The Wild Princess

Forty-one



Less than three hours after Byrne and Louise had departed from the little room where they’d made love, he was walking his horse into the courtyard from the stables when he saw the enamel-black landau parked at the side of the drive. The small, open carriage frequently conveyed guests to the palace from the train station. When he came up alongside, a yellow-gloved hand extended gracefully from inside and beckoned. He hid a smile as he stepped up to the door.

Louise leaned forward from the tufted velvet cushions to speak to him. She wore a perky little hat with a seductive veil over her sparkling eyes and pearls at her throat. He envisioned kissing his way around each and every one of the little white orbs.

“Get in,” she said.

“I’m off to find Christian Stockmar.” Not that he wouldn’t give anything to spend more time with her.

“I guessed as much. We’re going together.”

He lounged against the side of the carriage, aware that the driver was within hearing, though the man pretended invisibility and a deaf ear, as any good servant would. “I wasn’t aware of that arrangement.”

Louise gave him a smug smile. “That’s because I just thought of it.”

Byrne lowered his voice. “I don’t think it’s a good idea—your interviewing Stockmar. He could be dangerous.”

“Well, I think it’s an excellent idea.”

Byrne thought: This is the problem with having a princess for a mistress. Louise would likely never take no for an answer. He tried again. “The baron’s son might be reluctant to speak openly about his personal life in front of a woman.”

“He will be more reluctant to speak to a total stranger. I know him. You don’t. Get in, Stephen, and stop trying to boss me around. It won’t work.” Her eyes lit up in the most delightful way.

Byrne grinned. “Yes, ma’am.” He gave up his horse to an equerry, who would take it off to the royal mews, and joined her.

It was a cozy little carriage but not designed with privacy in mind. Open to prying eyes from the street, and to the weather when the top was folded down, it was meant to display the wealth of its occupants’ clothing and jewelry. But Byrne suspected Louise enjoyed it because she could feel unencumbered by walls, stone or otherwise. He’d learned how much she loved feeling close to the people of the streets.

Louise gave him room to sit beside her then slid closer. When he turned to speak just after they’d driven out through the palace gates, she kissed him boldly on the lips.

“A ride with benefits. How can a man object?” he said, making her laugh.

Byrne felt the happiest he’d been in years. Perhaps happier even than before the war. Before he’d witnessed the destruction of so many lives, the repulsive brutality of man against man. He found it difficult to explain why, feeling as he did about bloodshed, that he’d chosen to enter a profession likely to not only attract violence toward him but also to demand it from him. However, saving a single life, now and then, dimmed his memory of the thousands of bodies he’d witnessed strewn across battlefields. He hadn’t been able to save his president’s life. But maybe he could buy back his self-esteem by protecting a queen’s family.

Louise pressed warmly against his side. He thought better of curling his arm around her, bringing her to his chest. One never knew where gossip columnists lurked; the royals were prime targets.

“Does the driver know where we’re going?” he asked.

“I’ve told him.” She peeked up at him. “You thought I might have forgotten to instruct him?”

“It occurred to me you might be kidnapping me. Whisking me off to your secret lair to have your wicked way with me.” He touched the tip of her nose with one finger. God, how he loved her little nose. And her eyes. And her . . . oh, Lord . . . everything.

He looked around quickly and seeing no one watching from the street, kissed her quickly again. It was all he could do not to drag her down onto the soft cushions; he was nearly out of his mind with wanting her. Again.

As if she’d had the same thought, Louise drew back and looked into his eyes. She shook her head. “We have to stop, don’t we?”

He ran his finger along her kiss-moistened bottom lip. “For the moment.”

She blinked at him, looked suddenly flustered. “This morning, in the room. It wasn’t just . . . well, something that happened, was it?”

He grinned at her. “No.”

“But it might”—she blushed—“happen again?”

“I sincerely hope so,” he said. “I am, Princess, forever at your service. Whenever. Wherever.”

She released a contented little sigh, closed her eyes, and leaned her head back against his shoulder as they drove on. “Good. I think I may require your services rather frequently.”

He laughed out loud, gave her a quick hug. His need to be near her nearly knocked him senseless. But he understood something she might not, yet. His devotion to her would likely lead to impossible complications in both of their lives. Although his sacrifice, for a woman like Louise, would be worth it, he wondered if she would feel the same when the time of reckoning came. She had so much more to lose than he. Now, however, wasn’t the time to talk about it.

Louise told him she’d sent word ahead of her arrival. Short notice, but he supposed if a member of the royal family came calling, you didn’t object.

“Here it is.” She indicated a modest but pleasant-looking brick town house when the carriage stopped. Byrne noted that neither its construction nor its location were expensive. Had Albert still lived and the old baron remained in favor, no doubt the son’s situation would have been far grander. Despite Louise’s defense of the man, he felt they should reserve judgment of Christian Stockmar’s innocence. Money was a powerful motivator. And money stolen, in the eyes of the loser, was as good an excuse as any for revenge.

The footman climbed down from the carriage and went up to knock on the front door of the house. Byrne and Louise waited in the carriage while the man spoke to someone inside, then returned to the carriage.

“Baron Stockmar is awaiting you in the salon, Your Highness.” He opened the carriage door and lowered the metal steps.

The name momentarily startled Byrne, until he remembered that the son would have inherited his father’s title.

Byrne climbed from the carriage first, helped Louise down the steps, then hesitated, unsure how she would want to be seen with him. Certainly not on his arm, as that might convey too much about their relationship. Ordinarily, he’d precede her into a room to inspect its security or at least follow close behind, keeping a sharp eye for trouble. But Louise seemed to have no inclination to keep him “in his place.”

