Tanya Crosby - The Impostor Prince

No more giggling maids.

Claire sighed.

Well, no news was good news, she supposed. At least, it wasn’t bad news.

Jasper came into the room, retrieved a folded blanket from the settee and brought it to her, settling it over her lap. “You’ll catch a cold,” he admonished her.

Claire took comfort in his solicitude but didn’t move or acknowledge his complaint. She had truly never felt so bone weary.

“I don’t know what we’ll do,” she worried aloud.

Jasper didn’t reply. He’d never been one to dwell on negativity and there was certainly little positive to say. He retrieved The Times from the desk across the room and returned, offering it to her. Claire took it and he patted her shoulder.

“I shall have Mrs. Tandy fetch you some tea,” he offered.

It still amused Claire that he spoke of his wife so formally.

She wanted to tell him not to bother. Both Jasper and his sweet wife worked hard enough as it was and it was late. And yet, she would, indeed, love a spot of tea. “Thank you,” she relented.

He left her to peruse the paper.

Though it was an empty-headed thing to do, Claire ignored the front-page headlines, unable to bear the thought of adding more discord to her life. She turned to the society page and rolled her eyes at the frivolous headlines plastered there.

Lord Burton had eloped with Emma Percy, a mere merchant’s daughter. Everyone was up in arms about it. Claire could think of far worse things, such as losing a father, then a brother.

Her eyes stung as she recalled the tears in her father’s eyes during his final moments. He hadn’t wished to die so soon, but he’d known it was his time and he’d held her hand tightly as he’d said his goodbyes. Even some four months later, some nights as she drifted to sleep, the memory of his final breaths haunted her. There had been nothing peaceful about his parting. Riddled with pain, his every breath had been labored and his last had frozen in an openmouthed gasp.

She pushed the images away, searching the paper for something frivolous.

She found her distraction in another headline.

HRH, the Crown Prince of Meridian had gone missing after his much-celebrated arrival in London. Speculation had it that his royal father expected him to find a suitable bride and he, apparently, had no wish to do so. And, much in the fashion of any spoiled, cornered monarch, he’d run away from London.

What a pity.

She rolled her eyes. Why should anyone care about some ungrateful prince from some inconsequential province?

Claire had never met him, but she recalled the hullabaloo after his first visit to London some three years past. Her good friend Alexandra, who’d been invited to a royal soiree in the prince’s honor, had told Claire the prince had seemed arrogant and bored with everyone but himself. Alexandra had said he was rude, rebuffing all attempts at polite conversation. In fact, Alexandra had had a terrible crush on him until she’d suffered the misfortune of sharing a dance with the man. Forced upon her by Lexie’s mother, Lady Huntington, he’d treated Alexandra to a painful ten minutes of unrelenting silence and then had deposited her without a word at her mother’s side. Embarrassed, Alexandra had wept for two days after.

Disgusted, Claire tossed the paper aside, ignoring the voice in her head that cautioned her to retrieve it before the ink could mar the fine ivory cloth of the settee.

God’s truth, she couldn’t care less who was doing what to whom. Didn’t anyone have anything better to worry about?

God bless Emma Percy; may she be blissfully happy every last day of her life! And Mr. Runaway Prince would come home as soon as his royal papa snipped his purse strings.

In the meantime, how was Claire supposed to raise the remaining banknotes to ensure her brother’s safe return?

Jasper returned suddenly…without the tea.

In his right hand, he held a small parcel. He stood in the doorway, his color ashen, a look of horror on his face.

Mrs. Tandy came to look over his shoulder.

Claire sat upright, her skin prickling with fear. “What is it, Jasper?”

For an instant, the steward seemed unable to speak. He lifted up a trembling hand, offering Claire the package. But he seemed hesitant to come forward.

“Forgive me, madam. I—I would have spared you…b-but I fear it’s important.”

Claire bounded to her feet, her heart tripping as she approached the steward. Without a word, she took the jewel box from his hand and lifted the lid.

She swooned at the sight of its contents.

Even before the carriage had come to a halt, it seemed half of London swarmed them.

In all Ian’s life, he had never had so many lackeys nipping at his heels.

Ryo did not alight from the vehicle. The older man sat watching while servants greeted Ian, then ushered him inside, spit-shining his boots and brushing off his coattails while they babbled on about missed appointments with faceless names.

One servant, apparently about to swipe Ian’s boot with his sleeve, paused and peered up at him curiously. They were Ian’s best pair of boots, but they were worn and dusty from too many days on too many roads. No amount of spit-shining would bring back their original luster. He hadn’t had the luxury of time to trade shoes with Merrick. He’d left Merrick wearing his own pants and boots and had absconded with his jacket and just about everything else.

Ian gave Ryo a single, backward glance as he was dragged away, wondering how much the driver knew. Something about the look in the Asian’s eyes gave him pause.

Inside, the house was like nothing Ian had ever encountered—a far cry from Glen Abbey’s ancient, neglected appearance. From the street, the Berkeley Square residence had appeared much the same as any other London manor. However, one step within revealed a decor that bordered on the ostentatious. Mediterranean in flavor, it gave the impression of embarrassing wealth.

Whereas Glen Abbey’s windows wore faded, brittle draperies, here the gold-velvet coverings were rich and fresh. Not a speck of dust marred the portraits or furnishings, which were constructed mainly of gold-painted wood. The foyer itself was enormous, with a massive, domed ceiling bearing angelic images that brought to mind a painting Ian had once seen of the Vatican’s Cappella Sistina.

An enormous claw-foot table graced one side of the entry; upon it sat a golden chalice he imagined could be a replica of the Holy Grail. It was ornately carved with twisting grapevines embedded with jewels in place of grapes. If they were, in fact, real, each separate gem would feed a township for a year.

Alongside the chalice sat a mother-of-pearl lined dish that was overflowing with calling cards. Above the table hung a massive, gold-framed portrait with the image of a man who looked uncannily like Ian, though much older, with graying sideburns and crow’s feet about the eyes.

The sight of it gave Ian a momentary startle.

He paused before it, oblivious to the chattering of servants surrounding him.

It was like gazing at his own face eroded by time.

The man’s head was bare, but though his hairstyle was thoroughly modern, he wore a baroque-style, gilded blue coat that appeared to belong in some bygone era.

“Sir?”

Ian looked down at the older man who stood at his side and tried to clear the fog from his brain.

“Your Highness?” the man prodded, his voice tinged with concern. “Are you quite all right?”

Ian blinked.

Not quite.

But he didn’t confess it. The less he said, the less he must worry about concealing his accent.

He nodded, biting his tongue. There were so many questions he wanted to ask. All in due time.

Ian gazed back at the portrait, wondering who the man was. Sire? Grandsire? There could be no doubt they shared the same blood.