The Raven Prince

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  Goddamn her.

  Edward pivoted on his heel. He grabbed a faux Chinese vase, raised it above his head, and slammed it to the floor. It shattered explosively. Conversation in the room ceased as heads turned.

  Too much thought was bad for a man. What he needed was action. If he couldn’t work off his energy in bed, well, this was second best.

  He was seized from behind and pulled around. A fist the size of a ham hurtled at his face. Edward leaned back. The blow went whistling past his nose. He brought his own right fist in low to the man’s belly. The other man oofed out the air in his lungs—a lovely sound—and staggered.

  Three men moved in to take the other’s place. They were the big bruisers kept by the house to escort troublemakers outside. One of them got in a roundhouse to the left side of his face. Edward saw stars, but it didn’t stop him returning with a pretty uppercut.

  Several of the patrons cheered.

  And then after that, things became muddled. Many of the spectators appeared to be sporting men who thought the odds uneven. They joined the brawl with tipsy enthusiasm. Girls frantically scrambled over settees, shrieking and upsetting furniture in their haste to get out of the way. Aphrodite stood in the middle of the room, shouting orders that no one could hear. She stopped abruptly when someone shoved her headfirst into a bowl of punch. Tables flew through the air. An enterprising demimondaine began taking bets in the hallway from the men and girls who had flooded the stairs to view the commotion. Four more bullies and at least as many men from the upstairs rooms joined the melee. Some of the guests had clearly been interrupted in their entertainment, as they wore only breeches or—in the case of one rather distinguished-looking old gent—a shirt and nothing else.

  Edward was enjoying himself immensely.

  Blood ran down his chin from a split lip, and he could feel one eye slowly swelling shut. A smallish villain clung to his back and hit him about the head and shoulders. In front of him, another, bigger man tried to kick his legs out from under him. Edward sidestepped the attempt and brought his own foot up to shove against the man’s other leg while his weight was off balance. He went down like a colossus.

  The imp on his back was becoming a nuisance. Grabbing the man by his hair, Edward swiftly rammed himself backward into a wall. He heard a thunk as the man’s head met the solid surface. The man slid from Edward’s shoulders and landed on the floor along with a good deal of the plaster from the wall.

  Edward grinned and glared around through his good eye for more prey. One of the house thugs attempted to sidle out the door. He looked wildly over his shoulder when Edward’s gaze settled on him, but there were none of his brethren to come to his aid.

  “’Ave mercy, milord. I don’t get paid enough to be beat bloody like you done with the rest of the lads.” The thug held up his hands and backed away from Edward’s advance. “Why, you even did Big Billy in, and I ain’t never seen a man faster than him.”

  “Very well,” Edward said. “Although, I can’t see out of my right eye, which evens the odds. . . .” He looked hopefully at the cringing bully who smiled weakly and shook his head. “No? Well, then, I don’t suppose you know of a place where a man can get properly drunk, do you?”

  Thus, a little while later, Edward found himself at what had to be the seediest tavern in the East End of London. With him were the house thugs, including Big Billy, now nursing a swollen nose and two black eyes but no hard feelings. Big Billy had his arm around Edward’s shoulders and was attempting to teach him the words to a ditty extolling the charms of a lass named Titty. The song seemed to have a lot of rather clever double entendres that Edward suspected were lost on him since he’d been standing drinks for everyone in the room for the last two hours.

  “W-who was the whore you was looking for that started all this, milord?” Jackie, the thug asking, had not missed any of the rounds of drinks. He addressed the question to the air somewhere to Edward’s right.

  “Faithless woman,” Edward muttered into his ale.

  “All wenches are faithless tarts.” This bit of masculine wisdom came from Big Billy.

  The men present nodded somberly, although it caused one or two to lose their balance and sit down rather abruptly.

  “No. S’not true,” Edward said.

  “What s’not true?”

  “All women faithless,” Edward said carefully. “I know a woman who’s as p-pure as the driven snow.”

