Covering a startled blink—a natural inclination in the face of that sparkling gem—Cameron looked up, and smiled. “Yes, I understand that congratulations are in order.”
Ian nodded. “News travels swiftly.”
“Indeed, it does. Though I am quite certain this is not a social call,” Cameron added, and he turned again to address Claire. “You must excuse my boorish manners, my lady. It seems I have been mingling too long with the common folk. Please, please… make yourself comfortable.” He gestured toward an old wooden chair that could hardly be described as comfortable even under the most generous of circumstances, and waited for Claire to seat herself, then turned to Ian and asked, “How may I be of service to the Prince of Meridian and his lovely bride?”
The man was an arrogant bastard, Ian decided once and for all. But, with luck, his investigative skills were as sharp as his tongue.
Looking like a deer caught in a hunter’s sights, Claire peered up at Ian, her green eyes stark and wide. It was the very same desperate look that had moved him on that first day in the carriage. Ian gestured for her to begin. It was her story to tell, after all.
She peered down at her lap. “Yes, well, whatever I say remains in the strictest of confidence, I presume—because it could ruin my family’s good name.”
Cameron seated himself upon the edge of his desk, crossing his arms. He winked at her. “I assure you, my lady, I do not kiss and tell.”
Casting the man an irritated glance, Ian nevertheless held his tongue, allowing Claire to continue uninterrupted. She told her tale quickly, though she held her aplomb.
“I wouldn’t worry overmuch about the finger,” Cameron suggested when she was finished. “I’m sure it belongs to someone else, not Ben.”
Claire tilted her chin up, somehow looking both strong and vulnerable. “Truly?”
Cameron nodded. “Ghastly as it may seem, there are men who have few qualms about disturbing the dead for monetary gain,” he explained. “It happens quite frequently. And it’s an elementary tactic, if you think about it.”
Ian hadn’t even considered that possibility. In Scotland, the dead were sacred.
Her green eyes glistened. “How can you be certain?”
“Because, if Ben were to bleed to death or to die of infection, he wouldn’t be worth a single copper to them. I can assure you, madam, they won’t risk his good health, not so long as he’s of use.”
Claire breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, yes, I see.” She nodded. “That does make sense.”
“How long has he been missing?” Cameron continued to interrogate her.
“Three weeks,” Ian answered, although Claire had already opened her mouth to respond. He was beginning to feel invisible and didn’t like it one bit, particularly where Claire was concerned.
He was jealous, he realized. Inconceivable, but true.
Cameron eyed Ian with an annoying twinkle of amusement, as though he sensed Ian’s thoughts, and continued speaking to Claire. “Where did you last see him?”
Claire shrugged and her expression gave Ian reason to believe she’d been keeping something from him. She glanced at him now. “Well, I was concerned that he was being secretive,” she relented, after a long moment, “so I followed him one night.”
“Where to?”
“White’s,” she replied, looking a little sheepish over the confession. “That’s how I discovered he was gambling.”
“That’s nothing out of the ordinary for a man of Ben’s means,” Cameron contended. “Who doesn’t attend White’s now and again—and not necessarily for the wagers?”
“But that’s just it,” Claire argued. “We were quite cleaned out by then. I don’t really know how, but we were. Ben said not to worry, that he would take care of everything. But then he would disappear at odd hours, and things would go missing with him.”
“I see,” Cameron said. “So that was the last time you saw your brother?”
Claire shook her head. This time she kept her focus trained on Cameron. “Once more. I followed him the very next evening to a house on George Street.”
Raising his brows, Cameron looked at Ian. “That’s hardly an area of the city a woman of your caliber should be venturing,” he said.
“So I’ve been told,” she retorted, frowning.
Ian tried not to grin.
Fearless wench.
But his grin faded on the heels of his next thought: that same fearlessness would be the death of her if she didn’t take care.
“So that’s the last time you saw Ben?”
“Yes,” she said, “though I do know he returned home that evening, because Mrs. Tandy—our housemaid—saw him depart the following morn. He told her, very distinctly, that he was going to speak to someone and didn’t have time to break his fast, and then he never returned.”
“It sounds as though someone may have led him to a private game,” Cameron said. “And I can assure you, in that part of town, it was very likely not a friendly one.”
“Is there anything you can do?”
