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Chapter 1
London, 1821
"Loves me, loves me not..."
A tall gentleman, dressed in formal evening attire, stood on the summit of Primrose Hill in the predawn gray of a mist- shrouded morning. Carried on the wind, the unmistakeable smell of the Thames tainted the early spring air, and a raw clamminess permeated his exposed skin.
The man gazed almost lovingly at the woman, beautiful in death, giving proof to the peacefulness of her passing. He dug into his leather pouch, clutched a handful of rose petals, and sprinkled them one-by-one the length her body from head to feet.
"A waste of true beauty," said a hoarse voice.
The gentleman looked at the short,plump woman standing beside him. "Return to the coach." Knowing she would obey without argument, he took another handful of rose petals from his pouch.
"Loves me, loves me not..."
Royal Opera House
I refuse to become my mother.
Fancy Flambeau sat on a stool in a pigeonhole dressing room and prepared for her operatic debut. Pots of theater cosmetics cluttered the tiny table in front of her, and a miniscule mirror hung on the wall over the table.
Noting the mirror's long, diagonal crack, Fancy wondered if bad luck would mar her talent or test her determination. If bad luck walked through the door, she hoped it would not take the form of an aristocrat.
I refuse to become my mother, Fancy reminded her distorted image in the cracked mirror.
Beyond normal nervousness, her debut did not frighten her. Fancy had more important worries such as aristocratic males who preyed upon singers, dancers, and actresses. Long ago, she had resolved never to love an aristocrat or let herself become love's victim. Like her mother.
Keeping that resolve had been easy until today. Once she stepped on the stage, every wealthy gentleman in London would set his gaze on her for the first time and target her for his next conquest. Men of the aristocratic ilk considered women like her their quarry, toys to be used and discarded as they pleased.
Fancy had dressedf for the role of the adolescent Cherubino in "The Marriage of Figaro". Her costume consisted of black breeches, white shirt, and red jerkin.
After wiping her hands on a linen, Fancy peered in the mirror at her six sisters crowding the dressing room. She turned around and gave them her most confident smile. "By this time tomorrow, I will have become London's most famous prima donna."
Ranging in age from nineteen to sixteen with two sets of twins, her sisters laughed at her feigned bravado. The only missing family members were Gabrielle Flambeau, her mother, and Nanny Smudge.
Fancy wished her mother and her nanny had lived to see this day. She sighed, thinking she had many unattainable wishes. More wishes than money.
"We should go to our seats." Nineteen-year-old Belle opened the door and gasped in surprise when something small and hairy ran passed her into the room.
A monkey climbed onto Fancy's lap. The animal covered its ears with its hands, then its eyes, and finally its mouth.
"A Capuchin monkey." Eighteen-year-old Blaze crouched beside her sister's stool. She imitated the monkey's actions and then lifted it into her arms, cradling it against her shoulder like a baby.
"Miss Giggles, there you are." With an apologetic smile, a stocky man stepped into the dressing room and carried the monkey away.
"Who is that?" asked Raven, the youngest.
"Sebastian Tanner is the prima donna's husband," Fancy answered, "and Miss Giggles is her pet."
"Giggles hates the Tanners," Blaze said. "I saw it in her eyes."
"The monkey has good taste," Fancy said, making them smile.
Her sisters filed out of the dressing room to find their seats in the audience. Only Belle Raven lingered behind.
Fancy produced a white linen handkerchief, two of its corners embroidered with the initials MC. She passed the handkerchief to Raven.
"Is he in the audience?"
Raven closed her eyes. "I feel his presence nearby."
"Seeing his oldest bastard on stage should surprise him." Fancy plucked the handkerchief out of her sister's hand. "I hope he suffers agonizing pangs of conscience."
"Why do you nurse a grudge against the man who sired us?" Belle asked. "Bitterness hurts you more than him."
"His neglect put Mama in an early grave."
"Mama was responsible for her own fate," Raven said.
"He never loved us," Fancy continued, as if her sister had not spoken.
"You cannot know what dwells in another's heart," Belle said.
"His money has supported us through the years," Raven reminded her, "and he sent Nanny Smudge to care for us."
"Do not make excuses for a father you could not recognize if you passed him on the street." Fancy sighed, knowing but refusing to admit the rightness of what her sister said. "Losing Mama hurt, and now Nanny Smudge has joined her."
