The hireling lifted a brow. “My lord, she can’t pay what she owes as it is. An’ she ain’t got much left.”
“How do you know what remains in her possession?”
“How d’ ye think?” the man countered. “I took a gander with me own two eyes. The house is bare as a baby’s arse.”
“I see,” Huntington said. “Well, it doesn’t matter. She’ll either ask prince charming for what she requires, or she’ll come running back to me.”
He lit a cheroot and sucked in a slow, deliberate drag, exhaling toward the shorter man’s face. “In either case, we might as well get a little something extra for our efforts, eh?”
Huntington assessed his surroundings. Only the lowest of businessmen and the sleaziest clientele ventured this deep into the rookeries. And only the most ignorant or stupid were at ease here. He was vigilant but not afraid. To his way of thought, it was not unlike being in the bush, where the hunter could, in the blink of an eye, become the hunted.
Unaffected by the smoke, the hireling shrugged, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of greed. “Naturally, I’ll be expectin’ me cut to go up as well.”
“Of course.” But not if he didn’t earn it, Huntington determined, and he considered how best to utilize the man’s services.
Stoic little chit that she was, Claire hadn’t bothered to come to him until her “little gift” had been delivered. “The finger was a good touch,” he remarked. “I trust it didn’t actually belong to the lad?”
The hireling shook his head. “Nah. Belongs to some dead bloke who won’t be missin’ it where he’s lyin’.”
“Good. Simply to make it more interesting, why don’t we give the lady another fright tonight?” Huntington suggested.
The man smirked. “I can manage that.”
“I have every faith in you,” Huntington said, then tipped his hat in a combined gesture of faux respect and farewell. “I believe that concludes our meeting, sir. And I shall look forward to hearing more about this evening’s encounter. Only leave her intact,” he advised. “Or you shan’t be seeing a copper.”
The hireling waited until Huntington mounted his curricle and drove away, then spit on the ground. “Dirty bugger,” he said.
* * *
Claire narrowed her eyes at the driver.
It wasn’t enough that he had nearly run her down and then blamed the accident on her. Now he stood at her front door, stubbornly insisting that she accompany him as though she hadn’t any choice in the matter.
He said, “Tonight’s gathering is in your honor, madam. Prince Merrick is eager to present you to his guests.”
For an instant, Claire wavered, but only for an instant. It was, after all, a false engagement, she reminded herself, and tonight’s gathering was an unnecessary formality. “I cannot simply leap into your carriage and fly away with you, Mr.—”
“Ryosan.”
“Mr. Ryosan.”
The driver shook his head. “Only Ryosan. In the country of my birth, san is the same as mister.”
Claire frowned, wondering how in God’s name the conversation had suddenly become a lesson in foreign discourse. “Yes, well, thank you very much for enlightening me, Ryosan. However, I still will not accompany you. In my country, you see, when a woman’s attendance is desired, an invitation—with ample time for preparation—is in order.”
God’s truth, Claire didn’t consider herself the least bit vain, but the thought of facing Merrick in her present state left her stomach in knots.
No, she wouldn’t go.
She was quite certain that Merrick wouldn’t renege on their deal simply because she refused to accept a last-minute invitation to dinner.
“I understand,” the driver said, smiling.
Claire thought he might be mocking her.
“But then we have a dilemma, as I have been instructed not to return without you.”
“No, sir,” Claire countered, her tone unwavering. “We have no dilemma at all. You, sir, have a dilemma.” She smiled back at him, though not so coolly. “I am quite certain you will find a satisfactory solution.”
“Yes, madam,” the driver replied, his tone respectful but unwavering. “And so, you must forgive me if I remain on your doorstep all night long.”
Fine!
Claire refused to be bullied.
“I shall deliver you a pillow,” she countered.
The driver’s dark eyes were unfathomable. “And a blanket, please,” he added. “It will be cold tonight.”
It would, indeed, but Claire wasn’t about to admit to feelings of guilt, despite that she felt a momentary stab of it. She closed the door, her cheeks warming.
He really didn’t have to remain on her doorstep all night, she assured herself. He had two legs, after all, and could leave if he so chose. Claire was quite certain Merrick wouldn’t punish him for something not of his doing. After all, the driver couldn’t very well drag her out of her house against her will, could he?
Then again, she hadn’t a clue how they behaved in Meridian.
Perhaps they did drag their women about by the hair.
“Are you quite certain it is the right decision, madam?” Jasper asked.
“Quite!” Claire declared. The last thing she cared to do this evening was to suffer His Majesty’s scrutiny—or Merrick’s tongue, for that matter. “Give him a blanket and a pillow,” she directed Jasper. “That is, if you can find one. And if anyone else should happen to inquire, I have retired for the evening.”
Chapter 13
Ian had requested the small, impromptu dinner under the premise that it would appear only natural for him to want his father and friends to acquaint themselves with his bride. But he was forced to acknowledge, as he sat at a table where the meal had already been served and cleared and every seat was occupied save one, that it had simply been a ploy to see her—a ploy that had, unfortunately, failed.
