He doubted she even realized he was watching, and investigating, her as closely as he was her prospective mates. He collected a detailed personal history for each gentleman as well as an inventory of assets, debts, assignations, and religious inclination. To this he added any gambling, drinking, or other addictions or obsessions Victoria might find distasteful in a son-in-law.
At first, the Marquess of Lorne was one of five men on the queen’s list and, to Byrne’s mind, by no means the most promising. He’d felt sure, once he informed Victoria of the marquess’s habitual attendance at certain disreputable gentlemen’s clubs in London—including the infamous Cleveland Street Club—as well as the gentleman-only private parties and weekend hunts in the country (no ladies allowed), she would immediately eliminate the minor lord as a contender for her daughter’s hand. Byrne had been shocked when the marquess rapidly vaulted to the top of her list.
This had awakened his curiosity.
Why would the Queen of England allow such a common—no, not even that—a questionable union? One that had the potential to result in scandal. Her three eldest daughters had married extremely well. Vicky, the Princess Royal, wed Prince Frederick William of Prussia. There was every reason to believe that “Fritz” would someday become emperor. Alice married Louis IV of Hesse and already had produced an heir and spares. Bashful Helena (known as Lenchen in the family) was only twenty-five but had presented her royal husband, Prince Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, with three babies.
Whereas, and this was what puzzled him and he noted in his journal: The marquess of Lorne offers little more than a minor hereditary title and a modest Scotch duchy. As far as I can see, he has little money of his own and no skills other than a love of the hunt.
To Byrne’s surprise, the newspapers barely blinked at the announcement of the engagement. Instead they gossiped that this must be a rare but true love match. All of London gushed at the romance of the pairing and dismissed the unsavory rumors involving Lorne.
But Stephen Byrne was a military man accustomed to ferreting out secrets. And he smelled a whopper.
He didn’t have to wonder for long why a Scottish subject of the queen, with a less than gleaming reputation, might hold out hope of winning this particular English princess as his wife. While on an unconnected mission to the Isle of Wight, Byrne ran into two gruff old pub sitters. They were only too willing—for the price of a couple of pints—to gossip for his benefit on the subject of the royal family.
“Years back, when the princess was not much more’n a girl, she showed up on the island with only a tutor for company. Polite folks said her mama sent her here to study, away from London’s distractions.”
“At Osborne House,” the other local man supplied, “the royal family’s estate.”
“And what did folks who weren’t so polite say?” Byrne asked, after offering another round of liquid lubrication.
The more talkative of the two leaned closer to the queen’s agent. “Was a rumor, sayin’ the queen was pure frantic to get her daughter away from boys at her school. Chaps that might lead her astray.” He winked.
In fact Byrne had already learned that Louise, who was perhaps seventeen or eighteen at the time, had been studying at the National Art Training School in South Kensington. Some of the students were a bit wild and experimented with strong drink, laudanum, and other drugs. He wouldn’t have been shocked if sex had been part of the mix.
If Louise had gotten herself deflowered or, worse yet, knocked up, Byrne speculated the queen would have had more than enough reason to remove her daughter from her unsavory friends and shield her from court gossip. Aside from Louise’s reputation as the wild child of Victoria’s family (which might mean anything or nothing, given the shaky validity of London’s rumor mill), if she was no longer a virgin her choice of husbands would be severely limited.
But Lorne—what if Lorne had his own secrets to hide? Even if he were innocent of what British law termed “debauchery,” a man with his eye on gaining status in society would make no complaint against a wife who came to him experienced, ruined, tarnished, compromised, or whatever label society cared to brand her with, particularly if she provided an entrée into the royal family.
Now, back at Buckingham, Byrne caught the eye of an equerry of the royal mews and handed over the reins of his horse. He strode toward the diplomatic entrance to the palace to report a different sort of news to the queen, but his mind lingered on Louise. What did a spirited young princess think of the match her mother had made for her? At the very least, it would seem, the queen had set her daughter up for a celibate life.
