Tanya Crosby - The Impostor Prince

It didn’t work quite as well as she’d hoped.

“Bah!” the clerk exclaimed. “Silver isn’t worth as much as it once was. Nine guineas is my final offer.”

Claire narrowed her eyes at him. “Nine guineas wouldn’t buy me a hat and a blessed pair of shoes!” she informed him tautly, slamming down the lid. A lady didn’t use vulgarities, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself. “No thank you, sir!” she said with as much aplomb as she could muster and, with some effort, lifted the box from the counter, fully prepared to lug it the entire distance home. For that insulting price, she’d take the silver to her grave! Nine guineas wouldn’t put a dent in the remaining one hundred-fifty thousand pounds she owed for Ben’s ransom.

“Be seein’ you,” the clerk said a little smugly.

Claire was so furious she didn’t even bid him farewell. Seething, she marched through the common shop and right out the door, tears of frustration pricking at her lids.

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?

T he 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?