The Wild Princess (21 page)

“Your mother must have known what was happening,” he whispered in her ear. “Must have been beside herself with fear, realizing the boy would be your ruin.”

“Stop it. Stop it this instant!” She choked back tears, wrenched her arm out of his grip, and pushed herself away from him. She pressed fingertips to her burning eyes. “You must not press this issue. Whatever happened between us is inconsequential. Totally beside the point.” Her voice broke. “You must take my word that my friend had been missing for a month or more before my mother would have had reason for concern.”

Byrne's eyes narrowed to dark slits, studying her as though trying to unravel a riddle she'd presented him. Did she secretly want him to know the truth? Was she feeding him just enough information to let him guess at what had happened—then falling back on her rank to deny him the answer? But that would be absurd.

Louise cleared her throat and looked up at him, surprised to find they still stood within inches of each other. She tried to make her feet step back, but they refused to cooperate.

“Now tell me,” she said, in as firm a voice as she could muster, “what are your next steps toward finding Donovan Heath?”

Byrne rolled his eyes, shook his head. He jammed his hat down on his head and tugged the brim low over disturbingly stormy eyes. “There are a few leads I suppose I might still follow.”

“And what leads are those, laddie?” a familiar voice thundered.

Louise felt her heart leap into her throat. How long had John Brown been lurking behind the hedge?

“You're not discussing your search for the Fenian captain with the princess, are you?”

“No,” Byrne said. Whatever emotion he'd revealed to her a moment before now washed away from his features.

“It's a personal matter,” she responded, giving the Scot a dark look. She felt Byrne tense beside her, as if he feared her revealing anything more.

Brown looked at her, then at Byrne. Animosity crackled in the air between the two men. “Personal,” he repeated, tasting the word for hidden flavors. After a long moment, he gave a nod, as if he'd come to a decision. “I need to discuss a matter of security with Mr. Byrne. Might I borrow him from you for a moment, Princess?”

She hesitated, unsure she dared leave the two of them alone together, but gave him a nod of approval. “I still need to finish my conversation with Mr. Byrne, when you're done.”
If anything's left of him,
she thought as she walked back the way she'd come, into the garden to where she'd left her drawing supplies, canvas carryall, and her elegant but hopelessly unavailable young husband.

Louise reached down for her sketch pad then hesitated, her fingertips tingling with suspicion. The binding was tucked low into the open mouth of the sack, half buried beneath a rag she'd used to wipe her hands. Had she stuck the pad down so deep? She stole a look at Lorne, who appeared not to have moved from his lawn chair in her absence. What if he'd seen the sketch of the American?

But perhaps it was just her imagination. The thing might have slipped of its own weight.

Loud voices disturbed her thoughts and the peace of the garden.

“Bloody hell. What's that all about?” Lorne grumbled. He rustled his paper, looked up for a moment. “Oh, it's just the Scot.” He turned a page and disappeared inside his newsprint again.

Louise glanced worriedly toward the boxwood hedge blocking her view of the two men. She couldn't catch Byrne's exact words, but she had no trouble reading the irritation in the Scot's response.

“No! That's my answer, laddie, and the end of it. I'd nothin' to do with that nonsense.”

Her breath caught. Was Byrne foolish enough to propose the same theory to Brown that he had to her? That her mother, perhaps even Brown himself, had frightened off her lover?

Her heart hammering, she wondered if, all those years back, she might have dismissed her mother's involvement too soon. Until this moment, she thought she knew the full extent of the queen's interference in her life. Was there really a chance that one of Victoria's henchmen had been dispatched to frighten or hurt the boy? Or worse.

Her heart sank. Unless she confessed to Byrne the rest of her story, she might never learn Donovan's fate. But this was the part she hadn't let herself think about in such a long time, for the pain was too sharp, too raw—and the consequences of what she'd done too utterly loathsome.

And yet, without knowing the whole story, as Byrne had so forcefully pointed out, he might be unable to find the truth. Louise weighed the dangers against the possible benefits of baring her soul to her mother's agent. Torn, she watched as John Brown snarled words at Byrne she could only imagine were a threat. He stalked off, leaving her mother's agent looking after him.

“Why do you bother with that uncouth foreigner?”

