The Impostor Prince Page 13

  Ian’s only concern now was Merrick. His brother was certain to find his way home eventually. Ian should let Cameron help Claire, and settle his own affairs. But he couldn’t walk away. Not yet.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cameron wasn’t simply an ace investigator, Claire discovered. Like his father before him, he was an accomplished artist as well.

  The painting she’d spied in his back room had been done by his father, John Constable. Cameron had decided to put his inherent talents to “somewhat better use.” Apparently, his father didn’t quite agree. Neither did Cameron’s peers, who considered the renderings “pointless and without scientific merit” according to the detective.

  Cameron called his creations “composite artistry,” and he explained how they helped him to visualize his suspects. It was rather astounding, really. With scarce more than Claire’s description of her attacker, he had sketched out a portrait that was incredibly accurate, at least to her best recollection. The drawings made perfect sense. How could one apprehend one’s suspect without knowledge of his appearance? Most criminals were hardly of a mind to pose for portraits. Cameron’s technique was quite innovative, really, and for the first time in weeks, Claire felt hopeful.

  After leaving High Street, she insisted on returning to Grosvenor Square, wanting to make certain that Highbury Hall remained secure and that Jasper and Mrs. Tandy hadn’t returned. To her relief, they found the front door locked and the house still vacant, though Merrick insisted on searching inside. Claire was grateful for his service. And, though she scarcely knew him, she felt safer in his presence.

  With Merrick leading the way, she peeked first into the salon and then into her father’s office. Her heart sank as she ventured into the dining room and noticed the missing box of silverware. Her grandmother’s silver was gone.

  With a sigh, she moved forward to examine the table where she’d set the box, and ran her fingers over the fresh scratches etched into the table’s finish. A butter knife lay on the floor at her feet and she bent to pick it up, peering up at Merrick.

  “He stole my silver,” she said, afraid she sounded like a sullen child.

  “Did he have the box when he entered your room?”

  Claire shook her head.

  “Would he have had time to retrieve it after?”

  Again, Claire shook her head.

  It had seemed an eternity at the time, but, in truth, she’d left the house mere minutes after her attacker had fled her bedroom. No, the thief had either returned later, or he’d remained hidden in the house. The latter was most likely, since Jasper and Mrs. Tandy had surely locked the doors.

  “Stay here,” Merrick commanded.

  He left Claire alone to contemplate the lone remaining piece of her family’s cherished heirloom. In retrospect, she should have sold the set. As measly as the clerk’s offer had been, now she didn’t have the silver or the money. She set the knife on the table. She didn’t have a clue how long she stood staring at the piece before Merrick returned.

  “The back door was ajar,” he announced.

  Claire sighed, feeling far more violated than she could have imagined.

  She was vaguely aware that Merrick approached her, arms extended. Without hesitation, she flew into his embrace, tears pricking at her eyes.

  She felt so helpless. It was as though she had no control over anything. Even her home was no longer a sanctuary. God’s truth, if Merrick hadn’t remained by her side, she wouldn’t have had the strength to bear any of it.

  “Everything will turn out,” he promised, hugging her. He kissed her pate and Claire shuddered at the tenderness of the gesture. She peered up, wide-eyed, confused by the sensations his kiss evoked within her body. She felt suddenly breathless.

  For the longest instant, their gazes remained locked.

  Ian couldn’t turn away.

  The look in her eyes made his belly ache.

  In all his life, he’d never felt so fiercely protective of another human being. He’d taken to heart the needs of his people, but this woman he wanted to hold tight, reassure her that no one would ever harm her.

  His body responded at once to her scent—roses and woman—and he was powerless to stop its reaction. He drew her slightly away, not wanting her to feel the little fellow stirring. The last thing he wished was to take advantage of the situation. But the one thing he did want, more than anything, was to taste her sweet mouth.

  He was nearly unmanned as she clung to him instead of letting him push her away. He could nearly feel the heat of her lips.