The duchess pushed her tea away and said what no one else dared. “Well, dear boy, it doesn’t appear she’ll be attending, after all.”
In keeping with her exalted opinion, the other guests offered apologetic grimaces and shrugs.
His father sat at the head of the table, his expression not the least unsettled. “Perhaps Lady Claire Wentworth isn’t the right choice, after all,” he said, clearly relishing the opportunity to alter present circumstances.
“So you have already said,” Ian countered, an edge of annoyance to his voice.
The duchess defended his father. “Clearly, she hasn’t the least respect for your wishes, Merrick. Any normal woman would have been pleased to alter her schedule to attend a dinner in her honor, impromptu or not.”
Ian clenched his jaw. “It was a last-minute invitation. I hardly expect her to leap to my demands.”
And yet, in truth, some part of him had fully expected her to come running. He’d been certain that, at heart, she was no different from the rest of her breed—willing to do anything in the pursuit of riches and fame. Evidently, she wasn’t willing to suffer his company for a single moment longer than she must. The realization stung enough that, instead of turning the conversation toward matters of true concern—Glen Abbey and his own affairs—he’d spent the entire evening obsessing over a green-eyed vixen who’d soon enough disappear from his life. It was hardly time well spent.
“I would not take it personally,” the duchess suggested. “As I’ve said, Lady Claire Wentworth has somewhat of a reputation for disaffection.”
Not for the first time, Ian wondered why the duchess was so engrossed in their affairs. What stake had she in the outcome of Meridian’s politics? Clearly, the woman was ambitious, but what else did she aspire to? Was she enamored of his father? Ian studied the two of them. His father didn’t strike him as a man who was romantically inclined, nor did the duchess seem to be dangling over him. So, then, were they simply two greedy schemers looking for the “most propitious alignment”? His brother must have nerves and patience of steel to deal with these people.
Or perhaps, like Ian, he simply didn’t give a damn, because he was bound to do whatever was necessary—within or without the law.
In fact, to blazes with propriety.
At the moment, while his father was otherwise occupied, it would be the perfect opportunity to search the King’s private quarters. Ian stood, tossing down his napkin and took a French leave, not bothering to supply an acceptable reason for retiring. He simply left the table and the dining room.
“Poor dear,” he overheard the duchess say as he departed.
In this cavernous house there were no such things as whispers.
“I haven’t a clue what devil has possessed my son,” his father retorted, not even bothering with hushed tones. “I’m afraid he’s not himself these days. Please accept my apologies for Merrick’s rudeness.”
Ian shook his head, disgusted.
His father still hadn’t a clue which son he was dealing with.
Old fool.
* * *
Unsure what awoke her, Claire opened her eyes to a still, moonlit room. The curtains were drawn, but not entirely. A gap remained where, hours ago, she’d pulled them aside to peer outside. The driver had, indeed, made himself comfortable in his coach. Stubborn old codger. The moonlight was bound to keep her awake, but she didn’t really wish to get up and risk the night air reviving her and keeping her awake for the remainder of the night.
As it was, her brain was roiling with unwanted thoughts.
Feeling guilty for refusing Merrick’s invitation, she’d removed the ring from her finger and had tucked it beneath her pillow. Like a pea in a mattress, its stony presence was making her face sore.
How dare that man expect her to come running at his command, like some silly little puppy?
Sighing, she flipped away from the window to face the wall, trying not to think about the way he’d looked at her while they were dancing.
He was using her, she reminded herself.
But, if that were so, why would he invite her to a small, private affair, where hardly anyone would see them together?
Unless he simply wished to see her.
Poppycock, she chided herself.
He didn’t even know her, and he’d made it quite clear that the farce would be over soon enough.
She tried hard not to think about Ben either, because whenever she did, panic nearly overwhelmed her. She was so very close to being able to free him, and that’s what she must remain focused on.
As soon as this sham engagement was over, she could use the ring to pay his ransom.
Reaching beneath the pillow, she fingered the precious stones, smiling despite herself over the way Merrick had unceremoniously placed it upon her finger. She’d been mortified over discovering his identity. Alexandra had stared, openmouthed. She didn’t like to think about Lord Huntington at all, but she felt immense relief over the simple fact that she needn’t ever again consider his offer.
Her eyes drooped as she stared at the faded flowered wallpaper, a French design her mother had chosen to celebrate Claire’s graduation from the nursery. Her father had suggested replacing it some years ago, but Claire had declined the offer. She wasn’t a flowery sort of person, but she liked her rose-scattered paper just the same. It reminded her of happier days.
Drifting toward more pleasant memories, she let go of the ring…
A shadow crossed the wall, and her eyes fluttered open.
For an instant, she thought it must be the curtains slipping back into position, masking the moonlight, but the shape flitted past, revealing light once again. Instinctively, she turned to see what had moved.
A male hand covered her mouth. Claire was forced to turn and stare at a twisted silhouette on the wall, though not before she caught a glimpse of the man. He was the very same man who’d followed her from the pawnshop.
“Don’t say a bloo’y word,” a raspy voice commanded.
