Pleasuring the Prince by Patricia Grasso Page A

so.”
    “Constable Black.” Lady Parkhurst hurried into the drawing room. “My husband will be down directly.”
    In her forties, Lady Parkhurst was short and decidedly plump. She had plain features but a pleasant expression.
    “I present my associate, Alexander Blake.”
    The lady smiled at him, saying, “Oh, your grandfather—”
    “Lady Parkhurst, we are returning your husband’s ring,” Alexander interrupted. He had no intention of discussing his grandfather with anyone.
    Amadeus Black drew the heavy gold ring from his pocket and offered it to her.
    Lady Parkhurst stared at the ring for a long moment. “That ring does not belong to my husband.”
    “Are you certain?”
    “Positive.”
    Lord Parkhurst walked into the drawing room. He was a tall, passably handsome man in his midthirties. “Gentlemen, how may I help you?”
    “We would like to ask you a few questions,” the constable said.
    “Is my wife’s presence needed?”
    “No, my lord.”
    Lord Parkhurst looked at his wife. “Run along, dear, and close the door behind you.”
    The lady hesitated. “Will you need me later?”
    “Hardly,” Parkhurst drawled.
    Amadeus held his hand out. “My lord, do you recognize this?”
    “No.”
    “The ring does not belong to you?”
    Parkhurst smiled. “I have better taste than that.”
    Not in wives, Alexander thought.
    “Did the ring belong to Phoebe?”
    Lord Parkhurst raised his brows at the constable. “I know no one named Phoebe.”
    Alexander felt like shaking the truth out of the supercilious lout. “Didn’t you conduct an affair with a ballet dancer named Phoebe?”
    Parkhurst managed to look suitably shocked. “Sir, I am a married man.”
    Amadeus inclined his head. “Forgive us for intruding on your day, my lord. Come, Alexander.”
    “Blake, give your grandfather my regards,” Parkhurst said.
    Alexander turned to the constable as soon as the door closed behind them. “Parkhurst is lying.”
    “Calm down, Alex.” Amadeus touched his shoulder. “Did you expect him to confess to murder?”
    Barney waited in front of the Parkhurst mansion. “Did you learn anything?”
    “We learned that Parkhurst is not above lying,” Amadeus answered. “Starting today, Barney, you will shadow His Lordship’s movements from dusk to dawn, and report to me each morning. And for Gawd’s sake, don’t let him see you watching.”
     
    Standing in her foyer, Fancy looked from Stepan to Charles Wingate. She could not decide if the baron’s presence was a good or bad idea. Her sister was a gentle soul in an emotionally fragile condition and could not protect herself if necessary. If the baron should hurt her—
    “I’ll ask if she wants to see you.” Fancy opened the parlor door and stepped inside. “Charles is waiting in the foyer.”
    Surprise registered on her sister’s face. At the same moment, Belle raised her hand to her stitched cheek.
    “You don’t need to see him,” Fancy told her.
    Belle met her gaze, the misery of the world clouding her eyes. She shook her head in acceptance of whatever fate decreed. “Send him in.”
    Fancy opened the door and gestured to the baron. Once he brushed past her, she stepped into the corridor but left the door open a tiny crack.
    “Are you eavesdropping?” Stepan whispered.
    “I am protecting my sister.” Her mulish expression dared him to argue the point.
    The prince put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. “I will protect her, too.”
    “Oh, my poor darling,” Charles exclaimed. “I feel so guilty.”
    “You should not blame yourself,” Belle said.
    “Let me see your lovely face.”
    “I am no longer lovely and will carry a scar.”
    “Nonsense, dear heart. Let me see.”
    Silence.
    Fancy looked at the prince and wondered if the baron had grimaced at the raw stitching. Stepan appeared uncomfortably guilty, the silence inside the drawing room emphasizing the enormity of his blunder.
    “You will recover, dearest.”
    The