The Wild Princess (35 page)

Forty-six

Byrne whistled up another hansom cab and rode directly to the address Prime Minister Gladstone had given him. He could have taken one of Buckingham's carriages when he'd set out earlier, but he didn't want to mark himself as coming from the palace.

Philip Rhodes lived in Bloomsbury, a respectable area of professional families. The town house appeared to have been divided into three ample flats. He knocked at the door and an aged man promptly answered. A quick conversation established that he was the landlord/owner who let out the two upper floors while he lived on the ground level.

“Is Mr. Rhodes in?” Byrne asked.

“He is expecting you, sir?”

“Actually, I'd rather hoped to surprise him.” Byrne showed off his most winsome smile and hoped for the best.

“Well, you can knock if you like. He's right above me. But I've neither seen nor heard from him in three days, which is odd I have to say. He is a man of impeccable routine, he is, Mr. Rhodes. In and out of the house like clockwork.” He chuckled. “Private secretary to his honor the PM. Did you know that?”

“So I've heard. I'll give it a go then, just in case,” Byrne said pleasantly.

He climbed to the next floor. Instead of knocking, he pressed an ear to the door and listened. Nothing. The rooms had the feel of a vacuum. No living sound from within, not even the buzz of a fly.

“You may have to knock rather louder,” the landlord shouted up the stairs. “He sometimes gets involved in his little hobbies and takes no note of the outside world.”

“Thank you,” Byrne called back to him. “But I think I hear someone stirring inside.” Although he did not.

He snapped open the blade of his knife and ran it along the crack between door panel and jamb. Its tip stopped at what felt like a latch. He manipulated the blade cautiously. Heard it give. But he did not swing the door open. Ever so gently, Byrne eased the door less than half an inch. Although the light in the hallway was limited by the single window at its end, he could just make out a slender wire as delicate as a spider's web.

Clark's handiwork, no doubt, on behalf of his boss.

He remembered seeing such an arrangement once before. That time his sergeant had beat him to the door. Before Byrne could warn him, the older man shouldered his way into the booby-trapped shed. The explosion had killed him instantly.

Now Byrne gently angled the knife blade and then two fingers through the crack and slowly sawed at the wire, supporting it with his fingers to avoid putting pressure on whatever it was attached to. He held his breath. Sweat dribbled beneath his shirt, pooling at the base of his spine, chilling the flesh in a spot the size of a silver dollar.

At first he worried the knife might only be sliding over the wire, doing no real work. But at last the strand divided. Standing back in the hallway, as far away from the door as possible, Byrne lifted one boot and eased open the door with his toe.

The hinge creaked but made no louder complaint. He breathed again.

When he walked in he left the door ajar behind him. The single window in the combined sitting and bedroom was closed but unlatched—Clark's means of escape after setting the booby trap.

The room was not what he'd expected of a highly organized man. No clothing remained in the freestanding cupboard, but two flannel shirts and several pairs of socks in need of darning lay on the floor. The mattress had been slit open and sagged in a deflated lump off the bed frame. A mirror that had hung on the wall, as evidenced by the less faded rectangle of wallpaper, rested with its reverse side to the room, its brown paper backing torn off and hanging in shreds. Books were stacked against one wall on the floor and on top of the dresser. It was as if all that had been deemed important in the room had been hastily removed and all else abandoned.

The landlord would not be pleased.

Byrne went first to the mirror. The paper backing appeared newer than the mirror itself, which had undoubtedly come with the room's furnishings. In fact, as he squatted over it he could see that it already had a much sturdier cardboard backing, probably the original. So Rhodes had hidden something of value here. Something thin. Letters or money? Maps? Or plans of some sort. Maybe blueprints of a targeted building. Whatever it was, it was gone now.

His stomach churned. Why remove something you'd hidden in a presumably safe place . . . unless you are ready to use it?

He turned to the disheveled bed. More than half of the straw stuffing was gone from the mattress. Not just pulled out, totally gone. Something had been stored in its place, stuffed up inside the mattress casing.

