The Impostors: Complete Collection

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  He released her. “Don’t cause a scene,” he warned, poking her hard with his pistol. “Or you’ll regret it. I’ve had enough of your contentiousness”

  “Contentiousness?” she countered. “And what, pray tell, would you advise your own daughter under the same circumstances?”

  “Shut up,” he said, shoving the barrel of his gun so hard between her shoulder blades that she cried out in pain.

  Tears brimming her eyes, Claire clenched her jaw, trying not to sob. She was hardly a simpering miss, but it was nearly too much to bear.

  Without another word, Huntington led her off the ship and onto the docks where dockhands were busy at their given tasks, despite the fact that night had fallen.

  The men cast curious glances in her direction but didn’t stop their laboring. And why should they? A man with a gun was likely a common sight in these parts and they knew better than to meddle in the affairs of others.

  Whatever needed to be done to save her, she would have to do herself, she realized.

  She perused the area, looking about, casually slipping out of one shoe, kicking it behind a crate. She scarcely broke her stride and Huntington didn’t notice. It was growing darker now, and she considered tossing off the other shoe and fleeing down the alley, but the thought of Ben rotting away in some prison cell made her waver.

  “Where are we going?” she asked when they reached Huntington’s carriage.

  “I’ve already told you,” he said. “Someplace safe.” He urged her into the vehicle, once again jabbing the barrel of his gun into her spine.

  “Please!” she said, as she hoisted herself up, but not before slipping out of the other shoe, leaving it in the gutter.

  Again, Huntington didn’t notice. He climbed in behind her, roughly pushing her into the seat, all pretense abandoned, and slammed the carriage door. He snarled at her like a wolf as he rapped the rooftop, signaling the driver to go.

  Chapter 30

  Black as it was against the pervading shadows, Ian somehow discovered one black slipper lying behind a stack of crates very near the shipyard. “I believe it’s Claire’s,” he said, inspecting the lady’s slipper, then handing it to Ben.

  It was quality leather, only a bit worn, and just the right size. The inside of the shoe was still slightly warm, as though it hadn’t been long since the owner discarded it. In these parts, worn or not, it wasn’t likely anyone would part with a good shoe, not for any reason—unless they were suddenly deceased and no longer had need of it, in which case, it would promptly be snatched up by another as shoes need not match to serve their intended purpose.

  Thanks to bloody hell Ryo arrived when he did to inform them that Edward, of all people, had presented himself with news of Claire’s whereabouts. Whatever the hell Glen Abbey’s steward was doing in London, or how the man should know anything at all about Claire, Ian couldn’t figure, but it didn’t matter right now. Finding Claire was his only priority. He would deal with Edward later.

  “It’s hers,” Ben confirmed. “My sister hasn’t bought a new pair of shoes in more than five years. I’d know these scuff marks anywhere.”

  Ian was already searching for its match. If she’d left one shoe, she was bound to have left another, and perhaps there he would find more clues.

  “Here’s another!” Cameron shouted.

  Both Ben and Ian rushed to where he stood, examining a black leather slipper in the gutter.

  “Wherever they’re off to, they must have gone by carriage,” Cameron deduced. “This shoe is turned toes facing the street, which tells me she must have been heading that direction, but her walk ended here. I can think of a few probabilities, but the most obvious one is that she boarded a carriage.”

  All three men considered the evidence. In one direction, the street ended in a dead end. In the other, it veered toward…

  Ben swallowed, grimacing. “I think I may know where he’s taken her,” he said.

  “George Street?”

  Ben seemed surprised by Ian’s quick answer. “How did you know?”

  “Much to our distress these past days, your sister is far too fearless for her own good,” Cameron explained.

  “If he took Claire there, he’s a rotten bugger,” Ben said. “I’ll kill that man with my own bare hands.”

  “Not if I get to him first,” Ian said.

  Claire groaned as the carriage stopped on George Street, recognizing the house at once. And yet despite the seedy nature of the business that must be engaged here, the sight of that house gave her a tiny prick of hope.