Louise jumped. She looked around to see that her husband had dropped the newspaper into his lap and was studying her face with a perplexed expression. “Clearly the man annoys you. I've never heard a civil word pass between the two of you.”

“I told you what happened at the suffrage protest, about that horrid man who chased us.”

“You shouldn't have gone is all. It's dangerous to be out on your own and—”

“I thought we had an agreement, you and I,” she spat. “I will do as I please, Lorne, and you will do as you please.”

“Yes, my dear, but this is your safety we're—”

She shot him a look that instantly silenced him.

“Do as you like,” he said, holding up both hands in defeat. “I'll be heading to a hunting party with my friends this weekend. You won't be expected to accompany me.”

“Fine.” She turned in time to see Byrne walking away toward the nearest wing of the palace. “I'm going inside. Headache,” she blurted to her husband before rushing off.

She caught up with Byrne before he'd left the garden. “I want to apologize,” she said breathlessly. “I haven't been totally honest with you.”

“Really?” Was that a twinkle in those bird-of-prey eyes?

She shook her head. “I know I've made your job all the harder.”

“You seem to delight in making my days a challenge.” He gave her a wry grimace. “Throwing yourself into the line of fire in the coach—”

“Yes, well, I explained that was an accident.”

“Of course.”

She raised a cautionary eyebrow. “Remember your place, sir.”

“Always.”

She hated when he slipped into male one-word-answer responses. She gathered up her courage. “I need your advice.”

“Good. Rule Number One: forget about past loves.”

She blinked and sucked in a breath. So he'd guessed. Was she that obvious where Donovan was concerned? “I beg your pardon?”

“I spoke with Rossetti.”

“You told me that.”

“He described surprising you and young Donovan in a compromising position. He said he expected it wasn't the only time the two of you—”

“Stop.” She glared at him then glanced around them. No one appeared to be within hearing. “I have a different request that has nothing to do with your current task for me.”

“Are you sure?” He looked at her hard.

“Yes. We will not speak of this . . . this relationship. Either you find Donovan without digging further into my personal affairs, or you don't. It will be however it turns out. For now, I need your advice on a matter involving my friend Amanda and her son.”

He looked wary. “Go on.”

“You may have heard that Amanda and I attended the suffrage rally.”

“I did. Just now, from Mr. Brown. Most unwise that was.”

“Possibly so, but if it's the only way to force reform . . .” She lifted her hands to let him fill in the rest of her thought. “Anyway, I told him the rally was exhilarating, which is true. But not for the reasons he assumes.”

“Yes?”

“We were attacked.”

He scowled, straightening up. “Why haven't you said anything about this to Brown or to me?”

“Because I was certain either one of you would have gone to my mother, and that would have accomplished nothing other than terrify her, resulting in yet another set of safety regulations for the family. Next thing we know we'll all be locked inside the palace, day and night.”

“Who
attacked you?”

She looked up at the sharpness of his voice; never had she seen him look more ferocious.

Louise took a deep breath before continuing. “His name is Roger Darvey. Amanda had an unfortunate few years after her father's death. I won't go into details, but Darvey picked her up off the street one day, fed her, got her bathed and dressed, then told her she'd need to repay him by doing favors for him.”

“For him or for other men?”

“Both. When she gave him the slip, he resented it. Lost income, I suspect. But she managed to elude him and stay out of sight. She hasn't seen or heard from him in years. He recognized her at the demonstration, took after her, and chased the two of us clear back to her house. Her husband scared him off with his gun.”

“They do come in handy,” he remarked.

“Husbands?”

“Guns.” He grinned, lifted the edge of his duster to reveal the rather impressive pistol at his hip.

She rolled her eyes. “What I need to know is how Amanda can protect herself. She works at my shop, distributes broadsides she's written for us, and has to be free to move around the city. Her husband is a doctor and can't accompany her everywhere. Until Darvey gives up on the notion of punishing her for her desertion, I fear for her safety and that of her family.”

He thought for a moment. “I could have a word with the man.” He said
word
in a way that made it sound physical.

“Would you do that for me?” Did she sound too urgently grateful? Before he could answer, she bit down on her lip and added, “I'm just as worried about her son, you see. I think if Darvey can't get to her, he might take it into his wicked head to harm the child. And if . . . if anything happened to—” She surprised herself by bursting into tears.

