I just wanted you to know that Stephen Byrne and I plan to travel to Osborne House, where the queen and my sister are now, to discover this man’s intent. I have already sent a warning on to Bea. We will leave as soon as Mr. Byrne is free from his duties at Scotland Yard, on behalf of his own government. If I have my way, Mr. MacAlister will be immediately released from the royal staff and arrested. Had you not been engaged in such a brave and serious venture in the Sudan, I’d ask that you come at once to the Isle of Wight, to undo what this most suspicious man has done to interfere with your friendship with my sister.
I hope this reaches you before you sail for Khartoum. Godspeed, Henry.
Your loyal friend,
Louise
Henry reread the letter two more times, shocked by the audacity of the groom. He folded it away and took a deep breath to steady himself, but it was useless. He couldn’t imagine what the fiend intended to gain from his wicked exploitations of his job and relationship with Beatrice. But he sensed that Bea was sure to suffer.
With the expedition rendered useless and cancelled, there was no reason he couldn’t go to her. The Queen might still hold a grudge against him and wish to send him away again. But, by God, he would protect his Beatrice from the scoundrel-interloper and send him packing.
Although it was after midnight, and Henry had gotten precious little sleep for two days, he left his bed, made arrangements with the porter to send most of his luggage back to his father’s house and went in search of the quickest transport to England.
36
Beatrice crumpled the letter and threw it over the cliff. “The nerve of her!” The wad of mauve writing paper floated for a moment on top of a wave before disappearing beneath the water. She couldn’t believe Louise had taken it upon herself to meddle in her personal life—not again, not after all these years.
When Beatrice was little, Louise had bossed her around. That was to be expected of older sisters. But they were both adults now, and Beatrice saw no reason to listen to Louise’s vaguely hysterical warnings of doom.
What had the letter said? She was so upset now—her heart pounding away in her breast, her head foggy with irritation—she hardly remembered. Something about Louise and her companion, the American agent, arriving at Osborne House, posthaste. Something about an emergency and needing to speak with her urgently. And what was the nature of this so-called emergency?
Louise had written only that her baby sister was not to listen to or spend any time whatsoever, accompanied or alone, with handsome Gregory MacAlister from the queen’s stables. She promised to explain all when she arrived.
How ridiculous was that? Had Louise even mentioned the far more disturbing fact that the stable master himself had roughed up and threatened her poor Marie? No. Not one word of response to her news about the man’s diabolical behavior or about the arrest that Beatrice had assumed would ensue once Louise told Stephen Byrne so that he could pass it along to the Yard. Clearly her sister didn’t listen to a word she said.
That was the trouble with Louise.
She had messed up her own life—thrusting herself into the avant-garde lifestyle of an artist, mixing with commoners if only to infuriate their mother, marrying the wrong man—and now she wanted to stick her nose into everyone else’s business.
“Not fair!” she wailed at the sky, fists clenched so hard they hurt.
Beatrice sat down hard on a flat rock well back from the crumbly cliff’s edge. That was the heart of it. Life just wasn’t fair. Here she, the youngest in the family, gave her all to their mother, while Louise tripped gaily around the world. She frequented spas and resorts where (coincidentally?) Stephen Byrne also booked a room. If anyone had asked Beatrice’s opinion, she would have said her sister’s friendship with The Raven was questionable at best. And yet, despite Louise’s dubious lifestyle, Victoria turned a blind eye to her sister’s improprieties.
Well, she wasn’t about to let Louise choose her friends for her. She simply had no right!
Henry had abandoned her, evidently having found other interests on the Continent. She’d read about his campaign. All of the newspapers called his grand venture selfless and brave. But he hadn’t bothered to write to her any of the exciting details. Hadn’t bothered to reassure her that he still loved her and intended to return for her. All she could assume was that, like every other man she’d ever met, he had all-too-quickly become bored with her.
Footsteps approached from behind. A man’s, she thought automatically, at the sound of heavy boots striking the gravel leading away from the garden and toward the sea cliffs. She turned to look over her shoulder, expecting to see one of her mother’s guards. But it wasn’t.
Beatrice smiled, pleased that she was about to ignore her sister’s unexplained warning.
“Greg. How are you?”
“Very well. The better for seeing you, Your Royal Highness.” He reached out a hand, offering to help her to her feet. When she swayed ever so slightly in an unexpected gust of wind, his arm closed around her waist to steady her. For just a moment, she looked up into his face and saw a telltale twinkle in his eyes. She drew a sharp breath, felt a sudden warmth tingle through her fingertips.
She had seen a similar look in Henry’s eyes. And now, because of those heady, intimate days spent with the German prince in Darmstadt and, later, in London—she understood exactly what that look meant.
Lust. It was the way a man looked at a woman when he wanted her, as Henry had said he wanted her.
But he no longer did. That was the bitter truth. And here was another man who—miraculously—welcomed her into his arms. It was almost too much to hope for. To be found attractive not by one man in her lifetime, but by two!
