Pleasuring the Prince (15 page)

“How do you know things?” Constable Black asked.

Raven fixed her violet gaze on him. “I know because I know, just as I breathe without thinking.”

Amadeus Black nodded. “I understand what you mean.”

“You understand her?” Alexander could not keep the surprised disbelief out of his voice.

“Some talents exist,” the constable answered. “We do not know the why or the how of them.”

Alexander opened his mouth to argue.

“Do you believe in God?” Constable Black asked.

“Of course, I do.”

“How do you know He’s there? You’ve never seen Him.”

“I know because I know.”

“Precisely my point.”

Alexander looked at Raven. She gave him a smug smile.

“I’ve brought several objects from different crime scenes,” the constable said. “I will appreciate whatever you can tell me.”

Raven held her hand out. “Give me one.”

Amadeus Black passed her a glass container with dried, decaying rose petals. “The petals covering the body were fresh when we found her.”

Raven opened the container and shook a few petals onto her lap. Closing her eyes, she relaxed and fingered the dried petals.

She waited and waited and waited. Nothing came to her. If she didn’t perform, Alexander would never let her forget it.

Her sister touched her arm. “Relax and invite the visions into your mind.”

Raven took several deep breaths and forced herself to calmness. Still, no image or thought popped into her mind.

She opened her eyes. “I’m sorry but—”

“Hogslop, I told you,” Alexander said.

Raven ignored the insult. “Are the rose petals placed on the victims before or after death?”

“I believe he kills them elsewhere and drops the bodies where we find them,” Constable Black answered. “If that is true, he covers them after death.”

Relief surged through her. “Their souls had already departed this world,” she explained. “That is the reason for my failure.”

Alexander looked disgusted. “Do you expect us to—?”

“Be quiet,” Raven snapped.

Her order surprised him. He clamped his lips shut.

Constable Black winked at her. “I could not have phrased that any better.”

Raven took the next object, a long white glove. The feelings slapped her senses as soon as she touched it. Holding the glove in both hands, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

“Dark hair and blue eyes…white gloves worn with a pink gown…an actress, optimistic about the future, seeking advice from someone knowledgeable…drowsy, eyelids too heavy…drifting away from life like an oar-less boat in calm waters.”

Raven opened her eyes. All three were staring at her. The two men wore surprised expressions.

“Your identification of the victim is correct,” Amadeus Black verified.

“She did not identify the killer,” Alexander scoffed.

“Alex, your hostility is unattractive,” Sophia scolded him.

“You mentioned the victim’s drowsiness,” the constable said.

“She never knew when her heart stopped beating,” Raven said. “A gentle poisoning with no pain.”

Amadeus Black was silent. “I wonder what—”

“Five drops of
acqua toffana
in wine or water deliver a painless death in a very few hours,” Raven informed him.

“What is that?”

“
Acqua toffana
is a mixture of arsenic and cantharides,” she answered. “The murderer probably mixed it with a sleeping draught.”

“How do you know this?” Alexander asked.

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

Constable Black laughed at that. “You mentioned advice.”

“She trusted the murderer to help her career in some way.”

Amadeus and Alexander exchanged glances. Only a wealthy gentleman could help a young actress’s career.

“This is the last object.” Constable Black passed her the gold ring, initialed with
P
.

Dread seeped into her from the spot on the palm of her hand where the ring sat. Bleak misery spread, chilling body and heart and soul.

Raven looked at the constable. “This belongs to the murderer, not the victim.”

Amadeus Black leaned forward. “Tell me more if you can.”

Raven wanted to toss the ring away. Instead, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

“Loves me, loves me not…tall, lean gentleman in formal evening clothes…a short, plump woman…faces jumbling, merging together…he looks like her, she looks like him…”

Raven opened her eyes and returned the ring. “His soul is corrupt, decaying like the rose petals.”

“What did you mean by he looks like her and she looks like him?” Constable Black asked.

“I saw vague female and male features merging into one face.”

“Can you identify the faces?” Alexander asked.

“No.” Raven shook her head. “Sometimes my visions are symbolic.”

Alexander turned to the constable. “What do you think it means?”

“I would have said two parts to one person,” Amadeus answered, “but our witness saw a man and a woman.” He looked at Raven. “Will you help us again?”

“Send for me,” she agreed, albeit reluctantly, “and I will come.”

Raven and Sophia stood to leave. Alexander and Constable Black stood when they did.

“You look pale,” the constable said. “May I drive you to Park Lane?”

Raven shook her head. “I need to feel the sunshine.”

