The Wild Princess (33 page)

Christian's eyes flared for a moment then settled back into calm, brown ponds. “I assume by that you mean a mistress?”

“Your father was away from Germany so much of the time. It seems not unlikely.”

The young baron sighed. “I am sure there were many women of various sorts with whom he kept company.”

Louise looked deflated, as if she too suddenly realized they were destined to come away empty-handed. “No one special?”

Christian looked down at his blotter then back up to her. “Every family has its, shall we say, black sheep?”

“True.” Louise exchanged a hopeful look with Byrne, and he wondered if she considered herself the black sheep of her family.

“After my father died,” Christian continued, “I had to go through his papers, pay off enormous debts, inform correspondents of his death.” He swallowed and looked away in pain, as if the words he was attempting to force past his lips had razor edges. “He had a bastard child.”

“I see,” Louise said.

“I suppose he would be about my age today. It seems Father gave the child's mother support and arranged for the boy's education. Before Father died, he used what influence he could to find my half brother a respectable position.”

“And you discovered all of this through his papers?” Byrne asked. Christian nodded. “Do you know his name?”

“If he's kept the one I saw in the documents, yes.”

“Did you ever meet your half brother?” Louise asked.

“No.” Christian's eyes widened in shock. “Nor do I ever wish to,” he nearly shouted, and seemed stunned at the sudden silence when he stopped speaking. “I'm sorry. This is unpleasant and embarrassing family history. I should have said nothing.”

“If you never met him,” Louise said gently, “I don't suppose you know how he might have felt about the baron's fall from power.”

Christian considered this as if it were an entirely new thought to him. “I suppose his view of our father might have been very different from mine. He certainly saw our father more often than I did.”

And,
Byrne thought,
this other son might have been grateful for the education and other benefits he and his mother received over the years.

“Will you tell us his name?” Louise asked.

“Philip Andrew. His mother was Irish, her family from County Cork, from what I've been able to learn. I assume he took his mother's name, since my father never publicly acknowledged him. Prince Albert, you see, knew my mother and considered Father morally irreproachable. He wouldn't have tolerated the scandal.” Christian drew a breath, let it out, picked out a spot on the wall and seemed intent on studying it.

“And the mother's name?” Byrne pressed. His hopes rising, he could hear his own pulse thumping encouragement in his ears.

“The documents and letters I found mentioned a Mary Rhodes.”

Byrne frowned. Where had he heard that name before? It clanked in his head, begging for him to remember. Rhodes . . . Rhodes . . . Rhodes.

When he glanced at Louise, he saw her face had gone as white as the pearls at her throat. She blinked at him, warning him to silence.

“Thank you, Christian,” she said. “We will bother you no longer.”

Forty-two

Louise felt as though the air in the room suddenly had turned to porridge. It was far too thick to breathe. Her head spun. She stood up from her chair and reached blindly for Byrne's arm. Somewhere in the distance she heard Stephen thanking Christian Stockmar for his time. She barely felt him guide her outside and into the carriage.

“To the palace,” Byrne called up to the driver then turned to her, looking worried. “Are you all right?”

She waved off his concern and concentrated on taking as deep breaths as her horrid corset stays allowed.

“Rhodes,” Byrne said. “He's one of your mother's staff?”

“No.” She shook her head violently. “Philip Rhodes is the prime minister's secretary. He has access to all of our residences, either while accompanying Mr. Gladstone or when transporting documents to and from my mother.”

“The day of the rats, was he—”

“Yes, both Gladstone and Disraeli were there that afternoon. Gladstone had his secretary with him to take notes of their meeting with my mother.” Her mention of the former prime minister's name set off another suspicion. “Oh lord, the murder of the two clerks—one resembled Disraeli.”

“But Rhodes would have nothing against the former PM,” Byrne said.

“True, but his employer does. They are bitter political opponents. Do you suppose Mr. Gladstone himself might have ordered Rhodes to kill Disraeli? That he also might have wished to terrify my mother and all of us by delivering the rats?”

Byrne was shaking his head before she finished talking. “Gladstone seems to me a cold, calculating, and ruthless man, politically. But I can't see him sending anyone to knock off his Tory foes. Aside from that, there's no love lost between Gladstone and the Irish rebels. He'd never do anything to aid the radicals' cause. And remember, they claimed responsibility for the murders.”

She reached for his hand as the carriage rattled away down the street. “Then Rhodes is acting independently?”

“It would seem.” He gripped her fingers so tightly she knew he was unaware that he was hurting her. She loosened his strong fingers before they crushed hers.

He leaned back in the carriage, propped one foot on his other knee, closing his eyes in thought. Absently, he stroked the back of her hand. “Let us assume Philip Rhodes had an innate hatred for your mother, passed to him from his father. The baron likely complained to the boy about the queen and their battle for control over the royal household. When Albert passed away and Victoria dismissed the baron, Rhodes would have been . . . how old?” He opened his eyes and looked at her.

“Perhaps eighteen, nineteen,” she supplied.