Nevertheless, she slipped out of Gregory’s grip with an embarrassed laugh. Perhaps he was just being a little playful, teasing her. That would be like Greg, as sweetly easygoing as he always behaved when around her. But she turned back to look at him again, she saw a deep longing that told her she wasn’t imagining is intentions. Still, propriety should be observed. Out in the open as they were now, they might be seen.
“Please don’t do that, not here,” she said in as calm a voice as she could manage.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness. I meant no disrespect. You must know I am your loyal servant, as I have been since the first day we met. Do you remember that day?”
She smiled. “You saved my life.”
“Aye, I did, my bonnie princess.” He reached out and clasped her hand in his. “And now I know that was a selfish deed, because I wanted to save you, for myself.”
Beatrice felt her cheeks go hot. She took a step back, slipping her fingers free. “Please don’t say such things, Gregory. It’s not right. Not proper. My mother would be horrified.”
Just saying those words of denial did the exact opposite of what she’d intended. They sent a delicious thrill through her. To defy her mother, to do something so totally unexpected that the Court could only imagine Louise doing—such behavior made her feel independent, strong, blissfully free.
But a different emotion blossomed across Gregory’s handsome face—anger. At her? “The queen wouldn’t want me courting her daughter—because I lack a title? Is that what you’re saying? I’m every bit as good a man as her John Brown was.” He thumped his chest with one fist. “Victoria chose Brown as her unofficial body guard. Some say for more than that. Born of the same county in Scotland, we are. But I’m at least the son of a laird. Brown wasn’t even that.”
Beatrice clutched her hands in front of her skirt, held wide by the stiff hoop underneath its many layers. “Please don’t be angry, Greg. You are a wonderful friend. So very kind to me. I do appreciate your loyalty.” She started walking back toward the main house, suddenly feeling uneasy with his volatile emotions.
He strode alongside her, shaking his head, his mouth working as if trying to rid it of a sour taste. When at last he spoke it was with strained urgency. �
��Of course I am loyal to you. But it’s more than that, these feelings between us. Don’t you sense how drawn we are to each other, lass?”
She felt a flutter in her heart, or was it her stomach? Could this be love again—so soon? She really liked the way his arm felt around her. She wanted to be touched. What woman didn’t ache to be loved? If her first choice for a mate didn’t work out, was it so very wrong to look for love elsewhere? Louise had done it—and found herself a lover. Gregory might be her last chance. Ever!
Louise’s warnings be damned! Her sister wasn’t the one who’d stayed behind to care for their mother all these years. When Victoria’s mourning had extended season after season, with no end in sight, Louise had thrown up her hands and said, No more!
“You’re an idiot, Baby, for pampering Mama and kowtowing to her every whim.”
But Louise wasn’t the one who spent every day with the woman, witnessing her everlasting sadness. Seeing the overwhelming grief in her eyes whenever she looked at Albert’s desk in her office. Caressing the wedding veil she still kept closeted in her room. How could Louise be so cold-hearted as to withdraw her sympathy from the Queen? And then to encourage her other sisters to do the same, saying that only by no longer humoring the woman would they ever break their mother out of her ridiculous mourning rituals.
Beatrice felt Louise’s measures far too harsh, and so she’d continued to stand by Mama. But now, she wondered if there might be a better alternative. A way she could love and support her mother, but also enjoy the companionship of a man who would be her mate.
She snuck a quick look at Greg, walking along beside her. He was a brawny Scot, terribly good looking, though in a rugged way. No, she didn’t love him yet, but maybe she could grow to love him. People did. She’d heard other women say that they hadn’t been in love with their husbands when they married them. The caring and pleasure in his companionship came later as he proved his devotion and gave her children.
Maybe that’s the way it would be for them? Her and Gregory.
“I would like to learn more about your family, Gregory,” she said as he held open the rear garden gate for her and they passed inside. She barely glanced at the crimson-jacketed guards who stood their silent vigil. “About your growing up in Scotland. And what you hope to make of the rest of your life.”
He looked pleased. “I will tell you my whole story, Princess, whenever you like.”
And with those words, she felt a return of hope. Like a lovely golden globe it rose before her, shining, holding within it the one thing that mattered—Happiness. Maybe she didn’t need to live a life of solitude after all.
Her mother had said she liked Gregory and was grateful for his services to both of them. Beatrice knew the queen also appreciated his not being a foreigner like her eldest sisters’ husbands.
Beatrice reached out and shyly touched his sleeve. He gave her a cocky grin.
37
The day edged toward dusk, the western sky a band of fire opal as Marie Devereaux set out from Osborne House. She’d had to wait until Beatrice finished dressing for dinner and went downstairs to dine in private with the queen, before she could leave. Now, because she didn’t want to be stopped by the guards, she took the narrow stairs into the tunnel that led beneath the garden and toward the sea. The cavern stank of decay and mould. Cobwebs, thick and cloying, draped across the passage every few feet, so that she had to wave them aside with one arm, protecting her face from their sticky filth with her other. Clearly, the tunnel hadn’t been used in a very long time. Beatrice had mentioned its existence one day, along with a story of its design as a secret escape route for the monarch, should the house ever come under attack.