Raven and Sophia left the Blake residence, retracing their steps to Park Lane. They walked in silence for a time.

“You look disturbed,” Raven said. “What are you thinking?”

Sophia turned a troubled expression on her. “Genevieve Stover had no aura.”

Fancy awakened but resisted opening her eyes. She’d had a delightful sleep, the best rest since meeting the disconcerting prince. When she realized falling asleep again would not happen, she opened her eyes. The light streaming into the room said the hour was late.

Sitting up, Fancy noted three things. The chamber was not hers, she was still wearing her gown from the previous evening, and the prince dozed in a chair near the bed.

Memory failed her, though. What had happened? Was she upstairs at the prince’s mansion?

The bedchamber was richly appointed, its furniture and textiles colored pink, gold, and antique white. The windows were high and arched with built-in seats.

Fancy rose from the bed. She glanced at the dozing prince and then padded across the chamber to peer out the window.

Green lawns and hedges, adorned with beds of primary- and pastel-colored flowers, carpeted the grounds. A row of trees stood like silent sentinels in the distance. Beyond the trees, sky and water met in the same amazing shade of blue.

She was not in London anymore.

“Do you like the scenery?”

Fancy whirled around. “Where am I?”

“Rudolf’s estate on Sark Island.” Stepan rose from the chair. “We arrived on one of the Kazanov ships last night.”

“Why don’t I remember?”

“I slipped a sleeping draught into your wine.”

“You drugged and abducted me,” she accused him.

“I sedated and rescued you,” he defended himself.

Fancy marched across the chamber to stand in front of him. “I want to go home.”

“I will grant whatever you wish except that.”

She curled her lip. “
Je t’emmerde.”

“If I kissed your arse,
ma petite
, you would bludgeon me to death.”

“I do not find you amusing.”

“Calm down,” Stepan said, “and enjoy a few days of leisure.”

“How few?”

“Two or three weeks, perhaps.”

“That is unacceptable,” Fancy said. “I must return to the opera.”

“Bishop understood and accommodated the need for you to get out of London.”

“How do you dare—?”

Stepan traced a finger down her cheek. “Have I mentioned how adorable you are when angry?”

Fancy suffered the urge to bite his finger. The prince was the most infuriating man.

“Am I your prisoner?”

“An honored guest.” Stepan dropped into his chair. “Sit down, and I will explain everything.”

Fancy sat on the edge of the bed. There was nothing the prince could say to earn her forgiveness.

“As you know, my brothers and I attended a business meeting at your father’s yesterday.” Stepan leaned forward. “During the course of the meeting, we discovered your youngest sister hiding behind a chair and taking notes on our business discussion.”

That made her smile.

“Raven admitted that you have been trying to pauperize your father,” he continued.

Fancy could not believe that. Raven would not—“Did my father enlist your aid in getting rid of me in order to control my sisters?”

Stepan stared at her for a long moment, making her squirm mentally. His expression announced his irritation.

“The world does not revolve around your hatred for aristocrats.”

“I never said the world—”

“Be quiet,” Stepan ordered, his voice stern. “Listen to me.”

His tone surprised her. This was a side to the affable prince that she had never seen.

“Mikhail saw Belle sitting alone in the garden,” Stepan told her. “He offered to marry her.”

That surprised Fancy. Her sister needed a man to cherish her, but she would dismiss him if she felt pitied.

“Why does your brother want to marry her?”

“Mikhail needs a mother for his daughter and a wife to give him an heir,” Stepan answered. “Typical society ladies do not impress him. Your sister is a beauty in spite of the facial scar.”

“I don’t understand the reason you abducted me.”

“You have ruled your sisters like a temperamental queen.” Stepan smiled, softening his words. “Raven worried that you would ruin our plans for Belle. She gave me the sleeping draught.”

Fancy could not believe Raven would think that she could ruin Belle’s possible happiness. Her sisters had never complained about her bossing them. How could she know their feelings? She wasn’t a mind reader. Every family needed a leader, and she was it in the Flambeau family.

“I did not intend to hurt your feelings,” the prince said.

“My feelings are not hurt.” Fancy fixed her gaze on his. “What is the plan?”

“Your father has sent Belle to recuperate at the duchess’s cottage on the far side of Primrose Hill,” Stepan answered. “Mikhail will pretend to be a commoner suffering from amnesia and temporary blindness.”

Fancy smiled at that. “How did he suffer those maladies?”

“Rudolf and Viktor will give him a few bruises.”

