“What are you doing?” he said, sounding far less winded than she, though his knee must have slowed him down.
“I-I h-hate her,” she choked out. She refused to cry although her eyes burned. Damn, damn, damn her horrid family!
He laughed. “Does that mean you hate me as well?”
She turned in his arms. “How can you act as if this were a joke? As if I could have been with you the way we were, but feel nothing for you less than twenty-four hours later?”
“I know. I’m an insensitive cad.”
She smacked him in the chest with her fist, taking care to avoid injured ribs. “There you go again, making light of . . . of what we have.” Had.
“I’m not doing any such thing.” He rocked her in his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Do you think that woman has the power to make me stop loving you?”
She savored this new word. Love. “You love me?”
“How could you not know that?”
“I-I suppose because . . .” Because she had given up hope until he’d said the word with that honest openness of his. “Oh, Stephen, what are we to do? I am trapped, as I’ve always been, by my destiny.”
“You won your freedom to be an artist, to venture into the world of commoners on your own.”
“But this marriage—”
“It is an impediment, agreed.”
“The scandal would destroy my family. If just one of those horrid journalists catches us, or even suspects, they’ll all begin following me around and digging into my past. Amanda’s family will suffer. Little Eddie will be labeled a bastard. And I have no doubt poor Lorne will land in prison. I can’t do that to him, though he is foolish to take the risks he does.”
“Hush,” he said and stepped to one side, drawing her into an alcove and behind an immense sculpture just as footsteps approached.
They waited for two servants to pass. Then he kissed her long and deeply until her head spun and little ripples of happiness rose up through her like Champagne bubbles, and she felt consumed by him. For a moment she actually forgot about all of the obstacles that stood in their way.
Louise tenderly touched his cheek with her fingertips. “You are leaving England as she commanded?”
“Yes.”
“You have no more choice than I do then.”
He shook his head at her, smiling. “Because I’m temporarily returning to America doesn’t mean I need to stay there.”
“I don’t understand. You can’t turn around and come back here.”
“I enjoy traveling and working on-assignment in different countries. I took this job on little more than a whim. The queen’s Secret Service contacted their American counterparts at headquarters in New York; they said they needed a man with my skills. I thought—England, why not?” He paused and let his eyes roam her face, an almost smile on his lips. “I might, on a similar whim, accept a post with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”
Her eyes widened as she began to understand. “It appears you’ve heard Lorne and I will be living in Ontario for a time.”
His eyes actually twinkled, in a dark sort of way. “Small world.”
“You would follow me?”
“Sounds sickeningly romantic, doesn’t it?” He laughed when she pouted. “Seriously. For as long as you’ll have me, Princess, I’ll come to you.”
Her heart soared. “You will?”
“I promise. Wherever you might be, I’ll find you.”
“Oh, Stephen.” Tears of happiness filled her eyes despite every effort on her part to stop them. Louise clung to him. “There’s Lorne to deal with. He won’t be happy if we are less than discreet. And, in his illogical way, I think he’s rather jealous of you.”
Byrne’s expression tightened. “The man has made his choices and will have to live by them.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I have made mine.”
She closed her eyes and savored his words for a moment before asking the question that hung over them like a storm cloud. “When will you leave for America?”
All traces of pleasure left his face. “The sooner the better to satisfy your mother. Your life will be easier if she sees I’ve gone.”
“And tomorrow? You won’t be with us for the anniversary celebration?”
He thought for a moment. “I’ll talk to the Scot. If I can’t be there, he’ll need as much information as possible.”
Although she’d have done anything to keep him with her, Louise knew the limits of her mother’s patience. If they ignored her command that Stephen leave England, Victoria might imagine a conspiracy of some sort, and accuse him of treason. If found guilty he’d face prison, or worse. Men had died for lesser indiscretions.
More precious to her than Stephen Byrne’s presence in her world was to know he was safe. For now, that meant being anywhere but in England.
