The Impostor Prince
“I will publicly announce that I have chosen my bride.
“You need only make up some reason as to why you cannot wed with me—perhaps you don’t love me, after all?”
“Of course I don’t love you!” Claire protested. What a ludicrous notion! How could she love a man she didn’t even know? “I’ve only met you twice!” she pointed out reasonably.
“Three times,” Ian corrected her. “And that’s enough to establish at least an attraction, don’t you think so?”
Claire gasped softly. “I am not the least bit attracted to you, I assure you!”
“Are you not?” he asked.
Claire’s heart did a telltale flip against her breast. She was horribly afraid he might feel it, as well. “Not at all!” she lied.
He grinned wickedly, as though somehow he knew differently. “Pity,” he said. “Because I’m quite attracted to you…!”
Praise for Tanya Anne Crosby
“With remarkable insight and soul-stirring emotions,
Ms. Crosby…gives readers an enthralling
glimpse into the human heart.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub on
The MacKinnon’s Bride
“With her talent for spinning engrossing yarns and
painting vivid characters and setting, Ms. Crosby will
again capture your heart.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub on Perfect in My Sight
TANYA ANNE CROSBY
The Impostor Prince
Available from Harlequin ® Historical and TANYA ANNE CROSBY
The Impostor’s Kiss #683
The Impostor Prince #818
The Impostor Prince features characters you will have already met in
The Impostor’s Kiss.
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Prologue
Northern Scotland, 1831
Ready to strike when the leader gave the word, seven men watched from their perches within the trees as the unfamiliar vehicle approached—for the third time.
They needed this loot, but something about the closed carriage left the leader ill at ease. Though unmarked, it was far too luxurious to leave itself so vulnerable.
Either the occupant was foolish or lost…or the carriage was bait to catch a thief.
Ian MacEwen cupped his hand over his mouth to call out a signal, but indecision froze his lips. Twice before he’d let it pass, but the carriage’s presence was like a frosted pitcher of ale set before a thirsting man. It didn’t matter that it might be laced with poison; its sparkling contents were tempting beyond reason.
“His direction’s as bad as me Minny’s haggis,” remarked one of his men.
“A week ago, I’d ’a given the use of my cock for that haggis,” commented another, almost too quietly to be heard.
But everyone heard.
No one answered.
What did one say to a man who’d lost his youngest daughter to a battle against hunger? Almost three years old, Ana had been her name—sweet and shy, with little red curls and a button nose. Everyone understood why Rusty Broun was here tonight. He had three more little birds waiting at home with their mouths open wide and their bellies as empty as Glen Abbey’s coffers.
“Trust me,” Ian said to his men.
And he knew they would.
They followed him blindly, consumed with hope. Good men, all of them. They’d leave this place if they could, but where would they go? To London to feed off sewer scraps? Who would take them in with their wives and their bairns?
No, he had to do something. But what?
Silence was his answer, a ponderous, weighted silence that trampled heavily over bracken and snapped twigs below.
Anticipation was as thick as the lowering fog.
As yet, they hadn’t killed for their loot, but tonight…they might be forced to wield their weapons if the approaching vehicle was a trap.
Someone could die.
How many more children would die without their aid? The image of little Ana’s suffering face spurred his decision once and for all. He called out the signal for his men to strike.
Let consequences fall where they may.
“Kiak-kiak-keiek-keiek!”
Within the instant, the carriage was beneath them.
Ian was the first to descend.
Drawing the black hooded mask down over his face, he landed cleanly upon the rooftop. Before the driver could shout, he had his blade at the Asian’s throat. Rusty Broun came down behind him, motioning for Ian to move below into the carriage. His blade replaced Ian’s at the driver’s throat. The rest of his men dropped to the ground, surrounding the vehicle, barring its path through the woods. Forced to slow down, the carriage careened sharply. Ian nearly lost his grip, but swung back and managed to open the door.
Stunned by what he saw inside, he dropped to the ground, staring stupidly at the occupant.
All thought of highway robbery vanished.
It was like staring into a looking glass.
His hesitation cost him a jab in the jaw.
Ignoring the bone-splitting pain, he sprang into action and flung himself into the carriage, hurling the stranger backward and knocking the blade from his hand. The knife flew upward, smacked the rooftop and ricocheted downward, skimming the man’s head, drawing blood.
The carriage bolted into movement.
Ian struggled, pinning his opponent to the floorboard, slamming his head down. He tried to tell the man to stop so that he could remove his mask and reveal himself, but the man fought like a lion.