  She came to her senses suddenly and pulled away, gasping for breath, her breast rising and falling against his chest, teasing him beyond mercy. He tried to clear the cloud of lust from his brain.

  “That was much too bold of you!” she declared, giving Ian a censuring look.

  He refrained from pointing out that he hadn’t been the only willing participant. “I see absolutely no shame in desiring a kiss from my bride,” he said without remorse. He knew it was a feeble defense. There was no more hope of his wedding Claire than there was of him reclaiming past years or erasing his parents’ lies.

  Claire narrowed her eyes. “If only that were the case. But, alas, it is not.”

  His lips curved at the return of her feistiness.

  “We both know it’s all a sham.”

  It was. Ian couldn’t deny it. What wasn’t a sham was what was going on within his trousers. Not to mention his heart. “You don’t expect an apology, do you?”

  For the longest moment, she didn’t respond. And then she asked, “Do you regret it?”

  Her eyes glinted with challenge.

  Ian smiled as he shook his head, feeling devilish.

  She narrowed her eyes further. Something about her expression gave him the impression that she appreciated his lack of remorse. She sighed. “You’re quite the cad,” she accused. Her hand brushed his chest in what was likely supposed to be a punishing slap. It fell far short, managing only to tease his nipples through his shirt. Ian ignored the sensation it caused in his trousers.

  He shrugged. “That’s not the first time I’ve been told that.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment.”

  Ian chuckled. He had half a mind to kiss her again. Lord save his rotten soul. He wanted nothing more than to back her up against her fine table, lay her down and taste another pair of even sweeter lips. He wanted to show her what wicked things his tongue could inspire. He wanted to bring her to a climax with his tongue buried deep between her velvety petals and her silken thighs pressing his cheeks. He wanted to drink in her sweet ambrosia and lap his lips like a satisfied hound after devouring a juicy bone.

  “Ahem!” a male voice intruded.

  Claire shrieked softly and turned toward the door.

  Ian spun about, instinctively thrusting Claire behind him. In one fluid movement, he retrieved the knife he kept at his boot. He shoved it up his sleeve when he spied their gentleman trespasser.

  “The front door was ajar,” the man said, his tone curt. “Forgive the intrusion.”

  “Lord Huntington!” Claire exclaimed. “You startled us!”

  Claire had not noticed the commoner’s weapon that declared Ian an impostor—nor the practiced skill that was the legacy of a thief rather than a pampered prince—but the intruder certainly did. Yet he didn’t seem to flinch at seeing the gleam of Ian’s knife vanish up his sleeve.

  Huntington’s glance flicked upward, his eyes full of something like disdain as he met Ian’s gaze.

  “Forgive me,” he said without feeling. “I came as soon as I heard. Thank God you were not harmed, Claire. I should have taken your concerns more to heart.” He opened out his arms for a fatherly embrace.

  But instead of going to him, Claire retreated a bit. “Thank you, my lord. I’m perfectly fine.”

  Ian watched the exchange with interest, wondering who this man was that he would assume such familiarity with Claire. The hairs at the back of his nape bristled.<
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  “Lord Huntington,” Claire said, her hand fluttering to her throat to hide the flush that was swiftly spreading to her face. “I would like to introduce you to His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince of Meridian.”

  Ian noticed that Huntington’s eyes narrowed as he spied the ring on Claire’s finger.

  Claire turned to Ian. “Lord Huntington is a longstanding acquaintance of my family’s. His daughter Alexandra has been my closest companion since I was but a child.”

  Despite his first impression of the man, Ian extended his hand in greeting.

  Huntington hesitated only an instant before accepting it. “We met briefly at your celebration,” he asserted.

  Ian nodded once, still assessing the man. He didn’t remember him.

  But then, he remembered few faces from that evening, except for Claire’s.

  “I’ve come to offer you shelter, Claire,” Huntington announced. And then, assuming her compliance, he added, “Alexandra is waiting in the carriage. She’ll be pleased to see you.”