She reached for his arm and smiled up at him, as if to say, This is how it will be from now on.

He was at first surprised, then realized she was taking a page from her mother’s book. Victoria often accepted John Brown’s arm for a tour around the castle gardens, or when entering a room where she was entertaining. It was a familiarity most of her children—Bertie in particular—objected to. But their complaints did little to dissuade her.

Perhaps Louise’s siblings would also take offense at her familiarity with him. Her husband certainly should. But Byrne didn’t much care at the moment. Whatever made this woman happy would make him happy.

The room into which the butler led them was more of a library than the typical salon reserved for greeting guests. Shelves of books ranged from floor to ceiling in two tiers, with a balcony running around three walls to access the upper level of shelves. A large Germanic Biedermeier-style desk sat in the middle of the room, its top covered with paperwork and ledgers, as if the young baron planned to return to them as soon as his uninvited guests went away. Two no-nonsense, straight-back chairs had been arranged in front of the desk. No tea service or cordial tray was in evidence to prolong conversation.

A pale-complexioned man with straw-colored hair, full mustache, and beard stood up from behind the desk to greet them. He moved around the desk to kiss Louise’s hand before gesturing them to the chairs and returning to his own. “I understand this has something to do with my father?” His tone was solemn, his eyes unhappy. “Since he is the subject, and I have little to offer in the way of information, I expect this, regrettably, will be a short visit.” He paused, as if having second thoughts about his brusqueness. “But if you’d like refreshment—”

“No, please don’t bother,” Louise said quickly. “I shall come straight to the point of our call. It’s been years since your father was involved with our household.”

“Yes,” Christian said.

“And I realize there were hard feelings at the time of his . . . departure.”

“My father was a difficult man. Many found it a challenge to live up to his view of perfection. Your family was not to blame.”

“That’s very generous of you.” Louise sent him a gracious smile. “But I have good memories too, about the times you visited with us, Christian. I remember your entertaining us with stories of your childhood in Germany. Your mother raised you there, did she not?”

“Yes. But as to the stories, more likely I bored you to death.” He gave a dry laugh. “Life at the queen’s court was so much more interesting to me. I wished my father had brought me there more often.” He turned to Byrne. “My father liked to keep his family and professional lives separate, or so he claimed.”

“You must have missed him,” Louise said in sympathy.

Christian winced, picked up a pen, and turned it end over end three times before placing it back on the desk blotter. “I’m not sure that is an accurate description of my feelings toward the man. I suppose I resented his being away, but I also felt relieved not to have him always hovering over us. He was, as you well know, Your Highness, quite the tyrant.”

Byrne said, “So your relationship with your father was strained?”

“That would be a mild descriptive.”

“And,” Byrne added, “I assume that means any perceived wrongs done to the baron would be of little concern to you?”

“Wrongs?” Christian asked, looking from Byrne to Louise and back again.

“His dismissal by my mother,” she said, her voice gentle.

The laughter that burst from Christian’s lips made Louise jump. “Oh, my . . . that is amusing. I’ve always thought it amazing he got as far as he did, using Albert’s family as his personal entrée to English society. You see,” he said, turning to Byrne, “my father had unlimited power in the English court because of his relationship with the Prince Consort. It’s my understanding Albert let him get away with just about anything, and gave him the money to do it with. No wonder Victoria hated the man. Didn’t she, Louise?”

Louise tipped her head in diplomatic acquiescence. “Mama pleaded with my father to send him away. As I’ve told Mr. Byrne, he was the cause of her losing her dear governess. Mama never forgave the baron for that.”

Christian shook his head. “But he lost everything when the prince died.”

Byrne looked around him. The furnishings in the room were of high quality. Several fine oil paintings decorated the rich wood paneling on the one wall not covered in book shelves. This was not the home of an impoverished man. “He died destitute, Louise tells me.”

“Yes.”

“Yet you seem to have been left with a more than modest income.”

Christian raised a brow. “If you mean these books and paintings, yes. They are all that my father was able to keep of his possessions. The rest of his belongings, including nearly all of his personal art collection, he was forced to sell. I inherited his estate, such as it was. But as to the house and anything else I own, I’ve earned it.”

Louise must have also heard the defensiveness in his tone. “Oh, Christian,” she murmured, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry if we’ve insulted you.”

“Don’t be. My education, as distasteful as it was to me at the time, stood me in good stead. I don’t often use my inherited title. To be called ‘baron’ means nothing to me, as there is no land and no money attached to it. I earn an adequate salary tutoring the children of several wealthy families. And I supplement that by writing books, several of which have done quite well. I don’t live off a royal pension, as my father did, and I’m happy not to. Within two months I will marry the daughter of a successful and very wealthy merchant. My fiancée’s dowry will add considerably to my comfort, and she is thrilled to become a baroness. Titles, it seems, are worth something.” He widened his eyes at Louise, who smiled back at him.

Byrne respected the man. Christian seemed practical and not unkind. He also didn’t seem the type to set rats loose to terrify young princesses or pass along information to radicals.

“Thank you for meeting with us,” Byrne said, “and for being so forthright.” He was about to stand and leave when Louise stretched out a hand to touch his sleeve.

“I do not wish to be indelicate,” she began, her eyes resting on Christian with compassion, “but I wonder if you know of anyone else who might have resented the queen’s dismissal of your father.”

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.”