  “Who’s that?” “Tell us, then, milord!” The men clamored to hear the name of this feminine paragon.

  “Mrs. Anna Wren.” He raised his glass precariously. “A toast! A toast to the most un-un-unblemished lady in England. Mrs. Anna Wren!”

  The tavern erupted in boisterous cheers and toasts to the lady. And Edward wondered why all the lights went out suddenly.

  HIS HEAD WAS coming apart. Edward opened his eyes, but then immediately thought better of that idea and squeezed them shut again. Carefully, he touched his temple and tried to think why the top of his head felt like it was about to explode.

  He remembered Aphrodite’s Grotto.

  He remembered the woman not showing up.

  He remembered a fight. Edward grimaced and gingerly probed with his tongue. His teeth were all intact. That was good news.

  His mind strained.

  He remembered meeting a jolly fellow. . . . Big Bob? Big Bert? No, Big Billy. He remembered—Oh, God. He remembered toasting Anna in the worst hellhole he had ever had the misfortune to drink watered-down ale in. His stomach rolled unpleasantly. Had he really bandied Anna’s name about in such a place? Yes, he thought he had. And, if he recalled correctly, the whole roomful of disreputable rogues had bawdily toasted her.

  He moaned.

  Davis opened the door, letting it bang against the wall, and slowly shuffled into the room bearing a laden tray.

  Edward moaned again. The sound of the door had nearly made his scalp separate from his skull. “Damn your eyes. Not now, Davis.”

  Davis continued on his snaillike course to the bed.

  “I know you can hear me,” he spoke slightly louder, but not too loud, for fear of setting his head off again.

  “Been in our cups have we, m’lord?” Davis shouted.

  “I didn’t know you’d overindulged as well,” Edward said from behind the hands covering his face.

  Davis ignored this. “Lovely gents what brought you home last night. New friends of yours?”

  Edward parted his fingers to shoot a glare at his valet.

  Evidently it bounced harmlessly off the man. “Bit long in the tooth to be guzzling so much, m’lord. Might lead to gout at your age.”

  “I’m overwhelmed by your concern for my health.” Edward looked at the tray Davis had now managed to set on the bedside table. It held a cup of tea, already cold, judging by the scum floating on top, and a bowl of milk-toast. “What the hell is this? Nursery pap? Bring me some brandy to settle this head.”

  Davis pretended deafness with an aplomb that would have done justice to the finest stage in London. He had had many years of practice, after all.

  “Here’s a lovely breakfast to put vigor back into you,” the valet bawled in his ear. “Milk is very strengthening for a man at your age.”

  “Get out! Get out! Get out!” Edward roared, and then had to hold his head again.

  Davis retreated to the door, but he couldn’t resist a parting shot. “Need to watch your temper, m’lord. Might go all red in the face and buggy-eyed with apoplexy. Nasty way to go, that.”

  He scooted through the door with amazing dexterity for a man his age. Just before the bowl of milk-toast hit.

  Edward groaned and closed his eyes, his head flopping back on the pillow. He ought to get up and start packing to go home. He’d obtained a fiancée and visited the Grotto, not once, but twice. He had, in fact, done all he’d meant to do when he’d decided to travel to London. And even if he felt far worse now than he had when he’d first come, there was no point in staying in the city.
The little whore wouldn’t return, he would never encounter her again, and he had responsibilities of his own to see to. And that was as it should be.

  There was no room in his life for a mysterious masked woman and the transitory pleasure she brought.

  Chapter Twelve

  The days and nights passed as if in a dream, and Aurea was content. Perhaps she was even happy. But after several months, she began to have an urge to see her father. The urge grew and grew until all her waking moments were filled with a longing for her father’s face, and she became listless and sad.

  One night at dinner, the raven turned the bright ebony bead of his eye upon her and said, “What causes this malaise I sense in you, my wife?”

  “I long to see my father’s face again, my lord,” Aurea sighed. “I miss him.”

  “Impossible!” the raven squawked, and left the table without another word.