He reached out and took hold of her arm. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She produced a silk handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “It's just—he's my godson, you see, so very precious to me.”

He was frowning at her, clearly confused.

“I—I love children. Have always wanted . . . well, it seems I may not be able to—” She waved off the words, fearful of revealing more than she should of the desolation of her marriage. “Little Edward and I have been so very close since his birth, seeing that Amanda is almost like a sister to me. I can't stand the thought of him being harmed by that beast of a man.”

“I'll keep an eye out for Darvey when I can, and encourage him to consider alternatives to hurting your friend and godson.”

“Alternatives?”

He smiled. “Like staying alive.”

She swallowed. “Oh, I see.”

“But I'd still be careful and not go out alone, either of you, until he and I have a meeting of the minds. And that may take some time—as you and your mother have given me plenty to keep me busy.”

She sniffled. “I suppose we are relying on you for a great deal.”

Byrne looked past her for a moment then withdrew his hand, which had stayed wrapped warmly around her arm. “I need to leave now.”

“Thank you,” she said in parting.

When she spun away to return to her seat, she saw what Byrne must have seen before he released her. Lorne stood barely twenty feet away, just at the edge of the garden gate, watching her. She looked away, unsure why she should feel uneasy as he walked over to her.

Her husband cleared his throat and touched her on the arm exactly where Byrne's fingers had rested a moment earlier. “My dear, if you are seen carrying on with another man so soon after our nuptials, some people may not believe we're the happy newlyweds we pretend to be.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she snapped. “He's my mother's man.”

“Is he now?”

“Yes. I have no interest in him.”

“But even if that is true, can we assume he has no interest in you?” There was an unfamiliar edge to his voice, and she wondered if his promise of guaranteeing her independence might not include every freedom. “Just remember our pact. Your freedom for my security. Don't do anything foolish like falling in love. You'll jeopardize both our lives.”

Twenty-three

Louise's pride and joy, the Women's Work Society, provided a place where destitute girls and women might learn crafts—needlework, embroidery, and the repair of fine art items—which could then be sold at the Society's consignment shop in highly respectable Sloane Square. She hoped someday also to create a boarding school for girls that would be free to young women without family or a husband to support them. Meanwhile she was pleased that the London shop had already become a lifesaver for a dozen females of various ages, giving them a modest income for their handiwork. Barely enough to keep them off the dangerous streets, but still . . .

Amanda worked there forty or more hours each week, bringing her little boy with her, and they'd recently hired two other women as part-time clerks. Louise was hopeful of expanding soon.

As she stepped from the brougham then through the shop's door she tried to ignore the light headache that had plagued her for hours. Her anxiety had run high for days following the run-in with Darvey. Sometimes she feared she was being followed, watched. But that might as easily have been due to her clandestine bodyguards. She suspected Byrne had assigned one or more of his men to follow her whenever he couldn't be with her. In fact, she rarely saw the man himself. He seemed reluctant to openly accompany her on her jaunts into the city, preferring to shadow her from a distance. Why this should be, she was at a loss to understand. Perhaps he thought a more discreet form of protection would draw less attention to her.

But when she realized she hadn't seen him around at all for days, a fresh form of worry came at her. The Fenians were desperate radicals, capable of ruthless violence. They would not hesitate to attack an agent of the queen if they saw him as a threat to their wicked plots. She feared for Byrne's safety as well as her own family's. And yet she, like Byrne, refused to stay shut inside Buckingham Palace. When fear of death became fear of living one's life, the Fenians would have won. And so she went about her routine, though she felt perpetually shadowed by evil.

She found Amanda at the shop, in a gray mood not unlike her own. Whereas days earlier her friend had inadvertently destroyed items out of sheer excitement over the suffrage rally, today Amanda was a bundle of nerves and incapable of picking up any object without immediately dropping it.

“I'm so sorry,” her friend apologized after letting a second porcelain saucer slip from her fingers in less than twenty minutes. “I don't know what's wrong with me.”

Louise watched her friend sweep up broken shards with trembling hands. “What's wrong? You're shaking from head to foot, dear girl.”

“It's Darvey. I'm sure I've spotted him twice more, though he keeps his distance. I worry what he has in mind.”