She came up at the other end, into what appeared to be an abandoned boat shed, now used for gardening tools. She followed the path along the ledge, high above the fishing fleet’s beach. Below and stretching out seemingly forever, the vast gray-blue ocean lay. Already the lower rim of the sun’s disk was brushing the horizon; in minutes, night would fall. Charcoal clouds raced overhead, driven by a gathering wind. The air smelled of rain, crackled with the warnings of an oncoming storm, pricking at her skin.
She’d best get back to the house before the sky broke wide open. But first, she had to do what she’d come to do—put an end to this wicked business with Gregory MacAlister.
An hour earlier, Marie had been cutting flowers for the vases in Beatrice’s room. Gregory whispered to her as he’d passed her in the garden, “Apologies owed.” He flashed that caramel-warm smile of his. “Meet me at the stone bench overlooking the beach?”
She’d felt relieved that he no longer seemed angry or violent. Maybe he really was sorry for hitting her. Maybe he had decided to give up his insane plan of interfering with Beatrice’s and Henry’s courtship. All of Beatrice’s letters that were supposed to go to Germany, Marie had kept back from the courier. All of Henry’s notes from the Continent she’d taken from the royal mail sac and pocketed. She was ashamed for her actions. But the alternative—refusing to do as Gregory demanded—had seemed unthinkable at the time. The consequences were just too awful to contemplate.
She’d lied to Beatrice—telling her the old stable master had followed them from London and struck her. She’d been desperate and it was all she could think to say at the time. So foolish.
Now, despite the terrible personal cost she’d pay, Marie had decided she must confess all to her princess. Luckily, she’d foreseen the need to protect herself and had collected evidence that would ruin Gregory MacAlister, should he threaten her again. Tonight she’d free herself from him—come what may.
Marie stood beside the rough-hewn granite bench overlooking the ocean. Wave after ferocious wave smashed over the rocks below. The dark sea boiled tonight, but she shivered in the chill of the salty spume as it feathered up over the bluff from below. A bad night it would be, windows rattling, wind howling. Nasty. Evil.
“You beat me here,” a cheerful voice shouted above the sea’s crash.
“I did.” She spun around and checked his eyes to gauge his mood. They were a soft undefined hue, devoid of emotion, showing no sign of the fury she’d seen in them the day he’d hit her. The bruise on her cheek had taken days to fade, he’d struck her that hard. “It is cold. I want to go back to the house, Gregory. I have something to say. But first, why is it you wanted to meet here—an apology you said?”
“Yes. You see, I was out of control. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I honestly didn’t.”
He sounded sincere. She studied his eyes again; they revealed nothing. “Ecoutez moi, Gregory, it is just as well we are talking tonight. I cannot do this anymore. You don’t need me anyway.” A flicker from his eyes, just that and nothing more. A warning? She rushed her words. “Henry and Beatrice have stopped writing to each other. The romance, it is dead, if that is what you intended. You said this was necessary to protect the princess, but I do not believe that. I refuse to be involved in your mean tricks any longer.”
He shrugged. “I had a feeling you’d back out. Must be your Catholic upbringing. Put the fear of God in you, did it?”
“Oui. Exactement,” she murmured. The way he was looking at her made her squirm. Her stomach churned. “I don’t deserve Beatrice’s trust, not after what I have done. I won’t say anything bad about you, I promise. I’ll tell her it was my mischievousness. I’ll say I was jealous, not having a man of my own.”
“And will you also tell her that you were never married but had a lover? A priest no less, who gave you a child—the bastard you’ve keep hidden away in Paris.”
She stared at him in disgust. “No! Your threatening to leak my past to the Court was the only reason I helped you.” Fury flared in her veins, throbbed in her temples until her whole head hurt. This was the sort of reaction from him she’d feared. But she wasn’t without a weapon of her own, a threat she would make good if forced to it. “If you dare to reveal—
He held up a hand to silence he
r. His voice came to her so low she could barely hear him above the cacophony of wind and sea. “Marie, if your adultery is revealed, Beatrice will have no say in your fate. The queen will know you’ve lied to her about your past. A childless widow, you claimed. But you were a priest’s whore. You won’t be allowed near Beatrice again. Victoria will ban you from the Court, from London most likely.” He grinned. “Fornicators need not apply.”
“You’re a wicked, wicked man.” She was too quick for him. Her hand flew out, slapping him hard across his mocking face. Spinning around, she started to march away.
She managed two steps.
His long arm shot out, fingers latching around her arm. “Don’t. You. Turn your back on me!” Gregory roared. His eyes brimmed over with sooty hatred. “The thing of it is, ma chere Marie—” He hauled her back toward him, as if he were reeling in a trout on a line. “—I don’t trust you. I never have. But I thought that knowing your secret would keep you honest.”
“There is nothing honest about stealing what doesn’t belong to you!” she shouted.
“You fucked a priest! You stole from God. Don’t play the innocent with me.”
He ground his teeth and gripped her harder the more desperately she struggled. “But you’re right about one thing. I no longer need you.”
He swung her around to his other side. The ocean side. Her feet landed barely a foot from the crumbling shale edge. She gasped, looked down, closed her eyes against the dizzying sight—black rocks, crashing surf. Hell.
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