At the inn he paid his driver and gave firm instructions. “Soon as you see the least sign of clearing, get yourself back here. I’ll pay you double your usual fee to deposit me at the docks the moment the sea’s calm for travel.”
The man winked at him. “Other folks made the same arrangement. Looks as I’ll be doin’ a profitable-good business.”
Disgusted by the driver’s greed in the face of his passengers’ troubles, Henry rushed inside. The space between carriage door and the inn’s portico was only twenty feet. Nevertheless, he was soaked in the driving rain by the time he burst into the candlelit pump room. He looked around for the innkeeper.
From behind him came a female cry of delight edged with hysteria. “Henry! Oh, God, what are we going to do?” Louise threw herself at him and hugged what little breath he’d left out of him.
“Your Highness, tell me what is going on,” Henry said. “Your note told me so little.”
“I’ll let Stephen explain. He’s a bit calmer and more up to date on things. Have you two formally met? His Serene Highness Prince Henry of Battenberg—Stephen Byrne, formerly of President Lincoln’s security detail, American civil war veteran, and my mother’s one-time Secret Service agent.”
Henry raised a brow. “Quite a résumé.”
“Quite a title,” Byrne responded with a wry smile.
Henry did not ask what role Byrne played in Louise’s life, but he sensed an easy companionship between them. Perhaps spiced by something more, upon which he was too much the gentleman to remark. But he couldn’t resist one question. “What brings you to England, Mr. Byrne?”
“I enjoy travel,” the American said. “Except when it’s required by an emergency involving someone I care about. I’ve known the royal family for over a dozen years now—” He pointedly looked away from Louise. “—some better than others.” She blushed anyway, and he continued, “Beatrice is too nice a person to be involved in the intrigues of those who would harm the Crown.”
“I agree.” Henry leaned toward Louise and lowered his voice, as others were in the room and he sensed their interest. “Waste no time. Tell me, what has happened.”
Louise put her hand on his arm as yet another man burst through the door, wet from cap to boot and shaking off rain like a big dog. “We don’t know for certain yet, Henry. But come. Let’s find a quiet corner out of the way of the door and more travelers fleeing the storm.”
They took command of a heavy table near the fire where the couple must have been sitting before Henry arrived. He saw a black leather overcoat that must have been Byrne’s, laid over the back of one of the chairs.
Louise sat and beckoned to her companion. “Stephen, hot tea and biscuits until something more fortifying is available, don’t you think?”
“I’ll see to it,” and he was off toward what Henry assumed was a kitchen.
Louise looked up from beneath thick lashes. “Someday I’ll tell you the story of the most remarkable circumstances under which Mr. Byrne and I met. For now, it’s unimportant.”
“Understood. A private matter between the two of you.” He cleared his throat. “You are safe with him?”
“Utterly,” she said, and gave him a dazzling smile.
“Good. Now, about Beatrice.”
“A little from me, then the rest from Mr. Byrne,” she said, smoothing her skirts, eyes lowered. “First, I must ask why you have forsaken my sister.”
He hadn’t been prepared for such a question. “Forsaken her? I told you, I wrote to Bea of my dreams, my plans for our life together, with such tenderness…but it was for naught. It was she who stopped responding. I was confused at first, then realized it was unkind of me to press her for a commitment if she was reluctant. Clearly she was reacting to the queen’s refusal to bless our union. I felt it was kinder to let my supplications lapse, rather than cause her more pain.”
“I see,” Louise said, with equal weight to each word.
“But now in your own letter, you made me feel I still had a chance. I had hoped by mounting the expedition to Khartoum I might change the queen’s mind about me and then I could try again to ask for her blessing. Do you not think that’s possible?”
“I think,” Louise began slowly, “there stands more in your way than my mother—which is saying a great deal when one considers that the queen is a force to be reckoned with on her least aggressive days.”
Henry didn’t even attempt a smile. There hadn’t been the least hint of humor in the duchess’s tone. “This stable boy Bea has developed a fondness for—he can’t be a serious threat.”