Fancy winced at the thought. If Mikhail was willing to allow his brothers to beat him, then he was worthy to marry her sister.

“For your sake, I am missing out on the fun,” Stepan added.

“Does my father know you have taken me away?”

“Yes.” He would not tell her about their impending marriage. Even now all of London was reading about their betrothal, and the duchess was planning the wedding.

She arched an ebony brow. “My father trusts you?”

“My mother is playing the chaperone.”

“Your mother?”

“My mother lives here.” Stepan stood and crossed the chamber to the door. “Your belongings hang in the armoire. Freshen up and join us for lunch.”

Fancy stared at him. She had no idea what to think about this complication. Yet, the idea of meeting the prince’s mother appealed to her curiosity.

“Songbird?”

She focused on him. Their gazes met and locked.

“My mother is…unwell. Please say nothing to upset her.”

“I promise.”

“Here she is, Mother, the woman I love.”

Fancy stopped short, poised on the threshold of the garden room. She stared in surprise at the prince. Had his nieces spoken truthfully? Did the prince love her?

He had shocked her, of course. How could she have foreseen the prince professing his love for her to his mother? She had never imagined he had a mother, though everyone did. In her mind, the prince had materialized from nowhere with no earlier life or childhood.

“Will you join us?” Stepan smiled at her, his arm encircling a middle-aged woman. “My mother has waited all morning to meet you.”

The prince’s mother was an attractive woman, though streaks of gray lightened the black hair at her temples. Her smile was warm and welcoming, curiously childish.

Stepan gestured her into the room. Fancy moved then, approaching mother and son.

“Mother, I present Fancy Flambeau,” Stepan introduced them. “Fancy, meet Princess Elizabeth.”

“I am honored to meet you, Your Highness.”

“What a lovely young woman.” Princess Elizabeth reached for Fancy’s hand to prevent her from curtseying but spoke to her son. “You have chosen wisely, Stepan. I am relieved you will not die without knowing true love.” She looked at Fancy. “Knowing true love is worth any pain it causes.”

Stepan escorted them to the small dining table set on one side of the room. He assisted them into their chairs and then sat between them.

“I am the thorn between two roses.”

Princess Elizabeth smiled. “I am more dried flower than dewy rose.”

Stepan lifted his mother’s hand to his lips. “You will always be a dewy rose to me.”

The byplay between mother and son fascinated Fancy. The prince’s gentleness with his mother brought unshed tears to her eyes. He loved his mother the way she had loved her own. She blinked back her tears before either of them noticed.

Part sitting room and part dining area, the garden room had glass walls which gave the impression of being outside. The sole departure from a true solarium was the lack of a glass roof; a more traditional ceiling hung overhead.

Boris walked into the room to serve their first course of oyster soup. He grinned at Fancy while he poured their lemon water.

“Pretty songbird sleep long time, huh?” the big Russian said.

“I did sleep a long time.” Fancy glanced at the prince. “I had help, though.”

“Prince Stepan is fox, huh?”

“The prince is more wolf than fox.”

Boris laughed, his voice booming. “I think little songbird tame wolf, huh?” At that, the Russian quit the room.

“I do love oyster soup,” Princess Elizabeth gushed, her eyes sparkling with joy. “Do you, Fancy?”

“I like it very much.” Fancy smiled at the prince’s mother and wondered at the lady’s state of mind, her comment seeming too girlish for a society lady of her age.

“Fancy sings with the opera,” Stepan told his mother. “The
Times
named her ‘London’s Fancy’ because her voice is the best anyone has heard in years.”

“How exciting.” Princess Elizabeth looked at her. “I always loved the opera but haven’t seen a performance in years.”

“I will sing for you later if you like.”

Princess Elizabeth laughed and clapped her hands together. “Oh, I would love that. Wouldn’t you, Stepan?”

The prince patted his mother’s hand. “I will enjoy the performance almost as much as you.”

Fancy shifted her gaze from the mother to the son. The prince’s dark eyes glistened with unshed tears at his mother’s happiness in a simple song.

Could she have been mistaken about aristocrats and this one in particular? His love for his mother ran deep. She had misjudged the prince on the basis of his wealth and his title. Was she guilty of the snobbery she’d attributed to him?

Boris returned to clear their plates. His brother Feliks served them celery and crab salad along with a platter of cheeses and fruits.

“Your wife will sing sweet lullabies to your children.” Princess Elizabeth looked at Fancy. “Stepan always wanted a lullaby before he went to sleep.” She frowned then and asked the prince, “Who sang you to sleep when I—when I…?”

