Pleasuring the Prince (19 page)

Stepan planted a chaste kiss on her lips. “Sleep well, and I will see you tomorrow.”

“Princess Samantha has taken your sisters shopping,” the Duchess of Inverary said, escorting her out of the parlor. “Except for Belle and Raven, who declined the invitation. I did not want your sisters in the vicinity of our meeting.”

Fancy nodded. “I understand.”

“I will instruct the maids to leave you a slice of bread which you must eat before rising.” The duchess led her to the third floor. “The bread will help with the morning sickness.”

“My morning sickness lasts all day.”

“That happens sometimes.”

Well and truly trapped, Fancy thought. And she hadn’t lasted through one season, caught in less time than her mother.

She loved Stepan, but she wasn’t stupid. At some point, the prince would insist she leave the opera. And then what would happen?

She needed to sing. She needed the audience’s love. She needed to retain her independence.

“Here we are.” The duchess showed her into a bedchamber decorated in blues, cream, and gold. “Shall I send your sisters for a quick visit before you nap?”

“Thank you.” Fancy sat on the edge of the bed and managed a weary smile. “I would like that.”

Belle and Raven rushed into the bedchamber a moment later. Both sisters laughed and hugged her and sat on the bed.

“Stepan and I will marry on Monday,” Fancy told them, inciting more hugs. “I am pregnant.” She looked at Belle. “Prince Mikhail wants to marry you.”

“I cannot ruin his life,” her sister said. “He needs a wife to take into society.”

“Why don’t you let the prince make his own decision about what he needs?” Fancy asked.

“I told her the same thing,” Raven agreed.

“Let me see your face.” Fancy inspected the injured cheek. Though much improved, a scar ran down one side of her sister’s face. “My theater cosmetics will cover that nicely. Then you can hold your head up high and dance with the prince at my wedding.”

“I don’t know if—”

“I
do
know,” Fancy interrupted. “Tomorrow, I will fetch my cosmetics from the opera house.”

“I will reserve judgment until I see how much it covers.” Belle looked anxious. “How does being pregnant feel?”

“I feel nauseous, tired, and cranky.”

Raven turned to Belle. “You have been nauseous and tired.”

“You need to tell Mikhail,” Fancy said. “I do admit I did not tell Stepan. He told me what my illness was.”

“You are the only ones who know,” Belle said. “Don’t tell anyone.
Please
.”

“We promise,” Raven said.

“For now,” Fancy amended. “Eating a slice of bread before rising in the morning will help the nausea. Or so the duchess said.”

After her sisters left, Fancy changed into a nightgown and crawled beneath the coverlet to sleep. A tapping on the door awakened her, and she opened her eyes to the growing dimness in the chamber.

The door opened to reveal the duke carrying a tray. He crossed the chamber, setting the tray on the bedside table. Then he lit a night candle and pointed to the edge of the bed. “May I?”

Fancy sat up and leaned back against the headboard. Her father sat on the bed.

“Bland fare for a queasy stomach,” he said.

“You did not need to—”

“I
wanted
to bring you supper. I want us to speak privately.”

“Yes?”

“Stepan and I worried for your safety,” her father said. “Which is the reason we engineered your vacation.”

“I enjoyed my visit to Sark Island.” Fancy blushed, recalling how much she had enjoyed the intimacies shared with the prince.

Her father patted her hand. “I will give you whatever you want if it’s within my power.”

His words saddened her. She had treated him badly when all he wanted was to make amends for his earlier neglect. Hurting her father had not eased her pain.

“Do you want to marry Stepan?”

“I love him and the child I carry but—I need my independence.”

“Do you fear becoming as dependent as your mother?”

“I want to be happy. Will you hold me, Papa?”

Her father reached out and gathered her into his arms, cradling her against him. She rested her head against his chest while he patted her back in a soothing motion.

