Pleasuring the Prince (6 page)

“The salted herring comes from Scotland.”

“I misplaced my appetite at the”—Fancy hesitated—“sturgeon roe. I believe now would be the appropriate time for our discussion.”

Stepan took her hand in his and waited until she met his black gaze. “Why did you run away tonight?”

I felt trapped.

And bought.

And feared being victimized like my mother.

Her gaze skittered away from his. Those dark eyes seemed to see into her soul and knew her insecurities.

Fancy lifted her chin a notch, proud though she would not look at him. “I would prefer to walk naked down the street than wear a gown purchased by a man other than my husband.”

“I would prefer that you walk around naked, too.”

She snapped her gaze to his. The prince wore the most wolfish, irreverent grin.

“The problem is I pushed you too soon, not the gown.” Stepan cupped her chin. “Whenever you are ready to join me in society, so will I be ready to escort you.”

Her heart ached at his unexpected gentility and understanding. She could not, would not, dare not love him. If only—

“Why are you doing this?”

“I am courting my sweet songbird.” He kissed her hand. “I forbid you to walk home alone from the theater. Boris will guard you when I cannot be there. That is not negotiable.”

Fancy relented, grateful for his concern. “Very well, I will allow Boris to escort me home when necessary.”

“Good. Now I will take you home.” Stepan offered her his hand. “Do not forget our picnic tomorrow.”

“I don’t think my sisters will eat caviar or jellied eels.”

“I promise, no eels or caviar.”

Fifteen minutes later, Stepan climbed out of his coach in front of her home in Soho Square. He helped her down and escorted her to the door.

“Look.” Stepan scooped the bouquet someone had placed on her doorstep. “An admirer left you flowers. The pink and white with dark green leaves are oleander, and the reddish, bell-shaped flowers are belladonna.” He gave her a worried look. “In the language of flowers, oleander and belladonna mean
beware death
.”

No bigger than an alley, Crown Passage linked King Street and Pall Mall, two of London’s busiest thoroughfares. Several shops called the passageway home, as did the French Doves, an unassuming but popular pub for an after-theater supper.

Alexander Blake relaxed in his chair and lazily admired Genevieve Stover’s angelic face. The blond opera singer enchanted him, and he counted himself lucky to have been at the Royal Opera House the evening she required an escort home. If he’d attended opening night, he never would have met her.

“So, you really don’t mind that Fancy won the role you coveted?”

Genevieve shrugged. “I mind, of course, but Fancy has a powerful voice. I guarantee she will go far in her career.”

The waiter served their meals. Sausage and potato for him, baked fish steak with vegetable for her.

“Working with Constable Black must be exciting,” Genevieve remarked.

“Contrary to popular belief, a constable leads a boring daily life.” Alexander smiled. “The exciting moments come few and far between.”

Genevieve leaned close and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you think you will capture the rose-petal murderer?”

“I promise we will catch him eventually.” Seizing the opportunity to comfort and touch, Alexander reached across the table and covered her hand with his own. “You have nothing to fear if you keep alert.”

“How does he kill them?”

“I will not discuss that, but the women don’t look as if they’ve suffered.”

“Tell me, how well acquainted are you and Fancy?”

Alexander knew she was interested in him and digging for details of his life. No matter their circumstance, all women possessed certain habits. Digging for details was one of them.

“Fancy and I are almost brother and sister.” Alexander noted that detail seemed to relax her. “We have been neighbors our entire lives. Tell me about Genevieve Stover.”

“When my parents died,” Genevieve said, “my brother and I inherited my house on Compton Street. He moved to another house when he married, and I rent rooms to dancers and actresses. That man over there is staring at us.”

Alexander looked across the pub. The well-dressed man worked for his grandfather, and the knowledge that his grandfather was monitoring his activities irritated him.

“Do you know him?”

Alexander shook his head, feigning unconcern. “He must recognize you from the opera. Do you have any free time for me tomorrow?”

Genevieve’s smile could have lit the whole pub. “Tomorrow is Sunday, no opera. I will come to your house and cook you lunch.”

