The Impostor Prince

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  What was she supposed to do now?

  She was down to her last possessions and still she hadn’t raised nearly enough money to cover Ben’s debts. To some, two hundred thousand pounds might not seem like much, but she had scarce more than fifty thousand now after selling nearly everything she owned. The remaining one hundred and fifty thousand pounds seemed quite impossible.

  Lord, but it was a dreary day—as dreary as her mood.

  Cursing the mist, Claire started home, preoccupied with her thoughts. As she reached the corner of Drury Lane, sensing a presence at her back, she turned to find a stranger about twenty paces behind her, his focus settled unmistakably upon her box. Looking sinister in his dark overcoat and wide-rimmed hat, he strode with terrifying purpose toward her. Alarmed, Claire quickened her pace.

  Could he be one of Ben’s captors, following her to make certain she complied with their demands?

  More likely, it was just some petty thief.

  She tried to remember whether she had spied the man in the pawnbroker’s shop, but there had been no else one inside she could recall except the weeping girl and the clerk.

  Had the man followed her to the shop and waited outside while she took her business inside?

  No, Claire didn’t think so. She hadn’t noticed him before now, and as suspicious as she was becoming, she doubted she would have missed him.

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  He could have already been inside the pawnbroker’s shop—perhaps in one of the privacy closets. He would have been able to overhear everything she had been saying. Nine guineas might not be motivation enough for her to sell her grandmother’s fine silver, but she was quite certain a thief wouldn’t care about its real or sentimental value. If he could get the nine guineas from the pawnbroker, that would certainly be motivation enough.

  Or had the pawnbroker set the man upon her? She trusted no one these days. It behooved her to remain wary.

  The mist turned to rain. She could almost hear the man’s footfalls behind her, but she was afraid to turn around. Her breath caught painfully in her lungs as she hurried through the crowd.

  Please God—don’t let him be after me! she prayed silently, and thought perhaps the sound of his footfalls ebbed. It was difficult to tell with the rain pattering down on her head. Her hair must be a horrid mess by now—her curls were stuck to her face.

  Calm down, Claire, she commanded herself. Think clearly.

  Maybe he wasn’t following her after all? Maybe it was just her imagination? She was beginning to see conspirators on every corner.

  She cursed Ben’s infernal gambling habits and said a quick prayer that he was well—wherever he might be. She hadn’t actually spoken to him since the morning he’d gone missing. She had only his captor’s word that he was alive and well.

  She had considered hiring a private investigator, but how would she pay the man? And even if they were able to find Ben and free him, there would be no guarantee the criminals wouldn’t come after him again. He would still owe them the money, after all.

  Rain pelted her and she spit a few strands of hair away from her lips. Lord, she should have kept at least one good hat. Weaving through the mob, she ducked beneath umbrellas, clutching the box of silver to her breast as she looked about for a hansom. To her dismay, there were none to be found.

  At the moment, she heartily regretted not taking the one remaining phaeton, despite the fact that it was nearly in shambles and that she’d never handled one. It was a long way to Grosvenor Square and certainly too far to have to dodge footpads in the pouring rain. For all the fine talk about the new Metropolitan Police force, where was a bobby when you needed one?

  Chapter Two

  The journey to London should have taken longer, but they’d flown through town after town, stopping only when exhaustion demanded it.

  After staring at the blue-velvet interior of the coach for a week, Ian was anxious for a bed, a bath and a fresh change of clothing—in just that order.

  They were in London, at last, and despite his weariness, a sense of anticipation enveloped him. The answers he sought were near at hand.

  He peered out the window at the passing throng of people and a sea of black umbrellas. If the sun had ever truly made an appearance in this dingy town, it was fleeing now, retreating swiftly behind soot-covered buildings as the black, unmarked carriage emerged into the city.

  He’d been to London only once, as a youth of seventeen, but it hadn’t changed much in the eleven years since. The streets were still littered with people and the Thames was as rank as ever. Even at a distance, he could smell its unmistakable stink. It was a mystery to Ian what drew people to this squalid city. Already, he craved the fresh Scottish air and the rolling hillside of Glen Abbey. He wasn’t made for city life and didn’t plan to be here long—no longer than it would take to settle his bloody affairs.

  Sinking back into the seat, he drew out the letter he’d discovered in his newly acquired coat pocket and read it again, carefully, digesting the information.

  My dearest Fiona,

  Obviously, it was a letter to his mother. But the writer must have known her intimately to address the letter so informally.

  Please accept my sympathies on the loss of your father.

  Evidently, it was written sometime after his grandfather’s death.

  He was an honorable man, the letter professed. Those who admired him—myself included—will feel his absence deeply.

  As he stared at the yellowing parchment, Ian felt a momentary pang of loss that he’d never known his grandsire. There was hardly a soul who had met him who didn’t have a kind word to speak of him.

  How well had the author of the letter known him?

  He paused to consider the man to whom the carriage and coat belonged. They shared a kinship, Ian was certain. It could hardly be a coincidence they looked so remarkably alike.

