She refused to consider the unthinkable—that he might not return. But, then, if Ben should die, Claire would inherit the house and she would honor her agreement.
“You could sell the house,” she persuaded him, “or keep it. It’s worth at least a hundred thousand pounds, and I am quite certain it is worth much more. I was told Lady Kensington recently remodeled their home for the sum of seventy-three thousand.”
“Nash’s services do not come cheaply,” Lord Huntington allowed, speaking of the architect who was hired to do their renovations.
“Yes, my lord. But their home is scarcely the size of Highbury Hall. And they only remodeled. The property itself is worth more.”
Lord Huntington sat back in his chair, eyeing her shrewdly. “And what would prevent Ben from reneging on our bargain once he is released by his captors?”
Claire leaned forward, hoping, praying for his agreement. “I could sign a note,” she offered.
Lord Huntington said nothing for a moment, then shook his head. “No, that wouldn’t do. Forgive me for speaking so frankly, my dear, but your signature isn’t worth the paper it is written upon. Not to disparage you, but your brother could very well gainsay you and no one would so much as slap his hand for doing so.”
It was true that she hadn’t the least bit of control over her father’s estate. She was a woman, after all.
Claire’s hopes were dashed as quickly as they had been raised. Her shoulders slumped. “But, my lord, Ben wouldn’t. I cannot think he would be anything but grateful.”
“You cannot know this,” Lord Huntington countered. “He might well claim I took advantage of your… predicament. And perhaps it would be true,” he admitted. “Certainly, many would believe it.”
“But, my lord, I am offering,” Claire pointed out. “You are not taking advantage.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Huntington replied.
Good lord. He wasn’t going to help; it was obvious by the tone of his voice and the stubborn set of his shoulders. Claire couldn’t entirely blame him.
“However…”
Claire’s head snapped up.
“I have always thought you a lovely girl,” he suggested.
“Thank you,” Claire said, blinking.
“You must know that Lexie’s mother and I have been estranged for some time.”
Claire’s gasp was almost inaudible. She was suddenly terrified of what he would say next.
“In fact, as you know, she has taken up residence at our country estate.”
Claire swallowed.
“Let us not mince words, Claire. If you would, perhaps, be interested in an arrangement, I might consider the loan, after all.”
Claire’s mouth opened to reply. She closed it again. She’d never expected such a scandalous proposition.
She stared at Lord Huntington, horrified by the possibility that she might have, at some point, given him the wrong impression. And yet, never once, had ever intimated he was romantically interested in her. He was her father’s good friend. Her best friend’s father.
“In fact,” he continued. “I might even be persuaded to make the loan a gift.”
Claire shook her head. “My lord—”
“You needn’t answer just now,” he said, raising a hand. Then he opened a drawer, removing a card. “Take some time. Think about it. And if my offer does not suit you, I know a man who may be able to assist you in locating your brother.”
He snatched his pen from the inkwell and scratched something on the card.
“Thank you,” Claire said numbly. She stood, her mind reeling. “I am so sorry for having burdened you, my lord.”
Her stomach turned.
He handed her the card. “Keep in mind that Ben is a grown man,” he said. “Whatever befalls him is of his own doing.”
“Yes… thank you,” Claire repeated. “Please… give my love to Lexie when she awakens.”
“Of course, my dear.”
Claire didn’t wait for anyone to see her out. She hurried to collect her belongings and practically ran for the door, clutching the card in her hand.
It wasn’t until she reached the street that she dared even to examine it. On one side of the calling card was Lord Huntington’s full name and address. Scribbled on the other side was the name and the address of one Wes Cameron, Private Investigator.
She shuddered, uncertain whether it was Lord Huntington’s offer or the name and address he’d offered her that caused it.
Tears pricked at her eyes as she walked down the street toward Highbury Hall.
They were neighbors, for God’s sake.
She had supped with his entire family.
