Pleasuring the Prince (3 page)

The family parlor lay beyond the open French doors. Comfortable-looking sofas, a French chaise, and an Aubusson rug complemented the light blue walls and a white-painted mantel mirror.

The Flambeaus had not suffered by their absentee father, Stepan decided. The anonymous aristocrat had been generous, meeting his daughters’ material needs.

“I can help you,” Raven, the youngest sister, was saying.

Alexander Blake reached out to mess her hair. “Listen, brat. Good investigation solves murders, not hocus pocus.”

Fancy handed Stepan a glass of wine. “Alexander works with Constable Amadeus Black. Have you heard of him?”

“All London knows the constable.” Stepan looked at the other man. “Are you close to an arrest in the rose-petal murders?”

Alexander shook his head. “He preys upon singers, dancers, and actresses. Only the beautiful ones, of course.”

“He could be a she,” Raven suggested, making everyone smile. “She could be jealous of beauty denied her. Isn’t that called motivation?”

“Women do not usually kill in cold blood,” Alexander told her. “A good investigator eliminates the probable before turning his attention to the possible.”

“How does he kill them?” Fancy asked.

“We have not determined that yet,” Alexander answered, “but he slashes their faces after death.”

“How do you know the slashing is done postmortem?” Stepan asked.

“Blood settles after a body expires,” Alexander explained. “Their facial slashes are bloodless.”

“Ladies, I urge you to extreme caution until this monster is apprehended.” Stepan set his glass on the table and turned to Fancy. “I must leave you now.” He looked at the other man. “And so must you, Blake.”

Stepan nodded at the sisters and headed for the foyer, calling over his shoulder, “Come along, Blake.”

Both men were passing through the foyer when the sound of crashing crystal reached them. Stepan paused and looked over his shoulder in the direction of the dining room.

“Oops,” one of the sisters exclaimed.

“You must control your anger,” the opera singer said. “We are running low on glasses.”

The front door closed behind Stepan.

“Who appointed you their guardian?” Alexander challenged him. “Fancy won’t give you what you want.”

Stepan stared at his rival. “You do not know what I want.”

“Are you planning to marry her?”

“My plans are none of your business.”

“If you hurt her,” Blake threatened, “I will tear you into pieces and feed your bones to Puddles.”

“I intend to live to a ripe old age.” Stepan turned to walk to his coach but paused to ask, “Do you need a lift somewhere?”

“No, thank you, Your Highness.” Alexander gave him a smug smile. “I live next door.”

Stepan swore in Russian and climbed into his coach.

“You won’t hit me, will you?”

“No.”

“Are you certain?”

“No.”

Fancy and Belle stood in the small garden behind their Soho Square home late the following morning. The day was a spring rarity of clear sky, warm sunshine, and a gentle breeze, which enticed the winter-weary plants to grow. Cheerful yellow forsythia nodded gaily to their old friends, the purple and gold pansies, hiding in characteristic shyness beneath the shade of the oak tree.

“Hold the target out straight to the side of your body.”

Belle gave Fancy a nervous look. Then she lifted the two-inch-square paper up and away from her body.

Standing ten feet from her sister, Fancy took a white marble pellet from one pocket and her slingshot from another. She held the forked wooden stick, placed the pellet on the flexible tubing, and aimed for her target.

Whoosh!
Fancy let the pellet fly.

“You hit dead center.” Belle laughed in relief.

“I’ll back up another five paces and shoot from there.”

Belle walked toward her. “I refuse to tempt fate by holding the target again.”

Fancy feigned a hurt expression. “You don’t trust me?”

“I came outside to work in the garden, not participate in your target practice. You should try gardening yourself, Sister, and learn to relax.”

Fancy touched her sister’s shoulder. “I need you to tell me how to get rid of the prince without insulting him.”

Belle patted her hand. “Give the man a chance.”

“A chance for what?” she countered. “You cannot believe his intentions are honorable and include an offer of marriage.”

