“In fact, as you know, she has taken up residence at our country estate.”
Claire swallowed.
“Let us not mince words, Claire. If you would, perhaps, be interested in an arrangement, I might consider the loan, after all.”
Claire’s mouth opened to reply. Then she closed it again.
She’d never expected such a scandalous proposition.
She stared at Lord Huntington, horrified by the possibility that she might have, at some point, given him the wrong impression. He had never intimated that he was romantically interested in her.
He was her father’s good friend. Her best friend’s father.
“In fact,” he continued. “I might even be persuaded to make the loan a gift.”
Claire shook her head. “My lord—”
“You needn’t answer just now,” he said, and opened a drawer. He removed a card. “Take some time. Think about it. And if my offer does not suit you, I know a man who may be able to assist you in locating your brother.”
He snatched his pen from the inkwell and scratched something on the card.
“Thank you,” Claire said numbly. She stood, her mind reeling. “I’m so sorry for having burdened you.”
Her stomach turned.
He handed her the card. “Keep in mind that Ben is a grown man,” he said. “And whatever befalls him is of his own doing.”
“Yes…thank you,” Claire repeated. “Please…give my love to Lexie when she awakens.”
“Of course, my dear.”
Claire didn’t wait for him to see her out.
She hurried to collect her belongings and practically ran out the door, clutching the card in her hand.
It wasn’t until she reached the street that she dared even to examine it. On one side of the calling card was Lord Huntington’s full name and address. Scribbled on the other side was the name and the address of one Wes Cameron, Private Investigator.
She shuddered, uncertain whether it was Lord Huntington’s offer or the name and address he’d offered her that caused it.
Tears pricked at her eyes as she walked down the street toward Highbury Hall.
They were neighbors, for God’s sake!
She had supped with his entire family!
She had considered Lady Huntington a second mother in the absence of her own, and Claire and Lexie had practically grown up together, spending summers at each other’s country estates.
The idea of lying with Lord Huntington—and more—was worse than unthinkable—it was utterly distasteful. It would be tantamount to carrying on with her own father.
First thing in the morning, she would seek out Wes Cameron. It was the only acceptable solution.
Chapter Six
The following morning, Ian awoke fully dressed sprawled atop a strange bed.
Disoriented by the unfamiliar environs, he tried to regain his bearings.
London.
Berkeley Square.
He was lying on an enormous bed, pretending to be someone else, with no one seemingly the wiser.
And thanks to complete exhaustion, he’d had the first sound night’s sleep he’d enjoyed in nearly six months.
He lay still a moment, determining how best to proceed and wondering how Merrick fared in Glen Abbey. Had he revealed himself as yet? Or did he, too, have cause to hold his tongue?
Only time would tell.
One thing was certain—the man was bound to have had one hell of a headache after Ian’s head butt. Only Angus McPherson had a harder head than Ian.
Morning light streamed in through draperies that had, apparently, never been drawn. The sun’s rays cut a gilded path across the room, illuminating the figure of a man seated cross-legged on the bare floor at the far end of the apartment.
The unexpected presence gave Ian a start.
It took him a groggy instant to realize it was only Ryo, who sat facing the bed, his eyes closed. He remained still, his palms resting on his thighs. Was he praying? Meditating?
In either case, what the devil was he doing in Merrick’s bedroom?
“You are awake, denka,” the little man said, though he hadn’t bothered to open his eyes.
Ian dragged a hand across his whiskers. “Bloody hell! It’s damned fortunate for me that you weren’t bent on my demise,” he groused. “I never even heard you enter the room.”
The foreigner opened his eyes, tilting Ian an undecipherable glance. “A man at peace has little to fear. But he who seeks revenge should remember to dig two graves,” he said cryptically.
A warning?
Ryo sat unmoving, his passive posture scarcely any threat. Ian studied him, wondering what role he played in Merrick’s life. It was quickly becoming apparent he was something more than a driver.
A bodyguard, perhaps?
But the notion nearly made Ian laugh out loud. Ryo was hardly of a stature to protect himself, much less anyone else. And yet, he had somehow managed to evade Rusty Broun.
“You have much to do today,” the little man announced, ceasing with the riddles and disregarding Ian’s scrutiny. “Your father wishes an audience. He was much displeased that you did not seek him at once upon your return.”
So bloody what.
Let the bastard wait.
Considering how best to evade everyone for the remainder of the day, and Ryo in particular, Ian dragged himself to the edge of the bed to remove his boots.
Ryo was right about one thing: Ian did have much to do today. However, none of it had a bloody thing to do with Ryo’s, Merrick’s or his father’s agenda.
“I must first speak with you regarding a matter of some importance,” Ryo said.
Ian grimaced. He wasn’t entirely certain he wished to hear what the man had to say. He stood and turned his back to Ryo, pretending to occupy himself with his morning ministrations.
Someone, presumably Ryo, had arranged a fresh set of clothing upon the valet at the foot of the bed. Ian examined the shirt he was wearing, unbuttoned the wrinkled garment, removed it and tossed it upon the bed, glad for the change of clothes.
So, he determined, Ryo was a driver, a bodyguard, a secretary and a valet. What else?