“Remember, your mother had suffered the loss of her entire family, and that colored her whole life.” Her father set her back and, lifting the tray off the table, set it on her lap. “Your baby needs nourishment even when you don’t want to eat.”

“Thank you, Papa.” Fancy lifted the spoon to taste the soup.

Her father crossed the chamber to the door. “Stepan is a good man and will understand your special needs.”

He would never understand her even if he lived a hundred years.

How best to tell Fancy that she would never sing with the opera again? This was one situation where his brothers could not help. Hence, his procrastination.

The best course of action was no action. At least, until after the wedding.

Why did Fancy need the opera? She had him. She had his love. She had his baby growing inside her. What more could she want?

Stepan walked into the exclusive White’s Gentlemen’s Club. He spotted his brothers sitting around a table and waiting for him.

“I need vodka.” Stepan dropped into a chair.

Rudolf poured him a dram of vodka and pushed it toward him. “My wife is suffering the headache from entertaining your future sisters-in-law.”

Stepan was in no mood for teasing tonight. He cocked a dark brow at his brother. “You mean
your
half-sisters?”

“Samantha with a headache is frightening, especially when pregnant, as she is now.”

“Congratulations.” Viktor raised his glass in salute. “Regina is pregnant, too, and I wish she would cease writing that book.”

“I thought you approved,” Stepan said.

“I do approve, but pregnancy makes her cranky,” Viktor said. “Crankiness affects her writing, which makes her more cranky. Home becomes hell.”

“Fancy is pregnant,” Stepan said, eliciting his brothers’ laughter, “but I shudder to tell her the opera career is over.”

“Baby brother,” Rudolf said, “will you ever learn?”

Mikhail grinned. “Do you want us to take care of this problem for you?”

Stepan slanted a glance at him. “I do not find you amusing.”

“Let Fancy sing with the opera until her pregnancy prevents her,” Viktor suggested. “Then you will not be walking into an argument.”

“I can do that,” Stepan said, “if you allow Regina to sit onstage in front of the audience while she writes her book.”

Viktor nodded. “I understand.”

“What is the problem?” Rudolf asked. “Patrice Tanner is married and she sings with the opera.”

“Sebastian Tanner is a toad, not a prince.”

“Let her sing for a few weeks,” Mikhail advised him, “and she will quit of her own accord.”

“If you are such an expert on women,” Stepan asked, “why could you not persuade Belle Flambeau to marry you?”

Mikhail gulped his vodka and eyed his younger brother. “The difference between you and me is I have time to persuade Belle because she is not pregnant.”

Stepan smiled at him. “Your powers of persuasion must be slipping if you did not share intimacies at that cottage.”

“Of course we shared intimacies.” His words sounded like a growl.

“Then how can you be certain she is not pregnant?”

“Belle would have told me.”

“Perhaps Belle—like her sister—does not know she is pregnant.” Stepan smiled with satisfaction when his brother bolted out of the chair, his intent written on his face.

“Sit down, Mikhail,” Rudolf ordered.

Viktor reached out and forced Mikhail into the chair again. “You cannot barge into Inverary’s home and demand to know if you have made his innocent daughter pregnant.”

“Thank you, brother.” Stepan could not erase the grin from his face. “Taunting you has lightened my mood.”

“I am glad to have been of service.” Mikhail raised his brows and returned the smile. “So, when did you plan to tell Fancy her operatic career is over? I would like to place a wager in the betting book.”

Without another word, Stepan stood and walked out of the club. His brothers’ laughter followed him to the door.

How had her mother traded the theater’s excitement for the love of a man?

Fancy looked out the coach’s window on its way to the Royal Opera House. She wondered at the life her mother had chosen, depending on a man for survival.

Perhaps her father was right. Losing her family in the Terror had colored her mother’s whole life. Her mother had needed love and security, but Fancy knew she needed more. Had her mother’s unhappiness with her married lover colored her own life? Was that the reason she craved the audience’s adoration?