“Rudolf sang me to sleep, Mother.”

Princess Elizabeth brightened at the mention of the eldest prince. “Why isn’t Rudolf eating with us?”

“Rudolf remained in London,” Stepan explained, his voice a balm, his patience limitless. “Everyone will come to Sark in August and enjoy a long visit with you.”

“Not Vladimir, I hope.” Princess Elizabeth looked worried. “I don’t like Vladimir.”

“Vladimir lives in Moscow and will not visit England,” Stepan assured her. “Even Cousin Amber will be coming to visit this year. Next year, she will be busy with her firstborn.”

His mother smiled at the news. “Sweet Amber married an Englishman?”

“You remember, Mother, Amber married the Earl of Stratford.”

Fancy could not take her eyes off the prince. His sensitivity astonished her. Again, she wondered about the princess’s confusion.

“Fancy comes from a large family,” Stepan said, drawing his mother’s attention to a new topic.

Princess Elizabeth looked at her, her expression clearing. “Tell me about your family.”

“Mummy passed away a few years ago,” Fancy said, “and Nanny Smudge died last year. My six sisters and I have lived our whole lives in Soho Square with our dog, Puddles.”

The princess laughed at the dog’s name. “Where is your father?”

Fancy hesitated, embarrassed that this woman had also been her father’s paramour. She looked at the prince, who noted her obvious distress.

“Magnus Campbell is Fancy’s and her sisters’ father,” Stepan told his mother.

“Oh, Magnus? Are you Rudolf’s sister?” She looked at her son. “Is she Rudolf’s sister?”

“Yes, Mother. Rudolf is her half-brother.”

Unaccustomed to visitors, the princess quickly tired during the luncheon conversation. She retired to her chamber for a rest after the meal.

Stepan stood when his mother rose from her chair. Once the princess had disappeared inside, the prince turned to her. “Let me take you on a tour of the grounds.”

They left the manor and stepped into the formal gardens. Nature’s vibrant colors startled Fancy, who had never ventured far from London.

The lawn was a green carpet leading to a cobblestone wall, separating the grass from a formal rose garden. Here were the undisputed queens of every garden from deep reds to pristine whites and sugary pinks. A topiary garden stood behind the roses, and then the land sloped down to a beach.

Fancy inhaled the mingling scents of sensuous roses and ocean-salted air. Blue sky touched blue ocean in the distance.

“Look at the horizon.” Fancy raised her arm and pointed toward the ocean. “Sky and water are one.”

Stepan touched her shoulder. “Your land beyond the horizon lies there.”

She smiled at that. “Is England the magical land beyond the horizon?”

“Each soul must find his own utopia.”

“What’s that?”

“Utopia is a land of perfection,” the prince explained.

Fancy stared at him for a long moment. “I can’t imagine why I considered you frivolous.”

“I am frivolous and thoughtful and generous and loyal and a host of other things.” Stepan took her hand in his. “Come, I want you to see the rest of the grounds.”

They walked around the side of the mansion. Creeping greenery softened the manor’s stone walls, and wisteria grew against the building.

Stepan led her across the lawn to a structure built of glass and opened the door. Fancy stepped inside. Everywhere she looked grew potted plants and shrubs. The air was more humid than the dog days in London.

Fancy shifted her gaze to the prince, who stood close to her. His sandalwood scent teased her senses.

“What is this place?”

“My brother’s hothouse,” he answered. “I work here in the mornings whenever I visit.”

“Ah, the gardener.”

“Gardening relaxes a person. You should try it.”

She gave him a puckish smile. “I have murdered every plant I ever adopted.”

Leaving the hothouse behind, they entered the rear gardens, and Fancy recognized the view from her window. A gigantic oak stood alone at the edge of the lawn. A lofty treehouse circled its proud girth, trusting its strong branches. A curving stairway led up, up, up into the tree’s arms.

“A treehouse,” Fancy exclaimed, her violet gaze sparkling with excitement.

“Come.” Stepan grasped her hand and escorted her up the stairs.

The treehouse offered the Kazanov children luxury. A roof covered the house, providing shade, and slats could be lowered to protect the inhabitants from inclement weather. On one side of the treehouse stood a daybed, large enough for several children. A sturdy-looking table and chairs had been placed on the opposite side.

“The older children sleep here on hot nights.” Stepan sat on the daybed and patted the spot beside him. When she accepted his silent invitation, he put his arm around her shoulders.

“Your gentleness to your mother impresses me.” Fancy gave him a searching look, hoping he would confide in her.