“He would have felt the shame of his father's being tossed out of England. Most likely any financial support he had been receiving from the baron was reduced or cut off entirely.”

“Oh, dear,” she said.

Byrne continued with his theory. “So we can assume the young man felt the sting of his father's banishment to Germany in more ways than one. For his father's sake, and for his mother's as well as for himself, as they were now suddenly very poor.”

Louise felt an urgency to be back with her family. To warn them. Protect them in whatever way she could. As familiar streets swept past she counted the minutes.

They were nearly to Buckingham when Byrne's eyes flashed open and he snapped out of his silent contemplation to speak again. “The real question is, how deeply is Rhodes connected with the Fenians?”

She gasped. “You really think it's not just a personal grudge? You believe he is in league with them?”

“It makes sense he would align himself with others who have a reason to hate the queen and wish to do her harm. And he
is
Irish on his mother's side. The Secret Service suspects the Fenians have infiltrated the government and placed some of their officers in high positions. It would be to their advantage to have direct access to the prime minister.”

Louise shuddered. How she wished she could remember everything that had happened on
The Day of the Rats
. Where had Rhodes been? With Gladstone the entire time? Might he have left the PM long enough to wend his way through the palace to the old nursery wing and drop off his filthy cargo? And how would he have carried live beasts, undetected?

A vision of the man swam before her eyes. Germanic features, but with unlikely dark hair (black Irish, they called that coloring), and not tall like his father. He often carried a briefcase the size of a small trunk—easily large enough to accommodate a ream of paper.

Or perhaps three drugged rats?

Forty-three

Louise fairly flew through the long hallway, her mind gathering up and trying to make sense of scattered facts she and Byrne had discussed in the carriage less than an hour before. It was the logistics of the day that Byrne couldn't verify. Where had Rhodes been in the palace, if not always with Gladstone? Or were they jumping to unsupportable conclusions? It was still possible someone else was to blame for the rats and the information leaks. After all, they had no proof Rhodes was the culprit.

While Byrne was off trying to locate and talk to Philip Rhodes, they'd agreed Louise might find out if anyone in the palace remembered seeing the secretary in or near the nursery that memorable day. She interviewed several of the queen's guardsmen. One remembered guiding a “lost” secretary back out of the wing of private suites.

She was on her way to her own room when she rounded a corner and ran straight into Lorne. He braced her shoulders between two hands. “Ah there, darling, where are you racing to? I've been looking all over for you.”

“Have you?” Her head hummed with her news. She needed to tell Byrne what she'd learned. But how to reach him? She could send a messenger to intercept him at Gladstone's address, since she was fairly certain that would be one of his stops.

“Yes, I have,” Lorne said. “Come have tea with me.”

“I'm sorry, I can't now,” she said breathlessly.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”
Everything!

She suddenly thought it unwise to reveal all she and Byrne had recently discovered. They had found one culprit, one man who well might be in league with the Fenians. But that wasn't to say there might not be others in their midst. They'd agreed to tell no one, not even her mother, until they had evidence to support their accusations.

It seemed disloyal to not be totally honest with her own husband, but when it came right down to it, hadn't she already been unfaithful to him in other ways?

His deep blue eyes delved into hers. “It's rather important that we talk, dear girl. I don't think it can wait.” It wasn't like him to be this insistent. Had he somehow found out she'd slept with Stephen Byrne?

“All right,” she said. “Where shall we sit?”

“The Breakfast Room, I should think.”

She glanced sideways at him as they walked, puzzling over the reason for this emergency conversation. When he offered his arm, she took it with reluctance. Their charade of intimacy no longer felt even vaguely right.

“Your hair isn't done today, again,” he said. She thought she heard censure in his tone.

“I prefer it loose.”

He smiled. “So you've said before. But you look like a young girl, rather wild and free.”

“Is that so bad?” She lifted a brow at him.

“Your mother was remarking she wished you would let your maid crimp and arrange it for you.”

Louise grimaced. She would wear her hair as she pleased, just as she would live her life as she pleased. She hoped Lorne wouldn't take up her mother's harangue about her choice of clothing and hair fashion.

“Is this what was so important—how I wear my hair?” She couldn't hide her annoyance.

“No.” He laughed. “Oh, no, good God, it's far more significant than that.” He waved a hand at her light-colored day dress, another departure from the more formal styles and dark hues of the times. “That's quite pretty, my dear.”

Why, she wondered, the weak attempt at conciliatory flattery? If that was what it was.

When they reached the Breakfast Room, she saw that a pot of tea and plate of biscuits had already been laid out on one of the small, square tables draped in white damask. The Chinese decor of the room had been transplanted from Brighton Pavilion, when the property had been sold off nearly twenty-five years earlier to pay for the renovations at Buckingham requested by her parents. Priceless Oriental vases, tapestries, and Persian carpeting complemented the borrowed Brighton fixtures. Although the room itself was the size of Amanda's entire house, it was an intimate retreat when compared to the vast formal salons of Buckingham, and she loved it.

