Seducing the Princess

by Hart Perry, Mary

  Later that day, her maid peeked in through her studio door and announced, “A visitor, Duchess. Mr. Byrne.” The girl smiled mischievously. “Will you see him?”

  “I will,” Louise said, putting down her sculpting tools and wiping her fingers on the moist rag she kept for quick cleanups.

  As always when they came together, a pleasant feeling of lightheadedness seized her. Years had passed since they’d met in the most dramatic of fashions. But her attraction to the man never lessened. Which seemed odd, because she hadn’t at first even liked the flamboyant American with his trademark leather duster and black Stetson. And yet, how could a woman not feel admiration for the man who had risked his life to save hers? These days, her gratitude just added richness to the sensual appeal of the man.

  And into her studio he strode.

  The look of him lit up her world. His touch melted it.

  “Stephen,” she held out her hands to him.

  “Princess.” He always thought of her as Victoria’s daughter, never as Lorne’s wife.

  Stephen Byrne passed up the invitation to kiss her fingertips, instead drawing her into his arms as soon as a backward glance assured him the maid had left the room. His mouth lowered over her lips. He kissed her long and deeply and satisfyingly. She returned his passion in equal measure, but then pressed her palms to his chest to break the embrace that surely would have resulted in at least a good hour draped sweatily across her upholstered studio divan.

  “We have Bath to look forward to,” she said breathlessly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “Why not?” His ebony eyes sparked with equal measure of lust and amusement. “From ahead or behind, I think you’re the loveliest creature that ever—”

  “Stop that now!” Laughing, she swatted at him playfully. “There is a time and place for everything. And at the moment, my sister needs our help.”

  He raised a brow at her. “Which one?”

  “Baby.”

  “Really. I’ve never known Beatrice to get into trouble, the little mouse.”

  “It’s not she who is in trouble, at least I hope not. There appears to be a blackguard among my mother’s staff. Bea’s lady in waiting has been assaulted by the queen’s keeper of the Royal Mews. He’s running a little side business at Buckingham, allowing tourists into the stables for a fee.”

  “Clever devil.”

  “I suppose you might see it that way, rogue at heart that you are.” She plucked playfully at his shirt collar. “But the fact is, he’s giving strangers permission to roam the Queen’s private property, and if the wrong person got into the palace—”

  “You’re right. It can’t be allowed. Does she have proof?”

  “No. That’s where you come in, Stephen. All she has is Marie’s word.” She went to her desk, pulled open the center drawer, and retrieved the letter Beatrice had sent, asking for Stephen Byrne’s help. “The girl claims to have known what the fellow was up to and promised to keep silent, for reasons Bea doesn’t understand. When Marie finally rediscovered her conscience and told him she was going to report him to the queen, he struck her and threatened her life. Bea thinks the fellow’s truly dangerous, but suspects there also might be more involved than what her lady admits.”

  “Let me see.” He reached for the letter without releasing Louise, taking only a moment to scan the words. “He’s no longer at Osborne House? He’s returned to London?”

  “So Bea says. Shall I go with you—to make sure you can get into Buckingham?”

  Some of the palace guards, who had been on duty when Stephen Byrne was fired by the queen, years ago, were still assigned to the gates. Although he’d been pardoned since then, they might have selective memories.

  “No, best I do this on my own.” He kissed her again. “I will have a chat with the queen’s stable master. Answers soon.”

  She winced. Stephen’s version of a “chat” with a troublemaker often entailed physical encouragement. And bruises. And, more often than not, bloodletting.

  Well, whatever it took. Beatrice’s letter made it sound as if serious skullduggery was afoot. Things needed sorting out before the queen returned to London. Particularly if whatever the stable master was up to posed a threat to the family.

  “Be safe then,” she said. “Will I see you tonight with your report?”

  “If I personally deliver my news, you may not be rid of me until morning.” He caressed her throat with the rough pads of his fingers, grazed his lips along their path, inhaled the scent of her.

  She closed her eyes and shuddered with delicious pleasure before stepping back out of his arms with reluctance. “Bath cannot come too soon.”

