Читать книгу The Impostor Prince - Tanya Crosby Anne - Страница 10

C lutching the battered box of silver, Claire waited until the carriage was gone and then hurried to her front door, closing it quickly against the rain and the prying eyes of neighbors.

From outside, the Grosvenor Square residence might appear as venerable as ever, but inside it was little more than an empty shell. Room by room, Highbury Hall had been stripped of its dignity—pictures removed from the walls, vases and furnishings diminished.

Only the drawing room remained intact, a facade for the benefit of guests Claire no longer received. She would be too ashamed for anyone to witness the decline of their home since their father’s death. Their good name was sure to follow.

No one greeted her at the door as she entered the once-grand foyer. Many of the servants had abandoned them. Jasper, bless his ancient soul, had remained, despite the fact that she couldn’t pay him. The old steward and his wife had been with the family as long as Claire could recall, but even Jasper and Mrs. Tandy couldn’t revive the spirit of their dying abode.

Claire made her way to the dining room and set the box of silverware on the table, patting it once, lovingly, before turning and leaving it to collect dust.

In the drawing room, she slumped into her father’s favorite chair, easing into the familiar mold his body had etched into its worn fabric.

She took comfort in the sweet scent of his pipe that lingered, even after so many months. It was hardly ladylike to forget her posture, but she didn’t care—not today.

“Did everything go as planned, madam?”

Claire peered up to find Jasper standing in the doorway. She shook her head.

“I am sorry, madam.”

“Have we any news?” Claire asked, though she dreaded the answer.

“No, madam. It has been quiet today.”

It was always quiet.

No more male laughter rang through the halls.

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.

“I never get over the resemblance myself,” commented the servant at his side, obviously resigned to Ian’s moment of sentimentality. “Though I must say, His Majesty resembles him so much more.”

Ian nodded, clenching his jaw. It was becoming more and more apparent that his entire life had been a bloody sham. Your Highness? His Majesty? What the blazes? The title had been embossed upon Merrick’s carte de visite, but Ian hadn’t believed it. It seemed incredibly absurd to think Ian had spent his entire life scraping for copper while his flesh and blood dined on pheasant and fine wines.

The portrait hanging before him called his mother a liar. The blue eyes of its subject seemed to be smirking at him, taunting him with long-kept secrets, secrets he was determined to discover.

And God save everyone who’d had a hand in deceiving him—his mother included—because there was going to be hell to pay.

“Sir,” the man prodded again, “I don’t mean to hurry you, but His Majesty wishes an audience in one hour. Perhaps we should refresh ourselves?”

Ian cocked a brow and looked down at the servant, amused by his choice of words. “We should refresh ourselves?” he asked.

Did the man plan to crawl into Ian’s bath along with him?

The man fidgeted under Ian’s scrutiny. “Yes, sir.”

“Very well, then…we wouldn’t wish to keep His Majesty waiting,” Ian relented, taking pity on the man.

He started once more down the hall. “Lead the way,” he directed the servant, walking slowly so the man could overtake him.

But the man also slowed his gait to keep at Ian’s heels. Damn, what was he—a wretched dog?

By now, their multitude of followers had fallen away, dispersed to the four corners of the gargantuan house, leaving only two sets of footfalls to echo along the hall.

Ian stopped, gave the man an impatient wave and said again, more firmly, “Lead the way.” He hadn’t a clue where to go in this bloody museum.

The servant nodded and scurried ahead of him. All the way down the hall, the man continued to look back uncomfortably over his shoulder.

As they made their way through a maze of corridors and stairwells, all dotted with closed doors, Ian examined the portraits he passed along the way—all similar faces with similar expressions. None seemed the least contented with their lot in life.

Halting before an open door, the servant turned him to the wall, clasping his hands behind him in a military fashion. “Here we are, Your Highness! I shall have your bath drawn at once,” he promised, without looking again at Ian. “Welcome home, sir.”

Welcome home.

To a place he’d never set eyes upon.

What a damned hum.