Fifty
“Ditch the bloody duster,” John Brown shouted. The Scot tramped to the rear of the line of carriages in his Highland tartans. He scowled up at Byrne on the big roan Arabian he’d ordered up on the sly for the American from the queen’s stable. “HRM peeks out her carriage window and sees that thing, she’ll be havin’ both our hides.”
Byrne laughed but suspected Brown was right. He’d stand out like a cabbage in a rose garden in the leather coat that had become his trademark all about London. Around him, on horseback or foot, ranged the queen’s guard in their brilliant crimson jackets and high-topped fur helmets. As the June sun was unusually strong that day, promising even more heat by the time the procession circled through London to Westminster Abbey, he was already sweating. Relieving himself of a layer would be a pleasure. Aside from that, it would make the Colt more easily accessible.
Byrne dismounted, removed his coat, rolled it into a neat cylinder, and strapped it down at the back of his saddle like a bedroll. His white cotton shirt, damp and blowsy now, would dry out in the warm air soon enough. He’d still be conspicuous among the panoply of vivid uniforms and glinting military decorations, but at least he wasn’t a marked man as far as the queen was concerned. With reluctance, he removed the Stetson and tucked it in with the coat. Another tip-off out of the way.
Brown stood beside the roan, its bridle in one hand, his other splayed across the horse’s strong neck. He waited while Byrne mounted up again, studying the line of carriages, all the way to the very front of the procession and the modest ebony brougham that would carry the queen in as much comfort as possible. Everyone was in place, in carriage or on horseback, except for Victoria, who hadn’t yet emerged from the palace.
Byrne looked down from his saddle at the bearded, weather-worn face of the big Scot with something strangely close to fondness. “You’ve done all you can, John. Scotland Yard, the army, Victoria’s own Hussars, the constables brought in from the countryside—it should be enough. The parade route has been searched, the church is secured.”
“And we’ve found nothing,” Brown grumbled.
“True.”
“That’s what worries me, laddie. You say they stored a cart load of powder. Where the bloody hell did it all go?”
Byrne shrugged. “It’s possible the Fenians have determined to wait, seeing the level of protection for the anniversary. They wouldn’t want to chance wasting their cache on the one day when the government is best prepared for them to strike.”
“I got me a mighty nervous gut tellin’ me you’re wrong.”
“All we can do is keep a wary eye.” But Byrne had that same feeling. As if Big Ben in Mr. Pugin’s famous clock tower was ticking down the minutes before catastrophe. And there was not a damn thing he could do to stop time.
Just yesterday he’d looked up through binoculars at that same tower, wondering if a marksman might use it to snipe at the royal party as they passed beneath it. What he remembered seeing through the magnifying lenses still sent a chill through his body. It wasn’t a man or a weapon perched high above the street. It was the gilt Latin letters engraved beneath the huge opal-glass clock face:
>
DOMINE SALVAM FAC REGINAM NOSTRAM VICTORIAM PRIMAM. O Lord, keep safe our Queen Victoria the First.
Could he? Could Brown, or anyone, keep her safe?
“You’re riding with her then, as planned, in the forward carriage?” Byrne said.
“Doc’s orders, and I’m glad for it.” Brown brushed a fleck of cinder from his kilt. “I’ll be right beside her, some idiot tries anythin’.”
Byrne nodded. It was good the little queen had such a stalwart champion. Byrne held no grudge against Victoria. She believed she was doing what was best for her people, her family, even for Louise—though to his mind she’d gone about it in all the wrong ways.
“There she is,” Brown said.
Byrne looked up to see the queen, dressed in her customary mourning black, appear from the porte cochere in her wheeled garden chair. A flash of red from a ruby brooch on her left shoulder and starched white lace collar brightened the somber effect. Brown took off at a run. He’d lift her out of the chair and into the brougham, and do the same for her at the church, where the Mikado’s sedan chair waited.