Louise closed her eyes and swallowed to calm herself. Either Byrne hadn't yet confronted the bawd or his threats had proved ineffective. “Come, let's just lock up for the night. I knew I wouldn't be long, so I asked my driver to wait for me. I'll deliver you and Eddie home where you'll be safe. One of my mother's men has been detailed to approach the scallywag and put the fear of God in him.”

“Thank you. I'll feel ever so much safer in a carriage tonight.”

Louise wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders. “And where is my godson? I haven't seen him since I arrived.”

“Sleeping in the back room.” Amanda laughed. “He exhausted himself whacking away at crates and pots, pretending he was a drummer in the queen's guard on parade. You can go and wake him if you like.”

“No, let him sleep a few more minutes while we tidy up and tally receipts. You can do the sums. Paper isn't fragile.” She smiled affectionately at her friend. “I'll dust up the china while I wait for you.”

A few minutes later, Amanda closed the account book and slipped the day's earnings into a small canvas bag. “Done. Let's wake the boy and be off before it gets dark.”

Louise climbed down from the ladder she'd used to reach the top shelves where some of the more fragile objects were kept out of reach of small hands and ladies' bustles. “Are you still working with my tutor on your writing?” she asked.

Amanda beamed at her. “Yes, and that reminds me. I wanted to tell you what he said. He's encouraged me to submit one of my articles to the
Times,
as an editorial piece. He says it's quite good enough, better than many of the pieces by their own reporters.”

“Oh, Amanda, I'm so very proud of you!” Louise went to her and clasped her hands. “Tell me what your article is about.”

It was then—as Amanda started to explain the exposé she'd written about women of any age who, like her, had lost family property to a distant relative simply because he was a male—that Louise first heard the soft scuffling sounds. She turned toward the back room and smiled at Amanda, who stopped talking.

“What?” Amanda asked.

“I think Eddie's up and about. Maybe we should collect him and go.” Louise glanced toward the shop's front window. “It looks like rain, and it will be dark early.”

“Good idea.” Amanda plucked her cloak from its peg and laid it across the countertop. “I'll go fetch him.”

But as soon as she opened the door to the storeroom, clouds of oily, black smoke billowed into the salesroom.

“Oh, Lord!” Louise cried.

“Fire! Eddie!” Amanda shrieked. Frantic to reach her son, she dove into the smudgy clouds.

Unable to stop Amanda, Louise raced outside to summon her coachman and shout out the alarm. Her cries brought a handful of people into the street. Rain started to fall. A good wetting down of neighboring houses might contain the fire. The uniformed driver lumbered down from his perch, looking as if he'd been awakened from a nap. Where the hell was Byrne when she needed him?

From inside, she could hear Amanda calling out above the ever louder crackle of flames. “Louise, I have him. I—oh God, something's blocking—” Her voice broke off at a splintering crash from deep inside the building.

“I'm coming. We'll get you out.” Louise turned to her driver. “Quick. Come with me.”

She ran three steps but heard no one behind her. When she turned the man was backing into the street, away from the now visible flames and sparking cinders, a horrified look on his face.

“Stop!” she shouted. “We have to get them out of there.”

Ominous creaking noises followed by another boom shook the building. A fierce burst of heat rushed out through the front door, stealing away Louise's breath.

The coachman's eyes widened. “I'll be off to roust up the fire squad, Your Highness.”

“There isn't time. We have to—”

But he was off and away.

“Go then!” she screamed after him.
Coward.

A shoeblack, whose stand she passed every day, shook his head woefully at her. “Them roofing timbers done burnt through and fallen. You'll not be gettin' past 'em, Your Highness.”

“The hell I won't.”

She held her sleeve across her nose and mouth and ran straight through the front room of the shop and into the glowing inferno of the storage area. The heat seared her flesh, unbearable, coming in blasts, each one sucking the breath from her lungs. Her clothing was no protection. She wondered how long before her skirts caught a cinder and ignited.

“Where are you?” she shouted. Every word released allowed burning air to singe her lungs. “Amanda!”

No answer came.

Dear Lord. Please don't let this happen. Please don't take them from me.

She sensed someone coming up behind her and felt a thin ribbon of relief that the coachman had a change of heart.

“Are you insane? Get out of here!” Byrne's voice.

“Amanda . . . Eddie, they're—” Her eyes burned and wept, and she choked on the acrid, scorching air. “Can't . . . can't leave them.”