Claire had considered Lady Huntington a second mother in the absence of her own, and Claire and Lexie had practically grown up together, spending summers at each other’s country estates. The idea of lying with Lord Huntington—and more—was worse than unthinkable—it was utterly distasteful. It would be tantamount to carrying on with her own father.
First thing in the morning, she would seek out Mr. Wes Cameron. It was the only acceptable solution.
Chapter 6
The following morning, Ian awoke fully dressed sprawled atop the massive bed. Disoriented by the unfamiliar environs, he tried to regain his bearings.
London.
Berkeley Square.
He was pretending to be someone else, with no one seemingly the wiser.
And thanks to complete exhaustion, he’d had the first sound night’s sleep he’d enjoyed in nearly six months.
He lay still a while, determining how best to proceed and wondering how Merrick fared in Glen Abbey.
Had he revealed himself as yet?
Or did he, too, have cause to hold his tongue?
Only time would tell.
One thing was certain—he was bound to have had one hell of a headache after Ian’s head butt. Only Angus McPherson had a harder head than Ian.
Morning light streamed in through draperies that had, apparently, never been drawn. The sun’s rays cut a gilded path across the room, illuminating the figure of a man seated cross-legged on the bare floor at the far end of the apartment.
The unexpected presence gave Ian a start.
It took him a groggy instant to realize it was Ryo, who sat facing the bed, his eyes closed. He sat still, his palms resting atop his thighs. Was he praying? Meditating?
In either case, what the devil was he doing in Merrick’s bedroom?
“You are awake, denka,” the little man said, despite that he hadn’t bothered to open his eyes.
Ian dragged a hand across his whiskers. “Bloody hell,” he said. “It’s damned fortunate for me that you weren’t bent on my demise,” he groused. “I never even heard you enter the room.”
The foreigner opened his eyes, tilting Ian an undecipherable glance. “A man at peace has little to fear. But he who seeks revenge should remember to dig two graves,” he said cryptically.
A warning?
Ryo sat unmoving, his passive posture scarcely any threat, and Ian studied him, wondering what role he played in his brother’s life. It was quickly becoming apparent he was something more than a driver.
A bodyguard, perhaps?
Alas, that notion nearly made him laugh out loud. Ryo was hardly of a stature to protect himself, much less anyone else. And yet, he had somehow managed to evade Rusty Broun.
“You have much to do today,” the little man announced, ceasing with riddles and disregarding Ian’s scrutiny. “Your father wishes an audience. He was much displeased that you did not seek him at once upon your return.”
So what.
Let the bastard wait.
Considering how best to evade everyone for the remainder of the day, and Ryo in particular, Ian dragged himself to the edge of the bed to remove his boots.
Ryo was right about one thing: He did have much to do today. However, none of it had a bloody thing to do with Ryo’s, or Merrick’s or his father’s agendas.
“I m
ust first speak with you regarding a matter of some importance,” Ryo said.
Ian grimaced. He wasn’t entirely sure he wished to hear what the man had to say. Hoping to avoid discourse, he stood and turned his back to Ryo, pretending to occupy himself with his morning ministrations.
Someone, presumably Ryo, had arranged a fresh set of clothing upon the valet at the foot of the bed. Ian examined the shirt he was wearing, unbuttoned the wrinkled garment, removed it and tossed it upon the bed, glad for the change of clothes. So then, he determined, Ryo was a driver, a bodyguard, a secretary and a valet. What else?
“I have a tale I wish to share, if you will allow it.”
“Go on,” Ian said, though reluctantly.
“In my country,” Ryo began without further invitation, “there is the tale of a man whose horse escaped him and then wandered into the territory of the northern tribes.”
Whatever he’d expected the man to share, it certainly wasn’t a bedtime story. He cast Ryo a questioning glance.
Ryo ignored it, continuing with his tale. “Everyone consoled this man, except for his father, who said, ‘Perhaps this will turn out to be a blessing.’”
