The Impostor Prince Page 14

  “He’s quite gifted,” Claire remarked.

  “Quite,” His Majesty agreed. “Cameron is, as well, though his father seems to feel he has bastardized his gifts. Then, again, Cameron’s a bastard himself, so it’s rather to be expected.” Again, he stared at her, as though prying into her thoughts. “Sons are bound to disappoint, it seems.”

  Was he baiting her? Why would he tell her these things?

  Claire held her tongue.

  “So what, exactly, is the ransom?” His Majesty asked, and his tone held the slightest accusation.

  Or perhaps her own sense of guilt simply supplied one?

  Claire swallowed hard, feeling horribly discomfited.

  Did he suspect their ruse? Did he know she had accepted Merrick’s proposal for money?

  Her voice wavered a bit. “Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds.”

  “I see,” he said, and seemed to consider the sum a moment. His attention fell to the ring. “Don’t grow too attached to that,” he warned with a single nod. “Marriage is a business arrangement. My son has no interest in petty infatuations, and you would do well to remember that business arrangements can be easily dissolved.”

  He walked away, leaving Claire to wonder whether he was warning her not to get too attached to the ring, or to Merrick. In either case, it was rude and perhaps even a bit cruel.

  She watched him go.

  Stupefied by their exchange, she turned to stare blankly at the portrait, wondering if her growing feelings for Merrick were becoming so obvious that his father should feel the need to counsel her.

  In any case, His Majesty was a bitter old fool. It was no wonder Merrick was an acerbic bounder.

  Ian hadn’t felt this much at ease since leaving Glen Abbey. They’d been following a trail that had led them deep into the rookeries, down a filthy alley that reeked of wastes. Surrounded by seedy types, Ian felt more in command of his senses than he’d felt in weeks. The blade he kept at his boot pressed into his leg, comforting him with its presence. It was within easy reach and he knew he could wield it more quickly than most could cock a pistol.

  The building’s windows were shaded black and the men who disappeared within were not the sort most would wish to face in the broad light of day, much less in the deep of night. But Ian felt the thrill of the chase. He’d like to say he was doing this solely for Claire’s sake, but now that he was here, he wasn’t so certain. If he didn’t think of her—if he pushed her out of his thoughts, as he must—and he must—he still felt alive in the moment.

  Cameron, the hound, had stumbled on the perfect vocation. Once Ian settled his affairs at Glen Abbey, he planned to propose a partnership with him. If Ian could put his skills to use along this vein, instead of in his usual thievery, he would find himself both challenged and accomplished at once.

  That he wouldn’t have Claire was a given. She wasn’t the sort to love a man of his stature.

  It didn’t matter.

  Even if she loathed him for his lies, he could live with that fact as long as she was safe and as long as he had helped her save her brother.

  And they were close. So close.

  The man whose portrait Cameron had drawn under Claire’s direction had disappeared into the building they were now keeping under surveillance. They’d followed him from a nearby pub, where Ian and Cameron had overheard the bugger boasting about a payment to come. Now, they needed only to determine what business was done within and how best to get inside.

  “Do you think he realizes he was followed?” Cameron asked.

  Ian shook his head. “I doubt it. The bastard’s too cocksure right now.”

  “Well, we can’t very well just pop into the building and tip our hats at them,” Cameron said. “One of us should stay the night and keep watch.”

  “I’ll do it,” Ian volunteered.

  Cameron tipped him a curious glance. “Won’t you be missed?”

  By whom, Ian nearly asked. The man still hadn’t a clue about Ian’s circumstances. He hadn’t revealed anything because the time hadn’t been right. Miraculously, Merrick had yet to return to London, and Ian couldn’t afford to risk exposing himself until this task was finished.

  “Don’t you have some gala to attend?”