  “Bath,” he said, “may need to be a state of mind.”

  His black leather duster flapping open like great wings, The Raven left Louise’s studio. He chose not to hire a hack and instead took to London’s streets in long strides, giving himself time to think.

  He agreed with Beatrice’s concerns. If the stable master was carrying on a clandestine business under the nose of the queen, it was only a matter of time before palace security caught up with him. Then the man would be sacked, at the very least. This much made sense. But if a sharp-eyed lady of the court had become aware of the man’s mischief before the captain of the guard, why would she agree to protect his secret instead of turning him in?

  He arrived at the palace, flashed his identification and was pleased to be admitted without fuss. He stopped the first stable boy he saw crossing the mews. “Boss is in the tack room, across the yard there.”

  “I know where it is,” Byrne said. It was as good a place as any for an interrogation.

  He walked into the dim interior, smelling of leather, saddle soap, and dun—and pulled the door behind him shut for privacy. A short, wiry man with gray whiskers and hard eyes turned to face him. His eyes lit in recognition.

  “I ‘member you.” Elton Jackson didn’t smile. “If you’re of a mind to take out one of the queen’s horses, you can think again, son. She’s gone to Osborne House, and I’ve no authorization for—”

  “Was the queen happy to see you on the island?” Byrne interrupted. “I shouldn’t think so, as you were supposed to remain in charge here.” No beating around the proverbial bush. The stable master scowled at him. “What you goin’ on about?”

  “You followed the retinue there, intending to confront one of the ladies—a French girl named Marie. Why did you attack her?”

  The older man exploded like a keg of black powder. He came at Byrne, both fists up, jabbing at his face. Byrne ducked and swung out a leg, knee-high, tripping the fellow. Once he’d got him down on the straw-covered boards, Byrne pinned him, face squashed into the floor, his knee wedged nicely into the hollow of the man’s back.

  “Now let’s talk civilly, sir, or there will be a lot more than the wind knocked out of you.”

  “Are you crazy, man? I been here in London all month long. Ain’t seen Osborne in years.”

  “You can prove this?”

  “Plenty of my lads will tell you, to their disappointment. I’ve laid into them more ‘n once these past days. Can’t be in two places at once, can I?”

  “No, you can’t.” To his disappointment, Byrne believed the man. At least on this count. But if he hadn’t been the one to strike Beatrice’s lady, who did? The princess couldn’t have imagined the attack. He focused on the rest of the lady-in-waiting’s story. “Word is out that you sometimes welcome company at the royal mews.” He removed his knee and allowed the man to roll onto his back then sit up.

  Jackson took a moment to catch his breath. His rheumy eyes turned wary, the cornered animal. “Aye, and is there a crime in the occasional friend dropping by where I live and work?”

  “How often do your friends show up?”

  “Now and again.”

  “How many? Two at a time, four…by the trolley load?”

  “I tell you I don’t know what you�
�re goin’ on about.”

  “Let’s stop playing games, sir. You’re running tours through the property. It’s earning you a tidy supplement to your wages, isn’t it?”

  The man’s eyes went dead. “Listen, there’s no harm in letting a few curious folks see how royals live. I meant no harm.”

  “Sending someone to threaten and assault a witness to your little business—that’s doing harm.”

  “Me? Who told you that? I never touched nobody.” A suspicion came alive behind his eyes. “Oh, I see how it is now. Mr. MacAlister’s been tattlin’, has he? Well, he’ll be sorry, he will.”

  “Who is MacAlister?”

  The man laughed. “You don’t know nothin’, do you? He’s the only one who figured out my tours-for-tips. At least I thought he was. He said he’d not tell if I—” His face turned chalky white and he sputtered to silence, lips clamped shut.

  “Go on.”

  Nothing.

  Byrne grabbed the man by his shirt collars with both hands, and hauled him up onto his feet. “You two had a deal. What did he want for his silence?” When no answer came, he lifted the stable master clear off his feet and dangled him above the ground.