Cameron engaged Claire with a sympathetic smile. “How can I possibly refuse such a lovely lady?”
Claire’s cheeks stained a deep rose and her gaze shifted toward Ian. She smiled—not for Cameron, but for him.
For a long instant, he forgot where they were. He forgot what they were doing. He forgot to breathe. And he most certainly forgot that their engagement was a complete ruse.
For the briefest moment, she was his beautiful, fearless bride, and he was proud as any man had ever been.
And then Cameron’s voice intruded.
“It so happens that the first time His Royal Highness inquired about my services—” he cast Ian a meaningful glance “—I was unavailable. Naturally, to make amends, I accepted his father’s assignment to locate Prince Merrick when he vanished. As you can imagine, however, my services were no longer necessary once he resurfaced.”
Sudden clarity came to Ian. His suspicion was correct. Merrick and Cameron had, indeed, met previously, he realized.
Cameron’s attention returned to Claire, allowing Ian a moment to digest his affirmation.
“Helping his lovely bride is the least I can do after accepting such a handsome sum for doing absolutely nothing,” Cameron was saying.
It all made good sense now.
Evidently, like his father, Merrick had attempted to retain Cameron’s services, perhaps to investigate the letters their father had written to their mother. When Cameron refused him, Merrick apparently took the task upon himself. In any case, Cameron would have realized after Ian’s initial greeting that Ian hadn’t recognized him. From there, it would have been easy enough to deduce that Ian wasn’t Merrick.
Still, Cameron had remained silent. Why?
“Thank you,” Ian said, pondering all the man’s possible reasons for holding his tongue.
Extortion, perhaps?
Cameron was studying his reaction, he realized, his eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I’m certain you’ve been told the family resemblance between you and your father is uncanny,” he remarked, his lips curving but slightly.
“Never,” he said, and of course, it was true. He had never once been told this because he hadn’t a bloody clue he had a living father—damn the man to hell.
Cameron nodded and shrugged. “I make it a policy not to intervene in familial affairs.”
Ian understood his message.
Whatever Cameron’s reservations, he didn’t intend to interfere. It seemed that Ryo and Cameron were both resolved to stay out of his way, so there was little danger of his father discovering the truth—not from them. Not from anyone, so it seemed; the man was so mired in his own affairs that he hadn’t an ounce of mind to spare.
Ian’s only concern now was Merrick. His brother was quite certain to find his way home eventually. For all practical purposes, Ian should let Cameron help Claire, and settle his own affairs. But he couldn’t walk away. Not yet.
Chapter 17
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 scarcely 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 upon 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 within. 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 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 down upon the table, and 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 only 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 endure any of it.
“Everything will turn out,” he promised, hugging her gently. He kissed her pate and Claire shuddered over the tenderness of the gesture. She peered up, wide-eyed, confused by the sensations his kiss evoked within her body. She felt suddenly breathless, and for the longest moment their gazes remained locked.
Ian couldn’t turn away.
The look in Claire’s 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, and 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 unwelcome reaction. He drew her slightly away, not wanting her to feel his little fellow stirring. The last thing he intended 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 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 in vain to clear the cloud of lust from his brain.
“That was much too bold!” she declared, giving Ian a censuring look.
He refrained from pointing out that he hadn’t been the only participant. “I see no shame in desiring a kiss from my bride,” he said without remorse, though 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’ insidious 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. However, 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 a 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 even further, and something about her expression gave him the impression that she appreciated his lack of remorse. She sighed. “You’re quite the cad,” she accused. “Aren’t you?” 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 coat. Ian ignored the bedlam it aroused 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, turning toward the door.
Ian spun about, instinctively thrusting her behind him. In one fluid movement, he retrieved the knife he kept at his boot and 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 did not notice the common weapon that declared Ian an impostor—nor the practiced skill that was the well-earned legacy of a thief rather than a pampered prince—but the intruder certainly did. And yet the man didn’t seem to flinch over 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 held 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 keen interest, wondering who this man was that he would assume such familiarity with Claire. The hairs at the back of his nape bristled.
“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 very few faces from that evening, except 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 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 simply didn’t wish to leave Ian?
Almost the instant he thought it, he pushed that 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, Ian watched her retreat behind him.
Huntington didn’t approve of the betrothal, Ian sensed. But 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.”
Briefly, Ian 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.
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