Byrne grabbed her arms and hauled her down to floor level. When their eyes met she saw a storm of emotions in his—fear among them, but something else that moved her.

“Stay down where the air is good,” he shouted above the roar of the flames. He moved ahead of her but stopped at a single smoldering beam that had fallen at an angle and was now propped at one end on a soapstone sink in the far corner. Wrapping his hands within the sleeves of his leather coat to protect them, he bent low and braced one shoulder beneath the timber. He heaved upward with a grunt and threw the wood aside. A shower of sparks erupted through the blackness when it landed. In that moment of orange-gold brightness, Louise glimpsed two figures curled on the floor.

“There,” she coughed out the word. “Behind the shelves.”

Scrambling on hands and knees, she made her way to Amanda. Her friend had thrown herself over the little boy. Eddie was sobbing but his mother appeared unconscious. It looked to Louise as if a smaller timber had come down on her head just after she'd reached him.

“It's all right, Eddie. Come here to Auntie Lou-lou.” She tucked him under one arm and drew her jacket over his head against the poisonous, broiling air.

Byrne hauled up Amanda and flopped her over his shoulder. “Go!” he shouted, his voice rough with inhaled smoke.

They crawled, staggered, and tumbled out into the street. A crowd had started to gather around the front of the shop. Three men with buckets sloshing with water raced past her; she had little hope they could do much good. Someone shouted that the fire squad had been summoned.

At a safe distance from the burning building Bryne deposited a soot-covered Amanda on a quilt supplied by one of the neighbor women. The glass display window exploded, spraying shards of glass across the street. Louise sat on the curb beside Amanda, rocking Eddie to quell his crying. Only when Amanda moaned and tried to sit up did Louise break down in tears of relief and hand the child to her.

They'd all made it out. It was a miracle. The shop would be in ruins, but the only thing that really mattered was—they were alive.

“Thank you,” she gasped when Byrne returned, having organized a bucket brigade and informed the fire squad of the location of the blaze. “Thank you for saving them . . . us.”

His coal black eyes looked more accusing than concerned now. “How did it start?”

“I don't know,” Louise said. “The boy was sleeping in the back room. I suppose he must have knocked over a lantern.” Her chest hurt. She had to stop and cough before going on. “We've no gaslights. Sometimes Amanda leaves a candle or small lamp lit to soothe the child to sleep. There are no windows to let in light.”

She was sick with the realization of how close she'd come to losing them both.

“So you believe this was an accident?”

“What else could it be?”

He stared pointedly at her.

“Oh, no, it couldn't have been the Fenians. Why would they have targeted . . .” But perhaps it was possible.

Amanda gave her a look then buried her face in her little boy's scorched hair.

All around them, men rushed with hoses, buckets, and bowls—anything that might carry water. Others shouted encouragement and pushed a steam pumper into position. They doused not only the shop but also the neighboring buildings. If not contained, a fire like this could devastate entire blocks of the city.

Then the skies opened up and heaven released a deluge on them. Louise just sat there, soaking wet but grateful for the rain. Without it this might have been a far worse disaster.

Byrne said, “Let's move you, Amanda, and the boy to the carriage. I've had your driver take it down the street out of reach of the fire.”

When they reached the barouche, her driver gave Louise a sheepish look as he helped Amanda and Eddie into the carriage. Louise supposed she couldn't blame him for his refusal to enter the burning building, as terrifying as the fire had been. Still, she would not use him in the future.

“We should get all of you to the hospital,” Byrne said.

Amanda shook her head weakly. “No. Please, take us home. My husband will see to us.”

Louise understood. With the mention of the Fenians they all naturally wanted to be in a safe place. Or was there another explanation?

“Darvey,” Amanda whispered, turning to Byrne.

He scowled at her then shouted up at the driver, “Drive on, man!”

“The bawd. He might do something like this for revenge.”

Byrne's jaw clenched. His neck muscles corded taut as ship's rigging. “Tell me exactly what you saw and heard just before the fire broke out.”

“Nothing, actually.”

“No threats shouted at you or the shop? No Irish radical slogans found lying about?”

She supposed she knew what he was getting at. Why bother to burn them out if they didn't take the opportunity to deliver their message and at least take credit?

“None,” she said.

“And you heard no sounds of someone breaking in?”

“No,” Amanda answered for her.