Frustrated, Ian slammed his head down into the man’s face. “Stop!” he commanded.
Finally, the stranger ceased struggling long enough to allow Ian to reach up and snatch the hood from his face.
For an interminable moment, he stared down into uncannily familiar eyes.
Bloody hell—the man could have been his twin.
It just wasn’t possible. “Who are you?” Ian demanded, confused.
“Who are you?” the man countered. Without warning, he bucked, renewing his struggles. Ian had little choice but to head-butt the fool again, but the devil hang him if he’d meant to butt so hard.
The man’s eyes rolled back into his head and he ceased struggling at once, going limp. Ian checked for a pulse and exhaled in relief when he found it strong. There wasn’t much time before the man regained consciousness.
Blast it all, what was he supposed to do now?
Certain it was no coincidence that t
hey shared the same face, he snatched off his hood and jerked the man up to quickly remove his coat, waistcoat and shirt. He switched shirts with the man while the carriage thundered over uneven terrain, drew his own hood over the man’s head, then shrugged into the man’s coat, leaving the waistcoat for later. He opened the door and yelled for the driver to stop.
The man complied at once, and Ian dragged the former occupant of the carriage out onto the grass and laid him down.
“You are not dead yet, denka-sama,” an unfamiliar voice remarked, unmistakable relief in his tone.
Ian peered up at the driver. Somehow, the little bugger had managed to escape Rusty’s blade.
Ian didn’t respond immediately.
The shouts of his men were coming nearer now.
They would find the man, he was certain, and whether the stranger revealed himself, or not, Rusty would know what to do with him.
“Let us return home, denka-sama?” the foreigner asked. “We should never have come here.”
Home.
That’s where the answers to Ian’s questions lay waiting to be discovered. Somehow he knew it. Still, he stared down at the hooded stranger, undecided.
“He is alive?” the driver asked.
“Alive as you and me.”
“Then let us go quickly!” the driver persisted. “No good can come of this now!”
“Over there!” he heard Rusty Broun shout in the distance.
His men gave a frenzied battle cry, and he knew they’d been discovered.
“Go!” Ian ordered the man, bounding into the carriage.
At once, the driver whipped the horses into motion.
He didn’t even give a backward glance as they sped away. There would be no turning back.
Instinctively, Ian knew the answers to Glen Abbey’s troubles lay at the end of their destination.
Chapter One
One week later
The door to the pawnbroker’s stood slightly ajar, beckoning the wary. A swinging wooden sign read: Money Advanced On Jewels, Wearing Apparel And Every Description Of Property.
The large display window held but a meager sampling of the wares offered within. Today’s teasers included a distinguished-looking portrait of someone’s grandfather with a pipe dangling from his lips, a few prayer books, a mismatched set of spoons displayed fan-style and a multitude of brooches.
Claire Wentworth stood outside the little shop, clutching the heavy wooden box that contained her grandmother’s fine silverware. Hesitating before going inside, she stared into the display window, examining an old brooch. The brooch, too, had belonged to her grandmother, along with one of the prayer books stacked atop a pyramid-style display. Claire hadn’t been able to redeem them, and now the items sat awaiting a new owner.
It couldn’t be helped.
Her brother was all she had left in this world. No amount of money or possessions could compensate for his death. The silverware could be replaced, she decided. Whatever memories they inspired were hers to keep, despite their loss.
But there was only one Ben.
Resolved, she took a deep breath and pushed open the whitewashed door, stepping into the now all-too-familiar shop. As the sign promised, inside were all manner of wares: furnishings, tapestries, snuffboxes, jewelry, blankets, an assortment of dusty hats, clothing and just about anything else one might imagine, including a heavy old sword that must have been wielded by somebody’s noble ancestor in some ancient battle. Its hilt was worn to the wood and the blade bore the scars of many blows—someone’s history sold for the price of a week’s rent. The thought of it sickened Claire, but such was life and there was no use bemoaning her circumstances.
No prayer or rueful wish could change the facts: Their father’s death had left them in debt. Ben had intended to honor those debts, but he’d chosen to do so by gambling away the remainder of the estate and he’d ended up in far worse trouble than debtor’s prison.
Now, it was up to Claire to rectify the situation.
Making her way toward the privacy closets, she passed through the common shop, choosing the compartment second to the end. (The last one was, apparently, occupied because the door was closed.) Once inside, she bolted the door, feeling safer even though she knew that was an illusion. With a sigh, she heaved the silverware box onto the counter to await the clerk.