  Ian had forgotten. The Duchess of Kent had, indeed, planned another soiree—this one in Claire’s honor. Though she still might not approve of Claire, Victoria seemed fond of the attention The Times was showering upon her. After Claire’s “incident” had reached the papers, the duchess had somehow been assigned as her patroness by default. And suddenly, even the duchess’s worst critics had given her a nod for taking such a compassionate stand in defending London’s newest darling. The politics of these people was almost unpalatable.

  “I’d forgotten,” Ian confessed.

  “I’ll stay,” Cameron suggested. “It’s what you’re paying me for.”

  Ian nodded, though he wasn’t paying a single penny.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding the girl,” Cameron suggested, as he removed a cheroot and flint from his waistcoat pocket.

  Ian didn’t respond. He stared at the building’s facade, wondering how Claire fared in his father’s domain. More than anything, he’d like to see her snap at his father like the little fox she was. It would serve his father right. He was no match for Claire’s quick wit if Ian still bore wounds.

  Saucy, beautiful chit.

  “If you’re tired of her already,” Cameron remarked, lighting his smoke, “I’d be delighted to take her off your hands.”

  Ian cast the man an irate glance.

  “You’ll be doing nae such thing!” he snapped, a bit of his brogue coming through in his anger.

  Cameron grinned.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Glen Abbey, Scotland

  The manor was in ruins.

  Everything had been destroyed in the fire—from the portraits in the gallery to the ledgers that had been abandoned in Fiona’s room.

  Merrick, the son she had not set eyes on since he had been but an infant, had risked his life to save her, dragging her out through the flames.

  The feelings she had experienced in that moment of discovery had completely overwhelmed her.

  After the fire, Merrick, Chloe and Fiona had retreated to the hunting cottage, where Merrick had assured her that he’d had no knowledge of those ledgers. It should have been Fiona’s first clue that the ledgers remained on the estate; not a single one had been forwarded for Julian’s inspection. Edward, their crooked steward, had merely used the books as a tool to control the estate’s finances, she had realized only belatedly, and she berated herself for not discovering it sooner.

  Sorrow and regret nearly overcame her.

  She’d spent most of her sons’ lives grieving over the loss of her own father and her estranged son, and feeling sorry for herself over being jilted by Julian. Because of her, both her sons had suffered and Glen Abbey—their ancestral home—was no more. For four hundred and fifty years, her kinsmen had called Glen Abbey Manor their home. The history of her people, childhood memories, the nursery where she’d nursed Ian and where she’d hoped to see her grandsons tucked into the very crib she’d once used as a bairn were all reduced to ashes and rubble.

  How could she have been so selfish?

  How could Merrick ever forgive her?

  And Ian—her sweet boy might never speak to her again, once he learned the truth.

  Their father was a heartless bastard to never, even once, have come to face her after the day he’d forced her to choose between their two infant sons. In his stead, he’d sent perfect strangers to depict the precious moments he hadn’t had the guts or compassion—or even love enough—to experience for himself. But Fiona knew she was just as much to blame, and now it was time to do what she should have done years ago. It was time to face the truth. Time to face Julian.

  He was in London, Merrick had revealed to her. He’d come so that Merrick could choose his bride f
rom among England’s finer families and make a marriage of convenience.

  Och, but hadn’t Julian learned his lessons yet?

  Fiona was so pleased that Merrick had fallen in love with a poor sawbones’ daughter. He and Chloe were to be wed soon, and Fiona intended to hurry the ceremony lest Julian find a way to spoil it for them. And once Merrick and Chloe had exchanged their vows, she planned to march into London to face Julian and beg Ian’s forgiveness.

  She wondered how Ian fared.

  While Fiona contemplated what she would say to her son and her once-cherished lover, Merrick and Chloe practically waltzed into the room, holding hands, laughing together, oblivious to Fiona’s presence in the chair by the hearth.

  Fiona smiled, remembering a time when she, too, had been that in love. Oh, to be young again. Someday, she hoped the same for Ian—that he would find himself a sweet girl to care for him and love him. Ian was always risking himself for others. It was high time someone took care of him.

