The Wild Princess (23 page)

Twenty-five

Rupert Clark looked up at Westminster Cathedral's soaring tower. He knew only enough about architecture to be surprised by the exotic mixture of light and dark brick work. It seemed more like something out of the Arabian Nights stories his ma used to read to him than in the middle of an English city. The cathedral was, of course, much larger than any church he'd attended as a boy. Meeting the Lieutenant here in the Chapel of the Martyrs seemed appropriate and reinforced his belief they were doing God's work.

Although . . . he wasn't 'specially keen to be a martyr himself.

Of course, Ma wouldn't have approved of his methods. But results were what counted. Hadn't she been firm in believing the South could only survive if it separated from the North? And wasn't it just as important to the Irish to have their own governance?

So maybe God hadn't been with them at Vicksburg after all. But He must have sorely regretted His neglect. The Fenians were giving God another chance.

Rupert led Will up the cathedral's steps. The interior was breathtaking with its soaring ceiling, mosaics, carvings, gilded statuary, and hundreds of varieties of marble. At first he felt disoriented by the magnitude of it all. They wandered along the nave and took several wrong turns into alcoves, each with its own altar, before they came upon the chapel where the Lieutenant had told them to meet him.

Will hadn't said a word since the runner delivered the note, calling them to a meeting. Now he followed along like a puppy dog—obedient but restless.

“Cat got your tongue?” Rupert asked. He breathed in a heady whiff of incense that had drifted from some unseen source. It reminded him of mass, back home, the priests dangling that smoking ornament that released a sweet scent.

Will frowned. “I's just wonderin' who this Lieutenant is.”

“Don't,” Rupert said. “These Irish lads don't want their names bandied about.”

“I mean, in a general sorta way. Is he a priest? Is that why we're in a church?”

“Might be. Or he could just be clever. Safer this way, ain't it? Away from prying eyes.”

“I guess.”

Rupert stepped farther into the chapel. The atmosphere felt cleaner here, fresher than out in the street's stench. Here he smelled ancient wood, fresh wax, and odd aromas like the bear grease some gentlemen used to groom their mustaches or the rose water old ladies splashed on instead of taking a bath.

Fat, little crimson glass devotion candles burned in a rising bank, beckoning him toward them. He would light one before he went into the confessional. Might as well look the part.

“I don't need to go in there, do I?” Will slanted a sideways glance toward the chapel's altar. He'd once said churches spooked him.

“No. I'll do it. You take on a prayerful attitude. See that old lady there?” Rupert pointed to a woman whose head was bowed as she prayed from her knees. “Do like that. Down on the kneeler, eyes closed, and no looking around. You know how to pray, don't you?”

“Don't look hard,” Will said.

Rupert paused to genuflect and cross himself at the altar. The gesture reassured him. One of their jobs had gone sour, although it wasn't his fault. Who could have predicted the queen's entourage would be diverted just two miles before the trap he'd laid on the road north of London? He'd expected the Lieutenant would give them another chance, and he had. Their next two jobs had been spectacular successes.

He was going to have to ask for more money soon; their living expenses had nearly run out. This wasn't like the army, where you got fed and paid regular. But it made sense for the Fenians to see to their troops' needs. If he and Will had to fend for themselves, get jobs or steal to feed and shelter themselves, they would become too visible—and that wasn't good for the cause.

“Be right back,” Rupert said, spotting the dark wood confessionals the note had described, along the right side wall of the chapel. As he walked away he heard Will struggling with the kneeler. It clunked down on the marble floor with a dull echo. He should have shown him how it worked so he wouldn't be so clumsy with it. But there was only the one old woman in the chapel, so it probably didn't matter if the boy seemed a little nervous. Didn't lots of people get nervy before making their confessions? Facing your sins—your mortality.

He stepped into the penitents' side of the booth and closed the door behind him. It smelled musty inside—a good kind of odor, comforting. He imagined this was how tradition smelled. On the other side of the screen he saw a shadow move. For a moment, his heart leaped into his throat, and he worried there might be a real priest waiting to hear his confession.

Just to be sure he knelt down, folded his hands, and murmured the words he hadn't said in a very long time, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” He continued the familiar litany. The time that had passed since his last confession—more than six years, he guessed. And he was about to start listing his sins, but not all of them of course, when he remembered the agreed upon password. “Oh, and also, Father, I come from Appomattox.”

A soft sound came to him, as if whoever was on the other side of the grille was also relieved. “Any trouble coming here unobserved?” a voice said.

“None, sir.”

