Again, no reply.
Hoping to discover something about the man she would face, she walked to his desk and opened a drawer. It was filled with papers. She closed it and opened another, discovering a handful of calling cards and a sinister-looking dirk with a very ornate ivory handle emblazoned with the letter C. It was clearly old and valuable. She flipped over a card. It read: Wes Cameron, Private Investigator.
She was in the right place though evidently at the wrong time.
Her gaze returned to the dirk, her brows lifting at the confirmation of his character, and she began to reconsider the wisdom in dealing with such a man. However, she’d come too far to turn back.
Noticing a door in the back of the room, she went to it and knocked. Again, no answer. She opened the door and peered into a small room filled with boxes and books.
Against the wall, half-covered by a large box, a portrait of a man leaned crookedly, as though forgotten. Depicted in military uniform, the subject was handsome, but something about his pale blue eyes was disconcerting; they were like shards of ice, devoid of emotion. The sight of them made her shudder.
Deciding the visit was, after all, a mistake, Claire pulled the door shut and turned to find that she had an audience.
“You!” she exclaimed.
Chapter 7
Ian was too stupefied to find his tongue.
No matter that she’d taken great pains to alter her appearance, he could never mistake that face or those green eyes sparkling with intelligence.
Her manner of dress had deteriorated, he noticed, but she was definitely the same woman they’d nearly flattened yesterday evening.
Her eyes narrowed at the sight of him. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same of you,” he countered.
Clearly, she wasn’t bothering with pretenses today.
His thoughts settled on the silk purse she carried; it was out of place with her threadbare gown. Some unfortunate gentlewoman’s possession? Evidently, she was no more than a common thief. Well, they had much in common, he thought.
“What I am doing here is not at all your concern,” she answered, lifting her lovely nose into the air. But as he watched, the color brightened in her cheeks.
Anger over being caught?
Embarrassment?
She walked toward him, evading his gaze, probably intending to pass by and escape through the door behind him.
“I believe I shall endeavor to take up my affairs with Mr. Cameron at a later date,” she said. “Good day to you, sirrah!”
What affairs would those be, precisely? Ian wondered. And even as he considered the possibilities, his mood soured.
He waited until her hand was on the knob and considered allowing her to leave without comment—it would doubtless be the better choice—but he couldn’t keep himself from baiting her. “I’m supposing you found nothing shiny enough to steal?”
She spun about, as he knew she would, flashing him a cutting glance. “I beg 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?” 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 or not she was a thief, he didn’t really want her to go, but he hadn’t a clue how to detain her.
If she left, he might 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 a 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 naught more than a brutish lout who clearly had so little respect for womankind. “My association with the man is none of your concern.”
For that matter, why was he here?
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 must surely be 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 deathly 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.
Good, lord! 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 fully 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 about her. The driver shouted obscenities in her direction.
“What is it with you and carriages?”
The warmth of his breath against her ear gave her an embarrassing quiver. Claire didn’t have to turn to know who it was who mocked her. She shrugged away and spun to face the man. “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, grimacing as she noticed the ravaged material.
“I am not following you. Miss…”
“Perhaps you didn’t notice. 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 am afraid I must be going now.”
She took one step away from him and the dog snapped at her. He had turned her all about so she scarcely 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—thank God!
But, suddenly, she noticed the rip in the seam of her purse, and an embarrassing whine escaped her as she spun about to scan the street. Oh, no!
Not spying the locket, she opened the purse to make certain it was not lodged within. But it was, indeed, gone.
“Searching for this?” 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 cad’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 swiftly approaching her breaking point. No human-being should have to endure what she had undergone these past weeks. The very last thing she needed at this instant 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, u
nhooking the latch and studying the tiny portrait as though he had every right to, and 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 then he sighed. “It seems 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, “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 that 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 a little snooping, he would quite easily 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.
Standing there, considering his best course of action, his thoughts returned to Claire, and he smiled as he remembered the way she’d stood up to him. But 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 having seen 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, left him hard as a stone.
And nevertheless, as much as her body appealed to him, something in her eyes had uncovered some long-forgotten corner of his soul—some part of him the longed for companionship. And more, some part of him that longed to rediscover his humanity. For so long, though he’d appointed himself as Robin Hood for his people, he had stopped allowing himself to feel, for to feel too acutely meant to suffer, and he must not allow himself any weakness.
Still, he couldn’t help but wonder; was she in trouble?
Was that why she was seeking out Cameron?
Or was it Cameron’s companionship she longed for?
He opened the door to Cameron’s office, still trying to determine what business “Claire” might have with the man; the possibilities were endless, at least half of them were distasteful.
Once and for all, he pushed her out of his thoughts.
No sooner had he settled himself into a chair to wait when Cameron returned. The man seemed a little taken aback by his presence, but he hesitated only briefly in the doorway.
The two men assessed each other curiously.
For some odd reason, Ian had expected an old bloke; the man who sauntered into the small office was about his 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. It took a thief to recognize a thief. “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 presume.”
Ian had had years of practice lying. He didn’t flinch over 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. But he chuckled, nonetheless amused. After all, 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 remarked.
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 hand and foot,” 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 these men.
Cameron smiled, but there was a certain lack of expression in his eyes. “I suppose all’s well that ends well,” he said.
“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 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 they might be. 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 ensconced in his carriage that he realized Cameron never honored him with Merrick’s title. Curious. The man was either more arrogant a bastard than Ian had first supposed, 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 long-lost son.
Chapter 8
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 than ever. She’d come directly home from Cameron’s office and straight to her room, where she could pretend she was a child again and the world beyond her Grosvenor Square haven was merely 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 only Claire and Ben. And Ben had gotten himself into a terrible mess, and they were all 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 babe. She was a grown woman, and she should be able to do something.
Already, 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 very next instant, she prayed for him. Her brother was all she had left in this world, ambivalence ruling her emotions. But 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 accusations.
Her tears welled 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—
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 to care for them. 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 guests, but I insisted. Please, 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 she reveal her 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 marriage. At least with a marriage contract, she could keep her self-respect.
Alexandra approached the bed, and Claire felt the mattress sink a little as her friend settled upon 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 better 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 perfectly appalled. “You must never give up, Claire! I know my Papa will help.”
The Impostors: Complete Collection Page 26