  The more she thought about it, the more she knew: Merrick wouldn’t be satisfied with her silly note. He would come searching for her, if only to learn what prompted her decision. Particularly after last night, she knew in her heart of hearts that the man who’d brought her that sweet little dead moth was incapable of loving her and then leaving her.

  And, if he did come searching for her, both Cameron and Merrick were already aware of this location. She’d given them both this address when they’d first hired Cameron to search for Ben. Lord Huntington couldn’t possibly know she’d been here before, and she certainly wasn’t about to reveal as much right now.

  She stepped down from the carriage, hoping he wouldn’t notice her bare feet, and prayed she’d not step on anything too sharp. More than that, she dearly hoped Merrick would discover the clues she’d left for him—and please, lord, she prayed. Please, please let him disregard my note.

  “What is this place?” she asked, curious despite herself. She already knew it was a den of iniquity, but what sort of iniquity was still a matter to be disclosed.

  He seized her by the arm, pushing her unceremoniously toward the house. “You might consider it a playground, of sorts.” Very meanly, he shoved her through the front door and stepped in behind her.

  The front room was inordinately dark and musty, calling to mind the scent of that pawnshop—things old and well used. Very well used. She fanned the air before her face. “It hardly seems any sort of playground,” she muttered beneath her breath. Who in all of England would ever have dreamt that Alexandra’s father would turn out to be such a fiend. How was it nobody knew—not even her own father?

  Grunting, he dragged her toward the stairs, lighting a dirty lamp at the bottom of the stairwell, and then he ushered her up, giving her another quick shove.

  Claire frowned, though she opted not to complain, knowing it wouldn’t do her much good. A glance over her shoulder revealed a messy front room with dark shades drawn over the windows, with drapes that were even older than the drapes at Highbury—filthy and yellowed besides.

  Upstairs, it was only slightly tidier. They passed one room furnished with gaming tables, another with a bed. And then another bedroom. And another, until she began to deduce a theme. At the end of the hall, he pushed her into a room and entered behind her, setting the lamp down on a small table.

  A very, very bad, bad feeling sidled down her spine as she examined the small room. A huge bed occupied the center of the space—as though the bed itself must be the focal point. Along the entire periphery were gadgets, whips, masks, and strange swings—things Claire couldn’t possibly begin to consider, and the entire room reeked of something unhealthy and sour. Shuddering, she rubbed her arms in revulsion. The floor was sticky beneath her feet. “Where are we?”

  “A playground, I told you—somewhere a man might feel free to explore his vices,” Lord Huntington explained.

  Claire didn’t truly comprehend the meaning of that, not until she happened to spy a small book lying open on a table. Beside the book was a wooden statuette. Curious, she glanced down at the book, but not before lifting the novelty statue to inspect it. All at once, her face flamed. The book was filled with images of men and women in contorted positions. Horrified, she looked closer at the statuette in her hand and dropped it, shrieking. After last night with Merrick, she understood precisely what that was, and she turned to look at Lord Huntington, shocked and repulsed.
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  He cornered her behind the bed, smiling thinly now, and Claire’s heart began to pound. Whatever danger she had believed she was in, she suddenly understood the full extent of it. “You are debauched,” she said.

  His smile never faltered. “Everyone is a little debauched, Claire. Only I am willing to confess it.”

  He approached her, bending to lift the wooden figure from the floor. “Don’t tell me you haven’t been dreaming of Prince Charming inside you?”

  Horrified even by the prospect, Claire backed away from him and the crude wooden appendage, looking about desperately for a means of escape. The door was at his back. There was no possible way she could scramble around him, and he was still holding the gun. But then, her heart leapt as she spied a face peering into the room from the shadow of the corridor—Merrick—but, no, not Merrick.

  Claire had never been so thrilled to see another human being in all her life—no matter who it was. If only she could have leapt over the bed, she would have flown into the King’s arms in gratitude. “Release her,” he demanded of Huntington.