  “Mother,” Merrick said in surprise. “I didn’t see you sitting there.” And then, noticing her smile, he commented, “You’re looking rather radiant today.”

  “It pleases me to see you two happy,” she said honestly. “Where have you been?”

  “For a lovely, lovely walk,” Chloe replied. “You should have come,” she added in a chiding voice, though without the least bit of ire. “It would do you far more good to get the blood flowing through those legs than to sit there musing over what-ifs or what-could-have-beens!”

  Fiona’s legs were, in fact, still weak, but it was her own fault. She’d spent far too much time in that blessed invalid chair without good cause. Her deception had cost her the strength of her limbs. With Chloe’s help, however, she was growing stronger and stronger each day. By the time she headed to London, she was determined to stand and face Julian without a single wobble in her step.

  “I was not ‘musing’!” Fiona said, denying the charge, though she had been, in fact. “I was visiting with Constable Tolley—he only just left.”

  “Really? That’s the fourth visit this week,” Merrick commented, and Fiona ignored the heat that climbed into her cheeks.

  “I do believe he has set his cap for you,” Chloe teased.

  “Poppycock! Don’t even say it. I am entirely too old for an affaire de coeur!”

  “I don’t believe that,” Chloe argued.

  “So what did the constable want?” Merrick asked.

  “Nothing much. He wanted to know how we fared. And he wished to inform me that Edward had not yet been found, though he assured me he has, in fact, fled Glen Abbey.”

  Chloe perched herself on the settee facing Fiona, crossing her hands and leaning forward to listen. “How can he be so certain?”

  “Well, it has been weeks now, Chloe. As you know, this is a small town. No one would shelter that man, considering what he has done, and no one has seen him. No, Constable Tolley feels certain Edward has fled and we have seen the last of him.”

  “Perhaps he has,” Chloe agreed, sounding hopeful.

  Fiona peered up at Merrick, who had yet to come into the room and make himself comfortable. He stood watching the two of them from the doorway. “Merrick, dear? What are you thinking?”

  “I was wondering if Edward had reason to go to London.”

  Fiona blinked. “Why ever would he?”

  “To seek out Father.”

  Fiona shook her head. “I can’t imagine why he would do such a thing. There was no connection between the two of them, except that Julian assigned Edward the position of steward for Glen Abbey Manor.”

  Merrick remained silent.

  Fiona’s brows drew together. “Is there something you know that I ought to?”

  Merrick shook his head. “I just can’t quite figure out Edward’s motives.”

  Fiona sighed. “Isn’t it enough that he’s gone?”

  Merrick scratched his forehead and shook his head. “I don’t know, Mother. Something plagues me, and I just can’t place it. It’s probably nothing.”

  “Well, I can assure you Edward would have no reason to face your father,” Fiona told him with conviction. “Julian is not one to be trifled with and Edward knows it. To be certain, Julian has nothing to fear of anyone but me—that is, once I am strong enough to face him. No, Edward is long gone—and good riddance to him!”

  The Princes’s Gallery at Vauxhall Gardens was the destination of the evening. All of London had been invited for the celebration, though the admission fee had been raised to an exorbitant six shillings to keep out the dregs of society.

  Fifty thousand lanterns had been lit for the occasion and were now festooned in the foliage. To the lament of young lovers and the relief of some mothers, the dark walks were not quite so dark this evening.

  The duchess had spared no expense. And yet, Victoria couldn’t seem to spare two minutes to give Claire direction or even to enlighten her about whether Merrick planned to attend. The evening’s festivities were as much a farce as the engagement itself—all for show without one ounce of meaning.

  Claire forced herself to smile at passersby who tipped their hats and waved. And yet, she was forced to confess that, on some tiny level, she rather liked the fact that London seemed suddenly to adore her—if only because it validated her sense of self-worth in the face of Merrick’s father’s avid disapproval and Merrick’s neglect.