Byrne drew a deep breath then let it out, wishing to God he knew what the day would bring. He looked toward the gold-encrusted coronation coach. Anyone watching the procession would assume Victoria was in it. She’d of course acknowledge the crowds of onlookers lining the streets from her smaller carriage, if she felt well enough to do so. But any plans the Fenians already had in mind should be concentrated on the far more elaborate conveyance displaying the obvious Royal Coat of Arms. Only members of the royal family and the guardsmen knew of the last-minute switch.
But this still left Louise and others of her family riding in the coronation coach, and that worried him.
Byrne rode down the line of carriages. The immense coach, encrusted with gold, was third in line from the front, right where Byrne had thought the queen should be for maximum protection. Unfortunately Victoria had pressed her own wishes on the captain of the guard.
“If I’m to ride in what might as well be a pony cart, I’ll at least be up front.”
And so her carriage led the way, just behind the forward contingent of mounted guard, followed by the carriage transporting the Prince of Wales, his wife Princess Alix, and their two sons. Third came the coronation coach, carrying Louise and Lorne, princesses Beatrice and Alice, and Alice’s husband—Louis IV, Grand Duke of Hesse-Darmstadt. Other members of the royal family followed behind in lesser but still elegant conveyances. Disraeli and Gladstone each had been invited to ride in the procession but had declined, choosing instead to be seated in the church to await the queen’s arrival.
He made one last ride, quickly, up and down the line, looking for anything out of the ordinary, any clue that a carriage or harness had been tampered with. If an axle snapped or wheel came off in the middle of the procession, the parade would come to a halt. He figured a stalled carriage made a far easier target than a moving one. As it was, on Brown’s orders they would drive at a faster clip than normal parade pace, even if this meant less comfort for those in the carriages. Faster was safer.
They’d reduced the risks considerably, but would it be enough? Byrne didn’t know.
When he passed the coronation coach, he slowed the Arabian to a walk and glanced inside. Louise was seated at the far window, resting her head back against the cushioned seat, eyes closed. She looked pale and unhappy . . . and breathtakingly beautiful in her white silk gown with peach blossoms tracing the low neckline. Lorne sat beside her, leaning in and talking to her, or rather at her, since she seemed intent on ignoring him and wishing herself elsewhere. The others in the carriage—Princess Alice and her husband, Princess Beatrice—sat with formal stiffness, waiting for the procession to move forward.
He wished he could somehow signal Louise that he was still here, looking after her and her sisters, without risking Lorne seeing him. He didn’t trust the man not to inform the queen he was still around.
Byrne scanned the faces in the crowd outside the palace’s black wrought iron fence, jostling one another to get as close as possible to the main gate through which the carriages would soon emerge. Everyone seemed in a festive mood. Some carried flowers to toss at the queen’s coach. Some had brought baskets of food and jugs of ale to tide them over during the long wait.
He looked for Rhodes among the mob. He didn’t see him. As clever as the man had been at concealing his connection to the Fenians, Byrne hadn’t really expected him to put in an appearance. Not here at the palace. Maybe at a critical position to observe the result of the Fenian assault, if there actually was one. On the other hand, Rhodes might be on the run, suspecting he’d been found out. The police were busy at all ports, checking departing ships for America, Europe, and elsewhere.
Byrne brought his mount up behind the queen’s modest black carriage and surveyed it from an angle that wouldn’t put him in Victoria’s line of sight. The family’s coat of arms was neatly stenciled in gold over the glossy black lacquered doors.
Byrne thought for a moment then rode back a ways to shout at one of the pages stationed at attention along the parade line. “Boy, go tell the carriage master I need a tub of good black axle grease, nice and thick. Fast now!”
The lad gave him a suspicious once-over.
Byrne leaned down from his saddle and tweaked the boy’s ear. “Now, son, orders of the queen’s agent.” Something in Byrne’s dark gaze encouraged motion. The page took off at a run. The Scot would be furious if he saw what he was about to do. And he didn’t dare imagine Victoria’s reaction. But to his mind, that damned crest, though far less obvious than the elaborate carved carbuncle on the gilded coach, still attracted too much attention. Hopefully the carriage master would assume Byrne was trying to correct a sticky wheel.