  Lord Huntington turned the pistol on Merrick’s father. “Well, well, look who it is. Come to debase yourself like the rest of us, Your Majesty?”

  “Put the gun down,” His Majesty demanded.

  Claire shook her head, warning him to be careful.

  “He isn’t to be trusted,” she said quickly, and gasped, spying yet another stranger in the hall. This man also looked much like Merrick, but it was not Merrick, and he, too, drew a pistol from his jacket.

  “Stay where you are,” Huntington demanded, a note of panic entering his tone. He dropped the wooden figurine. It fell with a clatter.

  Clearly, His Majesty was unaccustomed to commands. He took another step forward and Huntington took aim…

  It happened so fast, Claire hadn’t even time to scream.

  In a moment of deafening silence, she watched the man in the hall dive forward to shove Merrick’s father onto the bed. Huntington’s pistol exploded and bright red stained the stranger’s shirt as he collapsed atop the King.

  Huntington muttered something unintelligible and bolted out the door. She hardly had the wherewithal to make out the ensuing shouts in the hall. Her heart beat like thunder in her ears as she stared at the bodies piled atop the bed, wondering what to do.

  Should she run?

  Should she go help Merrick’s father?

  Claire’s sense of duty won over any measure of good sense.

  “Dear God!” she cried, and reached out to push the stranger from atop Merrick’s father. His Majesty stirred, peering at the man lying beside him. Clutching at his shirt, he gave a low, keening cry that tore at Claire’s heart.

  “Edward!” he shouted.

  But it was too late. The man called Edward opened his mouth and blew out a rattling sigh, then shut his eyes.

  Horrified, confused, uncertain what to do, Claire stared down at the pair while His Majesty lay sobbing over the stranger’s lifeless form. “Who was he?” she asked timidly.

  “My half-brother,” the King confessed, tears streaming down his face. And then, sensing a sudden flutter of activity in the hall, Claire peered up at the doorway, deathly afraid that Lord Huntington had returned. But, to her relief, she spied Merrick—at last. Then came Ben.

  “Ben!” she exclaimed.

  It was too much to bear! She took a step forward, her heart beating painfully, and cried out as her legs gave beneath her and then—thunk! The room turned black.

  Hours later, Claire awoke in her own bedroom, surrounded by her familiar flowered wallpaper. For an instant, she was certain it must have all been a terrible dream—until she spied Merrick at her bedside. “Claire,” he said softly, smiling fondly. “Welcome back.”

  “You took a nasty fall,” he said. “Quite literally,” and he seemed to be struggling to keep a smile from his lips.

  Claire furrowed her brow. “Why should that be so funny? Are you mad?”

  Merrick tilted her a look. “Let us just say… you were so excited to see your brother that you slipped over a… wooden… ahem, form… a form of unnatural proportions and suggestive design. Nasty, to be sure.”

  Claire’s eyes widened, as understanding dawned. She’d been so thrilled to see them both that she’d run to greet them. Apparently, she’d forgotten about that foul little monstrosity lying at her feet. Her cheeks burned.

  “You’re quite lovely when you blush,” he said, and Claire blinked, wholly embarrassed.

  “You needn’t be concerned,” he told her, reaching out to take her hand. He gave it a squeeze. “The doctor has come and gone, and there will not even be a scar—merely a bump for a while—and if you stay away from mirrors you won’t even know it’s there.”

  Claire tried to no avail to lift her hand to the sore spot on her forehead; Merrick squeezed her hand once more, very gently.

  “What about Lord Huntington?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Cameron nabbed him before he could get away. He’s precisely where he belongs… in gaol, awaiting an appointment with the magistrate.”

  Claire sighed in relief, though she worried for Alexandra. “I am so sorry about your uncle,” she offered.

  “Me too,” he confessed, and sadness flashed through his blue eyes. “However, I must confess, I had no idea Edward was my uncle.” He shook his head. “So many wasted years.”

