The Impostors: Complete Collection

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  The letter ended in an angry scribble of black ink that bled profusely into yellowed paper.

  A first draft, perhaps?

  Had he bothered to pen another? So his father wished to further the man’s reputation, did he? Was this his primary objective? Had he said as much to Ian’s mother? Was this why she’d been angry enough to burn down their carriage house? Had she watched that man peer down at them, prying into their lives, and burned with rage?

  Disgusted, confused, Ian tossed the letter back into the box. Were it put to him just so, he might have strangled the poor messenger where he stood.

  And Ryo… he had been there the day Ian was presented with the bird, he realized. Ryo could account for everything and yet he’d never told Merrick the truth.

  The bedroom door opened. Ian didn’t bother looking up. He twirled a vial of laudanum in his right hand, acutely aware of the fragility of its glass.

  “Merrick?” his father said, obviously startled to find him in his private quarters.

  Ian peered up at him, his eyes stinging.

  “What are you doing?” his father asked.

  Ian didn’t blink. “Looking for answers.”

  It was time to face the truth, no more sorting through lies.

  His father averted his gaze. “I see.”

  No. He saw nothing at all.

  Ian stared hard, willing the man to look at him and see him—really see him.

  He refused. “Your bride has finally arrived,” he said.

  Ian blinked. “Claire?”

  “Do you have another stashed somewhere?” his father asked, daring now to look his way.

  “Do you?” Ian countered.

  His father’s eyes glittered. “She is quite distraught,” he disclosed, changing the topic, maintaining his composure. “You should tend to her at once.”

  “She can wait,” Ian snapped, annoyed that his father could dismiss the situation so easily.

  “She’s weeping,” his father announced.

  “Weeping?” Dread ripped through Ian.

  “Apparently, she’s had some run in with some bounder, though she refuses to divulge more.”

  Ian bounded up from the chair, dropping the vial of laudanum at his feet as he brushed past his father.

  Chapter 15

  “Oh, thank God! She refuses to speak to anyone but you,” the duchess announced as Ian approached the drawing room.

  It was evident by the elder woman’s florid complexion that she was agitated by her lack of command over the situation.

  Ian could hardly blame Claire for holding her tongue. She was wise enough to realize nothing she said in the duchess’s presence would remain in confidence.

  Inside the drawing room, Claire was perched upon the edge of the settee, her eyes red rimmed, tears welling in her eyes. She had, indeed, been weeping, though she was settled now, wrapped in a blanket that didn’t quite conceal her bare ankles. Evidently, she’d left her home in quite a rush.

  Ryo stood guard by her side, looking very protective of the lass, despite their previous dissension.

  He wasn’t alone in his solicitude.

  God help him… if anyone had harmed Claire, he swore he’d strangle the fool with his bare hands.

  Still attempting to manage the situation, the duchess followed Ian into the drawing room. “I took the liberty of sending the guests home,” she explained, as though she were mistress of this house and not a guest herself. “I also sent for tea. It should help to calm her.”

  “I’d like to speak with Claire alone,” Ian said at once, not bothering to wait until Claire requested it. It was obvious Claire had little to say in Victoria’s presence.

  The duchess halted, tapping her heel in a telltale gesture of disapproval. “Of course,” she replied, though Ian knew he had offended her. He didn’t give a tinker’s damn. If his father was concerned over Victoria’s sensibilities, he could get his arse downstairs and pander to her all he wished.

  Ian and Ryo shared a look of understanding, and Ryo moved forward to see the duchess out, closing the door behind her.

  * * *

  Claire waited until Ryo stepped out of the room, not that she minded his presence terribly. He’d been kind to her since the ordeal, coming at once to her rescue and whisking her away from that house. But she desperately wished to speak to Merrick alone. She needed to be certain he wouldn’t refuse to let her keep the ring. It was her only hope for Ben. This morning, she had been so certain her troubles were nearing an end. She’d felt safe in her own home. Tonight, she felt violated and afraid—not only for Ben, but for herself, as well.

  These men were greedy and ruthless; that much was clear.

  What if she were to give them everything they demanded, and still they wanted more?

  She was so grateful Merrick sent the duchess out. It was horrid enough that the duchess had witnessed Claire dressed in her night rail, a blanket and little else. No doubt everyone would hear of it tomorrow. But it couldn’t be helped. Claire hadn’t dared to go back into that house. She had insisted, even, that Jasper and Mrs. Tandy spend the remainder of the evening at their daughter’s home.

  Truly, despite their earlier discord, she was glad to be with Merrick right now. He was the first person she’d thought of as she’d run screaming out the door—the only person she could imagine sharing confidences with now. She didn’t dare go to Alexandra or back to Lord Huntington.

  “Thank you so much for seeing me,” she said, knowing he must be piqued that she had refused his dinner invitation. She sorely regretted that now. In fact, he seemed quite put out, towering over her, his hands resting on his hips. She shivered, though she wasn’t cold. “I—I realize it is late.”