"Nanny Smudge has gone nowhere." Raven touched her hand. "You know she protects us still."
Hearing the orchestra begin the opera's overture, Fancy reached for her hairbrush. "We'll meet outside after the show."
After her sisters had gone, Fancy gazed into the mirror. She brushed her black hair away from her face and weaved it into a knot at the nape of her neck.
Stage fright caught her without warning.
Fancy gagged dryly over the small pot beside the table. She grabbed a cup off the table, swished water around her mouth, and spit it into the pot.
"Wish me luck, Nanny Smudge," she murmured.
The aroma of cinnamon scented the air inside the pigeonhole dressing room, giving her confidence. Her nanny's scent.
Fancy grabbed the costume's hat and, leaving the dressing room, hurried toward the stage to await her cue. In keeping with her role of Cherubino, she donned the boy's cap and smiled at Genevieve Stover, the woman playing the role of Barbarina. The two had become friends during rehearsals. Fancy was still surprised the other girl did not begrudge her the coveted role of Cherubino.
"Did you hear about the ballet dancer?" Genevieve whispered.
Fancy shook her head.
"The rose petal murderer got her." Genevieve heard her cue and hurried on stage.
Fancy banished the murdered dancer from her mind. Think adolescent boy, she told herself. Charming. Eager. Randy.
Stepping onto the stage, Fancy focused on the music and lyrics. A petite woman with a big voice, Fancy attacked the song and immersed herself in it. Emotionally involved, she forced the audience to follow wherever she led them.
Her powerful voice could break their hearts. Or mend them.
During Cherubino's plea to the countess, Fancy turned toward the audience, downstage center, perilously close to the edge of the stage. Patrice Tanner, playing the countess, stuck her foot out.
Unable to stop her forward momentum, Fancy tumbled off the stage and flew into the orchestra pit. She heard the audience's collective gasp but kept singing. Several musicians caught her and lifted her onto the stage.
Fancy narrowed her gaze on the prima donna in an unspoken declaration of war. She threw her arms out in a sweeping gesture and struck the prima donna with a backhanded slap.
The audience loved it and roared with laughter. Fancy glanced sidelong at the audience and gave them an exaggerated wink, making them laugh even more.
Both women exited the stage. Director Bishop waited in the wings, his expression long-suffering.
"The twit struck me," Patric Tanner complained. "Get rid of her."
"Slapping you was an accident," the director said, "and Fancy is sorry. Aren't you?"
"I am not sorry."
Patrice Tanner gave her a murderous glare and stalked off. Loitering near them, her husband followed her.
"Prince Stepan Kazanov requests an introduction during intermission." Director Bishop smiled at her. "The prince wants to gain the advantage over the other young swains."
A passing stagehand gave Fancy a cup of water. She swished the liquid around in her mouth, turned her head, and spit it out. Several droplets of water splashed the director's shoes.
Fancy lifted her violet gaze to his. "Sorry."
"Why don't you drink it?"
"If I swallow the water," she answered, "my nerves will regurgitate it. Probably on stage."
"About the prince?"
"No."
"I cannot tell His Highness you refuse to meet him," the director said. "Prince Stepan is the opera's most generous patron."
"I am not for sale."
"Meeting our patrons is part of your job," he told her. "You do want to keep your job, don't you?"
"Very well, you may introduce Prince Stepan after the show," Fancy agreed, reluctance etched across her expression. "Tell him I refuse to become his mistress."
"Tell him yourself."
********************************************
"There she is."
Sitting with his three brothers in an opera box, Prince Stepan Kazanov stretched his long legs out and relaxed in his chair. He fixed his dark gaze on the woman making her operatic debut, following her every movement.
Miss Fancy Flambeau stood a mere two inches over five feet, a slender woman with a full-bodied voice. Which had attracted his attention the afternoon he had stopped at the opera house to speak with the director. Stepan had listened to her singing and known he would claim her for himself.
"That is the object of your interest?" Prince Viktor asked.
"She dresses like a boy," Prince Mikhail remarked, casting his younger brother an amused glance.
"Is my baby brother hiding a shockingly sinful secret?" Prince Rudolf teased him.
"Miss Flambeau is playing Cherubino." Irritation raised Prince Stepan's voice. "Hence, the boy's attire."
"Shush."
The four Russian princes looked toward the opera box on their right. Lady Althorpe sat with the Duke and Duchess of Inverary, Rudolf's in-laws. The older woman glared at the four brothers.