“Thank you—” Ian hesitated, uncertain what name to call the servant.

“Harold,” the man supplied, still without looking at him.

“Sorry,” Ian said automatically. Where he was raised, men respected other men—including one’s servants—by learning their names.

“Not to worry, sir,” Harold replied, meeting Ian’s gaze briefly. “I hardly expected you to recall; it has been three years, after all, and you’ve hundreds in your employ.”

Hundreds.

Glen Abbey had merely a handful of employees.

Though he hadn’t a clue why, his thoughts returned to the girl from Grosvenor Square. Did her employers treat her well? Did her mistress know her name?

Ian wished she’d shared it. Now, she was destined to remain a nameless face in a memory bound never to fade. Regret would have lowered his mood, if it could have gone any lower.

“Right,” Ian said, and gave the man a rueful smile that went unnoticed.

He stepped into the room assigned to him and the door closed behind him, allowing him the first moments of privacy he’d had in a week.

Like the rest of the house, this room was big, but the style was indefinable—not Mediterranean, precisely, not Arabic, nor Oriental, but some odd mixture of every culture.

The iron-and-wooden bed was like something out of an Arabian tale, with fine, pale blue fabric draped over it from a wrought iron-wheel suspended from the ceiling. The muted midnight-blue satin spread stretched upon the bed was unmarred by even a single crease.

Oversized blue-and black-satin pillows gilded with Far Eastern symbols were littered across an uncarpeted, dark-wood floor, lending the room a sense of calculated chaos.

The draperies, too, were pale blue and sheer, flowing into the room like a billowing moonlit mist.

On the far side of the room sat a dark-wood table that was too low for chairs. Gathered at its center were half-a-dozen fat candles of various heights and widths—a luxury to his people. And surrounding the short, stocky table were more pillows in shades of blue and black; these were plain, without the gilded symbols.

Two sets of double doors led from the room; one set at his back, another to his left. He made his way across the room and opened one set, revealing a closet in which every nook and cranny was filled with hanging black, blue and white garments. It wholly embarrassed the single, freestanding wardrobe that occupied Ian’s room in Glen Abbey.

In fact, this was not a bedroom at all, he decided. It was an apartment. And when he thought of all the bellies that could have been satisfied for the cost of a single item within it, it made his belly churn.

Unbidden, the memory of Rusty Broun’s little Ana accosted him. The child would have been three years old the week after her death. Her face, gaunt with hunger, would bedevil him for the rest of his days. It was for her, as much as for anyone, that he had come seeking answers—for Rusty’s sweet Ana, and for all of Glen Abbey’s wee innocents who depended on Glen Abbey Manor for support.

He turned his back on the luxurious fabrics hanging in Merrick’s closet and went to the bed, settling down on it as he glanced about the room.

How could any man surround himself with so much rubbish when babies were literally starving to death?

Ian experienced an unholy stab of guilt merely standing in the midst of it all.

He collapsed on the bed, wondering how Merrick could lie amidst the cool satin sheets and not feel…

Devil hang him, but it did feel good, he thought, as he dragged himself backward and stretched out on the massive piece of furniture. Hell, his feet didn’t even reach the edge, and he was taller than most men.

He shook his head in disgust over his lapse in character, but guilt fell at the heels of exhaustion. God save his rotten soul, but it couldn’t hurt to wallow in a wee bit o’ comfort for just a bit.

He was fagged to bloody death.

As he sprawled in the silky bed, closing his eyes, Ian thought not of little Ana, nor of Glen Abbey, nor even of his mockery of a life, but of a green-eyed beauty with disheveled hair and a wit as sharp as his grandfather’s claymore…and lips that looked to be as soft as the satin caressing his cheek.

What he wouldn’t give to have a taste of that mouth.

He drifted toward sleep imagining his mystery woman in the most wicked of positions, her mouth coaxing him to climax.

So what the blazes if she wouldn’t even give him her name? His thoughts were his own and she couldn’t very well slap him in his dreams.