The Impostor Prince Page 7

  She spun about, as he knew she would, flashing him a wilting glance. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I wonder what your Grosvenor Square employer would think of your extracurricular activities?”

  She straightened her spine, looking affronted by the question. Her eyes flashed with challenge. “Why don’t you go knock on her door and ask her?” she suggested.

  “Her?”

  Her eyes glittered like multifaceted emeralds. “Yes, imagine that! Now, if you will pardon me.”

  She swung open the door and departed, leaving him staring at the backside of a closing door for the second time in two days.

  Ian smiled.

  She was beautiful and fearless—a lethal combination.

  And then his smile vanished.

  Whether she was a thief or not, he didn’t really want her to go, but he hadn’t a clue how to detain her.

  If she left, he would never see her again, as another chance encounter wasn’t likely.

  “What is your association with Mr. Cameron?” he asked, opening the door and chasing after her like some smitten schoolboy.

  Claire ignored him.

  Her legs trembled as she made her way down High Street.

  What an infuriating, arrogant, rude scoundrel! She didn’t care if he were the King of England; he was nothing more than a brutish lout who clearly had little respect for womankind.

  “My association with the man is none of your concern.”

  Why was he here, for that matter?

  Was he following her? What were the odds of encountering the same stranger twice in two days? If he hadn’t anything to do with her brother’s disappearance, then God was surely punishing her for something.

  She was so perturbed that she forgot to cross the street to avoid the dog. And she didn’t remember until it jumped at her, barely missing her arm and snatching her dangling purse.

  Claire screamed.

  The dog snarled, pulling at her silk purse in an unholy tug-of-war. She was afraid he would tear it and that she would lose her mother’s locket.

  “Dirty mangy beast!” she cried, struggling to dislodge her purse from its slobbery muzzle.

  Gracious, even the dogs in this part of the city were inclined to thievery.

  The animal didn’t appear the least bit frightened by her attempt to intimidate it, but suddenly, the dog released the purse and Claire tumbled backward. Victory at last!

  She expected to feel the street against her backside, but the impact never came. Instead, she was caught in a pair of strong, male arms and swept aside as a curricle careened around her. The driver shouted obscenities in her direction.

  “What is it with you and carriages?” a male voice asked.

  The warmth of his breath against her ear gave her an embarrassing quiver. Claire didn’t have to turn to know who mocked her.

  She shrugged away and spun to face him. “What is it with you and your need to rescue damsels in distress?” she countered. “Or am I the only fortunate one?”

  A tiny smile turned the corner of his lips. “I’m afraid you’re the only one.”

  Claire ignored the trip of her heart.

  She didn’t want to be attracted to this man. She didn’t like him, nor did she trust him.

  “Why are you following me?” she demanded as she examined her purse. She grimaced as she noticed the ravaged material.

  “I am not following you. Miss …”

  “I didn’t care to share my name yesterday and nothing has changed since then. Thank you for saving me from an untimely demise, yet again, but I’m afraid I must be going now!”

  She took one step away from him and the dog snapped at her. Good lord, the man had turned her all about so that she scarce knew where she was standing, much less where she was going. Regaining her bearings, she started toward the corner of High Street and St. Giles, where the cabbie was still waiting.

  Suddenly, she noticed the rip in the seam of her purse. An embarrassing whine escaped her as she spun about and scanned the street. Not spying the locket, she opened the purse to make certain it was not lodged within. But it was, indeed, gone.

  “Searching for this, lass?” her tormentor inquired, a hint of a brogue apparent in his otherwise too-precise accent.

  He was kneeling and petting the dog that had, only moments before, been frothing at the mouth.

  Claire scowled at the pair. Animals usually adored her.

  Her necklace and locket were dangling from the man’s fingers. She approached him, extended her hand and demanded, “Give it to me, please.”

  He lifted a brow. “It seems you found something to steal, after all.”

