One Night with a Prince

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “The rose one.” Since she and Byrne had spent every moment of last week playing whist, her trip to the theater with him had never come to pass. So she still hadn’t had the chance to wear it. “We’d better hurry, too.” She glanced at the pretty Jasper clock beside her bed. “We’ve got only twenty-five minutes.”

  With a shriek, Rosa scurried to unpack the appropriate trunk. There was no time to ooh and ah over the rich azure damask draping the windows and French canopy bedstead, no time to admire the Persian rug spread before the massive marble fireplace. It took every minute of their allotted time to peel Christabel out of her sodden garments and dry her sufficiently to don a fresh chemise, corset, and evening gown. Rosa was nearly done cursing her way through repairing Christabel’s sadly fallen coiffure when a knock came at the door.

  “Come in!” Christabel called out.

  Rosa finished just as Byrne entered. “Ready?” he asked.

  Christabel rose, and he sucked in a breath, his gaze trailing slowly down the gown, then back up to fix on her décolletage. “Bloody hell. I should never have told Mrs. Watts to make you that gown.”

  Disappointed by his reaction, she thrust out her chin. “Whyever not?”

  “Because you look too damned beautiful in it.” He balled his hands into fists at his sides. “Stokely is going to salivate all over you.”

  She couldn’t believe it—Byrne actually sounded jealous. A satisfied smile tugged at her lips. “Do you really think so?” she asked, surprised to hear a certain coyness in her voice.

  He lifted his gaze to hers. “Let me put it this way—it’s clear why the man assigned you the bedchamber across from his.” He scanned the room with narrowed eyes. “He gave you the best room in the house. Do you realize that?”

  “Did he?” She grabbed her fan and hurried to his side. “Let’s go.”

  As they left the room, Byrne settled his hand in the small of her back with an oddly possessive gesture. “I tell you, the man is up to no good. He never puts a guest in the family wing, never.”

  “Perhaps it’s just as he claimed—he ran out of rooms.”

  “In this mansion? Not bloody likely.” Byrne slanted her a dark look. “Did he say anything to you?”

  She related their conversation in full.

  Byrne’s lips tightened into a grim line. “Either he’s playing games with us, or he’s taken a fancy to you. Whichever it is, I don’t like it. It’ll make getting those letters all the more difficult.”

  Her heart sank. She should have known Byrne wouldn’t be jealous; he was merely concerned about their purpose here.

  Not that she wanted him to be jealous. She was already far too attracted to him as it was. If she thought for one minute that he might actually care for her…

  That was dangerous thinking indeed.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs where others waited to go in to dinner. Guests here and there hailed them, some of whom she recognized. The Talbots were there, along with Lady Jenner and a man who was probably her husband. Her lover, Lieutenant Markham, also stood close by, exchanging pleasantries with a raven-haired woman whom Christabel didn’t recognize.

  Laughing, the woman turned so that her profile was to them, and Byrne suddenly tensed. “Anna?” he said, his tone disbelieving.

  The raven-haired beauty glanced over, then paled from the roots of her hair to the bodice of her fashionable emerald gown. She faced them slowly. “Gavin?”

  She looked stricken. Byrne looked the same.

  Christabel’s heart sank. Was this another of Byrne’s former mistresses? But no, she’d never heard him speak of any of them with that peculiar note of pain in his voice. And none of them called him Gavin. Or so he’d said.

  “What are you doing here?” Byrne asked hoarsely, his fingers digging into Christabel’s waist like iron talons.

  “Lord Stokely invited me and Walter, of course.” The woman tugged on the arm of a man who stood near her. “Come, dear, I’d like you to meet someone.”

  Christabel found it hard to breathe past the tightness in her chest. Judging from Byrne’s reaction, this was no mere mistress, whoever she was. But why could this “Anna” make him tense and angry when no other woman—including Christabel—touched his emotions?

  The elderly man who turned around looked as if he’d rather be sleeping by a fire than waiting in a crowd to go in to dinner. “Eh? What is it?”

  “Walter, may I present an old friend of…my family’s, Mr. Gavin Byrne. Mr. Byrne, this is my husband, Lord Kingsley.”

