The Raven Prince (Princes #1)(47)

Aphrodite backed a step, as if alarmed. Not surprisingly, since he now loomed above her. She made a signal with her hand to someone over his shoulder.

Edward narrowed his eyes. He knew he had only a few minutes. “I want her name—now—or I will enjoy starting a riot in your parlor.”

“No need for threats. There are several other wenches here who would be eager to spend the night with you.” Aphrodite’s voice held a smirk. “Ones who don’t mind a pockmark or two.”

Edward went still. He knew well enough what his face looked like. It didn’t distress him anymore—he was past the age of agonized vanity—but it did repel some women. The little whore hadn’t seemed to mind his scars. Of course, last night they’d made love in the chair by the firelight. Perhaps it had been the first time she’d truly seen his face. Perhaps she had been so disgusted by the sight that she hadn’t bothered to show up tonight.

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.”