  Tears stung Claire’s eyes, but she refused to shed them. She was approaching her breaking point. No human being should have to endure what she had undergone these past weeks. The last thing she needed at this moment was for this man to harass her. She said nothing in response but thrust her hand nearer to his face, begging him without words for the locket.

  She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  He stood and casually inspected her property, unhooking the latch and studying the tiny portrait as though he had a right to. Then he looked at her, inspecting her as well.

  “Incredible likeness…Claire.”

  Claire’s eyes threatened to leak against her will. Her lips quivered. “It was a gift from my mother,” she felt compelled to explain.

  He nodded, spilling the necklace into her palm. And he sighed. “It seems that I am perpetually apologizing to you.”

  Claire swallowed, grateful that her anger kept her other emotions at bay. “If you were truly a gentleman,” she berated him, “you would never have cause for apologies. Thank you very much, sirrah!”

  In an effort not to lose her composure, she turned and hurried away, praying she’d never have to set eyes upon the infuriating man again.

  Filled with a keen sense of regret, Ian watched her go.

  He might have followed, so curious was he about where she might go, but he was forced to return to Cameron’s office and wait. He didn’t need a bloody investigator nosing about his affairs. If the man happened to discover Merrick’s destination, and if he did just a little snooping, he would unearth the truth, and Ian needed more time.

  Too much was at stake now.

  Too many people depended upon him.

  Too many years had gone by to simply appear before his father and say, Hello, da, it’s Ian…the son you didn’t want.

  For just an instant, his thoughts returned to Claire, and he smiled as he remembered the way she’d stood up to him. Then, he caught himself and frowned.

  He couldn’t afford to have his brain riddled with thoughts of beautiful, raven-haired witches. Never in his life had he been so unfocused—or, rather, so entirely focused on something besides his own affairs.

  But it wasn’t entirely his fault.

  The dress she’d worn had nearly unmanned him. As plain and threadbare as it had been, he couldn’t recall ever seeing a woman look more stunning. The modest dress accentuated her figure, leaving little to the imagination, as the breeze had sculpted the material to her pert little rear. And those nipples pebbled beneath the thin bodice had left him hard as a stone.

  And yet, as much as her body appealed to him, something in her eyes had struck at some long-forgotten corner of his soul.

  Was she in trouble?

  Was that why she was seeking out Cameron?

  Or was it Cameron’s companionship she wanted?

  He opened the door to Cameron’s office, still trying to determine what business Claire might have with the man; the possibilities were endless, and at least half of them were distasteful.

  He pushed her out of his thoughts.

  No sooner had he settled himself into a chair to wait than Cameron returned. The man seemed a little taken aback by Ian’s presence, but he hesitated only briefly in the doorway.

  Ian had expected an old bloke; the man who sauntered into the small office was about Ian�
��s age, with the build of a dockhand, the dress and demeanor of a gentleman, and the eyes of a thief—keen and assessing.

  Spying recognition in the man’s eyes, Ian stood and extended his hand in greeting. “Cameron, I presume?”

  “That would be correct,” the man answered, coming forward and shaking Ian’s hand with a firm grip. “And you are no longer missing, I see.”

  Ian had had years of practice lying. He didn’t flinch at the question. “That would be correct,” he said, echoing Cameron’s reply. He flashed the man his most genuine grin. “But you may keep the retainer for your troubles.”

  Cameron returned a half smile and answered without hesitation. “I intend to.”

  Arrogant bastard, Ian concluded at once, though he might have liked him under different circumstances. Then he chuckled. Bloody hell, it wasn’t his money; nor was he likely ever to see any of it. So what did he care?

  Cameron averted his gaze as he stepped around Ian and moved behind the desk to settle himself into his chair. “It’s not every day someone of your stature ventures into this quarter,” Cameron commented. The statement gave Ian a prick of concern.

  It would never have occurred to him to send someone else to conduct his business. He had never relied upon others to serve him.

  “Not every royal sits on his bum and expects to be waited upon,” Ian joked, though, in truth, he didn’t know a single royal aside from his father and his brother—and he couldn’t claim to really know either of them.