Unbidden, Ian’s thoughts wandered to the girl from Grosvenor Square. It was doubtful he would ever see her again, so why did he persist in thinking of her?
He had dreamt of her this morning. Thank heavens he hadn’t pleasured himself in Ryo’s presence. He didn’t embarrass easily, but a little privacy was in order. It seemed a man couldn’t even relieve himself in this place without a bloody audience.
“After a time,” Ryo persisted, “the man’s horse returned with a mare. And everyone congratulated him, except the father, who said, ‘Perhaps this will soon turn out to be a curse.’”
Ian fastened his trousers, willing away the evidence of his unwanted arousal. Damn, he apparently needed only think of the woman to lose control over his body.
“Is there a point to this fairy tale?” Ian snapped.
“Well, since this man now had two horses,” Ryo went on, ignoring Ian’s question, “his young son became fond of riding and eventually broke his leg by falling from his horse. Everyone consoled him, except the father, who said, ‘Perhaps this will soon turn out to be a blessing.’”
Ian finished dressing and sat on the bed, waiting for the end of Ryo’s nonsensical tale. “So what’s the moral of the story?” he asked.
“One year later, the northern tribes invaded. All able-bodied men took up arms and nine out of ten men died. But the man’s young son did not join the fight because he was crippled, and so, both the son and his father survived.”
Ryo sat quietly, staring back at him.
He seemed to be looking for a reaction to his story, Ian thought, though what he was searching for, Ian hadn’t a clue. “That’s it?” he asked.
Ryo nodded.
Hell and damnation.
Ian had never been one to mince words. If he’d been discovered, let the man say so instead of speaking in riddles. “Is there something in particular you’re trying to say?”
Ryo heaved a sigh, then spoke clearly, “Only time will tell whether the journey to Glen Abbey will be, not only your father’s misfortune, but yours as well, denka.”
He leveled Ian a look that spoke volumes, and Ian realized that Ryo knew more than he was willing to reveal—much, much more.
The driver added, “Last night I was summoned to give my report. I revealed nothing.”
“Why?”
He narrowed his eyes at Ian, reaching up to stroke his short beard, as though in contemplation. And then he returned to his riddles. “It is said that three things cannot long be hidden: the sun, the moon and the truth.” He sighed. “The wine of fate has been poured. Now, everyone must drink.”
Claire swallowed her pride, revealing her destination. It was certainly far more palatable than Huntington’s offer.
How could she ever face Lexie again after her father’s indecent proposal? How could she bear to show her face to the world if she were to commit such a disgraceful act?
“Madam!” Jasper argued. “Surely Lord Huntington cannot mean for you to go there?”
Claire ignored his protest. “I haven’t any choice,” she told him. And truly, she didn’t.
She most certainly didn’t need the distress of an argument this morning. Jasper had never dared question her before her father’s death and before Ben’s disappearance. She forgave it now only because she understood he felt a certain obligation as the only remaining male in the household. She tried to exercise patience—she truly did—despite the fact that his solicitousness rankled her in her present state of mind. But she was quite certain he would never say such things to Ben, were Ben in her position. And God forbid that he should ever have parted his lips to second-guess her father.
“I cannot fathom how Lord Huntington could think to direct you to such an unhealthy address,” he persisted. “Not only is that place unseemly, it is unheard of—”
“Really, Jasper,” she interrupted. “You have nothing to be concerned about.” She lifted a brow. “As you can plainly see, I am in disguise.”
The steward scrunched his nose as he examined her dress. “As what, madam?”
Claire thought it rather apparent. “As an honest but poor working woman,” she replied very reasonably, and gestured down at the plain brown, threadbare dress and weathered black boots she’d discovered in the servants’ quarters.
“But, madam, surely you do not wish to be confused with the working women of that quarter?”
Claire had to think about his question for an instant, and then her eyes widened as she caught his meaning. That wasn’t at all her intent! “You don’t mean?”