  “But, I …” Claire looked up at Ian and seemed to be begging him with her eyes.

  What did she have to fear from this man? What had Huntington done to put her so ill at ease?

  Maybe she just didn’t wish to leave Ian?

  He pushed the notion out of his head, unwilling to entertain the possibility.

  She was using him, as he was using her. It was a mutually agreed upon arrangement, and it was pointless to begin reading anything more into her motives.

  “It would be far more appropriate for Claire to remain under my protection,” Huntington said. “At least until such time as she takes her vows.”

  Ian didn’t reply and Claire seemed to shrink away from Huntington. In his peripheral vision, Ian watched her retreat behind him.

  Huntington didn’t approve of the betrothal, he sensed. Though why he should disapprove was a mystery—that is, if Claire’s best interests were truly his first concern. After all, Huntington couldn’t possibly know that Ian was an impostor.

  “I can assure you it is what her father would have desired.”

  Ian briefly considered giving Claire the choice to do as she wished, but his gut said no. Her pallid face and worried expression only validated his decision. She might know this man, but she didn’t want to go with him.

  “Claire is under my protection,” he said, realizing it sounded possessive. He didn’t give a bloody damn. It was, in fact, exactly how he was feeling at the moment. And he didn’t care to analyze why.

  Claire sighed at his side. In relief?

  Huntington clicked his heels in what Ian surmised was disapproval. The older man turned to Claire. “Is this your preference, my dear?”

  “My lord, I do appreciate your offer,” Claire said.

  “I assure you the accommodations are quite proper,” Ian told Huntington. “If that is what concerns you.”

  “It’s true!” Claire added. “We are very well chaperoned, my lord.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” Huntington answered sardonically.

  Claire’s cheeks stained a deep rose under Huntington’s scrutiny. She fidgeted, but held his gaze, even lifting her chin in defiance.

  Ian thought she was adorable, as discomfited as she was, and he had to will his smile away.

  “Well, then. I doubt your father would have approved, my dear, but I shall respect your wishes. Alexandra will be quite disappointed, I assure you.”

  Ian didn’t like the man. There was something distasteful about him.

  He was behaving more like a petulant child who hadn’t gotten his way than like the concerned father figure he was obviously attempting to portray. “You have no choice but to respect her wishes,” Ian told him, not caring that he sounded like an arrogant cock.

  The man’s face turned florid, but he held his tongue.

  The two of them locked eyes. Ian didn’t so much as blink. Nor would he have the least hesitation about planting his fist against the man’s windpipe.

  “Please excuse me,” Claire said, brushing past Ian, then Huntington. “I’ll go and explain to Alexandra.”

  When she was gone, Huntington turned to Ian. “I’m quite certain you haven’t a clue what you are dealing with,” he said.

  “And you do?” Ian countered, lifting a brow in challenge.

  “I am an accomplished marksman, I assure you, and I am quite proficient with just about any weapon you might care to hand me,” he answered.

  His boast, it seemed to Ian, was more of a warning than a defense.

  “And you believe I cannot possibly match your skills? Is that what you’re implying?”

  Huntington ignored the question.

  “I was not raised in London,” Ian said truthfully. “You mistake me for a man of your standard.”

  “I don’t care who you are. I am unimpressed with your title and your pitiful little country. I shall thank you to keep Claire safe, or you’ll be answering to me.”

  He clicked his heels, turned and marched away before Ian could respond, leaving Ian to wonder about his interest in Claire. It was evident the man’s feelings ran far deeper than that of a familial friend.

  Jealousy reared up like a two-headed beast.

  It wasn’t like him to feel so green.

  He was getting far too close to Claire, he realized. And it would behoove him to keep his distance, lest he find himself far more embroiled than he already was.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The week passed without news and without incident. Claire was both disheartened and relieved. Cameron had yet to uncover news about Ben. And Merrick was nowhere to be found.