  Cameron smiled, but the lack of expression in his eyes remained. “I suppose all’s well that ends well,” he commented.

  “Yes, of course,” Ian agreed, deciding that it was his cue to take his leave. He’d be damned if he’d stick around to remain the subject of anyone’s scrutiny.

  He bade the man goodbye and left the office.

  It wasn’t very likely Cameron had found Merrick so quickly. Still, the mere possibility was a reminder that Ian didn’t have time to linger over damsels in distress, no matter how lovely. He had business to attend to—namely, discovering who the rightful owner of Glen Abbey was and finding out where the estate’s money was disappearing to.

  It wasn’t until he was in his carriage that he realized Cameron had never honored him with Merrick’s title.

  The man was either more arrogant a bastard than Ian had first determined, or, like Ryo, he knew more than he was willing to reveal. Whichever the case, Ian was certain of only two things: his hours in London were numbered, and his father—self-centered, self-serving, self-righteous bastard that he was—seemed to be the only one who didn’t recognize his son.

  Chapter Eight

  Claire wasn’t the sort to give in to fits of the blue devils, but she’d arrived at point nonplus, uncertain what to do or how to proceed.

  Deploring the moment of weakness, she turned her face into her pillow and wept, missing her father more now than ever.

  She’d come directly home from Cameron’s office and gone straight to her room, where she could pretend she was a child again and the world beyond her Grosvenor Square haven was only a place she’d dreamed of exploring. She hadn’t even bothered to remove the hideous servant’s dress or shoes.

  Her father had encouraged his children to do for themselves, but when they’d needed him, he’d always been around.

  Now it was just Claire and Ben. And Ben had gotten himself into a terrible mess, and they were cleaned out, and there was nothing left to do but lie across her bed and sob like a helpless babe.

  Only she wasn’t a child. She was a grown woman, and she should be able to do something.

  She’d reduced herself to begging.

  She’d tried to borrow.

  All that was left to do now was to sell her body.

  Or steal.

  And God forgive her, she would rather steal than compromise herself.

  As she lay there, she cursed Ben for getting himself into such a bumblebroth. He might have fared better in Fleet Prison. And then, in the next instant, she prayed for him. Her brother was all she had left in this world.

  Such thoughts saddened her even further. To distract herself, she turned her mind toward the horrid man she’d encountered in Cameron’s office.

  It wasn’t enough that she was being forced to deal with her brother’s disappearance and Lord Huntington’s advances; she also had to endure that rakehell’s sarcasm and his accusing regard.

  Her tears swelled all over again. How dare he use her Christian name? She didn’t care if he was the finest-looking man on the face of the earth; he was also the rudest, most arrogant—

  A knock sounded at her bedroom door.

  It had to be Jasper or Mrs. Tandy. No one else remained. Jasper had informed her while she’d fled up the stairs that Edna, the cook, had regretfully taken her leave, as well. She had two children to feed, after all, and no husband. Claire didn’t blame her.

  In any case, she didn’t care who it was. She didn’t wish to see anyone right now. Her eyes felt puffy and she was mortified to be caught behaving like a witless child. “Go away,” she demanded, her voice catching on a sob.

  She was startled to hear the knob turn and peered up to find Alexandra standing in the doorway.

  “Jasper told me you were not receiving, but I insisted. Forgive me.”

  Claire thrust her face back into the pillow.

  Of all people, Alexandra was the last person she wished to see at the moment. Alexandra was her only true confidante, but how could Claire reveal her friend’s father’s shameful proposal? Claire had never had aspirations to marry, but spending the rest of her life as a kept woman was infinitely worse than even marriage. At least with a marriage contract, she could keep her self-respect.

  Alexandra approached the bed, then Claire felt the mattress sink a little as her friend settled on it. “I thought it rather strange you didn’t linger to visit with me this morning,” Lexie said. “But Papa told me why.”