The prince had not mentioned the opera. Yet. When the moment arrived, would she quit the opera?
Could
she quit the opera?

The Inverary coach halted in front of the opera house. The coachman appeared, opened the door, and helped her down.

Fancy walked into the deserted lobby and headed straight for Director Bishop’s office. The director smiled when he saw her and stood.

“I need to retrieve my cosmetics.”

Director Bishop inclined his head. “Best wishes on your forthcoming marriage.”

“How do you know about that?”

“His Highness sent me a note this morning.”

Her anxiety grew and her spirits sank. Had the prince sent the director her resignation? If she mentioned returning to work, she would learn the answer to that.

“My wedding is scheduled for Monday,” Fancy said, her smile forced, “but I can sing later in the week. Do I still have a job?”

Director Bishop hesitated. “Well, yes…Do you have the prince’s permission?”

“I do not need anyone’s permission to do anything.”

Fancy left the director’s office and walked through the deserted auditorium to the backstage. She opened her dressing room door and stopped short.

Genevieve Stover sat in
her
dressing room on
her
stool and looked into
her
cracked mirror. Surprise, jealousy, and anger shot through her. She felt like an outsider, alone and adrift in dangerous waters. The other girl was stealing her life.

The blonde leaped off the stool when she spotted her in the cracked mirror. “I’m so happy for you.”

Fancy managed a smile but decided Miss Stover was happy for herself. “I see you are keeping my seat warm.”

Genevieve blushed. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course, I don’t mind,” Fancy lied. Now she knew how Patrice Tanner felt. “I need to retrieve my cosmetic case.”

“I put it here out of the way.” Genevieve grabbed the case from a dark corner.

Out of the way like me.
Fancy reached for the case. “Will you come to my wedding Monday morning at Grosvenor Chapel?”

“I would love to see you married,” Genevieve hedged, “but mingling with society would make me uncomfortable.”

“My sisters and I are not society.”

“I make no promises,” Genevieve said. “Did you know Alex has accepted his grandfather’s inheritance?”

Nothing could have shocked Fancy more. “Alex always said he would never forgive the old man.”

“They reconciled.” Genevieve did not seem pleased.

“If I don’t see you at the wedding,” Fancy said, turning away, “I’ll see you later in the week.”

“Where?”

“I am returning to the opera at the end of next week.”

Genevieve looked surprised. “Did the prince give you permission?”

Fancy’s irritation grew. “I do not need his permission.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

Fancy walked out of the dressing room and saw Miss Giggles running toward her. She dropped her case and lifted the monkey into her arms.

“How are you, Miss Giggles?”

The capuchin monkey covered its ears, eyes, and mouth. Then it began chattering.

“Oh, you’re back.”

Fancy passed the monkey to Patrice Tanner, who handed it to her husband. “I’m marrying the prince on Monday.”

“We’ll miss you,” Patrice drawled, her tone oozing sarcasm.

Fancy gave the prima donna her sweetest smile. “I will be singing at the end of the week.”

“Do you have the prince’s permission?”

Irritation ballooned into anger. “I do
not
need his permission.”

Patrice Tanner shrugged and headed for her dressing room, calling over her shoulder, “Come, Sebastian.”

Fancy lifted her cosmetic case and watched the unlikely couple walk away. She pitied Sebastian Tanner. His wife dominated him in more ways than height.

Three people had asked if she had the prince’s permission to return to the opera. Did they know something that eluded her?

Fancy could not resist walking onstage. She stood downstage center and set the case on the floorboards.

The auditorium seemed lonely without people. Something wonderful was slipping away from her. She wanted to hold on desperately.

Would she stand on this stage again? Would she ever bring the audience to their feet? Or make them weep? Could she live without the audience’s adoration? Was the prince’s love enough?

Her violet eyes glazed, and she conjured a standing-room-only crowd in her mind’s eye. And then she sang, bidding the empty seats farewell.