The captain of the Hussars gave the order to move out. Byrne looked around anxiously for the page. Another few seconds and they’d be out the gates, among the populace, and it would be too late. Someone was bound to see him and raise a ruckus, thinking he was defacing the carriage.
Suddenly the boy appeared, carrying a tin bucket. “Sir?”
“Good lad,” Byrne said. “Now back to your post.”
Byrne sidled his horse up to the left rear wheel of the queen’s carriage. He scooped up a handful of the thick, evil-looking black goo. He leaned down from his saddle and smeared the coat of arms with grease then repeated his cloaking treatment on the other door. The coverage wasn’t complete, but it was good enough to obscure the crowned English lion and Scottish unicorn guarding the royal shield.
He left the pail by the side of the drive and wiped his hand on a post, getting off most of the grease. “Sorry there, fella,” he apologized and completed the job by scrubbing his hand over his mount’s rump. “You’ll get an extra good brushing and oats for your trouble, after this is over.”
The gates opened, and the carriages began to move forward.
Fifty-one
Louise felt the carriage jolt. She opened her eyes and looked out at the cheering crowd lining the street as the carriages left Buckingham’s gates. She loved London, loved its people. It broke her heart to think of leaving this city. But what she most missed, already, was her Raven.
She had said nothing about this to anyone, of course, but somehow her husband must have read her thoughts.
“I’m truly sorry you’re unhappy, my dear.” Lorne kept his voice well below the camouflaging roar of the cheering crowd. “But it’s all for the best, you know.”
“What’s for the best?” she said dully, staring at the lump under her glove made by her engagement and wedding rings. A glint of diamonds peeked through the lace. Gold, diamonds—what could they mean to a woman when they failed to signify love?
“The American’s dismissal. He wasn’t your type. I was wondering how long it would take you to realize that. You do understand that now, don’t you?”
She glowered at him then shot a look at her sisters on the facing seat. Both were so engrossed in waving to the
ecstatic crowd they showed no interest in anything she or Lorne might say. Even Alice’s duke seemed overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the celebratory mob.
“My type, sir,” Louise hissed, “is not for you to decide.” It came out rather more vehemently than she’d intended. But her patience with the marquess was fast running out. She hadn’t slept a wink since she’d last seen Byrne the day before. It seemed so unfair that, at last, when she’d found a man who not only excited her but truly moved her, she couldn’t have him. He was everything a lover should be—strong, ruggedly handsome, a born protector, and sensitive to her physical as well as emotional needs. How could she not fall in love with such a man?
“I’m sorry,” Lorne whispered. “Truly I am. But there’s nothing to be done about it. He’s dismissed and ordered out of the country. I’ll do what I can to help you . . . you know, find someone appropriate, once we’re established in Ottawa.”
She’d told Lorne about her assignation with Stephen. To keep secrets would do neither of them any good. But why couldn’t he understand? It wasn’t just any lover she wanted. It was Stephen. Or no one. Ever.
Her head pounded with fatigue, her body ached with restlessness. But she reminded herself of the one thing she could cling to—Stephen’s promise. They might need to wait for a while, but he’d come to her. They would find times to be together. She would live for those golden moments.
Lorne patted her hand, as if to say, Poor, poor girl. How naïve you are.
But she wasn’t. Not anymore.
She knew all about love—that beautiful, exquisitely painful but precious journey. Donovan had come and gone. She no longer mourned his loss, no longer cared where he might be or why he’d left her. It was enough to know he was safe and living his life as he chose somewhere in the world. And as to Lorne and her hopes for their marriage? In truth, she didn’t now and never had felt married to the marquess. It was all for show. A relationship that would never be consummated, despite their vows. This was not love.
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