo after his first visit to London some three years past. Her good friend Alexandra, who’d been invited to a royal soiree in the prince’s honor, had told her the prince had seemed arrogant and bored with everyone but himself. Alexandra said he was rude, rebuffing all attempts at polite conversation. In fact, Alexandra herself had had a terrible crush on him until she’d suffered the misfortune of sharing a dance with the man. Forced upon her by Lexie’s mother, Lady Huntington, he’d treated Alexandra to a painful ten minutes of unrelenting silence and then had deposited her without a word at her mother’s side. Embarrassed, Alexandra had wept for two days thereafter.
Disgusted, Claire tossed the paper aside, ignoring the voice in her head that cautioned her to retrieve it before the ink marred the fine ivory cloth of the settee.
God’s truth, she couldn’t care less who was doing what to whom. Didn’t anyone have anything better to worry about?
God bless Emma Percy; may she be blissfully happy every last day of her life. And Mr. Runaway Prince would come home just as soon as his royal papa snipped his purse strings.
In the meantime, how in creation was Claire supposed to raise the remaining banknotes to ensure her brother’s safe return?
Jasper returned suddenly… without her tea.
In his right hand, he held up a small parcel. He stood in the doorway, his color ashen, a look of horror on his face.
The Impostors: Complete Collection Page 22