  Dressed in a proper, black satin dress that reflected her mood, Claire stood conversing with Alexandra for the first time in more than a week. Her attention, however, was centered on the crowd.

  Where was he?

  Even though their engagement was a sham, he was an absolute villain to treat her with such complete disregard. In fact, she had already heard apologies for Merrick’s absence from no fewer than half-a-dozen guests.

  Humph! So much for believing he was “attracted” to her.

  She sighed, trying to make sense of Alexandra’s prattling.

  “Don’t you think so, Claire?”

  Claire nodded absently, gazing up into the night sky. At least the evening was temperate and the sky was clear. That should please Victoria, as the duchess had planned a midnight fireworks display. Too bad Merrick would miss it.

  Well, if he didn’t care to suffer her company, he could at least have taken pity and given her news of her brother. For all Claire knew, Ben was already dead and she was standing for naught in the midst of a faux celebration, pretending to be joyous when she felt more like weeping.

  Papa, she asked silently, how could you have left us so destitute?

  She eyed Lord Huntington who seemed distracted for the moment, regaling his present company with tales of his misadventures in India.

  “Good Lord, Claire,” Alexandra exclaimed. “Don’t look so glum. It really doesn’t suit you!”

  Claire cast Lexie an irritated glance and continued to search the crowd, sipping anxiously at her beverage.

  “You shouldn’t drink that arrack punch so quickly,” Lexie advised her, returning a frown. “You aren’t accustomed to it and it’s quite strong.”

  “I don’t feel a thing,” Claire swore.

  Nothing except acute disappointment.

  “Cheer up, Claire! Soon you’ll carry his name—and his credit,” Alexandra said. “Then you can do whatsoever you wish. Just think of all the dresses and shoes you will have!”

  Claire took another sip and tried not to roll her eyes. Traditionally made with arrack, dark rum, fresh lime juice and syrup, the punch was, indeed, quite heady. This evening, it happened to be her saving grace.

  “At any rate, you can’t have expected him to behave differently,” Alexandra was saying.

  Oh, yes, she certainly had—and not because she had any ill-conceived notion that Merrick might care for her, but because they had an arrangement. Claire bristled.

  “You do recall the way he treated me,” Alexandra seemed obliged to recount. “He was arrogant and quite rude.”

  Claire couldn�
�t help but remember their own first meeting, when he’d not so subtly impugned her honor and then had insulted her integrity.

  He was arrogant and rude.

  Still, she would have liked to believe things were different now.

  Somehow.

  Something like sadness curled up in her belly and settled, heavy as stone.

  She was nothing but a fool.

  Why should she care? she asked herself. All she truly desired was her brother’s safe return. What did she care about Merrick or silly weddings or shoes?

  “Lady Claire,” someone called out to her.

  Starting at the interruption, Claire nearly spilled her punch as she turned to face a young man who appeared no older than sixteen. He was huffing and puffing as though he’d run some distance.

  “How rude!” Alexandra declared, no doubt taking offense at the lad’s bedraggled appearance more than at his interruption. “Did you not see that we were conversing?” she asked him.

  The young man ignored Alexandra. “Here, madam,” he said, handing Claire a small, folded parchment that appeared to be some sort of crude invitation. “I was told to give this to you.”

  “Well, I thought they’d banned his sort tonight,” Alexandra remarked, as though the lad were completely deaf.

  Really, they hadn’t banned anyone at all, simply made admission to the gardens unaffordable for most. Claire cast her longtime friend a withering glance, wondering how she could have borne Lexie’s self-important demeanor all these years. If Alexandra hadn’t wished to take the chance that some poor devil might speak to her, then she should have declined the invitation to this party. They were in a public venue, after all.

  In any case, Ben’s ordeal had taught Claire more than she’d ever cared to learn about life. And she scarce had any patience remaining for those who didn’t appreciate their blessings. In truth, there wasn’t much difference between Lexie and Claire and the young man standing before them, except that the lad probably had far more common sense and a greater appreciation for every breath he took.