“He’s more than a boy or regular staff, Henry. I’ve met him. He’s the son of a Scottish lord and a very charming young man indeed. Perhaps too charming.”
“Are you talking about me again?” Stephen Byrne had returned with a serving girl in tow. He carried a pewter tea service, and she a plate of plain looking biscuits that Henry hoped weren’t too stale. He was starving.
“You’re not charming as much as a rogue,” Louise teased the American. “Come sit with us, and let’s bring Henry up to date. I was just beginning to explain Mr. Gregory MacAlister.”
Louise poured dark, steaming Darjeeling tea all around. Henry watched Byrne’s face harden at the name. The American didn’t take up a biscuit or touch his tea cup. All business, it seemed.
“From what I’ve been able to learn,” Stephen Byrne began, “MacAlister is a penniless third son of landed gentry struggling to hold onto their land. He also has a very interesting but questionable past.”
Henry polished off a second biscuit that gave him a shot of energy, though the pastry was lardy and none too tasty. He sipped his tea and his stomach felt marginally fortified. “Questionable in what way?”
“As long as the family had money they sent their sons to schools on the Continent. Gregory MacAlister and his two brothers schooled at the University of Bonn. It appears one of Gregory’s closest companions during those years was a young Friedrich Wilhelm Viktor Albert of the House of Hohenzollern.”
Louise added, “Better known as Willy in our family. He’s my nephew and the queen’s first grandson.”
“Yes, of course,” Henry said. “I know him but haven’t spent much time in his grandfather’s court. He’ll be emperor soon enough, I assume. Good Lord, the Scot ran with a rich crowd!”
“Yes. He also managed to run wild whenever he was at home in Scotland. The father had a job keeping his son out of trouble. Gregory nearly was imprisoned after beating and almost killing one of his father’s staff.” Byrne’s eyes fixed solemnly on Henry’s. “Guess who he ran to for help?”
“Wilhelm?”
“Right. So they’ve stayed in touch, swapped favors. Probably a good deal more to it than I could dig up. But it seems less than a year ago Wilhelm visited Scotland on a hunting trip and spent three days as MacAlister senior’s guest. It was soon after that Gregory decided to leave Scotland and come to London to work in the queen’s stables.”
“Not likely a coincidence,” Henry muttered, feeling a bit ill. Oh, God—Bea was at the mercy of this rogue?
Byrne nodded his head. He turned to Louise. “Do you suppose Willy influenced your mother to give MacAlister a job because he needed to get out of another sticky situation at home?”
Louise leaned back and sipped her tea thoughtfully. “I seriously doubt it. Mama hasn’t trusted my nephew since he was a child. She can’t abide temper tantrums, and he threw them repeatedly when he wasn’t given his way. Still does, I understand, although with more serious consequences for those who provoke him. No, she wouldn’t listen to anything he says.”
Henry said. “Then it doesn’t make sense. This Gregory has been living the life of a wastrel, you say, for years. Why would he stoop to the hard life of a lowly stable boy now? Why not run through the rest of his father’s money?’
“As I’ve said, maybe he became involved in another incident, like the attack on the boy that chased h
im to Germany,” Louise suggested. “Did you find anything like that, Stephen?”
“Not exactly. What I did find was this.” He took a swallow of tea, but glanced toward the bar as if longing for something stronger. “I made a quick run up to Aberdeenshire. He had a regular lady friend, a farmer’s daughter. Those in the village said the girl spread it round that it was only a matter of waiting until the old man died before they married. And then suddenly, Gregory appeared to no longer care about waiting. He announced their engagement, and they were to quickly marry.”
“And?” Henry didn’t like the sound of this.
“Day before the nuptials, the pair ride out on horseback. She falls and is killed.”
“Convenient.”
“Henry!” Louise gasped.
“I’m sorry, but it seems an unlikely match and not of any profit to him who needs money to sustain his high living.”