Fancy sang
her
song about the land beyond the horizon. Robust in her singing, she attacked the song with every fiber of her being, pouring heart and soul into its lyrics and melody, trying to freeze this moment in time.

When the last bittersweet words slipped from her lips, Fancy heard rousing applause behind her. She whirled around and curtsied to her audience of stagehands and chorus dancers.

Lifting the cosmetic case, Fancy left the stage and started down the aisle toward the lobby. Applause and whistles stopped her. Tears welled in her eyes when she turned to see almost the whole cast and crew clapping for her. Only Patrice Tanner and Genevieve Stover were missing.

Panic hit her hard. Her colleagues were behaving as if she would never work with them again. She managed a smile and raised her arm in a farewell salute.

Director Bishop and Prince Stepan were watching from the rear of the auditorium. Her prince did not look happy. In fact, he seemed damn disgruntled.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“What are
you
doing here?” he answered.

“I asked first.”

“I asked second.” Stepan gave her a lopsided grin. “Tinker told me where you had gone.”

Fancy lifted the case high. “My cosmetics may cover my sister’s scar.”

Stepan lifted the case out of her hand. “I will take you home now.”

“I have a coach.”

“I sent it away.” Stepan turned to the director. “Call for the auditions, and we will discuss the financing next week.”

Fancy looped her hand through the crook in the prince’s arm. They walked through the deserted lobby to the street.

Once inside the coach, Fancy turned to him. “Will auditions for an opera begin next week?”

Stepan patted her hand. “Probably so.”

Fancy could not contain her eagerness. “Which opera?”

“
The Maid of Milan
.”

“I don’t know that one.”

Stepan put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close against him. “You have never heard this opera because it is new.”

Her violet eyes lit with barely suppressed excitement. “Who is the composer?”

“Bishop.”

“He never mentioned it to me.”

“You are a singer, Miss Flambeau, not a patron,” Stepan said. “Bishop wants me to finance the production.”

“Will you finance it?”

“Probably.”

“Oh, I am so excited,” Fancy exclaimed, her gaze on his. “Patrice Tanner is too old to play a maiden.”

Ignoring her remark, Stepan placed his palm against her belly. “How is the newest Kazanov today?”

She gave him a rueful smile. “He does not like mornings.”

“You mean
she
.”

“Loves me, loves me not…”

A tall gentleman stood on the summit of Primrose Hill during the night’s darkest and quietest hours. He stared at the woman, serene in death, and sprinkled rose petals one by one the length of her body from head to feet.

“When will this end?” asked the woman standing behind him.

The gentleman did not bother to turn around. “This will end when I catch that opera singer.”

“Which opera singer?”

“You know the one.” He took another handful of rose petals from his leather pouch. “Loves me, loves me not…”

The monster’s date with the hangman had been delayed for too many days. Lord, he would love to wrap his hands around the man’s throat and squeeze the breath from his body.

Alexander Blake rested his head against the back of the hackney and closed his eyes. He would have enjoyed sleeping late for a change, especially since Genevieve’s irritation grew each time he was called away.

Thankfully, the traffic to Park Lane was nonexistent. Only a blinking idiot would be up and about at seven on a Sunday morning. If only those dandies hadn’t chosen Primrose Hill for their duel at dawn, he would be sleeping, too.

Guilt consumed him then. What was the loss of a little sleep when a young woman had been murdered?

The hackney halted in front of Inverary House, and Alexander climbed out. “Wait for me,” he told the driver. Alexander reached for the duke’s doorknocker, but the door opened before he could even touch it. The majordomo stepped aside to allow him entrance.

“Good morning, my lord,” Tinker greeted him. “We have been expecting you.”

Alexander gave the man a blank stare. How could the man have known?
He
hadn’t known until Barney showed up at his door.

Raven sat in a chair. “I’ve been waiting.”

“How could—”

“I dreamed last night.”

“There are more things in the universe, my lord constable, than are thought of in your limited logic,” Tinker said.