  The old man choked and sputtered. “Put me down. I got breathin’ troubles, I do.”

  “I know a way to cure that.” Byrne felt his control slipping. If his temper got the best of him, it would be bad for the old man. And bad for him, too, because he’d have no answers for Louise.

  “Please, I’ll tell you all of it, just leave me be.”

  Bryne set Jackson down with forced gentleness. He brushed off the man’s rumpled jacket. “There. You’re still in one piece. For the time being. Now talk.”

  The stable master cleared his throat. “It was this way. A young gentleman, he come up to me in the pub one day, a few months back. Buys me a pint, says he’s from Scotland, third son to a lord, penniless and looking to work at a fine house with horses. Says he knows I’m in charge of the Royal Mews and would I like to hire him.”

  “And?”

  “I told him to bugger off, we got no openings. I had all the grooms I needed. He says, ‘Then let someone go, I’ll make it worth your while.’” He looked up at Byrne. “Right then, you see, I knowed he meant no good. I says to him, ‘Off with you. I don’t trust your type.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  “He says, ‘Then I’ll teach you to trust me.’ But he says that word, trust, with a bloody sneer on his face.”

  “Words, they’re just words.”

  “So I thought. So I did nothin’. Then two days later, one of my top lads, he’s in the city on an errand for me, and a farm cart runs him down. Breaks him up so’s he can’t work no more.”

  “Let me guess,” Byrne said. “You get another visit from the Scot.”

  “Very next day. And he says, cool as a Highland brook, ‘Now you got an opening, old man?’”

  “Why didn’t you contact Scotland Yard?”

  “Because—and ain’t you slow on the uptake, Yank?—he tells me I best not let on how he got the job on account he’ll spread word about my extra income and how I’m comin’ by it. Tit for tat. So what choice do I have?” He stood up straighter and faced Byrne. “Thing of it is, he’s better with the horses than any of my other lads. He’s a hard worker too, even if he comes from a father who’s a lord, or so he claims. And not many days on the job, he up and saves Princess Beatrice’s life and her horse’s too. So, I say: What’s the harm in keepin’ the lad on?”

  Byrne had a wicked bad feeling. “He saved the princess—how?”

  “Princess Beatrice was out ridin’ Rotten Row. Horse thieves fell on her. Gregory acted fast, got her out of there and back inside the gates to safety then went back for her mount.”

  Byrne smiled briefly before the dark thoughts closed in again. At least some of this puzzle was coming together. But what did this rogue intend to gain from his job in the stables? Why had he gone to such lengths—maiming a man—just to take a job obviously beneath his station?

  Jackson was staring at him. “What you thinkin’, Raven? You looks like you found a spider in yer boot.”

  Far worse than that, Byrne thought. “This Gregory destroyed an innocent man’s life, nearly killed him.” He gave Jackson a pointed look. “You don’t believe he could rig a fake horse-napping?”

  The man’s face fell. “Bloody hell…you don’t think he’d hurt the princess—”

  Byrne rolled his eyes. Louise wasn’t going to like this. The queen would like it even less.

  35

  Precious days passed as the remaining preparations were made for the Khartoum mission. A ship had been secured, with crew. They would sail out of the port of Taranto, low on the Italian boot, making the voyage to Alexandria as short as possible. No one could say how much longer General Gordon might be able to hold out against the siege, without food and military reinforcements. The few reports that came back from the Sudan were not encouraging.

  On the morning of their departure, Henry watched with a mixture of satisfaction and terror as one man after another boarded the cargo-steamer, Armistice. Faster even than the fleet clipper ships of his youth, it would speed them across the Mediterranean in record time. They were finally on their way, or would be in a matter of hours. Henry wondered—was he signing his volunteers’ death warrants, or leading them to fame and glory?

  The day before, he’d received an official-looking letter from Queen Victoria herself. She’d commended him personally, as well as his international force of mercenaries, for their bravery and dedication to a cause close to her heart. “Where Parliament has failed me,” she wrote, “Henry Battenberg offers himself as my champion.”