“Does this mean you like me?” he teased her.

Her smile was flirtatious. “Your gentleness persuades me to
tolerate
you better.”

Stepan gazed into her disarming violet eyes and pressed a kiss on her temple. “I think you would like to know about my mother.”

“If you want to tell me.”

“My mother was carrying Rudolf when she married Fedor Kazanov,” Stepan began. “My father knew she carried another man’s baby, and he never let her forget she had come to the marriage tarnished. Fedor pretended to the world that Rudolf was his son but despised him.

“Though she loved Magnus Campbell, my mother was a dutiful wife and bore my father four sons. Vladimir is Viktor’s older twin.”

Apparently, her mother had not been the Duke of Inverary’s only victim. How many lives had her father ruined because he could not control his urges?

“Why doesn’t your mother like Vladimir?”

“Fedor poisoned Vladimir against my mother.” Stepan stared into space, his words in the present, his mind in a faraway time. “My father named Vladimir his heir and ignored the rest of us.

“When Mother passed her childbearing years, Fedor locked her in an insane asylum. There she remained for fifteen years until Rudolf rescued her and brought her to England. My brothers and I followed them.”

Speechless with shock, Fancy could only stare at him. Tears welled up in her eyes, her horror written across her expression.

Stepan wiped a stray tear off her cheek. “My mother has flourished on Sark Island. Strangers frighten her, but she does enjoy her grandchildren’s visits.”

Fancy sat in stricken silence. How could she comfort the prince, a man who’d witnessed life-altering cruelty to his mother? At least her father had protected her mother and sent them Nanny Smudge.

Stepan gently turned her face toward him. “Weeping cannot change the past.”

Fancy gazed into his black eyes, raw emotion sticking in her throat. “There are worse things in life than being an abandoned bastard.”

Dying in winter was preferable to dying on a day like this.

Alexander leaped out of the hackney and walked toward the men gathered on the banks of the Thames River. Sunlight heated his face, but his coldly grim expression mirrored his mood.

Wanton summer had arrived that Sunday in London. The air swelled with a sultry humidity, and the sun shone in a near cloudless sky, baking the earth and its inhabitants. A salty high tide mingled with the river’s stench.

Standing near a blanket-covered lump, men spoke in muted voices. Beyond them stood a growing crowd of the curious. Once again, Barney was searching the grass for nits of evidence.

Alexander realized he should have gone to Park Lane first and brought Raven Flambeau. He had decided to wait for the constable’s instruction because he didn’t have the strength to see Raven twice in one day.

When he looked at her, Alexander saw Raven as she had appeared in her flimsy gown that night. If he loved Genevieve, why did Raven parade across his mind’s eye?

Alexander nodded at the constable. “Should I fetch Raven?”

Christ have mercy, was that eagerness he heard in his own voice? What kind of man made love to one woman and thought about another?

Amadeus gave him a long look. “Inspect the victim and tell me if we need Raven.”

Walking toward the lump, Alexander yanked a pair of black leather gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. Being careful not to disturb possible evidence, he drew the blanket off the body slowly.

With his gaze fixed on the victim, Alexander walked around the body. At first glance, this beauty seemed like all the others with rose petals sprinkled on her from head to toe. Instinct told him something was different.

Alexander dropped to his knees beside the victim’s upper torso and head. The murderer had not placed whole roses in the woman’s ears. An oversight due to an intruder? He didn’t think the perpetrator would change his calling card now.

Leaning close to the body, Alexander stared hard at the woman’s eyelids. No sewing. He glanced over his shoulder, sending the constable a questioning look.

Amadeus Black raised his eyebrows in answer. Pleased with his protege, the constable sent him an almost imperceptible nod.

Alexander returned his attention to the victim. Her lips had not been sewn. Deep bruises marked her neck, and her face was a dark red, a sure sign of occluded vessels.

This woman had not been poisoned. She’d been strangled.

Alexander stood and, pocketing his gloves, walked back to the constable. “This one is different.”

Constable Black gestured to a heavyset man standing a short distance away. The weeping man was being comforted by friends.

“The husband found his missing wife.” Amadeus Black turned his back on the crowd. “I guarantee he saw his chance to get rid of her and blame the rose-petal murderer.”

Alexander flicked a glance at the grieving husband. “He’s not much to look at. Why rid himself of a pretty young wife?”

“She would have fared better if she’d been plain.” The constable shook his head. “Married or not, pretty women get attention from men. If she succumbed to temptation, the husband would not want her.”