Sitting closest to the lady, Rudolf gave her his most charming smile. "We apologize for the unnecessary noise, Lady Althorpe."
Stepan returned his attention to the stage. In the middle of Cherubino's plea to the countess, Fancy Flambeau tripped over the prima donna's foot and tumbled off the stage.
The audience gasped and leaned forward in their seats. Fortunately, several musicians caught her and lifted her onto the stage. The singer missed no lyrics. She took revenge by stepping close to the prima donna at the moment of an arm-sweeping gesture and struck the other woman.
Stepan chuckled with amusement. When the opera singer winked at the audience, he roared with laughter as did everyone else in the theater.
"I cannot believe those two did that on stage," Prince Viktor said.
"The reigning prima donna resents the rising star," Prince Mikhail said.
"Miss Flambeau seems strong-willed," Prince Rudolf said. "Her spirit will keep you in tow, baby brother."
"Shush."
Prince Rudolf glanced at Lady Althorpe. "Sorry for the interruption, but my baby brother is misbehaving."
"Take a paddle to his backside," the lady drawled.
The three oldest Kazanov princes burst into laughter.
"Shush."
Stepan ignored his brothers' jibes. Being the youngest in the family, he had learned to disregard their teasing criticisms. Which, as he saw it, was the only drawback of the youngest. His older brothers would always accept responsibility for his livelihood, whether he worked in the family businesses or not. Life was one long country house party.
"Your Highness?"
Stepan looked over his shoulder at the opera director. "Yes?"
"Miss Flambeau begs your indulgence," the man whispered, "but prefers to meet you after the show."
"Thank you." Stepan almost rubbed his hands together in glee. How many evenings would making her his mistress take?
Intermission began, the time when society mingled. Usually, Stepan left the Kazanov opera box and circulated among his many friends, speaking with the males and flirting with the females.
Tonight was different, though. Stepan stood to stretch his legs and sat down again, surprising his brothers.
"If you do not visit the Clarke box," Viktor said, "you will disappoint Lady Cynthia and her mother."
"Mother and daughter are trying to trap me into marriage," Stepan said. "The thought of passing my life with Cynthia Clarke gives me the hives."
"What about the merry widow?" Mikhail asked.
"Lady Veronica would be happier with you," Stepan said, "and you do need a stepmother for your daughter."
Prince Mikhail raised his eyebrows. "Veronic Winthrop is decidedly unmotherly."
"If you direct your attention across the hall," Rudolf said, leaning close, "you will see Lady Drummond sending longing looks in your direction here."
"Elizabeth Drummond is married."
"If she is already married," Rudolf said, "then you need not worry about her trapping you into marriage." Stepan glanced at his oldest brother. "I am meeting Miss Flambeau after the show."
"She looks awfully young," Viktor said, drawing his attention.
"Once taken, her innocence can never be returned," Mikhail reminded him.
"You assume I plan to make her my mistress," Stepan said. "Who knows? I may propose marriage."
"Give over, baby brother." Rudolf eyed him with amusement. "The prince and the opera singer?"
"I would never corrupt an innocent." Stepan winked at his oldest brother. "Unless, of course, the innocent wanted corruption."
*******************************************************
Fancy felt exhilarated. She stood in the wings and waited her turn to cross the stage and take a bow.
The director had sent the male leads out first and then Patrice Tanner. And now her turn had arrived.
Fancy stepped into the audience's view. Thunderous applause erupted, the deafening sound music to her ears.
In keeping with her role of Cherubino, Fancy swaggered like an adolescent boy and, making a show of her bow, swept the hat off. Her heavy mane of ebony cascaded around her, almost to her waist.
Someone in the audience tossed a rose at her feet. Another followed that. And then another.
"Encore," someone shouted.
And the audience took up the chant. "Encore, encore, encore."
Fancy looked around in confusion. She saw the fury etched across the prima donna's face, and then the director walked on stage.
"Sing something else." When she nodded, he ushered the others off stage.
Fancy had never felt so alone. She stood in silence for a long moment, wondering what to sing, and the audience quieted.
Somewhere in this theater sat the aristocrat whose emotional neglect had killed her mother. Thrusting a symbolic dagger into his heart appealed to her, and she seized the chance to let him know the damage he had done.