Her sister shrugged. “You never know what fate has planned.”

“I know what fate does
not
have planned,” Fancy said. “Real life will never mirror that old tale about the king and the beggar maid.”

“Charles is taking me to meet his mother on Sunday,” Belle told her. “If I can be accepted into society, then so can you.”

“I know you love Baron Wingate but”—Fancy could not mask her troubled thoughts—“I don’t trust him with your heart. Remember Mama, and let her pain—”

“Charles loves me,” Belle insisted. “Introducing me to his mother is the first step toward marriage.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. Mama loved a man unavailable to marry her.”

Fancy refused to argue the point. She sensed Charles Wingate was less than honest and hoped her sister would not be too hurt. Like their mother.

None of her sisters understood their mother’s pain. Why should they? Nanny Smudge had virtually raised them, insulating them from their mother’s anguish.

Fancy remembered what the others could not—joy and agony, happiness and grief. Emotional anguish, both hers and her mother’s, haunted Fancy during the night’s silent hours.

Many times the faint sound of her mother’s weeping awakened her. On several occasions, she had risen and gone to her mother’s bedchamber. When she opened the door, the weeping ceased, and the room was empty.

Gabrielle Flambeau did not rest in peace. Fancy did not want to suffer the same fate.

“Sisters, look at this.”

Fancy and Belle turned around. Clutching a newspaper, Blaze hurried across the garden.

“The
Times
mentions you.” Blaze passed her the newspaper.

LONDON’S FANCY
announced the article in bold black letters. Beneath that, the reporter had written a whole article about her debut.

Fancy stared at the article, startled by the reporter’s arrogance. How dare this man write about her private life? She had expected a review of her performance but never this. Had the gossips written about her mother’s and father’s affair? How had her mother coped with the intrusive public? Was that the reason her mother had quit the opera? Was she destined to walk the same path?

Not all opera singers became mistresses, though. Patrice Tanner was a good example. The woman had been married four times and buried three husbands.

“You do not seem especially pleased,” Belle remarked.

“Becoming fodder for the gossips is a less than appealing prospect.”

“Fancy!”

What now? She looked toward the house, where her youngest sister stood.

Raven beckoned her. “The prince’s courier is waiting for you.”

Dressed in a footman’s uniform, a middle-aged man stood in the foyer. He passed her a long, thin package. “A gift from His Highness, Prince Stepan Kazanov.”

Fancy looked at the package and then at the man. “Thank you, Mister—?”

The footman appeared surprised by her question. “Milton.”

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Belle asked, once the man had gone.

Fancy unfastened the ribbon and opened the package. Inside lay a single white rose and a note. “Your beautiful eyes would have shamed my Persian violets,” she read aloud.

All six of her sisters sighed. One said, “How romantic. Like a fairy tale.”

“Fairy tales do not come true.” Fancy rolled her eyes but, despite her skepticism, lifted the rose to inhale its sensual scent.

The Russian was a romantic. Or a rake experienced in persuading women into his bed. Only an aristocrat could afford to purchase a rose at this time of year.

Tha barest hint of a smile touched her lips. Romantic or rake? His behavior that evening would prove what he was.

Fancy focused on her sisters’ smug smiles. She knew the best way to disperse them. “Which of you will hold my target?” The knocker banging on the door saved them from answering. “You need not look so relieved by the interruption.”

Intending to send the uninvited intruder away, Fancy yanked the door open and gasped at the unexpected sight of the prince. Harsh daylight did not diminish his amazing good looks. If anything, daylight improved his perfection. She was definitely in trouble.

Prince Stepan smiled. “You seem surprised to see me.”

Being caught off guard made Fancy feel like a henwit. She hid her insecurity behind sarcasm. “Shouldn’t you be elsewhere creating all those outrageous compliments?”

“Your beauty has stolen my creative concentration.” Stepan winked at her. “Will you invite me inside?”