  He felt a prick of guilt for his treatment of the man, but just a prick. He shrugged it away, resolved that he was doing the right thing. Merrick would have his life returned to him soon enough. Until then, Ian intended to make use of every means available to reveal the truth.

  Raking a hand through his hair, he continued reading the letter. The remainder was somewhat more cryptic, referring to events in the vaguest manner, leaving one to merely guess at the meaning.

  By now, you will have realized my intentions.

  Precisely, what intentions were those?

  For your own good and for that of my son, I cannot, at present, justify releasing it to you, lest you fall prey in your aggrieved state to some cold-hearted opportunist.

  This particular passage disturbed Ian more than any other. His mother had told him that his father was murdered just before his birth. Who, then, was this son the man referred to?

  An image of Merrick accosted him.

  Could it be…?

  He shook his head, unable to wrap his brain around the shocking possibility.

  And yet, who was this man who felt compelled to protect his mother from some cold-hearted opportunist?

  And what was it he couldn’t justify releasing into her possession?

  Glen Abbey Manor?

  It would explain much, though how would this man have gained possession of the estate to begin with, when it had belonged to the MacEwens for nearly five centuries?

  The rest of the letter was reduced to rants, as though written in some altered state of mind—perhaps the man had been inebriated.

  Only one more passage stood out amidst the rest. It was scribbled on the back of the letter, almost as an afterthought: The sound of a kiss is not so loud as a cannon, but its echo lasts much longer. I suffer a ringing in my ears that will not cease to torment me.

  It was signed, simply, J.J. had evidently never dispatched the letter.

  Had Merrick intended, after all these years, to deliver it to his mother?

  Why now?

  The answer seemed obvious enough, though Ian wasn’t prepared to acce
pt it. That he could have had a brother all these years and not known—perhaps even a father. That his mother could have lied to him. That she would have abandoned one of her infants…

  It was enough to sour his mood all over again—if the bone-seeping mist hadn’t already managed to do so.

  Refolding the letter, he slipped it back into his coat pocket, then withdrew the gold-and-silver calling card-case from the waistcoat pocket, removing a single card to inspect it for nearly the hundredth time. The initials J.M.W. were engraved upon the case itself. The calling card read: J. Merrick Welbourne III, HRH, the Crown Prince of Meridian.

  J. after his father, most certainly, as the card intimated a third generation of descent. So J. the son was carrying a letter written by J. the father, and the intended recipient was Ian’s mother. Furthermore, J. the son held the title of HRH, the Crown Prince of Meridian, which would make J. the father…king of Meridian?

  Ian settled back into the seat to contemplate the overwhelming evidence. As outlandish as it all seemed, there was one thing that just couldn’t be denied—the remarkable resemblance between Ian and Merrick.

  Ian’s entire life seemed suddenly a web of lies.

  What was true was that his mother had kept secrets from him, and that those secrets had affected the lives of every person in Glen Abbey.

  Ian was wholly disheartened by the knowledge.

  They were nearing their destination—Ian could feel the driver’s relief in the renewed vigor of his driving. He had kept to himself the entire journey, answering questions only when forced to, but he was beginning to feel the driver suspected something. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell the man to slow down, but as the thought crossed his mind, a woman’s scream curdled his blood.

  At once, the coach lurched, careening to one side as the driver struggled to stop. Ian bounced into the window and then into the facing seat as the carriage came to an abrupt halt. He was out of the rig as quickly as he could regain his bearings. The sight that greeted him on the street made his heart falter.

  His worst fear was confirmed. They’d hit a woman; she lay sprawled facedown in the middle of the road. For a frightful moment, she didn’t stir.

  Ian sprinted to her side, kneeling to inspect her.

  Her long ebony hair fell haphazardly from pins to cover most of her pallid cheek. Her wooden box had tumbled from her grasp and had settled in two pieces not more than a foot from her head, spilling silverware into the street like a river of fine silver.

  He didn’t see blood—that much was heartening—but she’d yet to move. Then she groaned, and he blew a sigh of relief.

  The driver hurried to his side. “We did not hit her!” he swore.

  Ian cast the man a censuring glare. Of course they’d hit her, blast it all! Wasn’t her limp body proof enough?

  The chatter of voices rose as curious onlookers surrounded them.

  It took Claire a befuddled instant to realize she lay kissing the gravel on Drury Lane.

  She moaned, more out of embarrassment than in pain, and struggled to her knees to find she had an uninvited audience.

  How utterly humiliating!

  One man in particular was kneeling at her side, gawking down at her. A prick of annoyance sidled through her at the sight of him. She realized he meant to help, but his regard only filled her cheeks with heat.

  He was unnervingly handsome, with his sun-kissed blond hair and magnificent cheekbones. Claire tried not to notice the color of his eyes.

  This moment was certainly not the time to admire pale blue eyes, even if they were the most remarkable blue she’d ever encountered.

  “Thank God you’re not injured!” the man exclaimed.

  His voice sent an unexpected quiver through her.

  It was the chill of the rain, she assured herself.

  The fall must have addled her brain. God help her, she’d never entertained such disturbing thoughts in all her life.