Claire’s heart pounded painfully.
“I’m not going t’ hurt ye—not this time,” he said.
She tried to speak, to ask what he wanted, but her words, forced through the knot in her throat and muffled by the hand clasped about her mouth, came out indecipherable.
“Shh,” he said. “Do ye wish t’see your brother alive again, princess?”
Claire nodded vigorously.
“Well, then, princess, just gi’ me the bloo’y ring.”
Claire shook her head as he groped for her fingers. Finding nothing, he demanded, “Where is it?”
He loosened his grip upon her mouth to let her speak. “I—I don’t have it,” she lied, realizing that there would be no assurances that he would release Ben if he absconded with the ring right now.
“I don’ believe ye,” he growled, and pressed her face into the pillow.
Claire’s heart flipped as the ring dug into her cheek. Lord, he was pushing so hard that she could feel it cutting through the down. “No, it’s true,” she swore. “Prince Merrick is keeping it until after the wedding. Please!”
The man’s mouth exploded with a volley of curses—words Claire had never heard in all her life.
“Well, then, the sum is now twenty-five thousand pounds,” he told her viciously, jamming her face way down into the pillow.
Claire cried out. She tried to turn to plead with him, but he shoved her forward and pinned her to the bed. She felt the prick of cold steel against the back of her neck.
“Uh-uh,” he said, his breath smelling of sour ale. “You just get me another five thousand pounds, or I’ll be tying ye both up by the ankles and dropping ye into the Thames. And your spoiled prince won’t be able to save you.”
Claire wanted to assure him that she would have the money soon, but he buried his face into the back of her hair, and she swallowed every word she was about to utter as he rudely sniffed her hair.
“I’m going t’ go now, but don’t scream or turn about, or I’ll be cuttin’ my losses here and now. Do ye get my meaning, princess?”
Claire didn’t dare tell him she’d already recognized him. She hesitated in responding and he licked the back of her neck, drawing a shudder of disgust from her.
“Understand?” he asked again.
Claire nodded.
“Good,” he said, and released her at last.
She didn’t hear him walk away, so thunderous was the beating of her heart, so silent were his footsteps.
She watched the retreat of his silhouette into shadow with bated breath. And then, even after he’d been gone what seemed an eternity, she did not stir. Only when she was certain she was alone did she turn. Finding the room empty, she seized the ring and bounded up from the bed, her heart racing as she made her way to the hall door.
Greeted by silence, she peered into the corridor. Finding it empty, she flew down the hall and down the stairs toward the front door. Only when she reached the foyer did she dare scream.
Chapter 14
With Ryo gone to fetch Claire, and his father preoccupied with their guests, Ian headed to the master’s quarters.
After searching the room thoroughly, he found a small box in the closet. It had been tucked away behind a stack of hatboxes. For some reason, its placement struck him as odd, so he plucked it up and sat in the chair nearest to the closet to sift through it. Its contents took him aback. The box was brimming with letters that had never been dispatched, all addressed to his mother.
He lifted one up. Fiona. Another. Fiona. Another. Fiona.
Good God.
He sat in the chair reading and hadn’t the first inkling how long he sat, or how much time passed.
At the moment, he no longer gave a damn if he were discovered. From the letters, he gathered that his mother had once been betrothed to his father, a fact that both relieved and dismayed him at once. In anticipation of the coming wedding, his grandfather signed away Glen Abbey as a dowry gift for his daughter. It was the only thing he’d had of value to offer. He’d been so thrilled to have his daughter marry so well that he hadn’t even consider
ed the consequences were they to part, so he’d made no provisions for that possibility. From what Ian gathered, the wedding nearly occurred but had been called off at the last moment. Though his mother hadn’t quite been jilted at the altar, she’d been jilted, nevertheless. Apparently, his father was forced to keep a childhood engagement with a Spanish heiress of royal blood. Only by then his mother was pregnant, with twins. And his father forced her to choose between her two infants, keeping one to claim as his heir.
It was unthinkable, and yet…
In reading the letters, it seemed to Ian that his father felt some measure of remorse and that he wished to absolve himself.
So why hadn’t he?
More disconcerting than shocking, he found countless vials of laudanum in the box—empty ones, full ones. Was the King drugging himself into apathy? Or was he taking the drug to ease the symptoms of some illness?
Regardless, why the hell should he care?
And why, by God, was his father bound and determined to foist his mistake on his son?
It was obvious he must have loved their mother. If the quantity of letters didn’t betray that truth—so many it could be called an obsession—his words spoke volumes.
How, then, could he possibly justify forcing Merrick to marry for political gain when he’d very clearly regretted his decision every day of his life? In fact, he had made his Spanish heiress suffer for it as well. According to the letters, she’d never borne him any children and she died a miserable young woman.
And Merrick—what sort of life had his brother led, when his own father did not seem to know him?
At least Ian had been gifted with his mother’s love. His mother might have lied to him, and he wasn’t pleased to know it, but she certainly wasn’t as cold as the man who had fathered him.
Whatever truth he had set out to uncover, his discovery tonight was entirely unexpected.
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