The Wild Princess

Twenty-one



Byrne visited four other studios, looking for the artists the professor at the Kensington school had mentioned. All he learned was that painters were a notoriously slippery bunch. They seemed not to stay in any one location for long, moving after only a few months, often without paying their rent.

He finally found someone who knew Mr. William Morris. “He’s visiting friends in the city. Back from his country house in Oxfordshire,” an art dealer told him. Morris appeared to have found his calling and was raking in the rewards if he could afford a country estate.

“His paintings are selling well then?”

“Paintings?” The man laughed. “No, sir. Everyone knows he’s made a wild success of his furniture and beautiful wallpapers. Very popular his designs are.” Byrne hadn’t known. Evidently the man’s fame hadn’t yet spread to America.

When the butler at the house where Morris was staying reluctantly agreed to summon the artist to the door, Byrne quickly explained his reason for calling.

“I knew Donovan, of course,” Morris told him, planting himself in the threshold in lieu of inviting Byrne inside. “Many of us used him.” He blushed, as if there were something shameful beyond the obvious advantage taken of a young man in desperate need of money. “As a model, of course. As I recall, yes, there was an incident with a young woman.”

“Go on.”

Morris rolled his eyes toward the smudgy sky. His lips tightened, gaze became guarded. “As this is between men of the world, might I be frank?”

“Of course,” Byrne said.

Morris looked back over his shoulder into the house, as if contemplating continuing his story in the comfort of his host’s drawing room. But after a disdainful second glance at Byrne’s leather duster, all the dustier for his recent treks across London, Morris stood his ground in the doorway.

“Like most young artists, the fellow had his pants down around his knees more often than belted.”

No surprise there. “Understood. But I’m most interested in his friendship with a specific young woman who was well connected.” Until now Byrne had chosen to mention to Morris neither Louise nor her mother. To spread it around for whom he was working would inevitably generate gossip. He’d trusted her old teacher to want gossip even less than he.

“Yes . . . yes . . . quite so. Connected.” Morris began inching the door closed, looking paler by the second. “But I really can’t speak to that topic. You’d better go see Rossetti. It was at his studio, you see.”

“What was at his studio?” Byrne braced the toe of his boot against the door to stop it from closing all the way. Something in the man’s tone alerted him.

Morris’s jowls flushed a deep red, making him resemble a turkey with its crimson wattles. He straightened and stepped back from the doorway, signaling the end of their conversation. A proper gentleman was expected to stand back from the door and return to the street with grace.

Byrne threw a shoulder into the disappearing space between door and jamb, making it impossible for the man to shut him out. “What happened there?” he repeated.

Morris shook his head violently and coughed into his hand. “Listen, my good man, it’s just . . . I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Why not?”

“I’d rather not become involved, you see. Go see Rossetti. He’s gone back to the old place near St. Paul’s. Anyone in the neighborhood can point out the house. Now, that is the end of it, sir.” The man’s eyes flared with indignation. “Remove yourself from the property, or I shall summon the police.”

Byrne let him close the door this time. Short of throttling him, he’d get no more out of William Morris. Not that he was hesitant to use force on Louise’s behalf, if pressed to it. But he hadn’t yet run out of options.

It was now eleven o’clock in the morning, which he thought a perfectly decent hour to go calling on anyone, even a late-sleeping artist. He gave new directions to the driver of the hansom cab he’d requested to wait for him. But when he tapped on the door to the third-floor apartment in the building he’d been steered to by a young crossing sweeper, no one came to answer.

He fisted his hand and pounded louder. Covert noises issued from behind the door. It was clear whoever was inside had no intention of answering.

Byrne looked down at the knob, saw that it appeared to have been damaged, as if someone had forced the latch. When he laid his hand on the knob, it turned easily. He let himself in.

A large, black object flew at his head, missing by inches. And then only because he’d ducked.

He turned to see a cast-iron skillet crash into the wall beside him and land on the scarred wooden floor with a ringing thud.

“Oh, sorry there,” came a voice from across the room. “Thought you were the landlord come for the rent.”

“That sort of greeting would seem to encourage an invitation to vacate your rooms.”

“Yes, well, in this part of the city one has to take a firm hand with these people.” A portly dark-haired man with matching mustache and curling goatee looked around the edge of a canvas at him. He held a palette in one hand and picked up a brush in his skillet-heaving hand. Stepping back, he considered his project and spoke without looking back at his guest. “If I let him step in here anytime he wishes, he might take it for granted he can intrude upon my work at will. I’ve told him he must announce himself.” He gave Byrne a look. “Appointments are appreciated.”

“Putting a good lock on the door might help.”

“Do you have any idea how much a lock and getting it installed properly costs these days? I don’t even own the place. Making improvements isn’t worth it.”

Byrne looked around the room. Clearly improvements of any kind weren’t the artist’s priority. Partially finished paintings leaned against the walls, rested on easels, or hung from wires pegged with wooden clothespins. The sparsely furnished room was thick with fumes of various sorts, not all of which seemed connected with art. An undertone of cannabis sweetened the air, overlaid by whisky.

