The Raven Prince (Princes #1)(53)

—from The Raven Prince

“Farther to the top.” Felicity Clearwater wrinkled her brow and stared at the ceiling in her larger sitting room. The drawn curtains muted the afternoon sun outside. “No. No, more to the left.”

A masculine voice muttered irritably.

“That’s it,” she said. “There. I think you’ve got it.” In the corner, a crack snaked across the ceiling. She’d never noticed it before. It must be new. “Did you find her?”

Chilton Lillipin, “Chilly” to his intimates, one of whom was Felicity, spat out a hair. “My darling gosling, do try to relax. You’re disturbing my artistry.” He bent again.

Artistry? She suppressed a snort. She closed her eyes for a bit and tried to concentrate on her lover and what he was doing, but it was no use. She opened her eyes again. She really needed to have the plasterers in to repair that crack. And the last time they’d come, Reginald had been an absolute bear, stomping about and grumbling as if the workmen were only there to bother him. Felicity sighed.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Chilly said from below. “Just lie back and let a master lover bring you to heaven.”

She rolled her eyes. She’d almost forgotten the master lover. She sighed again. There was no help for it.

Felicity began to moan.

Fifteen minutes later, Chilly stood before the sitting room mirror, carefully adjusting his wig. He studied his reflection and slid the wig marginally to the right on his shaved head. He was a handsome man, but just a bit off, in Felicity’s opinion. His eyes were pure blue, but they were set just a shade too close together. His features were regular, but his chin gave up and slid into his neck just a bit too soon. And his limbs were well muscled, but his legs were a fraction too short to be in proportion to the rest of his body. Chilly’s offness continued into his personality. She’d heard rumors that, although skilled in swordplay, Chilly proved his prowess by challenging less-accomplished men to duels and then killing them.

Felicity narrowed her eyes. She wouldn’t trust Chilly at her back in a dark alley, but he did have his uses. “Did you find out where she went to in London?”

“Of course.” Chilly smirked at himself in the glass. His gold canine winked back at him. “The little chit ended up at a bawdy house called Aphrodite’s Grotto. Not once, but twice. Can you believe?”

“Aphrodite’s Grotto?”

“It’s a high-flying establishment.” Chilly gave a last tug to his wig and abandoned the mirror to glance at her. “Ladies of the ton sometimes go there in disguise to meet their paramours.”

“Really?” Felicity tried not to sound intrigued.

Chilly poured a tumblerful of the squire’s best smuggled brandy. “Seems a little above a country widow.”

Yes, it did. How had Anna Wren paid for such a place? The establishment Chilly described was expensive. Her lover would have to be rich. He must have a good knowledge of London and the less-reputable haunts of the ton. And the only gentleman who fit that description in Little Battleford, the only gentleman who had traveled to London during the same time period as Anna Wren, was the Earl of Swartingham. A triumphant shiver went down Felicity’s spine.

“What’s this all about, then?” Chilly peered over his glass at her. “Who cares if a brown mouse has a secret life?” He sounded a bit too curious for her taste.

“Never you mind.” Felicity lounged back on the chaise and stretched luxuriantly, her breasts thrusting out. Chilly’s attention was immediately diverted. “I’ll tell you someday.”

“Don’t I at least get a reward?” Chilly pretended to pout, an unattractive sight. He strolled closer and crowded against the edge of the chaise.

He had done well. And Felicity felt on good terms with the world. Why not humor the man? She stretched out a feline hand to the buttons on Chilly’s breeches.

EDWARD PULLED THE mangled cravat from his neck that night. He had to get control of his body’s impulses. He scowled and tossed the crumpled neckcloth on top of a chair. His room in the Abbey was a rather dismal place, the furniture big and clumsy, the colors drab and depressed. It was a wonder the de Raafs had been able to maintain the family line at all in such a setting.

Davis, as usual, wasn’t around when he might be useful. Edward wedged the heel of his boot in the bootjack and began levering. He’d come very close to not letting go of Anna in the stable yard. To kissing her, in fact. It was exactly the sort of thing he’d been trying to prevent for the last few weeks.

The first boot fell to the floor, and he started work on the second. The trip to London was supposed to have solved this problem. And now with the marriage nearly finalized… Well, he had to start acting the part of a soon-to-be-married man. No pondering Anna’s hair and why she had put off her cap. No contemplating how close she had stood when she’d applied the salve. And especially, he would not think of her mouth and how it would feel if he opened it wide beneath his own and…

Damn.

The second boot came off, and Davis, with exquisite timing, banged into the room. “Goramity! What is that smell? Pee-yeew!”

The valet held a stack of freshly laundered cravats in his hands, the apparent reason for his rare, voluntary visit to his employer’s rooms.

Edward sighed. “A good evening to you, too, Davis.”