“I have a tale I wish to share, if you will allow it.”
“Go on,” Ian allowed, though reluctantly.
“In my country,” Ryo began without further invitation, “there is the tale of a man whose horse escaped him and wandered into the territory of the northern tribes.”
Whatever he’d expected the man to share, it certainly wasn’t a blessed bedtime story. He cast Ryo a questioning glance.
Ryo ignored it, continuing with his tale. “Everyone consoled this man, except his father, who said, ‘Perhaps this will turn out to be a blessing.’”
Unbidden, Ian’s thoughts wandered to the girl from Grosvenor Square.
It was doubtful he would ever see her again, so why did he persist in thinking of her?
He’d dreamed of her this morning. Thank heavens he hadn’t pleasured himself in Ryo’s presence. He didn’t embarrass easily, but a little privacy was certainly in order. It seemed a man couldn’t even relieve himself in this place without a bloody audience.
“After a time,” Ryo persisted, “the man’s horse returned with a mare. And everyone congratulated him, except the father, who said, ‘Perhaps this will soon turn out to be a curse.’”
Ian fastened his trousers, willing away the evidence of his unwanted arousal. Damn, he apparently needed only think of the woman to lose control over his body’s reaction.
“Is there a point to this fairy tale?” Ian snapped.
“Well, since this man now had two horses,” Ryo went on, ignoring Ian’s question, “his young son became fond of riding and eventually broke his leg by falling from his horse. Everyone consoled him, except his father, who said, ‘Perhaps this will soon turn out to be a blessing.’”
Ian finished dressing and sat on the bed, waiting for the end of Ryo’s nonsensical tale.
�
��So what’s the moral of the story?” he asked.
“One year later, the northern tribes invaded. All able-bodied men took up arms and nine out of ten men died. But the man’s young son did not join the fight because he was crippled, and so, both the son and his father survived.”
Ryo sat quietly, staring back at him.
He seemed to be looking for some reaction to his story, Ian thought, though what he was searching for, Ian hadn’t a bloody clue. “That’s it?” he asked.
Ryo nodded.
Bloody hell.
Ian had never been one to mince words. If he’d been discovered, let the man say so instead of speaking in riddles. “Is there something you’re trying to say?”
Ryo heaved a sigh, then finally spoke clearly, “Only time will tell whether the journey to Glen Abbey will be, not merely your father’s misfortune, but yours as well, denka.”
He leveled Ian a look that spoke volumes, and Ian realized that Ryo knew more than he was willing to reveal—much more.
The driver added, “Last night I was summoned to give my report. I revealed nothing.”
“Why?”
He narrowed his eyes at Ian, reaching up to stroke his short beard, as though in contemplation. And then he returned to his riddles. “It is said that three things cannot long be hidden: the sun, the moon and the truth.” He sighed. “The wine of fate has been poured. Now, everyone must drink.”
Claire swallowed her pride and revealed her destination. It was far more palatable than Huntington’s offer.
How could she ever face Lexie again after her father’s indecent proposal? How could she ever bear to show her face to the world if she were to commit such a disgraceful act?
“Madam!” Jasper argued with her. “Surely Lord Huntington could not mean for you to go there?”
Claire ignored his protest. “I haven’t any choice,” she told him.
And truly, she didn’t.
She most certainly didn’t need the distress of an argument this morning. Jasper had never dared question her before her father’s death and before Ben’s disappearance. She forgave it now only because she understood he felt a certain obligation as the only remaining male in the household. She tried to exercise patience—she truly did—despite the fact that his solicitousness rankled her in her present state of mind. But she was quite certain he would never say such things to Ben, were Ben in her position. And God forbid that he should ever have parted his lips to second-guess her father.
“I cannot fathom how Lord Huntington could think to direct you to such an unhealthy address. Not only is that place unseemly, it is unheard of—”
“Really, Jasper,” she interrupted. “You have nothing to be concerned about.” She lifted a brow. “As you can plainly see, I am in disguise.”
The steward scrunched his nose as he examined her dress. “As what, madam?”
Claire thought it rather apparent. “As an honest but poor working woman,” she replied reasonably, and gestured down at the plain brown, threadbare dress and weathered black boots she’d discovered in the servants’ quarters.
“But, madam, surely you do not wish to be confused with the working women of that quarter?”
Claire had to think about his question an instant, and then her eyes widened as she caught his meaning. That wasn’t at all her intent! “You don’t mean…?”
His cheeks stained red. “Not that!” the steward exclaimed, realizing now that he had insulted her.
That was thrice her honor had been questioned in the past twenty-four hours!
She seized her reticule from the foyer table, then reconsidered the wisdom of carrying a purse with her at all. It certainly didn’t do much for her disguise. Poor women didn’t carry purses, did they? Frowning, she set it down again.
“You simply don’t belong there,” Jasper persisted.
Claire refrained from telling him that it wasn’t the first time she’d visited the rookeries. Her hands flew to her hips. “What would you have me do instead, Jasper?”
No one would simply hand over the amount of cash she required. She didn’t have any favors to call in, and she didn’t have much left of value to sell—nothing but her body, and she hardly relished the thought of lying with Lord Huntington.