Byrne squatted down to study the canvas sack. He thrust his hand inside, felt around. Just straw. He ran his hand along the bed frame. He stretched out flat on his belly and slid head first beneath the oak frame.

“Hey, what you doing there, mister?” The landlord, at the door.

Byrne paid him no mind.

“You're destroying private property. Won't have none of that, will we now? I'm fetching the bobby down the corner, I am. Mr. Rhodes he'll be furious when he sees . . .” The voice faded down the stairwell. An outside door banged shut.

Byrne rolled to his side, letting in more light from the window, through the frame's slats and past his shoulder. There. There
it
was, as he'd suspected. He licked his finger and touched it to the floorboards midway across the width of the bed. When he scooted out from beneath the frame and lifted his finger to the light, fine blue-black flecks speckled his fingertip.

Charcoal, saltpeter, and sulfur. Black powder.

Rhodes had stored it here. A terrifyingly powerful supply, he estimated from the portion of the mattress that had been left empty. And now it was gone.

Which meant the Fenians were about to use it. For all he knew, the bomb might already be in place.

The question was—where?

Forty-seven

Louise peered out through the window at the top of the grand staircase overlooking the courtyard. Preparation for the Accession Day celebration had proceeded with all the energy of a military campaign. Servants had prepared elegant suites in the palace for distinguished guests. A steady stream of vendors delivered meats, fish, produce, grains, vegetables in abundance to the kitchens, hour after hour, day and night. Tonight the gala dinner would place immense pressure on the staff. Extra help had been hired, trained, liveried. Two footmen would attend each guest. The concert following the banquet included performances by scores of musicians and two famous composers.

Every person allowed entry into Buckingham Palace to work there was interviewed by the queen's security detail. No guest would be allowed inside without identification.

But it was the procession by carriage to the church the following day that most concerned Louise, despite her support for her mother's journey across London.

“I'm sure all will go smoothly,” Amanda said to Louise's fretting.

Louise turned to her friend with a smile. “You're probably right. Are you sure you and Henry and Eddie won't join the parade? He'd love it, and I can arrange for a carriage.”

Amanda grimaced and pressed a hand to her immense stomach. Louise couldn't believe only one child grew in there. “A bouncy carriage ride then sitting on a hard bench in church is not my idea of a pleasant day.”

Louise remembered her own baby's ponderous weight and mysterious little kicks. His movements within her told her he was healthy, full of life, but also brought heartache every time she remembered he would not be allowed to stay with her. She looked down at little Edward now, entwined in Amanda's skirts. He was small for his age. With his brown hair and eyes so much like her own, it was a wonder to her no one had guessed the truth. Even his mouth had the same gentle bow as hers.

Yet Victoria, well aware that he was her grandson, seemed immune to Eddie's charms. Louise wondered if her mother actually had convinced herself the baby was Amanda's, since she'd never seen Louise holding him as an infant. Her mother had a gift for pushing to the back of her mind anything she found unable to deal with on her own terms. Whereas Louise never seemed to stop worrying about every little detail. Only while she'd been with Stephen Byrne in the tiny servant's room had all her worries flown away, like so many doves released in a carefree burst of flight, up and into the air. Such bliss.

She sighed, aloud apparently, for Amanda turned to her with a frown. “Something wrong?”

“No, my dear friend. I'm only concerned for you. Most women I know, with less than a month before their babies are due, take to their beds. Henry still encourages you to stay up and travel about?”

“As active as I feel able, he says. It's the new way of dealing medically with pregnancy, he says. As long as I'm healthy and have the energy, he claims I'm less likely to suffer complications and will have an easier labor. We shall see if he's right.” Amanda's eyes sparkled with anticipation of the blessed event.

“I still think that working at the shop is far too great a strain on you,” Louise said.

“Well, you had better take advantage of my time now. After the baby is born, I will likely need all of my strength to nurse this brute.” She smiled, stroking her bulging belly.

Louise wasn't sure she believed Henry's rather revolutionary medical theories, but today Amanda seemed convincing proof. She glowed with inner health and joy.