To his mind, this was an unthinkably cruel act and an utter waste of womanhood. The few times he’d been in a position to observe the princess, his body had responded with healthy approval. And, he’d noticed, he was not alone in his lust. The woman was a looker.
Louise’s passing figure turned men’s heads everywhere she went. Moreover he suspected she rather enjoyed the attention. Her eyes sparkled with sensual playfulness. The fact that she always behaved in the most proper way, at least whenever he’d observed her, made her all the more intriguing to men.
Distracted by these troubling thoughts, Byrne watched the gray, frost-covered paving stones pass beneath his feet without really seeing them. He crossed the courtyard, took the stone steps, approaching the door that would take him into the great hall and from there to the queen’s private offices.
The heavy chestnut wood door, studded with fist-size iron bolts, swung open ahead of him. He paid no attention to whoever had conveniently opened it for him until it struck him that something solid blocked his way, entirely filling the doorway.
Forced to stop and wait until the object moved out of his path, Byrne looked up to find a towering, kilted John Brown, fists braced on his tree-trunk hips.
“And where do you think you’re goin’, laddie?” the Scot’s voice rumbled.
Laddie? Byrne glared up at the man. Even bareheaded, Brown gave the appearance of standing nearly to the height of the tallest of the queen’s fur-helmeted Hussars.
“I’m on Her Majesty’s business,” Byrne said. “She expects me.”
“She does, does she? You’ll have to come back after she returns from the north.”
Byrne refused to be intimidated. Brown might have charmed the queen, but the American agent knew the man for what he was—an iron-nosed, hard-drinking bully.
“I need to see Her Majesty before she leaves for Balmoral.”
“She’s with the prime minister.”
“Gladstone?”
“And Mr. Disraeli.”
“In the same room?” Benjamin Disraeli was the former PM and a fierce rival of Gladstone’s. “She’s a brave woman.”
“I’ll not argue that,” Brown said. “Soon as I get those two rascals away from her, we’re off. As it is, we’re behind schedule. I don’t intend to have her out on the road after dark tonight.”
“Then I’d better go straight in and give her an excuse to dismiss them.”
Brown folded his arms over his chest and stood firm. “Turn around, Raven, and fly away.”
Byrne narrowed his eyes at the other man. No one but Victoria called him Raven these days. The name Byrne was Irish for blackbird. Raven had been his code name during the American War between the States. The queen fancied pet names for those around her, and she seemed delighted to have discovered this one for him. “It sounds deliciously sinister,” she’d once told him. At the time he’d thought she must have been reading that queer American author, Mr. Poe.
He was trying to gauge how far to push Brown when a shriek of terror echoed through the castle and continued reverberating off the stone walls even as both men spun toward the cry.
“The kitchen?” Byrne said, thinking perhaps one of the maids had burnt herself or dropped a tray of china, although he’d heard no crash from the basement where the servants labored.
“The bairn’s wing!” Brown shouted, as though to orient himself. Th
e Scot drew a dirk of impressive length from his belt and took off at a loping run.
As Brown seemed to have forgotten him in the frenzy of the moment, Byrne took it upon himself to follow rather than find his own way to the trouble. He was far from familiar with the twisting halls of the palace, a veritable maze of hundreds of rooms.
High-pitched screeches to rival the performance of an operatic soprano echoed through the hallways, growing ever louder as they ran.
Definitely female, he thought. Definitely hysterical. Two of them, he guessed, from the varying octaves.
Suddenly Byrne feared the intelligence he’d come to report to the queen might have arrived too late.
Only that morning, he’d paid an informant for shocking news. The Fenians, Irish radicals, apparently had succeeded in doing what Scotland Yard and the Secret Service most feared. They’d brought in two explosives experts from outside of the country, intending to employ them in carrying out a dramatic attack. Their aim was to impress upon the world the importance of the Irish cause. His man couldn’t say where or when they would strike, or even what the plot might entail. Only that it somehow involved the royal family.
