The Impostor Prince

“I will publicly announce that I have chosen my bride.

“You need only make up some reason as to why you cannot wed with me—perhaps you don’t love me, after all?”

“Of course I don’t love you!” Claire protested. What a ludicrous notion! How could she love a man she didn’t even know? “I’ve only met you twice!” she pointed out reasonably.

“Three times,” Ian corrected her. “And that’s enough to establish at least an attraction, don’t you think so?”

Claire gasped softly. “I am not the least bit attracted to you, I assure you!”

“Are you not?” he asked.

Claire’s heart did a telltale flip against her breast. She was horribly afraid he might feel it, as well. “Not at all!” she lied.

He grinned wickedly, as though somehow he knew differently. “Pity,” he said. “Because I’m quite attracted to you…!”

Praise for Tanya Anne Crosby

“With remarkable insight and soul-stirring emotions,

Ms. Crosby…gives readers an enthralling

glimpse into the human heart.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on

The MacKinnon’s Bride

“With her talent for spinning engrossing yarns and

painting vivid characters and setting, Ms. Crosby will

again capture your heart.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on Perfect in My Sight

The Impostor Prince

Tanya Anne Crosby

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Prologue

Northern Scotland, 1831

R eady to strike when the leader gave the word, seven men watched from their perches within the trees as the unfamiliar vehicle approached—for the third time.

They needed this loot, but something about the closed carriage left the leader ill at ease. Though unmarked, it was far too luxurious to leave itself so vulnerable.

Either the occupant was foolish or lost…or the carriage was bait to catch a thief.

Ian MacEwen cupped his hand over his mouth to call out a signal, but indecision froze his lips. Twice before he’d let it pass, but the carriage’s presence was like a frosted pitcher of ale set before a thirsting man. It didn’t matter that it might be laced with poison; its sparkling contents were tempting beyond reason.

“His direction’s as bad as me Minny’s haggis,” remarked one of his men.

“A week ago, I’d ’a given the use of my cock for that haggis,” commented another, almost too quietly to be heard.

But everyone heard.

No one answered.

What did one say to a man who’d lost his youngest daughter to a battle against hunger? Almost three years old, Ana had been her name—sweet and shy, with little red curls and a button nose. Everyone understood why Rusty Broun was here tonight. He had three more little birds waiting at home with their mouths open wide and their bellies as empty as Glen Abbey’s coffers.

“Trust me,” Ian said to his men.

And he knew they would.

They followed him blindly, consumed with hope. Good men, all of them. They’d leave this place if they could, but where would they go? To London to feed off sewer scraps? Who would take them in with their wives and their bairns?

No, he had to do something. But what?

Silence was his answer, a ponderous, weighted silence that trampled heavily over bracken and snapped twigs below.

Anticipation was as thick as the lowering fog.

As yet, they hadn’t killed for their loot, but tonight…they might be forced to wield their weapons if the approaching vehicle was a trap.

Someone could die.

How many more children would die without their aid? The image of little Ana’s suffering face spurred his decision once and for all. He called out the signal for his men to strike.

Let consequences fall where they may.

“Kiak-kiak-keiek-keiek!”

Within the instant, the carriage was beneath them.

Ian was the first to descend.

Drawing the black hooded mask down over his face, he landed cleanly upon the rooftop. Before the driver could shout, he had his blade at the Asian’s throat. Rusty Broun came down behind him, motioning for Ian to move below into the carriage. His blade replaced Ian’s at the driver’s throat. The rest of his men dropped to the ground, surrounding the vehicle, barring its path through the woods. Forced to slow down, the carriage careened sharply. Ian nearly lost his grip, but swung back and managed to open the door.

Stunned by what he saw inside, he dropped to the ground, staring stupidly at the occupant.

All thought of highway robbery vanished.

It was like staring into a looking glass.

His hesitation cost him a jab in the jaw.

Ignoring the bone-splitting pain, he sprang into action and flung himself into the carriage, hurling the stranger backward and knocking the blade from his hand. The knife flew upward, smacked the rooftop and ricocheted downward, skimming the man’s head, drawing blood.

The carriage bolted into movement.

