“Is that Beelzebub himself chasing you girls home?” a cheery voice asked. “Or just one of your antisuffrage adversaries?”
Panting, clutching her sides as she tried to catch her breath, Louise turned to face the tall, elegantly mustached man who observed them from the kitchen doorway.
“Thank God you’re here, Henry,” Amanda cried, throwing herself into her startled husband’s arms. “It’s that terrible m—” Her words were cut off by another volley of curses from the far side of the door, followed by a thunderous pounding of fists. This time the words were clear, as if Darvey pressed his mouth to the door.
“Fuckin’ bitch! Y’ain’t gettin’ away again.”
Henry Locock froze, his expression grim. “Is that the man?”
“Go away, Darvey,” Amanda shouted. “I’m no more yours to use.”
“Nah, you’s gonna pay, all right. Two more o’ me girls ran off ’cause a you.”
Louise knew Henry Locock had long ago learned of his wife’s tragic past. He had made it plain to all that he didn’t blame her for the desperate situation in which she’d found herself. If he ever got his hands on the man who’d so abused and debased her, he’d put aside his vow as a physician to “do no harm.” But now that she’d actually witnessed Darvey’s violence, Louise feared as much for her friend’s husband as for Amanda herself.
To her horror, Henry took a step toward the door.
Before Louise could say anything, Amanda threw herself between the door and her husband. “No!” she screamed. “He’ll kill you. You don’t know what he’s capable of. Please, Henry, for our children’s sake, don’t.” Her eyes darted toward the back room where her son must have somehow slept through the commotion. “He’ll go away.”
Henry turned to Louise for confirmation.
She’d seen enough of Roger Darvey to convince her. She gave Henry a bleak look and shook her head.
“As I thought.” Turning on his heel Henry disappeared into his examination room. Seconds later, he returned with his hunting rifle. “He won’t come visiting again, if he knows what’s good for him.”
Brushing his wife aside, Henry unbolted the door, flung it wide, snapped the butt of the gun to his shoulder, and curled his finger around the trigger.
Surprised in the midst of his attack on the door, Darvey froze, fists raised above his head. Momentum carried him forward, propelling him into the gun’s muzzle. It took him a moment to shift his murderous gaze from the face of the man in front of him to the weapon between them, its business end jammed below his ribs.
Darvey’s expression switched in a flash from fury to shock. Then he was backpedaling as if on an invisible velocipede. He tripped off the curb and tumbled to the ground.
“You will never, ever, come to my house again,” Henry shouted, advancing on him, thrusting his weapon’s muzzle toward the man’s face. “Neither will you approach or speak to my wife. Is that clear, sir?”
Darvey said nothing, but he cringed and let out a mongrel’s whimper when Henry leveled the gun’s barrel at the center of his forehead. He looked past the gun, past the doctor, toward the house, as if still contemplating a devious means of carrying out his revenge. But a second later, he was scrambling to his feet and off at a run.
“Good job, Henry.” Louise patted him on the shoulder when he’d stepped back inside and shut the door. But his eyes were all for his wife.
Amanda threw herself into his arms, weeping.
Henry handed the rifle to Louise. He wrapped his long arms around his wife.
“I doubt the rogue will bother any of us again,” he said, looking puffed up with pride at the reaction he’d got from Darvey.
“You were so brave. So very brave, my darling,” Amanda sobbed. “Thank you.”
“Even an educated gentleman, sometimes, can summon up a bit of the bully in him when necessary.” He winked at Louise, over his wife’s shoulder. “Now, now, dear girl. It’s all right. The monster is gone for good. Enough tears.”
Louise smiled nervously as she leaned the rifle against the wall beside the front door. Something in the way Darvey had glowered at them, his tail not quite between his legs, made her doubt they’d seen the last of him.
Now she wished she hadn’t been so eager to avoid Stephen Byrne’s attempts to protect her. Had the Raven been with them at the rally today, they would have been safe.