Fancy hesitated, her mind and her heart at war. Invite the devil into her home? Or send him away? Her heart won the battle, and she stepped aside to allow him entrance.

“No, Puddles.”

The mastiff leaped at the prince and pinned him against the door as it had done the previous evening. The dog bathed the royal cheeks in slobbering licks.

“Sit.” Stepan looked at the singer. “You should emulate your pet’s welcome.”

Fancy blushed, at an unusual loss for words. Her sisters’ giggles registered on her, making the blush deepen to a vibrant scarlet. She opened her mouth to send her sisters scurrying, but the prince was faster.

“I wish to invite all of you on a Sunday picnic,” Stepan told them.

Fancy tried to refuse. “We couldn’t poss—”

“A Sunday picnic sounds wonderful,” Bliss exclaimed.

Fancy sent her sisters a quelling look which, to her dismay, went ignored.

“Is Puddles invited?” Blaze asked.

Stepan patted the dog’s head. “Even Puddles will join us, and I will provide the food and transportation.”

“I doubt we’ll fit in your coach,” Raven said.

“A good point,” Fancy agreed. “And that is the reason we cannot—”

“I own more than one coach.” Stepan interrupted her refusal. “If we wish, each of us may ride in our own coach. Even Puddles.”

“I do believe two coaches will be sufficient, Your Highness.” Fancy felt trapped. Had her mother felt that way? At least, numbers provided safety, and the prince would play the gentleman with her sisters in attendance.

“Take His Highness into the parlor,” Belle suggested.

Fancy watched her sisters drifting away in the direction of the kitchen. She forced herself to smile at the prince and gestured toward the parlor.
Mon Dieu
, but she felt gauche. Except for Alex, she’d never actually been required to converse with a man. If she used her conversational topics today, what would they discuss at supper?

“Please, be seated.”

“Ladies first, mademoiselle.”

Fancy sat on the sofa and realized her mistake when the prince sat beside her. She would remember that for future reference.

“Have you seen The
Times
?” Stepan asked.

Fancy nodded.

“Your success does not make you happy?”

“I would enjoy my success,” she told him, “if that reporter would refrain from comments concerning my private life.”

Stepan stretched his long legs out as if he owned the sofa. “Ah, the high price of fame.”

Fancy lifted her gaze to his. “Are you laughing at me?”

“I would never do that.”

Her gaze slid from his dark eyes to his chiseled lips. “You cannot possibly enjoy the newspaper’s comments.”

“I have learned to ignore such transgressions against my privacy.” Stepan shrugged. “Besides, the reporter did me a favor by marking you as mine so no other gentleman will bother you.”

“I belong to myself, not you.” Fancy said. She was a woman, not a possession. “You must think highly of yourself if you believe no other gentleman will tempt me.”

“The competition does not concern me.” Stepan flashed her his boyish smile. “Why drink the water when you can savor the finest champagne?”

The prince was stuffed with conceit like a Christmas goose. Diverting attention away from more personal matters, Fancy said, “Thank you for the rose, Stepan.”

“Its perfection reminded me of you.”

“Where did you get a rose at this time of year?”

“Gardening relaxes me,” Stepan answered, “so I built a hothouse on my country estate.”

“You grew that rose?” Tea parties and gardening seemed at odds with a rake. “I suppose growing your own saves money, considering the number of women you gift with flowers.”

“Precisely. Gardening also helps me focus on creating outrageous compliments.”

Fancy lost her struggle against a smile. The rascal oozed charm and possessed a wry sense of humor. Her attraction to him made her nervous, and without thinking, she took the slingshot from her pocket and twiddled it in her hand.

“What is that?”

Fancy looked down at her lap. “This is called a slingshot.”

“I meant, what are you doing with it?”

“I am practicing my revenge against Patrice Tanner,” Fancy answered. “The prima donna will regret tripping me.”