As he’d often done before, Byrne decided against identifying himself as an employee of the queen or a representative of any form of law enforcement. In his experience those living in risky circumstances, financially or otherwise, tended to lose their ability to speak when the police were mentioned.

“I’m looking for a young man who, I’m told, once worked for you. He did some modeling at the art school in Kensington before you hired him. Name of Donovan Heath.”

Rossetti frowned at his painting, laid another dab of deep blue on it. “Can’t be of much help to you, sorry. Haven’t seen the little rascal for—let me think now—three . . . four years? Maybe a good deal more.”

“Did he leave to work with someone else?”

“Probably, though he never told me. He’d have had to make a living somehow. There’s precious little he was capable of. Standing naked—he managed that well enough. The boy could stand in one position for hours. Days.” Rossetti winked at him. “I suspect his mind was of the sort that rarely sought challenges.”

Byrne wondered what, exactly, about this very ordinary lad had so intrigued the beautiful and intellectually gifted Louise. But then, there was no figuring what made a woman fall for some men. Still, he was hopeful about coming upon the truth soon. At least the information he was gathering was consistent. By the end of the day, he might actually find Mr. Heath. Then, depending upon what the man looked like, and how he answered the questions put to him, Byrne would decide whether or not to tell Louise.

His growing compulsion to protect her kept whispering into the back of his mind. Tell her . . . don’t tell her . . . tell her . . . don’t . . .

However, there was always the possibility that something, or someone, had tempted Donovan away from London. In that case, he wouldn’t find him today or, possibly, ever. Actually, he hoped Donovan had seen an opportunity far away and taken it. And he hoped he’d left on his own volition. Without Victoria’s help.

“To your knowledge, did he have any particular girlfriends? Women he might have visited or gone away with to live? Might I find him with one of them?”

“Lady friends is it now? Then you don’t even know what he looked like.” The artist lifted a questioning brow at Byrne, who kept a straight face. “Guess not.” Rossetti laughed. “Donovan was unabashedly, exquisitely beautiful. An Adonis. I’ve painted his face on the bodies of angels. He had no lack of female companionship, I’ll tell you. Do you know, he actually seduced one of the royal princesses? Had the nerve to bring her up here to my apartment.”

“Really.” Byrne kept his reaction in check. Despite the acid leaching into his stomach that made him want to throw a fist into Rossetti’s leering mouth, he contrived an expression of disbelief.

So it seemed Louise had fallen for a common womanizer, a scoundrel, a juvenile Don Juan. Well, why not? She was an innocent, unaccustomed to anyone treating her badly. Donovan, with a handsome face and willing body, shared her interest in art. He was a free spirit who gave a curious young royal a glimpse of how the other half lived. He would have fascinated her.

“You don’t believe me?” Rossetti said, misinterpreting Byrne’s silence. “My friend and I walked in on them. Donny-boy had Her Royal Highness Princess Louise on that divan over there.” He pointed. Byrne tried not to look at the tattered mud-colored upholstery but couldn’t stop himself. “The girl was half naked, drunk as a dog on cheap wine. We managed to get her dressed, bundled her into her coach, paid off her driver to hold his tongue. And off she went.”

Byrne swallowed his rage with increasing difficulty. After all, it wasn’t Rossetti who’d seduced Louise. But until now he’d held out the hope that the two men had interrupted the young would-be lovers before things went too far. He still clung to one last possibility—that the inseparability her teacher had observed had been only a friendship after the embarrassment of being caught that one time.

“And that was the end of the affair?” he prompted.

Rossetti turned back to his painting, his gaze dissolving into the canvas. “Doubt it,” he mumbled. “The girl was quite the little fool.”

The man’s callousness pricked at Byrne. He felt his control slip. He reached out, clamped a hand on Rossetti’s shoulder, and wrenched the man around to face him. The brush flew out of the artist’s hand.

“Don’t you ever again speak of Her Royal Highness like that! Your queen’s daughter deserves respect.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it.” The man’s eyes narrowed, locking with Byrne’s, as if trying to gauge the likelihood his visitor might assault him further. “Who are you?”

“Nobody.” Byrne released him, locking down his emotions again. He’d get nothing more out of the man by pummeling him, though he deeply longed to. “I just need information. Preferably, the truth. If you have any idea where Mr. Heath might be, you need to tell me. Now.”

“Wait. I’ve heard of you. You’re the American. The Raven they call you.” Rossetti scrutinized his clothing. “I’d say closer to a vulture, feeding off of human carrion. Are you just curious? Or on an official mission for HRM?”

Byrne ignored the man’s questions, annoyed that word of him had spread in London. “What happened after you found them together?”

Rossetti retrieved his brush from the floor and rinsed it in solvent before tenderly reshaping its point with his fingertips. “He didn’t bring her here again, I’ll tell you. He knew I’d toss the two of them out. I mean, was the chit insane? A member of the royal family! But I saw them together walking in the park more than once after that. Clearly they were enthralled with each other. I’m not trying to be rude or disrespectful when I say that girl couldn’t have had any common sense whatsoever—taking up with a boy like that.”