The invisible man said something in a low whisper Rupert didn't at first understand. “Sorry?”

“On your seat, the envelope.”

“Oh.” He shifted his hips and only then saw the small rectangular shape. When he picked it up it felt thick between his fingers.

“Open it.”

He slid his thumb under the flap and tore upward, making a ragged paper mouth. Although he couldn't see in the darkness he could feel the leaves of banknotes inside.

“That should keep you comfortably for a while longer,” the man said. His accent told Rupert he was definitely a Brit, and educated.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Now we get down to business,” the man whispered, “before the priests return to wash away the weighty sins of old women and small boys.”

Rupert smiled. Was the man making a joke? He decided it was safer not to laugh. “Yes, sir, to our task.”

“I have a very important mission for you and your partner. We fear that our membership has been compromised by a spy in our midst. There is a job that must be done immediately. We cannot take the chance that those involved will be spotted and identified. You and your partner are new to the country, it's unlikely the queen's protectors know you.”

“Yes, sir.” Rupert could sense his value had just increased tenfold. He felt gratified.

“In that same envelope you've just received, you will find a photograph. Tonight when the opera lets out, the man in that picture will leave and, as is his habit, walk across the park to his club. If he is alone, you will kill him quickly and quietly before he has a chance to leave the park. If he is accompanied, you must kill whoever is with him as well.”

“What if he has several companions?”

“That might be a problem. Perhaps you can isolate him. The important thing is that you cannot be caught, and if you are— nothing of our organization can be revealed.”

“Understood.”

“We count on your silence.”

Did the man think he was inexperienced in warfare? Rupert shook off the sting of resentment. He was, after all, a soldier and knew what was expected of a soldier.

“Who is the target?”

“You will recognize him from the picture when you see it. The man's death will be a powerful and personal blow to the queen, as he is a favorite of hers. This will be the first part of a double strike against her. After you have carried out the mission, we will claim responsibility.”

“How do I—”

“The method is up to you, but circumstances dictate stealth and speed. I would suggest a knife.”

Rupert nodded. Hand-to-hand combat wasn't his specialty, bombs being a far less intimate weapon than a blade. But he'd been trained for such operations in the army. He made no objection.

“Tonight you said,” Rupert murmured. “So soon?”

“It must be tonight. There will be no better chance.”

“Then it will be done. Is that all?” He waited for a response or some signal that the meeting was over, but none came. “Sir?” he whispered.

After another few seconds he sensed that the priest's box was empty. He hadn't heard so much as the creak of a door.

Rupert walked out of the confessional, head bowed, fingers clasped, and knelt beside Will. “Did you see him?” Rupert asked.

“Who?”

Rupert sighed. “Never mind.” He drew the envelope from his inside jacket pocket and peered inside. Will bent over to see what he was doing.

Rupert silently counted the banknotes. Many more than he'd expected. At least a month's worth of generous wages for the two of them. He smiled then felt the stiffer backing paper of a photograph. When he pulled it out, he saw that it wasn't a simple daguerreotype. It was an elaborate calling card with the gentleman's full standing image in an elegant pose on the front, his signature superimposed over the picture, his address on the reverse.

“Who's that?” Will whispered.

“Our target.”

His partner scowled. “Dapper fellow. Can't read the signature though.”

Rupert smiled at the importance of their job. “This is Mr. Benjamin Disraeli.”

Twenty-six

Louise stood in the front room of her little consignment shop and looked around at the nearly empty shelves. Nothing could have made her happier.

She had proposed a Saturday Fire Sale. Amanda wrote the announcements, posted the broadsides, and ran an advertisement in the
Times
. The publicity brought in new customers and resulted in twice as many sales as on any previous day of business. Starting early in the morning, customers crowded into the little shop looking for bargains. They'd bought nearly everything she'd put out.

Now that she and her staff had scrubbed down the walls of the display room, the stench of charred wood was tolerable. After a good bleaching, most of the doilies, antimacassars, linens, and delicate handwork had been restored nearly to their original color. Well, close enough anyway. Pristine whites became cream, butter creams became ecru, ecru became chocolate brown. No one the wiser. Nevertheless some articles were more obviously smoke damaged and could only be sold at much reduced prices.

Now that the shop was closed for the night—Amanda having left to make dinner for her husband and little boy, her shopgirls exhausted and dismissed—Louise stayed on after dark to finish her inventory.