  Claire gasped. How could he? She rolled over to face her friend, horrified at the prospect that Alexandra might know her shame.

  “Oh, Claire! You shouldn’t cry,” Alexandra said, entirely without malice. “It makes you look horrid!”

  Claire didn’t take offense. She knew it was true. Her eyes were surely bloodshot and her nose must be scarlet.

  “Don’t worry. Ben will turn up. He is far too canny to allow those terrible men to get the best of him.”

  Claire’s lips trembled, recalling last night’s delivery. “He’ll turn up—but in more than one piece, I’m afraid!”

  “Don’t even say so!” Alexandra scolded, looking appalled. “You must never give up, Claire! I know Papa will help.”

  Claire said nothing. Lord Huntington had already revealed the nature of his aid.

  “He gave me the name of an investigator,” she admitted, after a moment.

  Alexandra looked at Claire curiously. “Will you seek him out?”

  “I already tried. I went all the way to High Street, but he wasn’t there.”

  Alexandra screwed up her face. “I believe that explains those dirty rags you’re wearing,” she said, gesturing at Claire’s dress. “Humph! I cannot believe Papa would send you to such a place.”

  Claire refrained from telling Lexie about her encounter with her two-time savior. She couldn’t bear recounting the odious smirk and horrible accusations. Nor did she care to explain that she’d spent the prior weeks pawning her family’s cherished heirlooms, the better part of the morning trying to forget that her best friend’s father had propositioned her, and the rest of the day battling devil dogs and avoiding three-foot cutpurses and mad curricles.

  No, Alexandra must be spared those dirty details.

  It was a wonder they were friends, so disparate were they in nature. Alexandra was a true social butterfly, always attempting to drag Claire into her sparkling world, while Claire was content to remain at home. In truth, Claire half suspected Ben was the primary reason Lexie always sought to include her. Th
e two of them were so much alike, craving attention.

  Claire swiped the tears from her eyes with her thumb and sat. “What time is it?” she asked.

  “Tea time,” Alexandra answered. “In fact, I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of asking Jasper to serve us.”

  Claire shrugged. She really didn’t have a taste for tea, or anything else, but Alexandra was welcome to anything she had remaining.

  “You really shouldn’t lock yourself away like this,” Alexandra scolded her. “And that gown! I hope no one saw you dressed that way, Claire. Whatever would they say?” Her brows drew together into a frown. “You’re still in mourning, after all.”

  Claire snatched the pillow and dragged herself backward. Leaning against the headboard, she hugged her pillow.

  “The first thing you must do is to remove that horrid dress,” Alexandra proclaimed, and stood at once, going to Claire’s wardrobe and returning with a clean black gown, as though a simple change of clothing were the answer to all Claire’s troubles. Alexandra tossed the dress on the bed and demanded, “Get up!”

  Claire obeyed; she didn’t have the energy to argue. She turned around so Alexandra could unfasten the gown.

  “Ghastly!” Alexandra complained.

  Claire couldn’t help a tiny smile. She couldn’t imagine Lexie resorting to wearing such an offensive garment, not even to save her own life. Although Claire couldn’t see Lexie’s face, she was certain her friend was crinkling her nose and cursing the fabric as it offended her fingers.

  “Whatever were you thinking?” Alexandra asked as she pulled the dress off and tossed it aside, making a noise of disgust as she released it.

  Claire grimaced at the nondescript brown pile on the floor.

  “Now the shoes!” Lexie snapped, gesturing for Claire to remove them at once.

  Claire did so, tossing the poor shoes beside the downtrodden dress. She put on the clean gown, allowed Alexandra to fasten her, and resumed her position on the bed, again hugging her pillow.

  “Much better!” Alexandra declared, and joined Claire on the bed. She bounced gently on the edge. “Did you hear the latest on dit?” she asked suddenly, affecting a bored tone. Claire did not respond, but Alexandra’s enthusiasm for her bit of gossip seemed unaffected by Claire’s lack of interest.