  A muscle ticked in Byrne’s jaw as he nodded at the gentleman. “Lord Kingsley. You’re certainly a long way from home. Dublin, right?”

  “Yes, Dublin.” Lord Kingsley lifted his lorgnette to eye Byrne closely. “Have we met before?”

  “No.” Byrne shot Lady Kingsley a glance, then added in a voice thick with irony, “But I’ve heard of you.”

  Coloring, the woman said hastily, “Mr. Byrne owns a gentlemen’s club in London, my dear. The Blue Swan. I’m sure he makes it his business to know everything about the most important men in England and Ireland.”

  “Quite.” Lord Kingsley leveled a condescending gaze on Byrne. “Rather surprising that Stokely invited your sort, but I suppose that’s to be expected. This being a gaming party and all.”

  “Yes.” Byrne had apparently regained his composure. “Stokely likes to surprise people.” He glanced beyond the Kingsleys. “And speak of the devil, here’s our host now.”

  Lord Stokely approached, his face wreathed in smiles as he slid between the couples. “Ah, Byrne, I see you’ve already met the Viscount Kingsley and his wife.”

  “Yes,” Lady Kingsley said, casting Christabel a searching glance, “but we have not yet been introduced to Mr. Byrne’s friend.”

  Lord Stokely performed the introductions as Christabel tried not to notice Byrne’s stiff reactions. Or Lady Kingsley’s stunning beauty. And elegant manners. And polished replies. The viscountess was everything that Christabel was not and could never be.

  Indeed, it was all she could do not to laugh madly when Lord Kingsley turned into a fawning old fool the instant he heard Christabel was a marchioness. As he babbled his honor at meeting her and gushed compliments over her gown, Christabel fought to smile. His wife looked on with a pained expression, and Byrne stood there woodenly.

  Their host seemed to find the whole thing vastly amusing. He clapped his hand on Lord Kingsley’s shoulder. “Capital fellow, isn’t he? We ran into each other last year at a card party in York. Lady Kingsley is an avid whist player, so I couldn’t resist inviting her and Kingsley to my affair. We can use some new blood among our players, eh, Byrne?”

  “That depends on how much of that new blood you’re hoping to spill,” Byrne quipped.

  “Byrne, you wound me!” Lord Stokely exclaimed in mock reproach. “Lady Kingsley can hold her own at the tables, I assure you. And she’ll prove a fine addition to our group.” A calculating smile touched his lips. “She’s full of fascinating tales about her coming out in London.”

  The sudden tension in Byrne was palpable. “Is she? Then she’ll have to entertain us with them some night, won’t she?”

  “Indeed, she will,” Lord Stokely said, with a smirk.

  When Lady Kingsley looked ashen, Christabel wanted to scream. Who was she to Byrne, blast it?

  Then Lord Stokely left the Kingsleys to offer Christabel his arm. “Shall we go in to dinner, Lady Haversham?”

  She stiffened, but couldn’t refuse. As Marchioness of Haversham she was the highest-ranking female currently present, so the host would naturally take her in to dinner.

  Which meant Byrne would have to take in one of the lower-ranking guests—like Lady Kingsley, perhaps. Christabel couldn’t prevent her surge of jealousy at even the possibility. She let Lord Stokely lead her off, feeling Lady Kingsley’s eyes on her the whole way. It was slim comfort to know she wasn’t the only one wondering about Byrne and his women.

  Dinner
was a lavish affair, which meant lots of French dishes, of course, so Christabel spent the early part trying to figure out what was what, without making a fool of herself. Even the lowly Talbots seemed at ease with the dizzying array of exotic dishes. Unsurprisingly, considering this company, it included not only oysters but pomegranates. And probably some Spanish fly—whatever that actually was—sprinkled among the dishes, too.

  Thankfully, the woman to Lord Stokely’s left kept him occupied, and although the man to Christabel’s right should have been talking to her, he was too busy indulging in expensive delicacies to bother, so at least she didn’t have to manage polite conversation.

  Not that anyone else’s conversation was terribly polite. Despite the presence of ladies, several rather bawdy jokes were told, only about half of which she understood. And no one protested them, not even Lord Kingsley, who looked the prudish sort. He was too engrossed in flattering Lady Jenner, who sat beside him.

