The Impostor Prince. Tanya Crosby Anne
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…?
He shook his head, unable to wrap his brain around the shocking possibility.
And yet, who was this man who felt compelled to protect his mother from some cold-hearted opportunist?
And what was it he couldn’t justify releasing into her possession?
Glen Abbey Manor?
It would explain much, though how would this man have gained possession of the estate to begin with, when it had belonged to the MacEwens for nearly five centuries?
The rest of the letter was reduced to rants, as though written in some altered state of mind—perhaps the man had been inebriated.
Only one more passage stood out amidst the rest. It was scribbled on the back of the letter, almost as an afterthought: The sound of a kiss is not so loud as a cannon, but its echo lasts much longer. I suffer a ringing in my ears that will not cease to torment me.
It was signed, simply, J.J. had evidently never dispatched the letter.
Had Merrick intended, after all these years, to deliver it to his mother?
Why now?
The answer seemed obvious enough, though Ian wasn’t prepared to accept it. That he could have had a brother all these years and not known—perhaps even a father. That his mother could have lied to him. That she would have abandoned one of her infants…
It was enough to sour his mood all over again—if the bone-seeping mist hadn’t already managed to do so.
Refolding the letter, he slipped it back into his coat pocket, then withdrew the gold-and-silver calling card-case from the waistcoat pocket, removing a single card to inspect it for nearly the hundredth time. The initials J.M.W. were engraved upon the case itself. The calling card read: J. Merrick Welbourne III, HRH, the Crown Prince of Meridian.
J. after his father, most certainly, as the card intimated a third generation of descent. So J. the son was carrying a letter written by J. the father, and the intended recipient was Ian’s mother. Furthermore, J. the son held the title of HRH, the Crown Prince of Meridian, which would make J. the father…king of Meridian?
Ian settled back into the seat to contemplate the overwhelming evidence. As outlandish as it all seemed, there was one thing that just couldn’t be denied—the remarkable resemblance between Ian and Merrick.
Ian’s entire life seemed suddenly a web of lies.
What was true was that his mother had kept secrets from him, and that those secrets had affected the lives of every person in Glen Abbey.
Ian was wholly disheartened by the knowledge.
They were nearing their destination—Ian could feel the driver’s relief in the renewed vigor of his driving. He had kept to himself the entire journey, answering questions only when forced to, but he was beginning to feel the driver suspected something. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell the man to slow down, but as the thought crossed his mind, a woman’s scream curdled his blood.
At once, the coach lurched, careening to one side as the driver struggled to stop. Ian bounced into the window and then into the facing seat as the carriage came to an abrupt halt. He was out of the rig as quickly as he could regain his bearings. The sight that greeted him on the street made his heart falter.
His worst fear was confirmed. They’d hit a woman; she lay sprawled facedown in the middle of the road. For a frightful moment, she didn’t stir.
Ian sprinted to her side, kneeling to inspect her.
Her long ebony hair fell haphazardly from pins to cover most of her pallid cheek. Her wooden box had tumbled from her grasp and had settled in two pieces not more than a foot from her head, spilling silverware into the street like a river of fine silver.
He didn’t see blood—that much was heartening—but she’d yet to move. Then she groaned, and he blew a sigh of relief.
The driver hurried to his side. “We did not hit her!” he swore.
Ian cast the man a censuring glare. Of course they’d hit her, blast it all! Wasn’t her limp body proof enough?
The chatter of voices rose as curious onlookers surrounded them.
It took Claire a befuddled instant to realize she lay kissing the gravel on Drury Lane.
She moaned, more out of embarrassment than in pain, and struggled to her knees to find she had an uninvited audience.
How utterly humiliating!
One man in particular was kneeling at her side, gawking down at her. A prick of annoyance sidled through her at the sight of him. She realized he meant to help, but his regard only filled her cheeks with heat.
He was unnervingly handsome, with his sun-kissed blond hair and magnificent cheekbones. Claire tried not to notice the color of his eyes.
This moment was certainly not the time to admire pale blue eyes, even if they were the most remarkable blue she’d ever encountered.
“Thank God you’re not injured!” the man exclaimed.
His voice sent an unexpected quiver through her.
It was the chill of the rain, she assured herself.
The fall must have addled her brain. God help her, she’d never entertained such disturbing thoughts in all her life.
She wished he would look away, so intense was his