  “Tell me what happened,” he demanded, settling down beside her on the settee. He tucked the blankets about her person, wrapping her tighter, and Claire wanted to fly into his arms. It wasn’t rational. It simply wasn’t rational, because she scarcely knew this man, but somehow, she felt safer in his presence.

  “Claire?”

  She was suddenly terrified to tell him, lest he think she had also been… abused. “Someone… attacked me,” she said, but she dared not admit where. Never in her worst nightmare had she imagined someone would violate her in her most private quarters. She shivered again.

  Very gently, he placed a hand at her waist. It lent her strength and courage. “Where?”

  “In my home.” She looked away.

  * * *

  Ian felt as though someone had punched him in the gut.

  He examined her naked, wiggling toes and her state of dishabille, and understood what she was so reluctant to say. Fury ripped through him.

  “Claire,” he began, forcing himself to speak calmly. “Did he… harm you?”

  She shook her head and played with the ring on her finger. “No.”

  Ian released the breath he’d not realized he’d been holding. He reached out to grip her chin, lifting her face, needing to look into her beautiful eyes. “Are you certain?”

  She nodded, wearing that same vulnerable expression she’d had in the carriage the first day they’d met… and then again on High Street, when he’d rescued her purse from that raging dog. His suspicions had been validated; she was deep, deep in the suds, and every fiber of his being wanted to come to her aid. His own troubles were entirely forgotten as he peered into her eyes. She was but a wee kitten hiding behind a lioness’s facade. “Claire, I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what happened.”

  She blinked and he yearned to reach out and draw her into his arms, but he didn’t dare. The feel of her would unman him. He was deplorable, because here she was, completely distressed, and he wanted nothing more than to press his tongue between her lips. He’d spent far too many hours imagining the taste of her.

  Willing his thoughts away from her half-dressed body—even disheveled, she was a tempting armful—his gaze nevertheless betrayed him, sliding to her bare feet.

  Devil hang him, because despit
e his best intentions, his governor rose. Thankfully, she seemed entirely unaware that she was seated next to a hopeless hound.

  “He stole into my house while I slept,” she said finally.

  Ian gritted his teeth. “Who?” A jealous lover?

  She shrugged, her brows drawing together. “A man.”

  “Did you know this man?”

  Claire shook her head. “Please, will you release my chin?” she asked, without temper. “You’re grasping it too tightly.”

  Ian dropped his hand at once, chagrined to have allowed his anger to manifest itself in such a rude manner. “I’m sorry, yet again.”

  “It’s quite all right,” she said, rubbing her chin with a finger. She offered him a consoling smile.

  Ian longed to bend and kiss the small red spot where his fingers had pressed her, but he resisted the urge, reminding himself that he had no right to such an intimate gesture. She was not truly his fiancée, and neither would they ever be wed.

  “I did not know him, though I have seen him before,” she disclosed.

  “When?”

  She tilted her head, her expression a bit more self-assured, and her lips curved ever so slightly. She dared to bait him. “The day you ran me down.”

  Ian smiled back, amazed she could find her mettle even now. He amended his previous observation: She was a lioness hiding behind a kitten’s facade. “You mean, rather, that day when you weren’t watching where you were going?”

  Claire laughed, the sound enchanting.

  “Very well. I concede to some fault. Yes, that day when I was wasn’t watching where I was going.” And then she contorted her face. “At any rate, I was coming home from the pawnshop….”

  “Pawnshop?”

  Her cheeks brightened as she proceeded to tell him about her father’s debts, her brother’s disappearance and his captor’s demands.

  “That’s quite a load to bear alone,” Ian remarked, astonished that she had borne it for so long.

  Claire shrugged. “I had little choice. They said no bobbies, and I am quite certain they mean to carry out their threats.” She told him about the finger. “And he demanded that I give him the ring,” she said, lifting her hand to reveal the winking monstrosity. “But I didn’t.”

  “Obviously,” Ian remarked. “You are quite fortunate he didn’t snip off your finger and simply take it.”

  “I wasn’t wearing it,” she confessed. “I told him I didn’t have it. I was afraid he would kill Ben if he no longer had a use for him.”

  Brave, levelheaded chit.

  “You did the right thing for Ben’s sake,” Ian assured. “Tomorrow we’ll make another trek to High Street, together. Tonight you will rest here. I’ll have a room arranged for you at once. Agreed?”

  She nodded, and he felt both relieved and tormented at the thought of having her under the same roof.

  “Thank you,” she said, and seemed to mean it. Her eyes glistened again with tears.

  Ian reached out to take the ring from her finger. “I’ll put it somewhere safe,” he said.

  She snatched her hand away. “If you don’t mind, I would rather hold on to it.”

  “Suit yourself,” Ian said.

  “But do not mistake me. I do thank you for the shelter. I simply didn’t know where else to go. I no longer feel safe… at home.”

  She hadn’t any clue. She wasn’t safe here, either—no safer than that bloody ring was on her finger. But he didn’t bother to point out that fact. Ian wasn’t the man she thought him to be. He sighed. It was going to be a long damned night.