  But Aurea, although she never made complaint, so missed her parent that she stopped eating and only picked at the delicacies set before her. She began to waste away until one day the raven could no longer stand it. He flapped into her room angrily.

  “Go, then, and visit your sire, wife,” he cawed. “But be very sure that you return within a fortnight, for I would pine were you to stay longer.”

  —from The Raven Prince

  “Oh, my goodness!” Anna exclaimed the next day. “What have you done to your face?”

  She would notice the bruises. Edward halted and glowered at her. She hadn’t seen him in five days, and the first words out of her mouth were an accusation. Briefly, he tried to imagine any of his previous, male secretaries daring to comment on his appearance. It was impossible. In fact, he couldn’t think of anyone, save his current female secretary, who made such impertinent comments to him. Oddly, he found her impertinence endearing.

  Not that he let it show. Edward raised a brow and tried to put his secretary in her place. “I have done nothing to my face, thank you, Mrs. Wren.”

  It had no noticeable effect.

  “You can’t call that black eye and the bruises on your jaw nothing.” Anna looked disapproving. “Have you put any salve on it yet?”

  She sat in her usual place at the small rosewood desk in his library. She looked serene and golden in the morning light from the window, as if she hadn’t moved from the desk the entire time he had been in London. It was a strangely comforting thought. Edward noted that she had a small smudge of ink on her chin.

  And something was different about her appearance.

  “I haven’t used any salve, Mrs. Wren, because there is no reason to.” He tried to walk the remaining feet to his desk without limping.

  Naturally, she noticed that, too. “And your leg! Why are you limping, my lord?”

  “I am not limping.”

  She arched her eyebrows so high, they nearly disappeared into her hairline.

  Edward was forced to glare in order to emphasize the lie. He tried to think of an explanation for his injuries that wouldn’t make him look a total fool. He certainly couldn’t tell his little secretary that he’d been in a brawl at a brothel.

  What was it about her appearance?

  “Did you have an accident?” she asked before he could think of a suitable excuse.

  He seized on the suggestion. “Yes, an accident.” Something about her hair . . . A new style, perhaps?

  His respite was brief.

  “Did you fall off your horse?”

  “No!” Edward strove to lower his voice and had a sudden inspiration. He could see her hair. “No, I didn’t fall off my horse. Where is your cap?”

  As a distraction, it failed abysmally.

  “I’ve decided not to wear it any longer,” she said primly. “If you didn’t fall off your horse, then what did happen to you?”

  The woman would have been an outstanding success with the inquisition.

  “I . . .” For the life of him, he could not think of a suitable story.

  Anna looked worried. “Your carriage didn’t overturn, did it?”

  “No.”

  “Were you run down by a cart in London? I hear the streets are terribly crowded.”

  “No. I wasn’t run down by a cart either.” He tried to smile charmingly. “I like you without your cap. Your tresses shine like a field of daisies.”

  Anna narrowed her eyes. Perhaps he hadn’t any charm. “I wasn’t aware that daisies were brown. Are you sure you didn’t fall off your horse?”

  Edward gritted his teeth and prayed for forbearance. “I did not fall off my horse. I have never—”

  She raised one brow.

  “Hardly ever been unseated from my horse.”

  A swift expression of enlightenment came over her features. “It’s all right, you know,” she said in an unbearably understanding voice. “Even the best horsemen fall off their mounts sometimes. It is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Edward got up from his desk, limped across to hers, and placed both hands, palms down, upon it. He leaned over until his eyes were only inches from her hazel ones. “I am not ashamed,” he said very slowly. “I did not fall off my horse. I was not thrown from my horse. I wish to end this discussion. Is that amenable to you, Mrs. Wren?”

  Anna swallowed visibly, drawing his eyes to her throat. “Yes. Yes, that’s quite amenable to me, Lord Swartingham.”

  “Good.” His gaze rose to her lips, wet where she had licked them in her nervousness. “I thought of you while I was gone. Did you think of me? Did you miss me?”