“But you
will
come join us for the banquet and performance this evening?” Louise asked.

Amanda hugged her, as best she could in her current rotund form. “I wouldn't miss it. The performance will take my mind off this child's fierce kicks. Oh!” Amanda yipped, her face puckering with momentary pain.

“That must have been a hard one. Are you sure that baby won't come earlier than Henry predicts?”

Amanda whispered, “As it's my first, he says it's more likely to arrive late rather than early.”

Louise nodded. Sometimes, for just a moment, she forgot the little boy with them had indeed once been hers. She closed her eyes to forestall a wash of tears.

“Let me see. Let me see!” Eddie shouted.

Louise bent down to the child's level and peered over the windowsill to see what had caught his interest. He was only able to peer outside by clinging to the sill and jumping up and down on his toes. He ran to his mother and tugged on her dress, lifting his arms to her.

“Come to me, Eddie,” Louise said. “Your mother can't pick you up these days, fat as she is.”

“Oh, I like that!” Amanda cried, laughing, and swatted her with her fan. The day was warm. Even within the cool stone walls of the castle, Louise felt the rising heat. So unusual for June.
Rain,
she thought,
let it rain tonight to cool things off.

Eddie spotted another carriage rolling into the courtyard. He pointed frantically at the horse pulling it. He loved horses and delighted in naming them, as if they came from his personal stable.

“Oh yes,” Louise crooned, “that's a lovely gray, isn't it?”

“Smoky,” the little boy crowed. “I name him Smoky.”

“Whose carriage is that?” Amanda asked.

Louise looked more closely. It wasn't one of theirs, with the royal crest on the door. A tall man with a graying beard stepped out; he carried a black leather bag. “Dr. Lister,” she said, surprised.

The famous surgeon had been summoned before to the palace by her mother's personal physician, Dr. Edwards, a gentle soul with considerable ability. However he sometimes became nervous at being the sole physician responsible for the aging queen. When it had become necessary to cut and drain a painful abscess on the queen's arm, he'd called in Lister to perform the operation.

Amanda whistled. “A surgeon—and Joseph Lister no less! Oh, dear, this does sound serious.”

“My mother has been complaining of not sleeping well nights, from discomfort in her foot.”

“You don't suppose it's a return of the terrible gout she had years ago?”

“I don't know.” Louise set Eddie down. He continued trying to scramble up the wall to better see out the window. “I had better go and check on her.”

“You must. And we'll be off. It's time for Eddie's nap, and his mother could use a rest as well. I'll see you tonight at the banquet, my dear.” Amanda kissed her on the cheek. “We'll walk ourselves out. Eddie has to play horsy along the way and annoy the servants.”

Louise rested a hand on the little boy's head, and her heart swelled with affection. She'd come to terms with giving him up, hard as it had been. Amanda was a wonderful mother. Giving him over to her was the best thing she could have done for him, under the circumstances. How many other desperate mothers had sacrificed their babies—unable to afford to feed them or to face society's scorn at their bringing a child into the world without a proper husband? The very thought made her feel ill.

Louise ran into her mother's maid of honor on her way through the palace. “What's happening? I saw Dr. Lister arrive.”

The woman shook her head, frowning. “Her Majesty's foot is causing her excruciating pain. She's been so very brave, not speaking of it for days. She's worried he won't let her leave her bed. She could barely walk on it this morning.”

“Oh dear,” Louise said. “Where is she now? With Lister, I assume.”

“In her privy chamber, Your Highness. She hasn't left it all morning.”

Not a good sign,
Louise thought. Her mother usually was a whirlwind of activity, tackling one task after another so long as her health held. But when she was in pain she might spend an entire day, or as long as a week, shut off in her room.

Louise arrived at her mother's chamber, breathless. Her brother Alfred was already there, standing outside the closed door, pacing.

“What's Lister saying, Affie?” she asked.

“Not a word yet.”

“She will be so disappointed if she can't go to the church tomorrow.”