She wasn’t sure why she knew this—that Byrne would stand between her and danger, no matter the cost to him. But she felt it in every fiber of her body. She had a protector—a knight, though not one in shining armor. A knight in a dirty brown duster and Stetson hat.
How very strange, she thought.
Twenty
He wasn’t intentionally neglecting his duties. That’s what Byrne kept telling himself. By nature he was neither lazy nor a coward. But since John Brown preferred to handle the royal family’s security by himself—contrary to the queen’s orders—Byrne felt justified in leaving the situation at the palace to the Scot while he continued hunting for the Fenian captain and Louise’s misplaced lover. Headquarters might well object to his reasoning, but what they didn’t know . . .
Byrne had strongly mixed feelings about the second of these tasks.
On the one hand, he wanted to please the princess, to be the man who brought her the truth about her first love. It seemed important to her, and he assumed she must have tried to find Donovan before this. Apparently earlier attempts had failed. He imagined her excitement, and the forms her gratitude might take, when he delivered proof of Donovan Heath’s fate and whereabouts. Would she fling her arms around his neck and plant an impulsive kiss on his mouth? (God knew the woman must be starved for affection.) And if he then trapped her delicate figure in an embrace would she yield to her rumored passionate nature and press ever more seductively, eagerly against his—
Damn, don’t go there, man. That’s treacherous territory.
Treacherous in more ways than one because, instinct told him, what he’d eventually discover was a truth darker than black. One that well might bring Louise intolerable grief. The idea of hurting her even more deeply than she’d already been hurt, heaping more undeserved pain on the poor woman—this was what caused him to stall for time.
During his years fighting for the North in the War between the States, he’d been accused, sometimes rightly so, of being many things—a rogue, spy, seducer, pragmatist, arrogant, merciless, brutal . . . even of being the devil himself. But never had anyone called him a coward.
Perhaps now he’d become even that. A coward where Louise was concerned. Because he hadn’t honestly put any real effort into finding Donovan Heath. And that was because he couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her brought to her knees, crushed by a truth too awful to bear.
So he’d argued with himself. Was it wiser to pretend he’d searched for the elusive young artists’ model and report he’d found nothing? Thereby saving Louise from the humiliation of learning she’d simply been dumped, or from the heartache of discovering the boy’s early and very possibly violent death. Or did he owe her the absolute truth that his respect for her demanded?
There was something decidedly sinister about this whole business of the missing Donovan, though he couldn’t yet put his finger on why. He didn’t know Victoria all that well. But what he did know of the monarch convinced him she was capable of absolute ruthlessness if threatened. Perhaps the worst of all possible scenarios involving the missing Lothario was one that directly involved the queen. Above all, he didn’t want to have to take news back to Louise that her mother had orchestrated the boy’s disappearance.
Byrne finally made his decision. As soon as he had proof of the identity of the dynamiteers, and a better lead on their commanding officer, he would dedicate serious time to finding Mr. Heath. If he still existed.
And so Byrne met in London with an informer named Clifton Riley who offered news about the Fenians, for a price. At their second meeting at the Green Dragon in Bishopsgate, his snit
ch, who claimed to be a brother of one of the Fenian recruits, verified some of Byrne’s suspicions.
“I heard two Americans came into the country.” Riley’s eyes glittered greedily. The more valuable the information, the higher his reward. “Rumor has it, they’re the best Chicago has to offer. Prime black powder men.”
“Who brought them here?” Byrne asked, looking around the pub, as if bored and ready to leave. “I need a name for their boss. I can get street gossip anywhere for free.”
Riley stared into his empty mug, as if in deep thought. Byrne ordered him another ale.
Thus fortified, his man continued. “No one knows his real name. Just he’s the Lieutenant.”
“And the names of the foreigners?” Riley gave him a blank look. “Come, man, you have to earn your keep.”
Riley flashed him a condescending glare. “Don’t be ridiculous. You, keep me? I’m the son of a duke.”