"As a child, I always begged my father for a ride in his coach," Fancy told the silent audience. "Papa said we needed to wait for a sunny day. When I grew older, I realized my father visited on rainy days only." She heard the audience chuckling. "I never did get that coach ride, but I did write a ballad about a magical land beyond the horizon where raindrops were forbidden from dawn to dusk."
Without musical accompaniment, Fancy began singing about the land beyond the horizon. Her perfect voice and bittersweet words transported the audience through time and space to their own childhoods. Her lyrics recalled long-forgotten dreams and heart-tugging disappointments.
When the last word slipped from her lips, Fancy walked off stage and ignored the wild applause. Tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving her stage cosmetics streaked.
"How touching." The sneering voice belonged to Patrice Tanner. "Did you really believe an aristocrat would take his bastard into society?"
Fancy ignored the prima donna. She shut the dressing room door and leaned back against it, needing a few minutes of privacy after baring her soul to those strangers.
What had her father thought of her song? She hoped---
What did she hope? Her father would beg her forgiveness for his neglect? Would remorse return her mother to life? A man she hadn't seen in fifteen years would feel nothing for her or her sisters.
And that damn prince expected to meet her. Bed her, more likely. How much of a royal pain in the arse would His Highness become?
Fancy caught a lingering whiff of cinnamon. She thought of her beloved nanny and knew her advice.
Listen to your head, child, but follow your heart.
Her mother had followed her heart and paid the price. Seven daughters.
No husband. No love. No prospects.
From outside the dressing room door came the unmistakeable sounds of relief. Performers and stagehands talked and laughed as they went about the business of closing shop for the night.
On this side of the door, traces of cinnamon mingled with fragrant theater cosmetics and musty wood smell from the floorboards.
Fancy knew only she could detect the cinnamon scent. Of all seven Flambeau sisters, she was the one physically sensitive to the unseen. She saw, heard, smelled, and sensed what others could not.
Fancy practiced caution, though. She had no wish to be locked in Bedlam.
Her sisters possessed their own special talents. Which, she admired more than her own at times.
Fancy pushed away from the door. Moments were ticking by, and she did not want the prince to catch her undressed.
Growing anxiety urged her to hurry. She scrubbed her face, leaving her complexion flushed.
Fancy stripped the boy's clothing off and donned her simple gown, its violet shade matching her eyes. She grabbed her black shawl at the same moment someone tapped on the door.
Whirling around, Fancy stared at the door. She needed to reject the prince without insulting his pride or risk losing her job. How could she do the impossible?
Men were incredibly proud, stupid creatures. The fatter the purse, the bigger the pride, the emptier the head.
Another knock on the door.
Her heartbeat quickened. Her only experience with men was Alexander Blake. What the blue blazes could she say to a prince?
"Fancy?" the opera director called.
She took a fortifying breath. "You may enter now."
The door swung open. Director Bishop stepped aside.
Temptation walked into the dressing room in the shape of a Russian aristocrat.
Prince Stepan Kazanov stood a couple of inches over six feet, his imposing presence filling the tiny dressing room. He possessed the dark good looks that women found intriguing. Broad shoulders, lean hips, and solid muscles showed to best advantage in his evening attire.
His good looks caught Fancy by surprise, igniting a flame in the pit of her stomach. Jet black hair framed an angular, high cheekboned face. A dark intensity burned in his black eyes, fringed with sinfully long lashes and straight brows. His nose was long and straight and his lips thin but perfectly shaped.
Unexpected humor gleamed at her from his black eyes. His lips quirked into a boyish smile that said he did not take himself too seriously.
Uh-oh. Fancy knew she was in trouble. She needed to reject this disturbingly attractive aristocrat. She wished the prince was a common laborer because she did not want to send him away.
Having seen her from a distance only, Stepan was no less surprised by Fancy. Violet eyes framed with long black lashes, generous lips, and a heart-shaped face lent her an air of sultry vulnerability.
Uh-oh. Stepan knew he was in trouble. Her innocent beauty screamed commitment. Every instinct shouted at him to bolt out the door, but a stronger force refused to let him turn away.
Stepan stepped further into the room. Fancy shrank back against the table.
"I do not bite, Miss Flambeau."
Fancy gave him a wobbly, embarrassed smile.
"Your Highness," Director Bishop said, "I present Fancy Flambeau."
The prince caught her hand and bowed over it in courtly manner, surprising her. "Bonsoir, Fancy. Enchante."
She snatched her hand back. "Speak English and call me Miss Flambeau."