It seemed a miracle that the fire brigade had been able to save the building. But they had, with the help of the rain. And the day after the fire her merchant neighbors gathered round to lend a hand in making repairs. They brought with them a carpenter and crew who replaced weakened or fallen timbers to make certain the building was safe. A glazier replaced the front window for the cost of the precious glass. Others volunteered to help clean and put out at the curb anything Louise deemed too damaged to sell in the shop. No sooner was an item set out than it disappeared. Londoners were great re-users. Even the humblest of items would bring a small profit to someone on the street.

Now it was dark outside, the gaslights dimly glowing, passersby dwindling. Louise set the
CLOSED
sign in her new window, framed by lovely gingham curtains donated by Belle & Co, down the street, then she finished moving a half dozen large wooden picture frames to the street. Even damaged, she'd thought they might sell. Now she decided that was unlikely. If nothing else, they'd make firewood to warm someone.

When Louise returned to the shop for her reticule and shawl, she heard footsteps approach close to the front of the shop then hesitate before moving on. She turned just in time to see a shadow pass in front of the display window then stop again. A face, features obscured in the dark, peered in through the glass. She held her breath, trying to remember if she'd locked the door after stepping back inside.

A terrible thought struck her: Darvey had not yet been caught. There was no guarantee he wouldn't return.

Before she could dive for the latch, the door swung open and a figure stepped through.

She fell back with a gasp, hand to her throat.

Stephen Byrne took off his hat and moved into the light of the only lamp still burning.

“Dear Lord, you terrified me!”

He gave her an unconcerned look then took in the rest of the room. “I saw the light on and assumed, at this late hour, someone had broken in.”

“Late? Is it?” She supposed it was. But when she worked as hard as she'd done this day, time flew.

“Where is your carriage?” he asked.

“I sent it away long ago. There was too much to do here to have a driver sitting outside waiting for me.”

“And you intended to return to the palace how?”

“That's what hansom cabs are for, I believe.” She was in no mood for a scolding.

He shook his head at her, smoothed the brim of his hat with the backs of his strong fingers.

“You find taking a hired cab so unusual?” she said. “People do it all the time.”

“Not the queen's daughter. Have you no regard at all for your safety? Spending daylight hours here with others to keep you company is one thing. But it's nearly eleven o'clock. No one at the palace knew where you were.”

So he'd come intentionally looking for her, maybe was even sent by her mother.

She turned away from him, pretending to straighten a much diminished stack of aprons, handmade by a clever little seamstress whose products sold almost as soon as they hit her shelves. “I care about my safety almost as much as I care about my freedom. I refuse to surrender my ability to move about the city.”

She felt him step up closer behind her. “The rest of this can wait for another day,” he said. “You look exhausted. You can't have had much sleep since the fire. I'll deliver you home.”

She stiffened, a frisson of irritation creeping up her spine. “You'll
deliver
me? Like a parcel?”

His voice dropped an octave lower, a shade softer. “Like a woman who needs a bath and food.”

Louise plucked a hothouse rose from the arrangement sent to her by her neighboring merchants, sniffed its fragrance, and turned to narrow her eyes at him. If he thought she'd allow him to boss her around, he was mistaken. She thrust her chin forward and stepped toward him. “And you'll no doubt instruct my maid to escort me straight off to bed?”

“It wouldn't be a bad idea.” His eyes had focused on her face, on her mouth to be precise, in a most disturbing way.

Something came over her—an inexplicable urge to tease or put him in his place or even to shock him.

“You worry more than my old nurse.” She slipped the rose into the buttonhole in his coat's lapel and stretched up on the tips of her toes, intending to plant a mollifying kiss on his roguish whisker-stubbled cheek.

At the last moment, he turned his head just enough to meet her lips with his. The kiss was no more than a brush of their mouths, but she laughed, delighted with herself for flirting a bit and even more so for the look of surprise on his face.

Before she could draw away, the scent of his skin came to her. The tiny follicles of ebony hair in his sideburns swam in front of her eyes, and her fingertips itched to reach up and stroke the spot just there in front of his ear. Her breath caught, and she prudently backed away.

How long had it been since she'd felt such a thrill at being close to a man? Delicious.

Half a second later, she glimpsed the warning flare in his eyes.

“No,” she breathed, instinctively raising her hands between them.

One step forward was all he needed to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her up hard against his chest. Her eyes flew wide. She whimpered as his mouth came down over hers. Unlike the other, this kiss was hard and hot and shockingly intimate.

When he released her mouth, she felt dizzy, bewildered. Perhaps her teasing had backfired?