Louise pinched her lips together. “Maybe it really was an accident, exactly as it seems. Maybe the poor man was so distraught over his bride’s death, he couldn’t stay in the country where she’d died. It’s a sad story.”
“Sad for her,” Byrne said grimly. “I am more inclined to think the Scot was clearing the deck.” He glanced at Henry. “To put it in naval battle terms. He couldn’t very well have this girl knocking about, questioning him about working at the palace, expecting him to come home to her. Not if he had higher designs—such as marrying someone else.”
“Not marrying my sister!” Louise burst out in hysterical laughter. “That’s preposterous. My mother would never allow it.”
“Surely not,” Henry chimed in.
Byrne looked from one to the other of them but settled on Louise’s face. “Can you think of no situation when your mother might grudgingly endorse her daughter’s marriage to a man socially beneath herself?”
Henry watched Louise flush a violent red then just as quickly pale. She reached out to squeeze his arm. “Please, no, Stephen. Don’t even think that.”
The American kept a steady eye on her and, as if by habit and without thinking, reached out and covered her hand with one of his own. There was such tenderness in the gesture, Henry looked away, at a loss for what Louise had meant. “The queen may be stubborn,” Byrne said, “but she’s capable of learning from personal history.”
When Henry looked back, Louise had closed her eyes and was visibly trembling.
What? What are you talking about? Henry wanted to shout at them but contained himself. Obviously an intimate message of sorts had passed between the two of them. He waited, holding his breath until Stephen Byrne turned to him.
“Gregory MacAlister has a black streak in him, Henry. He nearly killed one man for a minor offense. The fellow accused him of cheating at gambling. Also, it’s my theory he intentionally ran down the groom whose place he took in the royal mews. Then, let’s say there’s at least a chance he had a hand in dispensing with his fiancée to free himself to marry better. He wants a quick fortune—how better to achieve it than by marrying the queen’s daughter? It may seem an insane fantasy to us, but to him it’s a promising plan. If he’s anything like Willy, his school-days pal, he’s ruthless and capable of anything.”
“But murdering a woman he’s made love to in cold blood?”
Byrne rested a hand on his shoulder. “Henry, I’ve witnessed far worse. And if the man is willing to go this far to get what he wants, what do you suppose he’d do if he has set his sights on Bea and she refuses him?”
Louise closed her eyes and shuddered.
Henry looked at her then at Byrne, panic welling up inside of him until he could barely breathe. “The queen would never agree…not to marriage.”
“Unless,” Byrne prompted.
“Unless,” Henry said, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, “Bea was with child.”
“Exactly.”
Henry’s mind raced ahead. “If Beatrice refuses the lout, as I believe she most certainly would, he might—” He cast Louise an apologetic look, unable to go on in her presence.
Byrne was less discreet. “Seduce her. And, if necessary, he might even use force to get the deed done.”
Louise let out a whimper. “I should have warned Bea by being more direct in my letter. Poor kitten.”
“You told me she’d not have believed you,” Byrne reminded her then looked at Henry. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have pressed Louise to wait the two days before we left London.”
“You had no choice,” she groaned, “your mission, Stephen. It is I who should have come directly, without waiting for you.”
Henry dropped his head into his hands. “Stop it, both of you. It’s water under the bridge now. We’re here within reach of her but trapped by the storm. All we can do is wait it out and hope she is doing the same, in the safety of Osborne House.”
Louise sighed. “If only she hadn’t suddenly developed a mind of her own. That’s all your fault, Henry.” She gave him a weak smile. “You’ve given her a life to look forward to, a reason for fighting for her independence.” Her tone sounded controlled, strong, but when she reached for her tea cup, Henry noticed her hand was shaking.
“We’ll just hope that by tomorrow the worst of the storm will have passed. Then we’ll commandeer the first ship willing to venture out.”
Byrne nodded. “Right you are, Henry.” He took the cup out of Louise’s unsteady hands and pulled her close. She turned toward him and buried her face in his shirt front.