  Then there were some soldiers who actually took snuff at the table. She began to wonder why she’d worried about her manners, Lord Stokely’s friends seemed rather ill behaved.

  Except for Lady Kingsley, of course, who sat swanlike amidst the ducks, with back straight and lips pursed, taking tiny bites as she periodically cast longing glances down the table at Byrne.

  Christabel wanted to slap her. Her only consolation was that Byrne didn’t seem to notice Lady Kingsley’s looks, or if he did, he hid it well. Indeed, he was one of the men telling the bawdy jokes.

  Lord Stokely leaned over to Christabel just as the dessert was brought round. “They’d make an interesting couple, don’t you think?”

  She feigned ignorance. “Who?”

  “Byrne and Lady Kingsley.”

  She stared him down. “Rather mismatched, I’d say.”

  “And what would you say if I told you Byrne once asked her to marry him?”

  Struggling to hide her shock, she reminded herself that Lord Stokely was no more trustworthy than anyone else at this scandalous party. “I’d say you don’t know Byrne very well.”

  “It surprised me, too, but I heard the story from Lady Kingsley herself. We had a…er…brief encounter in Dublin, and you know how women get when they’re in the throes of such. Very confessional.”

  But that didn’t mean the confessions were true. How could cynical, feckless Byrne have proposed marriage to anyone? If not for his intense reaction to Lady Kingsley, Christabel wouldn’t believe a word.

  Suddenly Lord Stokely glanced down the table, then smiled. She followed his gaze to find Byrne staring at them with an odd fury in his face.

  Had he guessed what Lord Stokely was saying? Or was something else making him regard their host with such venom?

  “What happened between them?” she whispered, determined to find out what she could about Lord Stokely’s claims. “I take it she refused him?”

  “Of course she refused him.” His eyes gleamed with delight at sharing a choice bit of gossip. “Lady Kingsley was a wealthy merchant’s daughter. At the time of her come-out, Byrne had just opened his gentlemen’s club. And though his contacts were solid enough to get him invited to the sorts of balls she attended, her family couldn’t possibly countenance him as a son-in-law.”

  “How did Lady Kingsley herself feel about it?”

  “If not for his situation, she might have accepted him, I suppose. Byrne can be charming when he wants. But he is a natural child, after all, with no relations that will admit to him. And her fortune was probably what attracted him, a fact that she and her family had to know.”

  Christabel couldn’t see Byrne marrying to gain a fortune, for all his talk of having no soul. “Did she say that?”

  “Not in so many words, but it’s obvious. She was toying with a dangerous connection, so when Kingsley came along and took a fancy to her, her family aggressively pressed the match. In the end she did what any woman of sense would do—she married Kingsley.”

  Christabel repressed a snort. Woman of sense, indeed. Any woman of sense would have followed her heart. And clearly, the woman had once been in love with Byrne, perhaps still was. Was that why Lady Kingsley had allowed Lord Stokely to bed her? In personality he was something like Byrne, albeit a pale imitation.

  Had he been in love with Lady Kingsley? Was he still?

  As that question plagued her, she glanced over at Lord Stokely’s gloating face, and another sickening realization struck her. “That’s why you invited her, isn’t it? To torment Byrne.”

  “I invited her for the same reason I invited you, my dear. Because you’re both excellent whist players.” A mocking smile touched his lips. “Or, in your case, I can only assume so from the fact that Byrne chose you as his partner.”

  If ever she’d needed a motivation for playing well, this was it. “You assumed correctly, sir. I mean to win the pot, if I can.”

  He leaned closer to press his mouth to her ear. “And if you don’t, you can always try winning your host instead.”

  A chill swept down her spine, but before she could react to that disgusting statement, Byrne’s voice boomed down the table. “What’s all this about new rules for the games, Stokely? You’ve kept us in suspense long enough.”

  With a smile meant just for her, Lord Stokely rose and turned his attention to his guests. “Thank you, Byrne, for reminding me.”

  In a matter-of-fact tone, he explained that partners would be randomly chosen. The chorus of groans that followed did not deter him from moving on to the next change in the rules.