“You are misquoting Shakespeare,” Alexander said.

“I
meant
to misquote the Bard.”

Alexander looked at Raven. “I have a hackney waiting.”

She stood and crossed the foyer to the door. “If anyone asks—”

“You mean Grace or Gracie?”

Her lips twitched. “Tell them something plausible. Use your imagination.”

“I will lie through my teeth for you,” Tinker promised.

Alexander helped Raven into the coach and sat opposite her. “Primrose Hill,” he instructed the driver.

Folding his arms across his chest, Alexander stared at Raven.
Startling violet eyes…small, delicate nose…courtesan lips.

“
So.” Alexander cleared his throat, struggling against the urge to drop his gaze to her breasts. “Who are Grace and Gracie?”

“The Flambeau sisters’ nicknames for the Duke and Duchess of Inverary.”

“I see Blaze’s fine wit in that.”

Primrose Hill stood more than two hundred feet high on the far side of Regent’s Park. Long denuded of its trees and undergrowth, the hill was a popular site for illegal dueling.

“I hope you don’t mind walking up the hill.” Alexander lifted her out of the hackney. “If I were younger, I would carry you piggyback style.”

“I think I can manage the climb,” Raven said. “What is Barney doing over there?”

“Searching for nits.” When she looked at him in surprise, Alexander grasped her arm and guided her toward the constable. “Barney is scouring the ground for evidence.”

Constable Black took her hand. “I’m glad you could come at such an early hour.”

“She was dressed and waiting,” Alexander said.

Raven looked at the lump covered by the blanket. “Do you know who she is?”

“Our victim dances in the opera’s chorus,” the constable answered.

Raven approached the lump and gestured to Alexander to uncover the body. The young woman had been a beautiful redhead.

“Do you want to get closer?” Alexander asked.

Raven nodded. He placed his jacket on the grass, and she knelt beside the body. “Do you have anything of hers I can touch?”

Crouching beside the woman, Alexander pulled the silk scarf from her neck and passed it to Raven. He watched her closing her eyes, her features assuming a serene expression. Except, of course, for those courtesan lips. He wondered how—

“Two indistinct faces are merging,” Raven spoke, drawing his attention. “Lift her gown.”

“What?” Her order startled him.

“Something bit her leg.” Raven turned her disturbing violet gaze on him. “Lift the bottom edge of her gown to her knee.”

Alexander and Amadeus leaned close to the victim’s leg. They studied the purplish bite mark.

“Look at the dried blood,” Alexander said.

The constable nodded. “Something bit her before death claimed her.”

“Poison killed her,” Raven said.

Alexander looked at the constable. “Do you think a snake?”

For once, Constable Black look baffled. “I suppose—”

“The bite did not kill her,” Raven said.

“How do you know?” Alexander asked, shifting his gaze to her.

Raven leveled a displeased look on him. “I know because I know.”

Alexander scowled. “You just said—”

“The poison did not enter her body through the bite,” Raven interrupted. “She drank it.”

“I see a miracle.”

Fancy caught her sister’s gaze and smiled at her in the cheval mirror. The cosmetics had covered the facial scar almost completely.

Belle whirled around and hugged her. Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill over.

“If you weep, Sister, I will need to refresh the cosmetics.”

“What a selfish sister I am to think of myself on your day,” Belle said. “How will I repay you?”

“You can begin by telling Prince Mikhail about the baby.”

“I will tell him when the moment is right,” Belle assured her. “I do not want to live our mother’s life.”

“The prince needs a wife and a mother for his daughter,” Fancy said. “Don’t wait too long lest he look elsewhere.”

“I promise.” Belle positioned her in front of the mirror. “You look like a princess.”

Fancy stared at her own image. She
did
look like a princess.

Her form-fitting gown had been created from silk and lace, its neckline scooped and its long sleeves bell-shaped. She wore her ebony hair cascading down her back and covered it with a sheer veil held in place by a crown of orange blossoms.