He nodded. “I think her own doctor has already advised her not to go.” He chuckled and brushed a hand over his dark beard. “At least I expect that was the reason for the outburst a moment ago. I heard her shout something quite rude at the man.” He gave her a bemused smile. “If she's able to rally that much energy I can't believe she's as helpless as these physicians think.”

Louise couldn't have agreed more.

Finally the door opened. Edwards and Lister stepped into the hallway, consulting in hushed voices, their faces drawn. Louise stepped forward to be seen, and the two men stopped and bowed.

“Your Royal Highness,” Joseph Lister said, “you, at least, look in good health.”

“I am, sir. And you? You are involved in experimental treatments I've heard.”

“Yes indeed, important studies of aseptic treatment of wounds, and I'm anxious to return to the work immediately. I must excuse myself. Dr. Edwards will fill you in on your mother's condition and my recommendations.” He bowed again and took his leave.

Louise turned to her mother's physician. “Is it the gout again?” She was aware of another figure joining them and glanced around to see the Prince of Wales step up beside her. Although still early in the day, Bertie was already decked out in full military uniform with epaulets, gold braid, and enough medals to sink a small ship.

“The gout,” Edwards repeated, “yes, as I feared it would be. The good news, according to Lister, is that it will be temporary and subside if she keeps off the foot.”

“Good luck with that,” Louise said.

Affie stepped forward. “But the Accession Day celebration, tomorrow?”

The doctor rolled his eyes. “Yes, we've both suggested a postponement might be in order. But I'm afraid your mother is having none of it. She will go to the church despite the cost in pain.”

Louise nearly smiled. So predictable her mother was. “What about treatment?”

“I've bandaged her foot, dosed her mildly with morphine for the pain, which is all she would allow. I've prescribed laudanum, and she can take that at any time. Whether or not she will take it, I cannot say. Her diet will be changed—less meat and rich foods, more vegetables. I'm on my way to her head chef to give my instructions.” He looked gravely at Louise. “Perhaps you can encourage her to make, at least, a few simple changes in the arrangements for the rest of today and tomorrow?”

“Anything. Just tell me what I'm to do.” She hadn't forgotten the impossible situation her mother had put her in. Marrying her off to Lorne had been bad enough. Shipping them to the Canadian wilderness was a devious trick, and Louise would confront her mother and tell her so when the time was right. Eventually she'd need to decide whether or not she could ever forgive the woman for manipulating her life so. But Louise found no joy in seeing her mother suffer.

“Her Majesty's spirits are low,” the doctor was saying. “She needs to be distracted from dwelling on the pain. If you can, get her out of that oppressive dark room when she wakes from the medicine. Wheel her around outside in her garden chair.”

“Of course.”

Bertie said, “And I? What can I be doing, doctor?”

Edwards thought for a moment. “Just spending time with her will be encouraging but—”

“Yes?”

“Tell me, do you know her actual arrangements for traveling to the church tomorrow?”

“She'll use her coronation coach, of course. It's partially open, allowing her to be seen by her subjects and wave to them as we pass. There will be six in her coach. Rather a tight fit if you ask me, but that's her plan.”

“I see.” Edwards nodded and touched the knuckles of one hand to his lips in thought. “The thing is, she'll be better off with the foot elevated. The garden chair can be adjusted to allow for that here. But she'll need to be carried into the church. She won't like it, but I've told her it's the only way, as she's to put no pressure at all on the foot. The other problem is the open carriage. With so many of you in it, she won't be able to keep the foot supported without it being seen from the street. To make the trip easier on her, I suggest you arrange for a smaller, partially closed carriage. Let her take one other person with her for company. She can keep the foot elevated without feeling self-conscious.”

“I'll go now and see the stable master about that,” Bertie said. He turned to Louise. “Perhaps that ornate lacquered sedan chair, the gift of the Mikado, might be employed to convey her in grand fashion from the carriage into the church? She might fight that less than being carried.”

“Perfect,” Louise agreed. “I'll arrange for it to be brought up from the carriage house.” She gave her brother a cautionary look. “She won't like any of this, you know.”

He laughed. “Oh, how well I know!”