  “I—” she started to whisper.

  Hopple breezed into the room. “Welcome back, my lord. I hope your sojourn in our lovely capital was pleasant?” The steward came to a halt when he noticed Edward’s stance over Anna.

  Edward slowly straightened, his eyes never leaving Anna. “My stay was pleasant enough, Hopple, although I found I missed the . . . loveliness of the country.”

  Anna looked flustered.

  Edward smiled.

  Mr. Hopple started. “Lord Swartingham! Whatever happened to—?”

  Anna cut him off. “Mr. Hopple, have you time to show the earl the new ditch?”

  “The ditch? But—” Hopple looked from Edward to Anna.

  Anna twitched her eyebrows as if a fly had landed on her forehead. “The new ditch to drain Mr. Grundle’s field. You did mention it the other day.”

  “The . . . Oh, yes, Farmer Grundle’s ditch,” Hopple said. “If you will come with me, my lord, I think you’ll be interested in inspecting it.”

  Edward’s eyes were back on Anna. “I’ll meet with you in half an hour, Hopple. I’ve something I wish to discuss with my secretary first.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes. Er, very well, my lord.” Hopple departed, looking befuddled.

  “What was it you wished to discuss with me, my lord?” she asked.

  Edward cleared his throat. “Actually, there’s something I want to show you. If you’ll come with me?”

  Anna appeared mystified but stood and took his arm. He led her out to the hall, turning to the back door instead of the front. When they stepped into the kitchen, Cook nearly dropped her morning cup of tea. Three maids were clustered by the table where Cook sat, like acolytes around their priest. All four females came to their feet.

  Edward waved them back down again. No doubt he’d interrupted a morning gossip. Without explanation, he continued through the kitchen and out the back door. They crossed the wide stable yard, his boot heels ringing on the cobblestones. The morning sun shone brightly, and the stables cast a long shadow behind them. Edward rounded a corner of the building and stopped in the shade. Anna glanced around, looking puzzled.

  Edward had a sudden, awful feeling of uncertainty. It was an unusual gift. Maybe she wouldn’t like it or—worse—be insulted.

  “This is for you.” He gestured abruptly at a muddy lump of burlap.

  Anna looked from him to the burlap. “What—?”

  Edward stooped and threw back a corner of the bundle. Underneath lay what l
ooked like a bunch of dead, thorny sticks.

  Anna squealed.

  That noise had to be a good sign in a female, didn’t it? Edward frowned uncertainly. Then she smiled up at him, and he felt warmth suffuse his chest.

  “Roses!” she exclaimed.

  She dropped to her knees to examine one of the dormant rosebushes. He’d carefully wrapped them in damp burlap to keep the roots from drying out before departing from London. Each bush had only a few thorny branches, but the roots were long and healthy.

  “Careful, they’re sharp,” Edward murmured to her down-bent head.

  Anna counted busily. “There’s two dozen here. Do you mean to put them all in your garden?”

  Edward scowled at her. “They’re for you. For your cottage.”

  Anna opened her mouth and for a moment seemed at a loss for words. “But . . . even if I could accept them all, they must have been terribly expensive.”

  Was she refusing his gift? “Why can’t you accept them?”

  “Well, for one, I couldn’t fit them all in my little garden.”

  “How many could you fit?”

  “Oh, I suppose three or four,” Anna said.

  “Pick out the four you want, and I’ll send the rest back.” Edward felt relief. At least she wasn’t rejecting the roses. “Or burn them,” he added as an afterthought.

  “Burn them!” Anna sounded horrified. “But you can’t just burn them. Don’t you want them for your own garden?”

  He shook his head impatiently. “I don’t know how to put them in.”

  “I do. I’ll plant them for you in thanks for the others.” Anna smiled up at him, looking a little shy. “Thank you for the roses, Lord Swartingham.”

  Edward cleared his throat. “You’re welcome, Mrs. Wren.” He had a strange urge to shuffle his feet like a little boy. “I suppose I ought to see Hopple.”