The Impostor Prince. Tanya Crosby Anne

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