Free Pleasuring the Prince by Patricia Grasso Page A

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…”

Chapter 5
    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