Henry looked away again, feeling utterly helpless. He’d never forgive himself if anything happened to his Beatrice.
40
Beatrice felt agitated nearly to the point of madness, her nerves prickly-raw and head achy. She paced the length of her bed chamber, incapable of sitting still. Maybe it was just the storm, she reasoned. Hour after hour, all evening long, the winds had blasted and battered the house, rattling windows, cracking two of them on the ocean side, despite their being shuttered. Branches scraped against the outer stone walls, sounding like claws trying to get inside. At her.
It seemed as though they were under siege.
And that, of course, made her think of Khartoum and the terrible suffering and loss there. Which immediately reminded her of Henry. The man she’d loved, still loved though to no avail.
He’d evidently moved on with his life, throwing himself into manly adventures, mounting a rescue force to travel to Egypt. A mission that, everyone now knew, never had a chance of succeeding because there simply wasn’t enough time. The sad news had come by way of courier less than twenty-four hours ago. Gordon was dead.
Even though Henry no longer loved her, she’d been terrified for him, agonized over the risk he was taking. At least now he was safe. God forgive me, she thought, for being glad it’s over. Those poor people.
Outside, the storm seemed to gather ever more strength, and she jumped at the sound of slate tiles clattering off the roof. Beatrice snatched up a piece of needlework as she rushed out of the room. Anything to keep her hands and mind busy while she sat with her mother. The queen would be expecting her in the smallest parlor on the first floor.
Beatrice flew down the stairs, her mind turning to another concern.
Still no Marie. If Marie had wanted to leave her duties for any reason—boredom, romance, homesickness—why hadn’t she felt able to confide in her? What if the queen asked why the woman wasn’t attending her? Beatrice didn’t want to cause the girl unnecessary trouble by complaining about her neglected duties. And yet, sooner or later, she’d have to inform the queen.
As if the storm and disappearance of her lady weren’t enough, Beatrice admitted that she also felt troubled by Gregory MacAlister’s compliments and increasingly ardent attentions. What was she supposed to do with the man? What would Louise do in a case like this? Run off with the handsome Scottish lord’s son to make Henry jealous? Ignore Greg and boldly dash off to Prussia to confront Henry in person? Forget both of them and
take Marie with her to tour the Continent on a ladies’ holiday? If she could locate the girl, that is.
How had her life come to be such a complicated mess?
In the parlor her mother sat exactly in the middle of the room, midway between the blazing fireplace and the shuttered, creaking windows, as if seeking the one spot in the room that provided the ideal temperature and lack of drafts. Beatrice chose the settee closest to the crackling logs and rested her feet on a stool to point them toward the fire. Her body welcomed the heat. It felt as if she were transforming from solid to liquid. She closed her eyes and pictured the French cote d’azure, sunny Naples, Spanish beaches with their pretty striped cabanas. Heavenly.
“I must say I’m impressed,” her mother said.
Beatrice cracked open her eyes and picked up the untouched needlework from her lap. “By what, Mama?”
“By whom,” the queen corrected. “The Duke of Battenberg’s son—Henry.”
Beatrice’s heart leapt. Not four months earlier Victoria had tossed Henry out of London, forbade him from returning to Buckingham or the city. Beatrice tried to sound casual when she asked, “Why is that?”
“He, at least, tried to save those poor people. Parliament never lifted a finger, but young Henry—he did make the brave attempt. His intentions were laudable.”
Beatrice widened her eyes. “I suppose,” she began tentatively, “the more we learn about a person, the easier it is for us to like them.” Her mother always took a long time to feel comfortable with new people. Nonetheless, this long overdue, positive attitude toward Henry came as a shock to her.
“To like, or to detest them,” her mother corrected. “But I’ll admit, the boy surprised me. I didn’t think he had it in him. I believe I shall reward him, even though he wasn’t successful. It wasn’t his fault, after all.” Beatrice put down her stitchery. “How reward Henry? A medal? A title or special honor?” My hand in marriage?
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