Byrne’s heart hammered within his ribcage. As fast as he was running, the Scot was pulling ahead of him, even though the man must have outweighed him by eighty or more pounds and didn’t appear built for speed. Byrne caromed off a stone wall as he rounded a corner; pain shot through his elbow. His breath came in shallow, urgent puffs.
Why the hell did they make these places so damn big?
He pressed on as they shot up a flight of steps to the third floor. The screams had turned to sobs and weakening wails. He expected nothing short of a bloodbath.
At last he saw them.
Two weeping females clung to each other just outside a closed door to one of the rooms in the children’s wing. Brown descended on them in a powerful stride—a vengeful giant to be reckoned with. The pair fell back, looking more frightened than comforted by his appearance.
Byrne recognized the youngest of the princesses, Beatrice. A honey-haired, sweet-faced angel of a child. The older woman, in cap and dark-colored day gown, he didn’t recognize but guessed from her garb she might be the girl’s governess or nurse.
No blood visible yet. Praise be.
“What is it then?” Brown bellowed. “Stop yer catterwallin’ and tell me what’s wrong, woman!”
The governess waved a limp hand toward the closed door. Byrne drew his Bowie knife from his boot by its carved bone grip and let himself into the room without waiting for Brown. He closed the door softly behind him, lowering himself into a half crouch. A fighter’s stance. The muscles of his legs tensed, ready to spring, should he need to move fast.
Pulse racing, eyes hot with anticipation of an attack, he surveyed the room, prepared for the worst. A dead body. An armed intruder. But then why would the women retreat only as far as the other side of a door? Wouldn’t that leave their assailant free to pursue them?
Had a bomb been lobbed through the window and failed to detonate? Surely he would have heard the explosion if there had been one. But there was no shattered glass, no smoke, no blaze, no biting metallic scent of black powder. And no Fenian soldier pounced on him with knife or pistol, or tried to escape out one of the windows or through any of the three doors leading out of the expansive bedchamber.
Whoever had frightened the princess and her companion must already have escaped. The question was, escaped to where? If one or more intruders were loose in the castle, the queen was in danger. Brown needed to alert the captain of the guard and—
Byrne’s whirling mind clicked into focus at the sight of two dark shapes, followed by a third, scurrying from beneath the princess’s bed. They sped across the lovely crimson-and-leaf-green tapestry carpet. All three hairy, squat vermin leaped up onto a small table that had been set for tea with cakes and fruit and delicate china. A long ropelike tail whipped around, sending a teacup and saucer crashing to the floor.
“Rats,” he groaned, relieved but still wary of worse. How the hell had they made their way up to the third floor with hundreds of staff constantly cleaning, polishing, and on the lookout for intruders or the least unpleasantness? Impossible. Unless . . .
Unless someone who wasn’t considered an intruder intentionally made a delivery.
His eyes swept the room, nerves sparking like flint on steel. Ignoring the beasts while he searched from floor to ceiling, from armoire to canopied bed. He stopped at a small square of paper—a note?—pinned to the heavy damask draperies surrounding the princess’s bed as protection from drafts. He snatched up the paper, stuffed it into his coat pocket, not daring to take the time to read it until he was satisfied that no one lurked in the room to cause further threat.
The door to the hallway flew wide. One of the rats dashed toward the light.
“Shut it!” he shouted at Brown.
The Scot stepped inside and slammed the door behind him. Byrne didn’t need to point out the mangy creature racing toward him. Before the thing recognized its mistake, Brown’s immense boot came down on its head with a dull crunch.
It lay still.
“The women said there was three of ’em,” Brown snarled. “Nothin’ more. Just bloody rats.”
“Right. Two there on the tabletop, having their tea.” They seemed undisturbed by the men’s presence, so delighted were they to discover the feast.
“How did they get in?”
Byrne shrugged. “How the hell do I know? Isn’t palace security your job?” Not officially, of course. But since the Highlander seemed determined to claim for himself the roll of bodyguard to the queen, to Byrne’s mind he might as well take responsibility for this invasion of the private quarters.