“I would like that.” Alexander mentally rubbed his hands together. A woman offering to cook was definitely interested. He could hardly believe his luck. Beautiful opera singers were usually looking for wealthy protectors, but Genevieve wanted him.

A short time later, Alexander and Genevieve faced each other in front of her Compton Street home. Ever so gently, he touched his lips to hers.

“Good evening, Genevieve.”

They broke apart, almost guilty, when another person spoke.

Dressed in red, one of the ballet dancers flounced past them as a coach halted. The coachman climbed down, helped the sultry brunette inside, and returned to his perch.

“That was Phoebe,” Genevieve said. “She lost her lover, Lord Parkhurst, and is prowling for another.”

Alexander planted another kiss on her lips, murmuring, “Until tomorrow…”

Humming a spritely tune, Alexander reached Soho Square fifteen minutes later. He started up his front stairs and stopped short when he spied the person sitting there.

“Where the bloody blue blazes have you been? I’ve been waiting forever.”

Long-legged, blond, and sweet clashed with petite, ebony-haired, and smart-mouthed. The comparison showed Raven Flambeau in a less than flattering light.

“I need to speak with you.” Raven gazed into what she considered the handsomest face in London. “It’s urgent.”

“Come inside, then.” He turned his back to unlock the door.

Raven had sat near her window for hours waiting for him to come home. She knew she could help him with the rose-petal case. Working together would bring them closer, and Alex would notice that she’d grown into a woman. Then he would love her as she loved him.

Alexander lit a night candle, poured himself a dram of whiskey, and gulped it. He faced her, his gaze dropping to her scantily clad body, and then set the glass on the mantel.

Raven smothered a smile. She had purposely dropped her shawl to let him see she was no longer a child. Her gauzy nightgown left nothing to the imagination, and she watched his gaze fix on her breasts and thrusting nipples.

Grabbing the woolen shawl, Alexander wrapped it around her and stepped back several paces. “Tell me what is so urgent, brat.”

Brat.
That one word told Raven their conversation was starting off on the wrong foot, but she determined to persevere and see her way through.

“I can help you with the rose-petal case,” Raven said, dismayed when she heard him chuckle. “I-I had a vision tonight.”

“A vision?”

“I saw someone sewing what should not be sewn and—”

Alexander pressed one long finger across her lips. “I appreciate your concern, brat, but I cannot go to Amadeus Black and tell him the case is solved because my slightly daft neighbor had a vision.”

“I am not daft,” Raven insisted, frustration and irritation mingling within her. “I would never let you down…
I love you
.”

Alexander stared at her for long moments, stunned by her declaration. How was he supposed to handle this without hurting her? This Flambeau was everyone’s baby sister.

“You don’t love me, not as a woman loves a man.” He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “Sweetheart, sixteen is much too—”

Wham!
The force of her slap jerked his head back.

“Do
not
tell me what I feel, you arrogant son of a—” His whiskey glass jumped off the mantel and shattered into tiny pieces, drawing his attention. Whirling away, Raven stormed out the door.

“Loves me, loves me not…”

The tall gentleman, dressed in formal evening attire, stood beside the Thames River. Here the river’s stench assailed his nose and permeated his skin, but he gave no attention to his discomfort.

The gentleman stared at the woman, so lovely in death, giving proof of her peaceful passing. He clutched a handful of rose petals and sprinkled them one by one down the length of her body.

“Are you coming?”

The gentleman turned his head to look at the woman waiting in his coach. “Hardly,” he drawled, and scooped another handful of rose petals from his pouch.

“Loves me, loves me not…”

Blue sky, brilliant sunshine, unseasonably warm.

The unusual spring weather combined with the usual Sunday morning peacefulness to create a day that lifted the spirit and made a body glad to be alive. Only two things marred the day’s perfection: the smell of low tide and the dead woman covered with rose petals.

Alexander Blake strode toward the two men deep in conversation. He had expected Amadeus Black, but Prosecutor Lowing was an unpleasant surprise. Barney, the constable’s aide, was searching the grounds like a mother looking for nits on her child’s head.