  “Ben?”

  Having been listening very quietly, perhaps embarrassed by his part in the entire ordeal, Ben took that cue, and arose from his seat in the corner. He came to sit beside Claire on the bed, reaching out to put a hand on hers as Merrick moved his away. “My dearest Claire,” he said. “I’m so terribly sorry for everything I put you through.”

  Claire clasped her brother’s hand, patting it gently. “All that matters now is that you are safe,” she reassured.

  Ben’s expression grew sober. “You must believe me, Claire, I would have rotted in a cell were it not for you… and for Merrick,” he contended. “When I think of how foolish I have been…” He shook his head.

  Claire squeezed his hand to counter the rebuke. “You will most certainly pay the next time you worry me so, but please, please let it go.”

  The room fell silent then. Nothing new seemed entirely appropriate at this juncture, and yet… Claire cast a glance at Merrick, grateful for his perseverance… grateful for his stubborn nature… grateful that he had cared enough not to accept a note as her form of goodbye. A heartfelt thank you was certainly in order, but she longed to say so much more…

  “Merrick told me everything,” Ben said, inviting Claire’s gaze, his own eyes glazing now. “I am quite thankful you were not harmed. I simply cannot express my gratitude.”

  Claire gave her brother a half smile. “You might not be so pleased when you discover everything I’ve sold.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Claire.” His voice softened, filled with self-condemnation. “On my honor, there shall never be a next time, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for not forsaking me altogether.”

  “I could never!” Claire insisted, her eyes stinging. “You are my brother,” she told him. “You would have done the same for me.” And then, she said, all the more passionately, “You’re all I have left.”

  Ben cracked a smile. “Not quite,” he countered, and he cast another glance at Merrick, who sat quietly, listening to their discourse. “And on that note,” he offered with a private smile for Merrick. “I believe I shall take my leave and give the two of you a moment of privacy.”

  Before Claire could protest Ben’s sudden departure, her brother was up and out. He turned before closing the door. “Oh,” he said, though more to Merrick. “Remember, brother, I do have pistols at the ready should you attempt anything untoward. And, I will hold you to that wedding,” he said, before closing the door.

  There was a moment of awkward silence once they were alone in the room. “Don’t listen to him,” said Claire.

&nbs
p; Merrick smiled, and Claire held her breath.

  She had never truly expected to see him again. She had hoped, mind you—merely hoped. And now that Ben was safe at last… she was certain Merrick would leave her. He had a wife to choose, after all, and Claire wasn’t the least bit suitable for that position. And yet, there was so much she longed to say… still words wouldn’t come. She longed to find the right words to say what was in her heart before it was too late, and she wanted to tell Merrick how much his succor had meant to her, how much he meant to her.

  “Thank you… for everything,” she offered lamely. “Thank you for saving me.”

  He took her hand again. “For that, you can thank Edward and my father. Ben and I came lately.”

  Claire nodded. She had never been one to mince words. “Well, so… now that it’s… over, you’re still here. Why?”

  They locked gazes.

  “I love you,” he said simply.

  “You love me?” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. Nothing he could have said would have pleased her more. “Oh, Merrick!”

  At the sound of his name, he twisted his lips into a grimace, clearing his throat. “About that name,” he said. “It really is a perfectly good name, but it’s not mine.” He lifted his hand as though to greet her for the first time, looking more than a little sheepish. “Let us begin anew. My name is Ian MacEwen. So pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Wentworth.”

  Claire blinked, confused. “Ian MacEwen?” She sat up. “I don’t understand.”

  He sighed and put his hand down on the bed, looking Claire straight in the eyes. “Merrick is my twin, you see…”

  “So… you’re not the prince?”

  Clearly, it had not escaped her that he’d used a common name. He shook his head.

  “And you will not be returning to Meridian?”

  He shook his head again. “In fact, I have never once stepped foot out of Britain in my life… or, rather, not to my best recollection.”