Brown glared at him, his face going beet red with anger. “Did you know about this? Was this why you insisted on seeing her?”
“No, not this. Listen, can you deal with things here? I honestly need to speak with Victoria. She’ll be in that much more of a hurry to leave as soon as she hears about the rats.”
The Scot gave a snort and a nod of his bearish head. “I’ll be done with these filthy demons in two shakes. You talk fast, Raven. I’m gettin’ her out of here quick as I can.”
Byrne flew out through the door, slamming it behind him. A bevy of tittering servants, along with a half dozen ladies and gentlemen of the court, had gathered in the hallway. They fell silent, their eyes fixed on the eight-inch blade in his right hand. He sheathed the knife. Behind him, a stream of oaths and the sounds of furniture and fragile things crashing to the floor came through the door to the bedchamber. He smiled. Maybe the rats were more of a challenge than Brown had expected.
“Everything’s under control now,” Byrne said to his wide-eyed audience. “Feel free to return to whatever you were doing. No need for concern.” As most started to move away, he pulled the piece of paper he’d found out of his pocket and read it for the first time.
His blood ran cold as a December night.
Cursing under his breath, he tucked it away again. He cut a path through the lingering crowd toward the woman who had set off the alarm with Princess Beatrice. The governess looked calmer now, though still pale and red-eyed with fright.
“Excuse me, miss. Was anyone other than the two of you in the room?”
She stared at him, pressing a handkerchief over her mouth. “I . . . well, no. Why would there be?”
“Can’t you see she’s upset? Leave her alone.”
He spun toward the scolding voice. Princess Louise.
Beatrice had stepped into the arms of her older sister while he’d been in the room. Louise must have arrived at Buckingham earlier that morning from the private estate where she’d stayed with her husband after the wedding.
Louise glared at him, her eyes flashing reproof.
It struck him that this was the first time he’d seen her up close, less than an arm’s reach away. Everything he’d heard and thought about her was true. She was beautiful,
stunningly so. The woman gave off a light—no, more like a brilliant energy that played havoc with his senses. If other females glowed as candles that brightened a room, Louise was one of those newfangled electric lightbulbs, outshining a score of flames.
Her charm was unconventional though. He could see that now. Not every man would appreciate her. She wore a simple day dress of pale yellow, without a bustle, thereby showing off her natural figure. The color was a bold contrast to the dark fabrics of the day’s somber, far more formal styles. And she’d left her hair brushed loose and shining down her back, as if she were still a young girl. Or at least young at heart.
He shook sense back into his head and finally managed to form words. “I beg your pardon, Your Royal Highness. I need to know if an intruder or anyone at all—staff, maids, a messenger—was admitted to your sister’s room.”
“No, sir!” Beatrice burst out. “There were just those disgusting, horrid rats.” She blinked up at him, eyes bright with tears, face splotchy as a toddler’s after a weepy tantrum. “I saw them first. Glowing eyes beneath my bed when I bent down to retrieve a pencil I’d dropped.”
“And a letter? Did you see a note of any kind?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?” The words came out more harshly than he’d intended.
“I-I’m pretty sure.” The girl’s voice broke. She stared at him, her lower lip trembling as if he had scolded her.
Louise rocked her sister in her arms. “Please, can’t this wait? What purpose is served by reminding her of the filthy beasts? And how can knowing whether there were two or twenty people in the room, or letters were left about . . . how can that matter?” She stroked Beatrice’s long blond hair with heartbreaking tenderness. “The creatures must have come in through the air vent. Awful things. Now please, do leave us.”
There was extraordinary determination and power in her voice, and in those lovely sky blue eyes, although they looked everywhere but directly at him. She seemed frustrated that he was ignoring her attempts to dismiss him, as if she wasn’t accustomed to the help ignoring her commands. A little bit of her mother in her, he thought. But he suspected she was more upset than angry, only trying to protect her little sister from further distress.
The Wild Princess Page 4