And it wouldn’t do much good to offer anyone else the house. Lord Huntington had made it perfectly clear no one would deal with her simply because she was a woman.
She eyed the reticule, wondering how Cameron would know who she was if she hadn’t any proof. Besides, as sad as it might be, she planned to offer him the set of silverware for his services. She picked up the reticule again and opened it, revealing a calling card and a butter knife. She had considered carrying a spoon as an example of what she was offering as payment, but the knife would serve a dual purpose. She withdrew the calling card, tapped it against her chin as she considered it and then shoved it back into the purse. Anyone could print a carte de visite.
Ignoring Jasper as he babbled on, she considered her locket as proof instead. She put down the purse and removed the necklace from her neck, then opened the locket and examined the miniature of her mother, reading the inscription although she knew it by rote: To my darling daughter, Claire. Tears pricked at her lids and she closed the locket again, shoving it into the purse, not wanting anyone to see it.
The locket would do. She and her mother bore a striking resemblance and the inscription was clearly written to Claire. She would carry the purse, she decided. It was plain enough.
That decided upon once and for all, she turned her attention to her querulous servant. “I appreciate very much that you are concerned,” she said, “but please remove yourself from the door at once.”
“Madam!” Jasper continued to protest.
“Jasper, this behavior is entirely inappropriate,” she advised him. “You are not my father. I am the mistress of this house and you are to do as you are told. Now, please remove yourself.”
“Yes, madam,” he relented, looking properly chastised, though he still seemed unwilling to budge. “What will you do if someone gives chase?”
The answer was quite obvious, Claire thought. “Run, of course.”
The note of alarm in his voice escalated in response to her calm, rational reply. “What if they should try to snatch you?” he persisted.
“I shall scream,” she answered without hesitation and with entirely more confidence than she felt.
He was certainly succeeding in his attempt to unnerve her.
“But, my lady, what if they should cover your mouth?”
Claire’s brows drew together. “Then, I suppose I will be forced to bite them,” she replied, though, in truth, she’d never, before this instant, even considered committing such a crude act upon any human being.
She had not even considered it at five years of age, when Ben had snatched her braids and pulled her, screaming and kicking away from the stables where she’d hidden away to watch the birth of their new foal. Ben had insisted it was unseemly for a girl to watch such a crude act of nature, and threatened to tell their father if she didn’t come away from the stable at once. Claire had refused and he had dragged her willy-nilly away.
“But, madam, please…what if they catch you unaware?”
Claire tried to skirt around him in an attempt to reach the door. “Jasper, I am venturing into a very unsavory area. I assure you I will not, for a single instant, be caught unaware.”
The old servant sighed, realizing at last that Claire was unwavering in her decision.
He should have realized sooner.
When her mind was made up, she wasn’t likely to change it. How many times had Ben called her stubborn, and how many times had her father merely laughed at the accusation? It might not be her most endearing trait, but her father had often told her, with a hint of admiration, that he felt sorry for any man who thought to take her reins.
“At the very least, allow me to drive you,” the servant offered.
Claire shook her head. “
No, that won’t do. The coach is in shambles,” she reminded him. “And besides, you can’t see well enough to drive. I shall do well enough on my own, thank you very much!”
It wasn’t her habit to point out a man’s handicaps, but this might well be a matter of life and death. The last thing Claire needed was to have an old man hobbling after her while she was running for her life. It was enough she was putting herself at risk.
“Very well,” Jasper relented. “But if you must go, let me tell you something about a man’s greatest vulnerability.”
Despite the fact that there was no one about to hear what he had to say, Jasper leaned forward to whisper in her ear.
Claire felt her face burn as he proceeded to explain where best to strike a man.
She gasped in surprise. It seemed the southern-most region of a man’s…territory…could be quite delicate.
When Jasper straightened, color bloomed in the old man’s cheeks. He couldn’t quite look at her and for that Claire was grateful. “A swift lift of the knee should do it,” he said, as he moved away from the door.
“Thank you,” Claire replied. “I shall remember that.”
“God be with you, madam.”
Ian didn’t fool himself. Merrick was certain to return, and it was inevitable he would be discovered. Until then, he intended to make good use of the time Ryo had offered him.
Evidently, his brother’s curious servant was willing to let Ian drink from the wine of fate, so long as he was willing to dig his own grave if he strayed from the path of truth onto the path of revenge.
The man’s silence was yet another validation of Ian’s suspicions. Why else would Ryo remain silent, unless he believed that by doing so he was still serving the king’s son?
Making his way below stairs, Ian searched the corridors for something—or someone—familiar to guide him. As he passed through the halls, strange faces leered back at him from the portraits hanging on the walls. With lifted brows and arrogant smirks, they seemed to be watching him as he stumbled from room to room.
His gut twisted at the thought of meeting the man whose blood coursed through his veins.
At last, near the foyer, he encountered a familiar face—the servant who’d escorted him last evening to his quarters. The man was dragging a large, rolled carpet from a cavernous room. Apparently, the hall was being prepared for some grand event.
The Impostor Prince Page 5