Prince Stepan raised his brows at that. Director Bishop coughed. Fancy shifted her gaze from the prince to the director.
Stepan glanced over his shoulder. "You may leave, Bishop. Miss Flambeau will not insult me into withdrawing my financial support." He looked at her again. "I find her prim formality refreshingly sweet."
"Leave the door open on your way out," Fancy ordered, making the prince smile. "I mean no insult, Your Highness."
"Call me Stepan."
Fancy considered refusing the familiarity but then inclined her head. "As you wish, Stepan."
"Your voice makes my heart ache with emotion." He inched closer, staring at her upturned face. "Your eyes are exquisite Persian violets, and your beauty steals my breath."
"Steals your breath?" Fancy was not buying what this aristocrat was selling. "Leave now, catch your breath, and live."
Stepan gave her his boyish smile. "A sharp-witted woman is a rose with layers of petals to peel away."
"You have too much leisure time," Fancy said. "Instead of wasting your days creating outrageous compliments, try getting a job."
The prince grinned at her insult. He looked like a boy caught in a prank.
Fancy felt her heart twist at the beauty of his smile. Her peace of mind demanded she get rid of him, but her lips refused to speak words of rejection. Had her mother felt like this when faced with her father? Gawd, she hoped not.
"Your biting wit will not insult me," Stepan told her. "I have developed a thick skin from suffering years of my brothers' teasing."
Fancy had never considered princes would tease each other like commoners. She gave him an unconsciously flirtatious smile. "Oh, drat."
"You should use your lovely smile more often," the prince said, "and your eyes do remind me of Persian violets."
"Thank you."
"I would like to celebrate your success with supper," Stepan invited her.
"My sisters are waiting for me outside," Fancy said, refusing him.
"Do you have your own coach?"
"No, I have my own legs."
Surprise registered on his expression. "You and your sisters cannot walk home at this hour. We will escort your sisters home and then go to supper."
"I don't want to sup with you."
The prince looked perplexed. Apparently, he could not comprehend any woman refusing him.
"I met you in order to keep my job," Fancy told him. "Otherwise, I would not speak with you."
"Do you dislike foreigners?"
"My mother was French."
"Do you dislike Russians?"
"No."
"Do you dislike me?"
"I do not dislike you personally," Fancy tried to explain, "but you are an...aristocrat."
"Your lips say aristocrat, but your tone says leper." Stepan cocked a dark brow at her. "Before tonight, I have never felt inferior because of my wealth and title."
"I am honored to add to your life experience," Fancy wanted him to leave before she changed her mind.
He lowered his voice to a seductive tone. "I know more pleasant ways to increase my life experience."
His remark shocked her. Her back stiffened at the insulting suggestion. He would never say that to a society lady.
"I should have expected no respect from an aristocrat."
"Aristocrat is not the name of a fatal disease."
Fancy lifted her chin a notch, her gaze cold on his. "I have experience with the aristocracy."
"You are referring to your father." Stepan inclined his head in understanding. "Like commoners, aristocrats are not all the same. Please consider my supper invitation for tomorrow evening. We may have more in common than you realize."
"I doubt that."
"Come." Prince Stepan held out his hand as if asking her to dance.
Fancy wanted to place her hand in his, but her distrust proved too strong. She would allow no man to do to her what her father had done to her mother.
"I will escort you and your sisters home." Stepan took her hand in his. "I will worry for your safety even though you dislike me."
His sentiment made her feel like the meanest creature in London. The prince seemed like a decent man, and she had hurt his feelings.
"I will sup with you tomorrow evening," Fancy relented, "but I refuse to become your mistress."
Amusement gleamed at her from the black depths of his eyes. "I did not ask you to become my mistress."
Fancy blushed, embarrassed by her presumption. She was the product of an illicit liaison between a duke and an opera singer. What other reason could he have for wanting her company?
"Trust me." Stepan lifted her hand to his lips. "I would never seduce a reluctant innocent." He gestured to the door. "Shall we?"
With her hand in his, Fancy walked in silence through the deserted theater to the lobby. She felt self-conscious, her mind blanking at a topic for conversation. Gawd, tomorrow evening's supper promised a veritable dumb show.
They stepped outside the theater onto Bow Street, which should have been nearly deserted. Instead, coaches lined both sides of the street.
Fancy looked at him in confusion and tightened her grip on his hand. "What is happening?"
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