“Lose one ballet dancer, and another arrives in London,” Lowing said. “Only women of dubious virtue need fear the rose-petal murderer. Too bad the populace is so frightened.”

The prosecutor sounded like his grandfather. Alexander shot him a look of contempt, disgusted by the man’s judging the seriousness of a crime by the victim’s station in life. He approached the body, and his mouth dropped open in surprise.

The dead woman, dressed in red, was the sultry brunette he’d seen the previous evening outside Genevieve’s house. She did not appear sultry now.

“I know this woman.” Alexander returned to the constable’s side. “I saw her last night.”

“I’ll vouch for your innocence.” Prosecutor Lowing chuckled at his own joke. When no one laughed, he added, “I’m surprised your grandfather allows that sort of association.”

Alexander ignored him. “Phoebe rents a room in a friend’s house.”

“Rent
ed
,” the prosecutor corrected him.

“Who is this friend?” Amadeus Black asked.

“Genevieve Stover sings in the opera.”

“
Humph.
Opera singers are much the same as ballet dancers,” Lowing said.

Both men ignored the prosecutor.

“Now I understand the reason witnesses are difficult to find,” Alexander said, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I watched the victim climb into a coach and ride to her death, but could not tell you who sat inside or even recognize the coach if I saw it again.”

Amadeus Black put a hand on his shoulder. “No one expects to witness a crime, and even the best of us cannot remain alert to details every hour of the day.”

Barney approached and handed the constable a ring. “I found this over there. It could mean nothing but—” He shrugged.

The ring was heavy and gold, a style appropriate to either man or woman. A scrolled
P
was engraved on the top.

“What do you think?” Prosecutor Lowing asked.

Amadeus Black looked at Alexander. “Would you ask your lady friend if Phoebe owned a gold ring initialed with a
P
?”

He nodded. “Genevieve told me that Phoebe’s former lover is Lord Parkhurst.”

“A couple connected by the letter
P
,” the constable murmured. “One is the victim. Could the other be the perpetrator?”

“I will question Lord Parkhurst,” Prosecutor Lowing announced.

Clearly irritated, Amadeus Black turned on the prosecutor. “You will question no one unless I am present, and Parkhurst will not be questioned until Alex asks his friend about the ring.” He looked at Alexander. “No one touched the body. Examine it.”

Alexander approached the body again and walked around it slowly. No apparent bruises or bleeding. Bloodless slashing across one cheek. Serene expression indicating a painless passing. Whole roses positioned in each ear.

Crouching down, Alexander leaned close to the victim’s face. The eyelids and lips had been sewn shut, the same as the other victims.

I saw someone sewing what should not be sewn.
Raven Flambeau’s words popped into his mind, startling him.

Had the brat actually experienced a vision? Which would prove nothing since visions did not constitute evidence in court. Perhaps she could describe the person sewing what should not be sewn. Assuming, of course, the brat would speak to him after last night.

“What do you see?” the constable asked.

“The perpetrator left us the same calling card.”

“How do you think she died?”

Alexander lifted his gaze from the victim’s face to Amadeus Black. “A gentle poisoning.”

Needing to clear the sight of the murdered ballet dancer from his mind, if only for a little while, Alexander refused a ride to Compton Street and decided to walk instead. Compton Street was located a goodly distance from Tower Hill, but the journey was a direct walk from Byward and Cannon Streets, past St. Paul’s to Fleet Street, the Strand, and Charing Cross Road.

Alexander felt a heightened sense of urgency to find the murderer. The latest victim had hit much too close to home. Now he had the unenviable task of giving Genevieve the bad news. Dread sprung to life in the pit of his stomach, growing more pronounced the closer he got to Compton Street.

Genevieve was pure sweetness, amazing in view of her career. Most dancers, singers, and actresses were little better than prostitutes, although the only ones he knew personally were Fancy and Genevieve. Both women were of good character; perhaps the bad reputations were undeserved.

The unwelcome image of a headstrong, ebony-haired smart mouth popped into his mind’s eye. Damn Raven Flambeau, her vision, and that flimsy nightgown.