  She wished he would look away, so intense was his scrutiny.

  Shaken as much by the man’s attention as by the fall, she inspected her scuffed hands. Then, remembering the footpad who’d been shadowing her, she hurriedly scanned the gathering throng.

  She didn’t at once spy the footpad, but neither did she care to wait around for him reappear. She began to gather up her grandmother’s silver, agitated by her sudden lack of good sense.

  The driver of the carriage rambled on, absolving himself of any fault for her injuries. “She ran in front of the carriage,” he explained to his master. “We did not hit her, denka—she fell!”

  Claire cast the driver a reproachful glance.

  How dare he settle the blame solely upon her! She hadn’t been watching where she was going, that much was certainly true, but he might have driven more thoughtfully, considering that this was London and the streets were riddled with women and children—even if some of those children were nearly as dangerous as the adults.

  She shook a spoon at him. “You, sir, were traveling much too fast for these conditions!” she accused him. She reached out to seize the bottom half of her box and turned it over, slamming it down upon the street as she cast the driver a baleful glare.

  His eyes slanted sadly.

  Claire ignored the prick of guilt she felt.

  Her box was a wreck, her silver scattered to the four corners, and he had the audacity to look crestfallen by her censure. She wasn’t about to ease his conscience so quickly.

  “Any child might have run in front of your carriage, and how might you have felt then?” she added.

  “Hardly any worse than he already does,” his employer said, coming to the driver’s defense.

  Claire hurriedly gathered up the remaining silverware, grateful for the distraction of her anger to refocus her thoughts. She tossed the pieces into the broken box, annoyed that both men were still staring, neither of them helping.

  Neither was anyone else, for that matter. The crowd was thickening around them, heads cocked like parakeets as they gawked down at her while she gathered her belongings from the street.

  “How rude!” she exclaimed.

  How morbid, to stop and simply stare. She wanted to tell them all to move on and to mind their own sordid affairs, but she knew it would be a waste of her breath.

  She directed her anger at the driver, because his gaze was not nearly so unsettling as his employer’s. “At any rate, it seems to me, sirrah, that if you felt the least bit badly about running me down, you might be a little more inclined to help me pick up my belongings!”

  Both men seemed to realize she was the only one cleaning up the gleaming mess they’d made of the street.

  By now, carriages were backed up clear to the corner theater.

  “Forgive me…allow me to help,” the employer offered.

  His driver at once fell to his knees, gathering up her silverware, most certainly scratching the finish as he scooped them into a pile before him. She wanted to tell him to be careful, but in truth, she wanted him to hurry. What did scratches on silver matter when lives were at stake?

  The crowd that had gathered began to disperse, apparently bored with the lack of blood and gore. Claire searched the remaining faces for the man who’d been pursuing her.

  “Hurry!” she demanded, though not unkindly. “I must be going! It’s much too late!”

  “A lady shouldn’t be walking the streets at this hour anyway,” the employer had the audacity to say.

  Surely, he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, but Claire took offense anyway. She glared at him. “I beg your pardon! I am hardly walking the streets, sirrah.”

  He blinked, probably realizing what he’d implied. “I meant to say that it isn’t safe for a woman to be out and about at this hour,” he explained.

  As if she hadn’t already realized that. “I was on my way home until you waylaid me.”

  Claire ignored the rain smacking her in the face. She didn’t bother to wipe away the droplets. Her hair was doubtless a sad wreck—if
not from the fall, then from the rain.

  She wished they would both just go to bloody Jericho!

  The blond man couldn’t begin to realize her present chaos of mind.

  The sun was quickly waning and she did, indeed, have a long way to go if she couldn’t locate a hansom.

  Lord, what if she couldn’t? She almost groaned aloud at the thought. What if the streets grew dark before she could make her way to safety? Panic took a firm foothold in her stomach.

  Calm down, she commanded herself.

  The footpad had surely fled by now. Anyway, he hadn’t been following her, she tried to convince herself.

  “If you’ll allow us the pleasure of your company,” the employer said, “we would love to offer you a ride home.”

  Claire tossed a pitifully bent fork into the mangled box. A ride home with perfect strangers was the very last thing she required at the moment. For all she knew, that’s how her brother had disappeared. “I can find my own way, thank you.”

  And then she spied the man who’d followed her from the pawnbroker’s. He stood inside a little shop across the street, staring out the window, waiting.

  Claire’s heart flipped.

  Lord! He was following her.

  “Well, then…please accept our humble apologies, madam. I suppose we’ll be on our way.”

  Claire snatched up the last of her silver and lifted the box, thrusting it at the employer. “Be a gentleman,” she commanded him. “Carry my box to the carriage.” Then, without a word, fearing they would change their minds, she stood and hurried to their vehicle.

  Chapter Three

  Ian watched her march to the rig and let herself in.

  Evidently, she considered him the lesser evil.

  The thought brought a wry smile to his lips. There were many folks who would disagree.

  He glanced over his shoulder, trying to determine what it was she’d spied that had changed her mind so suddenly.

  No one stood out.