At least four gas lamps lit the dust-filled shop, but none of their dusky light reached the privacy closets, which were open only to the counter. The goods offered here were cast in shadow, along with the faces of their owners. Either the occupants were ashamed of their circumstances or they were thieves peddling ill-gotten wares.
The clerk was occupied with someone in the last stall. That door had been closed, or Claire would have chosen it instead. The occupant of the darkest little closet was weeping softly. Fortunately, the clerk on duty seemed the most compassionate of the three—Claire recognized his voice—and he spoke to the girl gently.
“What name shall I write?”
The girl paused. Claire imagined she swallowed before answering. The first time Claire had ventured in here, she’d been unable to find her voice.
“Sarah…Sarah Jones.”
Claire didn’t recognize the name. But then, she hadn’t used her true name, either.
Once released into the shop’s inventory, Claire’s possessions would be lost forever. Even if she could manage to raise the funds, she wouldn’t raise them in time to redeem her belongings, of that much she was quite certain.
“Your own property?” the clerk interrogated.
It was an obligatory question, but Claire doubted it was a true concern for the shop owner. She’d noted the shady sorts who frequented the shop, and not once had a clerk requested proof of ownership from Claire. For all the clerk knew, Claire might have stolen the items from an employer.
The girl’s reply was soft. “Yes, of course.”
“Three shillings,” the clerk offered.
Claire wondered what the girl was selling.
The girl gasped, clearly affronted. “But, sir! This is fine—”
“Three and six,” the clerk snapped, and Claire recognized the finality in his tone.
“Please…take a look at the stitching,” the girl argued. “The gown was purchased from one of London’s finest—”
“My patrons won’t pay more,” the clerk interrupted, unimpressed. “Three and six—take it or leave it.”
Silence.
He wouldn’t offer more. Claire had sold the man enough by now to recognize when negotiations were over. He would stand silently, his face an emotionless mask, waiting for the decision to be made.
“Very well,” the girl relented, sounding defeated. “Three and six.”
As though he had expected her decision, Claire heard the clerk count out the coins at once. The compartment door opened and closed and the girl’s footfalls hurried away. Claire waited patiently, knowing her position in this gloomy place. Here, the shopkeeper ruled and the genteel were no more respected than the downtrodden.
Fortunately, she didn’t have long to wait. The clerk appeared at once, his graying hair hanging over thick, dirty glasses. He brushed his greasy bangs aside and gave her a nod, recognizing her. And well he should; he owned nearly half her possessions by now. With a heavy heart, Claire lifted the latch of the box, then the lid, revealing the precious contents.
“Splendid!” he exclaimed, dispensing with formalities. He gave her an assessing glance. “And you’re quite certain you wish to part with it?”
Claire shrugged.
She wasn’t certain about anything except that she was in a terrible pinch.
He seemed to think about it a moment, and then offered, “Eight guineas.”
Claire’s gaze snapped upward. “Eight guineas!” she repeated, aghast.
Whatever pleasure the clerk had expressed at seeing her offering now vanished behind his mask.
Claire arched a brow, knowing better than to bait him, but she couldn�
�t help herself. She had at least a shred of pride left. “Surely you mean eight guineas just for the box, sirrah!” The box alone was worth far more, as the lid was inlaid with ivory.
The man smiled, amused, though he shouldn’t have been. Claire was hardly in the frame of mind to be entertaining.
“Nah. I’m overstocked on silverware as it is—be rid of the lot. Eight guineas it is.”
Claire tried to reason with him. “But these are pure silver!” she explained, laying a hand protectively over her grandmother’s heirlooms.
His mask didn’t crack.
Claire used the clerk’s own bargaining tactic against him. She remained silent, waiting for him to speak, realizing that the first to open his mouth would be the one to lose.
It didn’t work quite as well as she’d hoped.
“Bah!” the clerk exclaimed. “Silver isn’t worth as much as it once was. Nine guineas is my final offer.”
Claire narrowed her eyes at him. “Nine guineas wouldn’t buy me a hat and a blessed pair of shoes!” she informed him tautly, slamming down the lid. A lady didn’t use vulgarities, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself. “No thank you, sir!” she said with as much aplomb as she could muster and, with some effort, lifted the box from the counter, fully prepared to lug it the entire distance home. For that insulting price, she’d take the silver to her grave! Nine guineas wouldn’t put a dent in the remaining one hundred-fifty thousand pounds she owed for Ben’s ransom.
“Be seein’ you,” the clerk said a little smugly.
Claire was so furious she didn’t even bid him farewell. Seething, she marched through the common shop and right out the door, tears of frustration pricking at her lids.