Passing Covent Garden, Alexander vetoed the thought of purchasing Genevieve a bouquet. The beautiful brunette covered in rose petals was too vivid in his mind, and he doubted he would ever again consider flowers a suitable gift for a woman.

The image of every man’s ideal maiden, Genevieve wore a petal pink gown with matching shawl. Her blond hair cascaded loosely around her, and her blue eyes sparkled with anticipation.

“Good morning.” She greeted him with a smile. “Everyone is still sleeping.”

Alexander dreaded stealing the smile from her sweet expression. “May I come inside? We must speak confidentially.”

Genevieve stepped aside, allowing him entrance, and led the way into the parlor. “This sounds mysterious.”

“Sit, please.”

“Why?” He heard the fear in her voice.

“Please do as I ask.” When she sat on the settee, Alexander knelt in front of her and held her hands. “Last night, Phoebe fell prey to the rose-petal murderer.”

“What?” Stunned surprise drained the color from her face. Tears welled in her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. Her hands shook in his.

Alexander brushed her tears aside. “I must ask you a few questions.”

Genevieve nodded once.

“Whose coach did Phoebe climb into last night?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did Lord Parkhurst end the affair or Phoebe?”

“I suppose Lord Parkhurst since Phoebe was looking for another protector.”

“Did Phoebe ever tell you who ended the affair?”

Genevieve shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“You cannot tell me what you don’t know.” Alexander patted her hand. “Did Phoebe own a gold ring initialed with a
P
?”

“I never noticed one.”

“I want your promise never to walk alone at night,” Alexander said, “and I will escort you home from the opera.”

Her voice was barely louder than a whisper. “I promise.”

Alexander kissed the palm of each hand and then stood. “Shall we go?”

“I feel guilty about—”

He pressed a finger to her lips. “Life does not stop for death.”

“May we visit a chapel along the way and pray for Phoebe?”

“Of course.”

Genevieve gave him a faint smile. “What would you like for lunch?”

“You.”

Huh, huh, huh.
Hot air tickled his cheek and neck.

Stepan shifted his black gaze to the seat beside him. The mastiff had rested its head on his shoulder, panting with its tongue hanging out on one side of its muzzle.

Hearing smothered giggles from the opposite seat, Stepan knew the opera singer had purposely sat beside her sister and left him to share the ride with the dog. He put his arm around the mastiff, saying, “We men should stick together.”

Fancy and Raven burst into laughter. Stepan looked at them and smiled at his own wit.

“Why am I required to sit with Puddles?”

Fancy gave him a flirtatious smile. “I wanted to admire your handsome face.”

He wagged his finger at her. “You are prevaricating,
ma petite
. We could have put Puddles in the coach with the twins.”

“My sisters would have been crowded,” Fancy said. “Why are Feliks and Boris driving us?”

“Harry takes Sunday as his free day.” Stepan scratched the mastiff’s neck. “I regret Belle could not join us.”

“Baron Wingate was taking her to meet his mother.”

“I have a bad feeling about that,” Raven interjected.

Fancy rounded on her sister. “You don’t like the baron either?”

Stepan spoke, drawing their attention. “You should not disparage a man who could become your brother-in-law.”

“Baron Wingate will never marry Belle,” Raven said.

“Are you certain?” Fancy asked, concern for her sister etched across her face.

Raven nodded.

“You do not have faith in your sister?” Stepan asked.

“I have faith in Belle, not Baron Wingate,” Raven answered.

Stepan shifted his gaze to the opera singer and admitted, “I have never liked the baron.”

Fancy leaped on that statement. “Why don’t you like him?”

“The few times I met him, Baron Wingate seemed too concerned with appearances,” Stepan answered. “He fawned over gentlemen wealthier than he and disdained others who were not. Technically, the baron is the head of the Wingate family but ruled by his mother, a sour woman.”

“Where did you meet the baron and his mother?” Fancy asked.

“I attended a recent ball hosted by Lady Drummond,” Stepan answered.

“How recently?”