“Don't play games with me, Princess,” Byrne warned, his voice abrasive with emotion she couldn't identify. “You won't like my rules.”

He released her as abruptly as he'd seized her. She staggered away, out of breath, supporting herself against the new pine shelving. “Why did you . . . do
that
?”

“If you're going to throw yourself at a man, you might as well do it right.”

“Throw? Throw myself at—” She gulped down a bubble of indignation. “That wasn't my intent.”

“Really.”

“It was more a kiss to—well, to gently chide you. A sisterly kiss.” Did even she believe that?

He glowered at her, black eyes fierce, glittering in the brilliant flame in the lamp. “I'm not your brother.”

She was totally confused now. “You sound angry. How can
you
be offended when
you're
the one who has behaved in such an abominable manner?”

For a heartbeat, it appeared he was vacillating between diving for the door and wringing her neck. Just in case, she stepped behind the sales counter. He tossed his hat on it and vaulted over.

She screamed when he came up just short of plowing into her and knocking her over. Byrne gripped her shoulders between his two wide hands.

“When you look at a man that way, Louise, you can't expect him to control himself forever. What is it you really want? Tell me.”

“Want?” She shook her head, trying to come up with something acceptable, but all she could think was that she'd really like for him to kiss her again. Maybe even harder. Longer. On other places than her mouth.
Oh, Lord!

Lorne had kissed her no more intimately than a tidy peck on the cheek, and only in front of others, for effect. She had enjoyed no real affection from any man since Donovan disappeared—unless you counted the occasional, brief physical contact necessary while dancing at a ball.

But wasn't this sort of scenario what she'd imagined when Byrne appeared in her nighttime fantasies? A romantic interlude. A stolen kiss. A forbidden touch then regretful parting. And sometimes . . . sometimes she opened herself to far more intimate possibilities.

“I want you to”—she blinked up at him, stalling for time and sensible words—“to go outside and summon a hansom for us, while I finish up here.”

The tension in his features dissolved into something that was almost a smile, even though he didn't release his grip on her. He slowly shook his head. “Liar.”

What to say to convince him? She simply couldn't allow the man to think . . . to
know
that she had lustful thoughts whenever he came near her.

“Princess?” He gave her a little shake. “I asked what you want from me.”

How could she think at all when he was touching her and standing so close she could feel the warmth of his body all down her front? She cleared her throat and said, “I want you to . . . to tell me this instant what you've found out about Donovan.”

The amusement in his eyes faded. The flesh around his mouth tightened. “Your friend is in Paris. Or, at least, that was his intention.”

“In Paris? But this is good news. Wonderful news.” Surprisingly, she had to work at sounding excited. “It was my mother, wasn't it? She made him leave.”

Byrne released her shoulders and stepped back to rub the knuckles of one hand across his eyes. A moment earlier he'd seemed so very animated. But now, for the first time, she realized how tired he looked. “There is that chance,” he said.

“She sent him away, didn't she? Oh, Mother, you've taken so much from me—but this is . . . is . . . But she didn't hurt him. I mean, send someone to beat him or—”

“Whatever might have transpired, it appears he's survived. You can be happy about that.”

“Yes, I suppose I can.” But the question remained, if he was alive why had he not at least tried to get word to her? If he longed for her as she longed for him . . .

At least she had always thought she longed for Donovan. Being kissed by Byrne was affecting her strangely. She had trouble remembering what it felt like when the young artist had made love to her. Whereas she still felt the demanding pressure of Byrne's lips on hers. She shook her head to drive away the unsettling sensations.

“Thank you for finding him. Did you see him?”

“No. A man owes me a small favor. He lives in Paris and was good enough to spend some time asking around about your Donovan.”

My
Donovan? Was he still hers? Had he ever been?

“And he's there, in Paris . . . in good health and painting still?”

“So my source tells me.”

“Good,” she murmured. “Yes, very good work, Mr. Byrne.” This was all so confusing. Perhaps changing the topic was best. “And you've confronted Mr. Darvey about the fire?”

“Next on my list.”

She gave a firm nod. “Excellent.” Louise took a deep breath, stepped out from behind the counter, and looked away from Stephen Byrne, not wanting to see his reaction to what she had to say next. “And once Darvey's been dealt with, I suspect there will be very little reason for you and I to see each other.”

“I suppose not,” he said after a moment.

She'd handled that well. She was letting him know she wasn't interested in having a lover. This was a proper and much more satisfying way of managing the incident of the accidental kiss.

Future awkwardness averted.

And yet . . . she still hadn't answered his question. What
did
she want?