“The fourth son of a duke who has burned his way through his inheritance at the ripe old age of—twenty-five, is it? And you were in debt to half a dozen angry fellows at your club, who have delayed sending men to beat it out of you only because I gave you money to pay an installment on your gambling chits.”
Riley took to whining. “But how can you expect me to tell you what I don’t know? My brother only confides so much in me and hasn’t gained enough of their trust to meet with those at the top. All he hears are rumors.”
“What kinds of rumors?”
Riley hesitated. “Listen, I’ve told you enough for the price of a couple pints and some spare change. I don’t want to get my brother killed.”
“You’re right,” Byrne said, slamming his hands down on the table between them and standing up. “You’ll both be safer if Scotland Yard takes the two of you in for questioning.”
His snitch’s eyes widened with panic then darted across the room as if in terror of others hearing. In rookeries like Bishopsgate, the Yard was the enemy. He wouldn’t want anyone thinking he was either the police or aiding them. Most coppers wouldn’t chase a criminal into these thieves’ enclaves unless they had a veritable army battalion to back them up.
“No! You can’t do that,” Riley choked out. He reached over and pulled Byrne back down into his seat. “He’ll know I’ve been talking about his private business, his politics. He’s been promised a seat in Parliament and doesn’t take to my running my mouth.”
“Does he take to you accepting money from the police to settle your gambling debts?”
Riley blanched. “Please don’t . . . don’t tell him about that.”
Byrne leaned back in his chair and observed the other man, letting him stew. The Green Dragon was busy tonight, which was all to the good. In the noise and bantering, no one was paying attention to them in their dim corner, but the crowd made Riley all the more jumpy.
Byrne hardened his eyes. “I gave you a lot more money than spare change. I haven’t heard my investment’s worth.”
Riley hung his head, scratched at his sideburns, and winced stubbornly at the tabletop, but a few more swallows of ale and he perked up. “All right. I’ll tell you all I’ve heard. But there isn’t any more than this.”
“Well?”
Riley leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Some days mon frère talks of them bombing another train station. Some days of an attempt to assassinate the queen’s son-in-law on his way back to Germany.” Fritz, Byrne thought, married to the Crown Princess, Vicky. “The thing is, my brother thinks these are rumors to hide their real plot until the last minute, when orders will be given. They are playing their devious plans very close to the chest, if you ask me. Not so much as a believable whisper escapes to the foot soldiers.”
Byrne pushed himself into the man’s face. “You still owe me.”
“I know nothing more!”
“Then find out more. Fast. You think owing your gambling buddies is dangerous? You’ll find it a good deal less pleasant to be in my debt, sir.” He pulled back the duster just enough to give the man a glimpse of the Colt.
Riley shoved himself away, his face red, voice shaking. “You wouldn’t shoot a man for not delivering information he doesn’t have.”
“I’ve shot a dozen men for far less,” Bryne snarled. It wasn’t really a lie. There’d been a war on after all.
The duke’s son closed his eyes then huffed out noisily through his trim mustaches. He might have gambling debts to pay off, but he hadn’t missed a trip to his barber. “All right then. I’ll find out what I can for you about their plot. Then I’ll be free of your wretched blackmail.” He stood up shakily and retrieved his gloves from the table.
Byrne smiled. “Make it soon.” Free? The chances of that were slim to none. The fellow had a gambling addiction. He’d already run through all of his relations and friends. He had nowhere else to turn but to Byrne.
Having temporarily run into a dead end in his search for the Fenian commander, Byrne turned to Louise’s mission. By now he expected she would be climbing Buckingham’s walls, waiting for his return with news. With any luck he’d turn up just enough information to satisfy her. Then she would let go of the idea of reuniting with Donovan, if that was what she had in mind. Rekindling their affair might solve one problem for her, only to create a much more disastrous situation should their relationship become public.