Ian struggled, pinning his opponent to the floorboard, slamming his head down. He tried to tell the man to stop so that he could remove his mask and reveal himself, but the man fought like a lion.

Frustrated, Ian slammed his head down into the man’s face. “Stop!” he commanded.

Finally, the stranger ceased struggling long enough to allow Ian to reach up and snatch the hood from his face.

For an interminable moment, he stared down into uncannily familiar eyes.

Bloody hell—the man could have been his twin.

It just wasn’t possible. “Who are you?” Ian demanded, confused.

“Who are you?” the man countered. Without warning, he bucked, renewing his struggles. Ian had little choice but to head-butt the fool again, but the devil hang him if he’d meant to butt so hard.

The man’s eyes rolled back into his head and he ceased struggling at once, going limp. Ian checked for a pulse and exhaled in relief when he found it strong. There wasn’t much time before the man regained consciousness.

Blast it all, what was he supposed to do now?

Certain it was no coincidence that they shared the same face, he snatched off his hood and jerked the man up to quickly remove his coat, waistcoat and shirt. He switched shirts with the man while the carriage thundered over uneven terrain, drew his own hood over the man’s head, then shrugged into the man’s coat, leaving the waistcoat for later. He opened the door and yelled for the driver to stop.

The man complied at once, and Ian dragged the former occupant of the carriage out onto the grass and laid him down.

“You are not dead yet, denka-sama,” an unfamiliar voice remarked, unmistakable relief in his tone.

Ian peered up at the driver. Somehow, the little bugger had managed to escape Rusty’s blade.

Ian didn’t respond immediately.

The shouts of his men were coming nearer now.

They would find the man, he was certain, and whether the stranger revealed himself, or not, Rusty would know what to do with him.

“Let us return home, denka-sama?” the foreigner asked. “We should never have come here.”

Home.

That’s where the answers to Ian’s questions lay waiting to be discovered. Somehow he knew it. Still, he stared down at the hooded stranger, undecided.

“He is alive?” the driver asked.

“Alive as you and me.”

“Then let us go quickly!” the driver persisted. “No good can come of this now!”

“Over there!” he heard Rusty Broun shout in the distance.

His men gave a frenzied battle cry, and he knew they’d been discovered.

“Go!” Ian ordered the man, bounding into the carriage.

At once, the driver whipped the horses into motion.

He didn’t even give a backward glance as they sped away. There would be no turning back.

Instinctively, Ian knew the answers to Glen Abbey’s troubles lay at the end of their destination.

Chapter One

One week later

T he door to the pawnbroker’s stood slightly ajar, beckoning the wary. A swinging wooden sign read: Money Advanced On Jewels, Wearing Apparel And Every Description Of Property.

The large display window held but a meager sampling of the wares offered within. Today’s teasers included a distinguished-looking portrait of someone’s grandfather with a pipe dangling from his lips, a few prayer books, a mismatched set of spoons displayed fan-style and a multitude of brooches.

Claire Wentworth stood outside the little shop, clutching the heavy wooden box that contained her grandmother’s fine silverware. Hesitating before going inside, she stared into the display window, examining an old brooch. The brooch, too, had belonged to her grandmother, along with one of the prayer books stacked atop a pyramid-style display. Claire hadn’t been able to redeem them, and now the items sat awaiting a new owner.

It couldn’t be helped.

Her brother was all she had left in this world. No amount of money or possessions could compensate for his death. The silverware could be replaced, she decided. Whatever memories they inspired were hers to keep, despite their loss.

But there was only one Ben.

Resolved, she took a deep breath and pushed open the whitewashed door, stepping into the now all-too-familiar shop. As the sign promised, inside were all manner of wares: furnishings, tapestries, snuffboxes, jewelry, blankets, an assortment of dusty hats, clothing and just about anything else one might imagine, including a heavy old sword that must have been wielded by somebody’s noble ancestor in some ancient battle. Its hilt was worn to the wood and the blade bore the scars of many blows—someone’s history sold for the price of a week’s rent. The thought of it sickened Claire, but such was life and there was no use bemoaning her circumstances.

No prayer or rueful wish could change the facts: Their father’s death had left them in debt. Ben had intended to honor those debts, but he’d chosen to do so by gambling away the remainder of the estate and he’d ended up in far worse trouble than debtor’s prison.