“She was how old?” Byrne said. “Seventeen . . . eighteen? How much sense do any of us have at that age?”

“Was she really that old then? Yes, I suppose she must have been. Acted and looked more like a child, if you ask me. I suppose she must have been very sheltered. Probably knew nothing of young men’s desires or tricks of seduction.”

“Undoubtedly,” Byrne growled. “And the boy just disappeared? He told no one where he was off to?”

“Seems so. But I’ll tell you what I have always thought happened.” Rossetti pointed the tip of his brush at him, his eyes solemn. “I believe our good queen caught a whiff of the romance and arranged for that young man to be, shall we say, discouraged?” He quirked a heavy brow meaningfully.

“How, discouraged?” Byrne knew exactly what he meant—had thought it himself all along. But he was hungry for details now that he’d found a witness to Louise’s affair.

Rossetti shrugged. “Unfortunate things sometimes happen to people who cross a king or queen. The Tower. Expulsion from the country. An unexplained accident. Beheading used to be very popular. Not much in vogue in this country, these days. But I hear she has men at her disposal, men who will do as she commands, whatever that might be.” He looked away from Byrne, as if to pretend he wasn’t talking about him personally.

Byrne’s stomach twisted; another shot of acid burned. It was one thing to harbor his own fears. But hearing someone else voice similar suspicions, someone who actually knew Donovan and had watched his relationship with Louise develop—that sent him over the edge. “You’re accusing the queen of—”

“If I were you,” the artist interrupted, leaning toward him, as if someone else in the room might overhear, “I would have a man-to-man talk with Mr. John Brown about the convenient disappearance of Master Heath.”

Byrne went rigid. “Why Brown?”

“Everyone in London knows Brown does the queen’s bidding, even when it has nothing to do with her stables. It’s said the Scot can be meaner than a she-bear with cubs when it comes to protecting HRM.”

“You’re saying John Brown might have done . . . what exactly?”

Rossetti returned to his painting. “Who can say? A skinny runt like Donovan confronted by a man like that? All it might have required was shouting ‘boo’ in his face. Or Brown might’ve chased him off into the country. Or across the channel to the Continent. The chit could be anywhere.”

Bloody hell, Byrne thought.

“Or, the Scot might have just done the easy thing.”

“Easy?”

Rossetti smiled. “I’ve heard it said a single blow from the Scot’s fist could kill a man. Wouldn’t it have been so much simpler if the loyal gillie was able to report to his queen that Donovan Heath, penniless commoner, would never again bother her daughter?”

“And if you’re wrong? If he’s still alive and somewhere in London?”

Rossetti shook his head. “I can’t tell you where to look for him. He’s not modeling, that’s for certain. And I’d know if he were in the city. Maybe he found a rich woman. That would be a dream come true for someone like him. F*cking for a living. Ha!”

Byrne had heard enough. It was all he could manage to offer a civil thank-you to the artist and leave the studio without punching a hole through the wall.

He trod heavily down the steps at half the speed he’d taken them up, deep in thought. A story was emerging that he liked less and less. Worse yet, it wasn’t one he could report to Louise. She’d be mortified if he told her what he’d discovered of the past she’d meant to keep hidden from him. And from the world.

Outside in the street he lit a cigar and breathed in the pungent-sweet smoke along with the coal-fire smog. His eyes burned, but somehow the air seemed cleaner outside the artist’s garret than in it.

He climbed into a hansom cab and gave directions to the driver. Sitting back against the rough cushions, he closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts about what he’d just now learned. Donovan had used his employers’ properties not only as a place to crash for the night but also to lure young women, regardless of their class. Byrne was fairly certain if Louise had known this about her lover she wouldn’t have sent Byrne to find Donovan. She must still believe he loved her as much as she loved him. As worldly as she pretended to be, the princess at twenty-three still held on to her innocence in at least that one respect.

Ah, Louise.

If this were the case, maybe his fear that she hoped to reunite with her lost lover was true. The knot in his stomach tightened another notch. He pressed a fist into the center of the pain and closed his eyes as the hansom rolled and jounced on through London. He sucked down another lungful of cigar smoke. It didn’t calm him in the least.

He thought: if Victoria had effectively chased away her daughter’s lover once, and he, Byrne, brought the young man back to Louise, resulting in the couple getting together again—that would be the end of his career. Victoria’s rage would know no limits. The first person she unleashed her bile upon would be him.

How had he gotten himself into this unholy mess anyway?

Despite his earnest attempts at investigation on behalf of the queen, things were becoming rather more than less complicated. A traitor lurked in the palace. Irish radicals were intent on blowing up or stealing a member of the royal family. Louise had dumped a mystery in his lap. And, most aggravating of all, he was struggling daily with unrequited urges because the object of his desire was a woman whose rank, not to mention marital status, meant he’d never have a chance to be with her.

He grew hard at the very thought of Louise. Her, with him. Touching him, kissing him, giving herself wholly to him. Indeed, God must have a perverse sense of humor to have created man’s sexual organs with absolutely no regard to the practical matters of selecting a mate.

He’d best find a willing woman fast, before he did something he’d regret.