  “Once we start the eliminations,” he said, “the losers will be asked to leave the estate.” His gaze settled briefly on Christabel. “At my discretion, of course.”

  Christabel fought to hide her panic. What if she hadn’t found the letters by then? What if she didn’t make it to the eliminations?

  And what exactly did Lord Stokely mean by “at my discretion”?

  Other people were furiously muttering complaints. Apparently, they’d all assumed they would be enjoying his hospitality to the end.

  “Why the change?” Byrne’s voice rose above the others’ to pose the question no one else would ask.

  Lord Stokely shrugged. “So that we don’t have a lot of hangers-on milling about during the final games. There’s too much potential for cheating.”

  Lady Jenner snorted. “Be honest, Lord Stokely. You’re only doing this because Byrne changed partners. And the rest of us are being punished for his roving eye.”

  All eyes, roving and otherwise, turned to Christabel, who couldn’t prevent a blush from rising in her cheeks.

  Lord Stokely’s demeanor changed suddenly, becoming icy cold. “I am doing this because last year there were complaints about Byrne and me always winning the pot. I will not have anyone accuse me or my friends of cheating. This merely makes everything more fair. And it is my house, after all. My house, my rules.”

  No one could argue with that, but it didn’t stop people from grumbling as they rose and headed off to the evening’s entertainment.

  When they reached the ballroom, which had been turned into a massive card room for the week, Christabel was relieved to find herself partnered with Lady Hungate.

  Lady Hungate didn’t look quite so pleased. “I do hope you intend to show your true mettle tonight,” the older woman remarked.

  “I won’t disappoint you,” Christabel replied, remembering that afternoon at Lady Jenner’s.

  No, indeed. She wasn’t about to risk being evicted from the estate as one of the losers. Even if it meant flirting with Lord Stokely.

  Damn Stokely and his manipulations. After five hours of card play, Gavin still couldn’t figure out what the man was up to.

  First, the changes in the rules, then his cursed interest in Christabel. And the man had brought Anna here. Anna, of all people. Gavin had hoped never to see her again. That she was here now turned what was already sure to be a difficult week into a potential nightmare.

  Especially since Stokely clearly kne
w what she’d once been to Gavin. Was that what he’d been whispering to Christabel at dinner? The last thing Gavin needed was the inquisitive little widow plaguing him with questions about Anna. She already knew too many of his secrets for his comfort.

  Gathering up the trick he’d just won, he glanced over to the next table, where Anna partnered Stokely against Lady Jenner and Lady Hungate. What in God’s name had Stokely hoped to accomplish by inviting her? Did he hope Anna would put Gavin off his game, now that Gavin had chosen to partner someone else? If so, it wouldn’t work.

  Anna caught Gavin staring and shot him a brilliant smile.

  He tensed. Tearing his gaze from her, Gavin led a card. In his youth, he would have fought a regiment of Cossacks for one of those smiles from her, but she was thirteen years too late.

  After his initial shock at seeing her, he’d realized that she no longer had the power to move him. Or if she did, she moved him to sadness. Because years of marriage to the toad-eating Viscount Kingsley didn’t sit well on her. Yes, she was still beautiful, and yes, she still possessed a musical laugh that would melt most men’s hearts. But it held a brittle edge now, as if tears always lay just beneath the surface.

  She’d thrown him over for Kingsley, and look what it had brought her—a dull marriage to a pompous fellow whose only advantage lay in his title, since it had taken her own family’s wealth to fill the man’s coffers. So why couldn’t he exult over her misery?

  Because it seemed like such a waste of a fine woman. Suddenly he was tired of the waste, tired of watching women suffer from their husbands’ neglect. He was tired of seeing once-hopeful young females turned into coldhearted, dissipated bitches whose only choices were to pine away at home or live the same reckless lives as their husbands.

  He was tired of watching good women forced to extreme behavior because of their gambling husbands’ foolish actions. Women like Christabel.

  As a magnet follows iron, his gaze swung to where she sat halfway across the spacious card room. Not once all night had he and Christabel been paired as partners, yet every moment he’d been aware of her. Where she sat. Whom she played. How often she laughed at a joke or responded to some idiot’s flirtations.