Now, it was up to Claire to rectify the situation.

Making her way toward the privacy closets, she passed through the common shop, choosing the compartment second to the end. (The last one was, apparently, occupied because the door was closed.) Once inside, she bolted the door, feeling safer even though she knew that was an illusion. With a sigh, she heaved the silverware box onto the counter to await the clerk.

At least four gas lamps lit the dust-filled shop, but none of their dusky light reached the privacy closets, which were open only to the counter. The goods offered here were cast in shadow, along with the faces of their owners. Either the occupants were ashamed of their circumstances or they were thieves peddling ill-gotten wares.

The clerk was occupied with someone in the last stall. That door had been closed, or Claire would have chosen it instead. The occupant of the darkest little closet was weeping softly. Fortunately, the clerk on duty seemed the most compassionate of the three—Claire recognized his voice—and he spoke to the girl gently.

“What name shall I write?”

The girl paused. Claire imagined she swallowed before answering. The first time Claire had ventured in here, she’d been unable to find her voice.

“Sarah…Sarah Jones.”

Claire didn’t recognize the name. But then, she hadn’t used her true name, either.

Once released into the shop’s inventory, Claire’s possessions would be lost forever. Even if she could manage to raise the funds, she wouldn’t raise them in time to redeem her belongings, of that much she was quite certain.

“Your own property?” the clerk interrogated.

It was an obligatory question, but Claire doubted it was a true concern for the shop owner. She’d noted the shady sorts who frequented the shop, and not once had a clerk requested proof of ownership from Claire. For all the clerk knew, Claire might have stolen the items from an employer.

The girl’s reply was soft. “Yes, of course.”

“Three shillings,” the clerk offered.

Claire wondered what the girl was selling.

The girl gasped, clearly affronted. “But, sir! This is fine—”

“Three and six,” the clerk snapped, and Claire recognized the finality in his tone.

“Please…take a look at the stitching,” the girl argued. “The gown was purchased from one of London’s finest—”

“My patrons won’t pay more,” the clerk interrupted, unimpressed. “Three and six—take it or leave it.”

Silence.

He wouldn’t offer more. Claire had sold the man enough by now to recognize when negotiations were over. He would stand silently, his face an emotionless mask, waiting for the decision to be made.

“Very well,” the girl relented, sounding defeated. “Three and six.”

As though he had expected her decision, Claire heard the clerk count out the coins at once. The compartment door opened and closed and the girl’s footfalls hurried away. Claire waited patiently, knowing her position in this gloomy place. Here, the shopkeeper ruled and the genteel were no more respected than the downtrodden.

Fortunately, she didn’t have long to wait. The clerk appeared at once, his graying hair hanging over thick, dirty glasses. He brushed his greasy bangs aside and gave her a nod, recognizing her. And well he should; he owned nearly half her possessions by now. With a heavy heart, Claire lifted the latch of the box, then the lid, revealing the precious contents.

“Splendid!” he exclaimed, dispensing with formalities. He gave her an assessing glance. “And you’re quite certain you wish to part with it?”

Claire shrugged.

She wasn’t certain about anything except that she was in a terrible pinch.

He seemed to think about it a moment, and then offered, “Eight guineas.”

Claire’s gaze snapped upward. “Eight guineas!” she repeated, aghast.

Whatever pleasure the clerk had expressed at seeing her offering now vanished behind his mask.

Claire arched a brow, knowing better than to bait him, but she couldn’t help herself. She had at least a shred of pride left. “Surely you mean eight guineas just for the box, sirrah!” The box alone was worth far more, as the lid was inlaid with ivory.

The man smiled, amused, though he shouldn’t have been. Claire was hardly in the frame of mind to be entertaining.

“Nah. I’m overstocked on silverware as it is—be rid of the lot. Eight guineas it is.”

Claire tried to reason with him. “But these are pure silver!” she explained, laying a hand protectively over her grandmother’s heirlooms.

His mask didn’t crack.

Claire used the clerk’s own bargaining tactic against him. She remained silent, waiting for him to speak, realizing that the first to open his mouth would be the one to lose.

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?

Chapter Two

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?

An image of Merrick accosted him.

Could it be…?