Stepan looked at the singer for a long moment, a smile flirting with the corners of his lips. She sounded a bit jealous, which meant she was beginning to care for him.

“Lady Drummond’s ball was three weeks ago.” Stepan decided in the next instant that he needed to speak honestly and prepare them for an unhappy sister at home. “Baron Wingate was escorting not only his mother but the baroness’s bosom friend, Lady Clarke, and her unmarried daughter, Cynthia.”

“That means nothing.” Fancy dismissed what he’d said with a wave of her hand. “Belle is the most beautiful woman in London. Why would he want anyone else?”

Stepan cocked a dark brow at her. “After I had danced with Lady Cynthia, the baroness warned me off from the chit, saying she hoped to make a match between Charles and Cynthia. Overhearing this, Lady Clarke told me she was not quite settled on the matter. I believe she would prefer a princess in the Clarke family to a baroness.”

“And what do you prefer?” Her expression was stiff and her voice cold.

“I prefer death to marriage with Cynthia Clarke.” That brought the smile back to her face. He looked at her youngest sister. “Fancy told me you move objects with your mind. Would you demonstrate for me?”

Raven appeared stunned. She glanced at her oldest sister and then demurred, explaining, “I need the correct emotional state to do that.”

Was the prince teasing or tormenting her? Fancy wondered. She had revealed those secrets only to discourage him but now regretted that. She wanted him to think highly of her family and consider them normal.

When had she changed her mind about him? Fancy had no idea, but she wanted him to like her.

Chiswick, their destination, lay along the Thames River an hour’s coach ride from London.

Disembarking the coaches, the five younger Flambeaus and Puddles walked to the grassy riverbank. Fancy walked beside Stepan while Boris and Feliks followed with the picnic paraphernalia.

The air seemed cleaner here, no noxious odors to bother them. Birdsong serenaded them, and water lapping the shoreline relaxed them. Wildflowers grew everywhere—blue and white comfrey, palish yellow wild arum, violet cuckoo flowers, white Queen Anne’s lace. Like gossiping goodwives, willow trees stood together along the riverbank.

After spreading several blankets, Stepan unpacked the food from the wicker hamper. There were egg and cucumber sandwiches, cold chicken, and lemon cookies.

“Aha, I believe I see a delicacy.” Stepan glanced at Fancy and produced a small platter of brown bread and caviar. He spread the caviar pate on the piece of brown bread and popped it into his mouth.

“Do not try to kiss me until you wash your mouth,” Fancy drawled.

“Is that an invitation?” he asked.

“No.”

“What are you eating?” asked Blaze.

Fancy’s tongue was faster than his. “His Highness is eating caviar, which is fish eggs in ovaries.”

“Yuck, yuck, yuck.” Blaze looked suitably revolted.

Stepan spread the caviar pate on another piece of brown bread and directed his teasing toward the sister. “Fancy tells me you communicate with animals. What is Puddles thinking?”

Blaze gave him a sweet smile. “Puddles thinks he would love to taste the caviar.”

At that precise moment, the mastiff stole the bread and pate out of the prince’s hand. Everyone, including the prince and his men, laughed.

“Your dappled gray caught a pebble in his shoe,” Blaze said conversationally.

Stepan gestured for his man to check the horse. Boris lifted the horse’s hoof and picked a pebble out, shooting the prince a surprised look.

Damn, damn, damn,
Fancy thought. Now she and her family appeared abnormal.

She touched the prince’s arm and sent him an unconsciously pleading look. “We are normal young women, not freakish.”

“I assumed the tales of your sisters were meant to discourage me.”

“Your assumption was wrong.”

“I think not.” His smile mocked her. “If you prevaricate, sweeting, your nose will grow.”

Fancy said nothing. What could she say? She knew that he knew, and she had never been a good liar.

“I adore nature’s colors,” Sophia said, breaking the silence.

“Ah, the painter speaks.” Stepan gestured to the wildflowers. “In Russia, we believe when a flower’s color catches your attention, its fairy is greeting you.”

Sophia smiled. “What a lovely thought.”