  It was a formal document, making no mention of his petition for Beatrice’s hand, or her banning him from English soil. But her acknowledgement of his dangerous mission meant she had been, and would continue, thinking about him in positive ways. She might not wish Beatrice to marry, but if her daughter insisted upon it—what better mate for her than a hero of the soon-to-be-famous Khartoum Campaign?

  As he paced the docks, trying to calm pre-seasick nerves, keeping a weather-eye on the gritty skies that threatened to blow into a gale, a messenger approached him at a run. “A letter for you, sir. A courier from Calais just arrived with it.”

  Calais? That meant it had come across the channel from England. A good luck message, no doubt, like so many others he’d received in recent weeks as newspapers carried word of The Second Sons’ adventure.

  He had given up expecting letters from Beatrice. Whatever he had done to offend her, whatever he had failed to do that had rendered him wanting in her eyes, he would rectify with this trip. But when he saw the royal seal embedded in red wax his heart leapt.

  Miracle of miracles…could it possibly be from Bea?

  But no. Closer inspection of the seal revealed the message had come from the Duchess of Argyll, Princess Louise. Of course, it was like her to send a personal note of support. He tucked it inside his jacket. He would save it to share with his men as they sailed across the Mediterranean.

  Henry turned back toward the gangplank, leading from the wharf and up to the ship’s deck. The last of the freight, including food, weapons, and ammunition, had been loaded and stored in the ship’s hold. He was about to climb the wooden ramp when a man he recognized as one of their party came shouting down the docks, waving a newspaper high above his head.

  “Bloody hell,” Henry muttered. Discipline would need to be the first rule of order. The fellow should have been aboard hours ago; he’d very nearly missed the boat.

  As the figure drew closer, Henry began to make out his shouted words. But only three mattered.

  “Gordon is slain!” Gasping for breath, the young man stopped in front of Henry and thrust the newspaper at him. “It’s all here. The caliph’s forces took Khartoum two days ago. They’ve killed everyone inside, to the last man, woman and child. Sla
shed them to pieces. A blood bath.”

  Henry gripped the nearby wooden piling to steady himself. “Lord, save their poor souls.”

  “What do we do now, sir?”

  The men, at least some of them, would demand revenge for the massacre. But what was the point? Gordon and his people were all dead, and the outrage of civilized nations around the world would be brought down on the caliph. Too late by far. But the murderer would pay, one way or another.

  “Sir?” the man with the newspaper persisted.

  Every last ounce of strength seemed to drain from Henry. He felt sickened by the images in his mind—the cruel slaughter, blood of innocents mixed with that of the illustrious Gordon.

  “What now?” Henry repeated, feeling utterly deflated. “We all go home.”

  It was as Henry lay in his hotel bed in Taranto that night, sleepless, sick at heart that they hadn’t sailed in time to save Gordon’s people, that he rose from bed to take Louise’s letter from his jacket and began to read. At first, his mind didn’t fully register her words…and then he realized that, of course, she had written before news of the massacre reached England.

  Dear Henry,

  I hope this finds you well. We hear that you are busy mounting your expedition, and I wish you well. The Queen, at first, seemed surprised but then, in her own inscrutable way, pleased. I hope you are not doing something rash simply to impress my mother. It is such a terrible risk, going into that harsh, hot land. We hear nothing but horrendous stories of wickedness and bloodshed.

  I don’t know what will happen to you over there. And I still have no idea why your correspondence with Beatrice has been interrupted. (You wrote to complain that Bea wasn’t answering your letters, but she swears she has been and you are the one who has stopped.)But there is another matter of deep concern. It appears that one of the grooms—a Scot named MacAlister—has used trickery, and perhaps even violence, to gain employment in my mother’s staff. He also has won the attention and trust of my sister and, according to the stable master, is becoming a favorite of the queen. I don’t know the nature of his relationship with my sister, but I’m convinced he is up to no good, already having seriously injured a former groom and, we suspect, may have assaulted my sister’s lady-in-waiting.