His first stop was the National Art Training School in South Kensington. He interrupted a class taught by an elderly professor. After initially refusing to give Byrne any information about former students, the old man waved him reluctantly into an office across the hall from the classroom where he’d been teaching. He shut the door behind them.
“I wonder if I might ask you a few questions about the time when Princess Louise was studying with you,” Byrne began.
“So you said when you interrupted my class,” the old man huffed. “I repeat, sir, I do not provide personal information about students. And certainly not about the royal family.”
“This isn’t strictly about the princess; it’s more about a missing boy. His name is Donovan Heath. I believe he not only took lessons here, but he also paid his tuition by modeling?”
The professor sat behind his desk and settled his folded hands over a rotund belly covered in a paint-smeared smock. “That is so. But he is no longer here. I haven’t seen him in years. And I believe, now, you need to leave.” He pointed his eyes toward the door, as if to provide directions for the way out.
Byrne tried again. “This is official business. A missing person’s report has been filed.” Technically. Louise’s complaint to him.
“You are with Scotland Yard? You’ve offered no identification.”
“It is not so much police business as it is the Crown’s.” He produced the simple card that served as his only identification as a member of the queen’s Secret Service. There was no badge or uniform.
The old man stared at the paper rectangle for a moment without reaching out to take it, as if it might nip his fingertips. He looked back at Byrne with a puzzled expression. “I don’t understand. By your accent I’d say you are an American.”
Byrne gave a brusque nod. “That’s beside the point.”
“The queen wishes to locate this young man?” Byrne didn’t correct him. He wanted to cloak Louise’s connection to the search. The old man tilted his head to one side in contemplation. “I’d have thought Victoria would be glad he hasn’t shown his face all these years or continued to pester her daughter.”
“He accosted the princess?” A defensive anger roiled up in Byrne’s chest.
The old man shifted in his seat, as if he sat on something with a sharp edge. “It is a sensitive matter. For a period of three months, the two young people—Princess Louise and Master Donovan—were inseparable. I tried to warn the girl off. Told her he was not the sort of boy she should be talking to, let alone going off with for the noon meal. But I suppose, while she was here at the school, she was experiencing the only freedom she’d ever known. It became a kind of
drug to her.”
“She was not chaperoned or escorted on her class days?” Despite what Louise had told him, this still seemed inconceivable to Byrne.
“She was, in the beginning. But after several weeks I noticed she was merely left at the door, on her own.” He smiled as though at an affectionate memory. “You’d have to have known the princess in those days. She was headstrong, determined to do as she pleased. Somehow she arranged matters as she liked.” He shrugged. “Hard to believe, I know.”
“Not hard at all,” Byrne murmured dryly. Some things never changed. “But weren’t you personally responsible for her during the days when she was here?”
The old man coughed into his hand, looking suddenly flustered. His white-whiskered face paled. “I did my best to control the girl. But you must have heard the stories. When she was young the gossip columns called her ‘the wild one.’ Of all Victoria’s children she was the little mischief maker.” He seemed unable to keep from smiling at the memory. “Do you know she insisted upon sitting in the boys’ sculpting class? No female had ever done so before. Not in this school or any other in London. The very idea was scandalous.” His smile faded, and he retrieved a handkerchief from inside his smock to dab at his sweaty brow. “Yet she insisted upon sketching from a live model. That’s how she met Donovan, you see. He was posing.”
“Naked?” Byrne gasped out loud before he could stop himself. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to him—the naked part. Society dictated that exposing a female to the sight of a male body risked sending her into apoplexy, hysteria, madness. He’d always rather doubted the theory, since none of the women he’d been with appeared infected by such negative aftereffects. Nonetheless it was a surprise that this had been a sheltered princess’s introduction to sexuality.
The little devil. Byrne caught himself grinning.
“Yes, naked—but of course. She was right. How can any artist learn the human form through endless layers of clothing or by studying a wooden mannequin? In the end, I agreed with her.”
The Wild Princess Page 17