So, Lorne had actually staged this meeting. Louise slanted him a suspicious look, which he didn't acknowledge.

She took up the task of pouring for them, to cover for her nerves. He settled into the gilt, upholstered chair across from her. When they each had their tea, he took a breath and smiled at her.

“I have exciting news, darling,” he said.

“Yes?” She sipped and found the Darjeeling just the right temperature.

“The queen, your mother that is, has offered me an excellent position within the government.”

She smiled at him, relieved. If that was all this was about . . . “I'm so glad. It's what you wanted, isn't it?”

“Yes,” he said, looking away. “I want to be useful, to have a career beyond just sitting in the House of Lords.”

“Do I sense reservation in your tone?” She sipped again then put down her cup and saucer.

“Not at all. I believe it's an ideal situation for us.”

Suddenly suspicious, she turned her full attention on him. “Us?”

“Well, yes, of course.” He picked up his cup and saucer but returned them to the table without drinking. “I believe you will enjoy the adventure.”

“We aren't leaving London, are we?”

The corners of his lips tweaked up but never reached a smile. “I'm to be posted to Canada, as the new governor of the commonwealth.”

Louise felt her stomach drop. A weight pressed down on her chest, not unlike the crushing sensations during her last two months of pregnancy carrying Eddie. “Canada? But that's so far from—” She closed her eyes and swallowed.
So far from Stephen.
She'd only just found him. Only just now understood how much she loved him. “How long before we must leave?” After all, it might be months, and plans change. She might persuade her mother that Lorne wasn't the man for the position.

“Three weeks, maybe less.” He said it so quietly she barely heard. He seemed unable to meet her eyes.

Louise shot to her feet, fists clenched at her sides so tightly they hurt. “Why, Lorne? Why does she not put you in charge of one of our estates, or let you manage game and fisheries for the family. You'd like that—wouldn't you?”

He stared down at his clasped hands. “She didn't give me her reasons.”

Her skin itched with her fury. Only the tightness in her throat kept her from screaming. This whole scheme smelled of her mother's manipulation. Why? Why send her away now?

Then it struck her. Of course. Victoria had somehow caught wind of her affair with Stephen Byrne. Or else she'd merely assumed they were lovers, or soon to be.

“She has no right to do this to me,” she spat, fighting back tears of rage. “No right!”

Lorne launched himself out of his chair and knelt beside her, taking her hands in his. “My dear, I'm so sorry. I had no idea the news would be other than pleasing to you.”

He did appear sincere. But she pushed him away, freeing herself to pace the carpet.

“Listen, darling, this will mean adjustments for me as well.” He stood and brushed off the knees of his trousers. “I shall have to bid farewell to many dear friends in London. But I'm sure we will each find new companions to our liking.”

“Don't you understand?” She turned on him and stomped her foot for emphasis. “This is punishment, not a reward. She's getting rid of the troublemakers in her life. Us!”

“Oh, now that's a bit overly harsh, don't you th—”

“It's the truth, Lorne. She might have had her suspicions about your habits before we wed, but now she is convinced, and she'll do anything to avoid scandal. Anything. That's the one thing she fears. She dodged it once before, when my indiscretions—”

“Yes, the art school boy, wasn't it?” He laughed. “That's not such a horrid thing, dear girl. An innocent fling. More young ladies than their mothers can imagine wander before they're wed.”

“But they don't all have babies!” she shouted at him.

He stared at her. The room fell silent. “A child? You bore a child? What happened to it? No, don't tell me. I don't want to know.” His face turned a sickly moss green. “Oh dear. So it's true. She wants you away from London and the gossip.”

“And you. I suppose she thinks that the company you'll keep in Canada, if done discreetly, will likely stay on that side of the Atlantic.”

He smiled sadly. “Well, at least it isn't Newgate.”

Louise bit down on her bottom lip and tried to rally her courage. But it was no use. Lost. She felt abysmally lost. She'd enjoyed a fragile glimpse of happiness. But fate had swept it away as quickly as it had come.
Oh, Stephen.

She looked at her young husband. He stood, shoulders bowed, eyes filling with tears—the image of utter desolation. He was dependent upon her for his very life. If he refused the post her mother offered him and stayed in London, living as he was doing, he might well be arrested, might never survive whatever sentence he was given as punishment for loving in a way society didn't understand.

And wasn't she in love with a man other than her husband, and breaking the laws of morality in her own way?
What a pair we are
.

“I'll go with you,” she whispered. “Don't worry.” She stepped up to Lorne and combed his long blond hair out of his beautiful blue eyes with her fingertips, as if he were her little brother. “It will be all right, Lorne.”

He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “My dear,” he said, “I don't know what to say. Thank you.”

There was no other way. Her mother had won. Again.

Lorne sniffled, pulling himself erect, then shyly looped his long arms around her and held her. He was not Stephen Byrne. Could never be Stephen. But there was some measure of comfort in his embrace.

“I promise. I'll make this up to you. Somehow, I do most solemnly promise.”

Foolish, foolish man,
she thought.