His cheeks stained red. “No, Madam! Not that!” the steward exclaimed, realizing now that he had insulted her.
That was thrice her honor had been questioned over the past twenty-four hours!
Claire seized her reticule from the foyer table, then reconsidered the wisdom of carrying a purse at all. It certainly didn’t do much for her disguise. Poor women didn’t carry purses, did they? Frowning, she set the purse down again.
“You don’t belong there,” Jasper persisted.
Claire refrained from telling him that it wasn’t the first time she’d visited the rookeries. Her hands flew to her hips. “What would you have me do instead, Jasper? Let my brother be ‘snuffed’?”
No one would simply hand over the amount of cash she required. She didn’t have any favors to call in, and she didn’t have much left of value to sell—nothing but her body, and she hardly relished the thought of lying with Lord Huntington.
Alas, it wouldn’t do much good to offer anyone else the house. Lord Huntington had made it perfectly clear no one would deal with her simply because she was a woman.
She eyed the reticule again, wondering how Cameron would know who she was if she hadn’t any proof.
Besides, as sad as it might be, she planned to offer him the set of silverware for his services. She picked up the reticule again and opened it, revealing a calling card and a butter knife. She had considered carrying a spoon as an example of what she was offering as payment, but the knife would serve a dual purpose. She withdrew the calling card, tapped it against her chin as she considered it and then shoved it back into the purse. Anyone could print a carte de visite.
Ignoring Jasper as he babbled on, she considered her locket as proof instead. She put down the purse and removed the necklace from her person, then opened the locket and examined the miniature of her mother, reading the inscription though she knew it by rote: To my darling daughter, Claire.
Tears pricked at her lids and she closed the locket again, shoving it into the purse, not wanting anyone to see it.
The locket would do. She and her mother bore a striking resemblance and the inscription was clearly written to Claire. She would carry the purse, she decided. It was plain enough.
That decided, once and for all, she turned her attention to h
er querulous servant. “I appreciate very much that you are concerned,” she said, “but please remove yourself from the door at once.”
“Madam!” Jasper continued to protest.
“Jasper, this behavior of yours is entirely inappropriate,” she advised him. “You are not my father. I am the mistress of this house and you are to do as you are told. Now, please remove yourself.”
“Yes, madam,” he relented, looking properly chastised, though he still seemed unwilling to budge. “What will you do if someone gives chase?”
The answer was quite obvious, Claire thought. “Run, of course.”
The note of alarm in his voice escalated in response to her calm, rational reply. “What if they should try to snatch you?” he persisted.
“I shall scream,” she answered without hesitation and with entirely more confidence than she felt.
He was certainly succeeding in his attempt to unnerve her.
“But, my lady, what if they should cover your mouth?”
Claire’s brows drew together. “Then, I suppose I will be forced to bite them,” she replied, though, in truth, she’d never, before this moment, ever considered committing such a crude act upon any human being. She had not considered it at five years of age, when Ben snatched her braids and pulled her, screaming and kicking away from the stables where she’d hidden herself to watch the birth of their new foal. He had insisted it was unseemly for a girl to watch such a brutal act of nature, and threatened to tell their father if she didn’t come away from the stable at once. Claire had refused and he had dragged her willy-nilly away.
“But, madam, please… what if they catch you unaware?”
Claire tried to skirt around him in an attempt to reach the door. “Jasper, I am venturing into a very unsavory area. I assure you I will not, for a single instant, be caught unaware.”
The old servant sighed, realizing at long last that Claire was unwavering in her decision. But he should have realized sooner. When her mind was made up, she wasn’t likely to change it. How many times had Ben called her stubborn, and how many times had her father merely laughed at the accusation? It might not be her most endearing attribute, but her father had often told her, with a hint of admiration, that he felt sorry for any man who thought to take her reins.
The Impostors: Complete Collection Page 24