  Chapter 16

  That night, Claire tossed and turned.

  It was the first time in nearly seven years that she’d slept outside her home, and, after tonight’s ordeal, every strange noise left her ill at ease. Having requested a room near Merrick’s, she was comforted to know he was only a shout away. Even so, she couldn’t relax enough to sleep.

  Her mind raced with all the night’s possible outcomes.

  Had circumstances played out differently, she might be dead now, or left violated. The man’s breath had been so repugnant. And the sound of his voice still echoed in her ears. He’d stolen into her room and he’d held her at knifepoint. She could still feel the cold, sharp edge of his blade. Heaven forbid, he could have forced her to do unspeakable things. He might have taken the ring and then disposed of Ben entirely. She only hoped her brother remained unharmed.

  As for Merrick, God surely worked in mysterious ways to have put him not once, but no fewer than three times, in her path. She might have taken a cab to and from the pawnshop and never have met him. On High Street, she might have been afraid, or even somewhat more sensible, and decided not to go at all. On the night of the engagement—she despised galas of that sort—it would have been easy for her to decline Alexandra’s invitation. But she hadn’t. And now she was sleeping in his home—betrothed to him, no less.

  But not really, she reminded herself.

  It was merely a ploy to buy him the time he needed to find himself another, more suitable bride. His words, almost precisely. But even though she told herself his choice of words didn’t bother her, they did.

  So what was it that made her so unsuitable?

  She frowned up at the ceiling. The thought of Merrick wedding someone else left her feeling sullen.

  But that didn’t make sense, because she couldn’t possibly have feelings for a man she scarcely knew.

  She shouldn’t care one whit if he walked down the aisle with ten different women.

  The sound of footsteps outside her door made her bolt upright in bed. Her heart fluttered. She held her breath, listening.

  What if they had found her and come for the ring?

  No, they wouldn’t dare. The Berkeley Square residence was surrounded and the guards surrounding it were armed to the teeth.

  Nevertheless, she bounded out of bed and hurried to the door to listen, ready to scream if the knob should happen to turn.

  Outside Claire’s door, Ian stood, hand poised to knock. But he hesitated…

  What more could he do tonight, except ask how she fared? Anyway, she was likely fast asleep by now. In fact, he’d waited hours in hopes that exhaustion would save him from making a fool of himself.

  He only wanted to see her.

  Frozen in indecision, he stood, considering the circumstances.

  Earlier this evening, he had been fully prepared to disclose himself to his father, but the situation had changed. Now, he was no longer willing to jeopardize his position if he could somehow be of aid to Claire.

  And neither could he disclose himself to Claire. Even if the situation were different, and if she didn’t smack him for the thoughts he was entertaining, he risked ruining her reputation by visiting her so late without a chaperone.

  Still, he was torn. His hand remained in midair, poised to knock.

  No, he demanded of himself. No.

  He couldn’t give her what she deserved. He couldn’t even give her the money she needed to ransom her brother. Not yet. Tomorrow would be soon enough to see her, he assured himself, and forced himself away from the door, retreating, knowing it was the right thing to do.

  Damn it all to bloody hell!

  Why did he suddenly have to grow a conscience?

  The following morning’s trek to High Street was a far different venture from Claire’s first visit to the much-deteriorated quarter. Merrick ordered the driver to await them as he stepped into the bleary weather to assist Claire from the carriage.

  “Perhaps you should not have come here again, denka,” Ryo commented as Claire alit from the vehicle.

  Merrick gave the man a quelling glance.

  “It is said that the nail that sticks out is the one that gets hammered down,” he persisted.

  “Whatever does he mean?” Claire asked beneath her breath.

  “The man fancies himself a poet,” Merrick snapped, ushering her away from the carriage. “Pay him no mind.”

&nbs
p; “Why does he call you denka?” Claire asked. “What does that mean?”

  Merrick seemed to hesitate before answering, and then replied somewhat curtly, “It’s simply a name, nothing more.”

  Claire frowned, wondering why the question should nettle him. But she quickly put it out of her head. There were far more urgent questions to be answered.

  Upon reaching Cameron’s office, Merrick held the door open for her and waited until she was inside before stepping in behind her. His hand brushed her waist and Claire’s skin prickled. She ignored the sensation, focusing her attention instead on the man seated behind the desk. She was merely nervous, she told herself.

  The solicitor stood and came about his desk, eyes fixed curiously upon Claire, though his hand extended toward Ian.

  He bowed to Claire and smiled.

  “So… what brings His Royal Highness to High Street on this fine day?” Cameron asked, finally looking at Ian.

  * * *

  Ian felt his jaw clench, and like a jealous little lad, he longed to step in front of his woman so Cameron’s greedy eyes couldn’t violate her.

  But she wasn’t his woman, he reminded himself.

  What the devil ailed him?

  “Allow me to introduce you to Lady Claire Wentworth,” Ian said. “My fiancée,” he added as Claire offered Cameron her hand bearing the tear-shaped sapphire.

  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?”