  In fact, she was beginning to wonder if Merrick had lost interest in her cause entirely, as he fled each morning without breaking his fast and returned far too late for a proper discussion.

  She was beginning to feel like an unwanted guest in his home.

  Bored, worried and growing more anxious with each passing moment, she paced the gallery, perusing portraits of strangers whose faces all reminded her of Merrick.

  She couldn’t seem to stop thinking about the afternoon at Highbury Hall—of the way Merrick had kissed her, of the warmth of his lips so near her own.

  Nor could she seem to forget the way she had clung to him. Good Lord, it was no wonder that he didn’t wish to face her now. He probably thought her a complete wanton.

  She stared at the portrait of a woman she assumed was Merrick’s mother. The woman appeared young, though her face showed a trace of age—solemn wrinkles about the eyes and mouth. If the Mona Lisa wore a slight smile, this woman wore a slight frown, along with Meridian’s crown jewels. Claire recognized the tiara. It was a perfect match for the ring shackled around her own finger.

  “My late wife,” the king said, coming up behind her.

  “Oh! Your Majesty!” Claire started at his abrupt appearance. “Forgive me, I didn’t hear you approach.”

  He stood looking at the portrait without responding.

  “She’s quite beautiful,” Claire remarked uncomfortably.

  His Majesty nodded agreement, but said nothing. There was another awkward moment of silence and Claire turned again to regard the painting. “I do believe Merrick has your look,” she suggested, thinking it must be a compliment.

  Once again, he didn’t respond.

  “How young was the queen when she passed?” Claire persisted. The king was quite uncongenial, she decided.

  “Young,” he answered without elaborating, and turned to observe her.

  Claire fidgeted under his intense scrutiny. He had his son’s uncanny talent for staring at her as though he could read her thoughts. “You must have been terribly sad,” she offered, searching for something more meaningful to say. Nothing came to her.

  He must think her an absolute ninny.

  It wasn’t rational, she realized, but his father’s rudeness gave her a prick of annoyance toward Merrick.

  It was obvious the king didn’t approve of her. Though he was pol
ite at mealtimes, he rarely conversed with her. That he was doing so now was a surprise.

  Then, again, he wasn’t really conversing. He was simply staring at her back. He seemed to enjoy making her ill at ease.

  Once again, he didn’t respond, and she had to look to be certain he hadn’t left her standing alone in the hall.

  He was just watching her.

  Claire tried not to frown as she glanced back at the portrait.

  “I am so very sorry for intruding,” she felt obliged to say.

  She was beginning to regret having accepted Merrick’s hospitality. At least with Lexie she could have been herself, and she might have been able to avoid Lord Huntington completely. It wasn’t too late to go.

  Another uncomfortable moment of silence passed.

  “Where is my son?” he asked her.

  Claire shook her head. “I don’t know.” It was the truth. Merrick didn’t seem the least inclined to share his itinerary with her.

  “Well, we have something in common, it seems, because it appears my son has ceased to confide in me altogether,” His Majesty complained.

  “Really?” she said, and she tried not to sigh. It wasn’t her place to hear this, nor did she wish to intrude. This wasn’t her family, nor would it ever be.

  “He hasn’t spoken to you, has he?”

  Claire forced herself to face Merrick’s father. “No, Your Majesty,” she answered. “In fact, I’ve barely spoken to him in days.”

  He nodded, seeming to believe her. “I see.” Then, more silence. “Ryosan tells me Cameron is searching for your missing brother? Is this true?”

  “Yes, sir,” Claire replied.

  She was beginning to feel as though it were an inquisition, not simply a chance afternoon conversation.

  Merrick and his father were both arrogant, she decided, but at least Merrick was far less starchy. In fact, he was even rather common at times—nothing at all like his father.

  Her thoughts returned to their afternoon kiss and her hand flew to her lips as her cheeks warmed.

  “In fact, Cameron’s father painted that particular portrait,” the king revealed. “I’ve commissioned quite a few from him.”