The Wild Princess

Forty-eight



Louise had just ordered the wheeled garden chair brought to her mother’s room, and was on her way there herself, when one of their servants approached her from the opposite end of the hall. He stopped just ahead of her, bowed, and held out a silver salver on which rested a folded sheet of paper.

“Thank you, Henson. Is a response expected?”

“The young”—he coughed delicately into his hand before finding a gentle enough word to express his disdain—“person who delivered it did not wait for one, Your Highness.”

She nodded. Then this was from Byrne, by way of one of his urchin runners. She hoped he was all right. The last she’d seen of Stephen, he was moving with less obvious discomfort from his ribs and knee but still limping slightly. Again she thought she’d never have forgiven herself if he’d been killed that day when he’d fought Darvey’s gang. He was such a maddeningly reckless man. Reckless and oh, so wonderful.

The smile that came to her lips so easily on thinking of him faded as she read the words in his note. She refolded it, tucked it into her sleeve, and marched on toward her mother. This was something the queen needed to know, whether the woman wanted to hear it or not.

Lorne, it seemed, had been spending time at one of his favorite, and least reputable, clubs—and not being very discreet about it. Men of nobility, although expected to have mistresses from time to time to supplement their wives’ affections, generally kept their dalliances secret and their naughty behavior in the bawdy clubs behind closed doors. But one particular club had become notorious of late and, worse yet, involved in a police investigation. Leaks to the newspapers were inevitable.

The jackals of the press would step up their attempts to follow Lorne. If Louise didn’t inform her mother of the details, the queen would learn them from the newspapers, too late to do anything about the maelstrom of horrid publicity at the expense of the entire family.

Her mother was sitting in a chair alongside her bed, her dresser having somehow got her into her clothes for the day. Tomorrow would be even more difficult, with the donning of the weighty, ornate black silk gown now hanging in front of her cheval glass mirror. Louise could only hope that, within the next twenty-four hours, the angry foot might have improved.

“Mama, I’m so sorry to hear that you’ve been suffering. I had hoped by now you’d be sleeping and more comfortable.”

The queen looked up at her. “Sleeplessness has become routine. It is the pain I find intolerable. And these drugs are worthless.”

“Can you not take the laudanum Dr. Edwards left for you?”

“The dreadful stuff puts me straight out and gives me hallucinations. I won’t have it. There is too much to be done to prepare for tomorrow.” Victoria dropped her head into her hands and held it there for a moment.

It wasn’t that Louise felt no sympathy for her mother. She just found it near impossible to separate her mother’s real medical issues from the collection of imagined ailments the queen employed to avoid work, making unpleasant decisions, or attending to social responsibilities she found distasteful.

Louise knelt beside her and used her gentlest voice. “Mama, I know this is a bad time, but there is something you must know.”

“There is never a good time for bad news.” She looked up at Louise then squinted in suspicion. “I can see from your expression, which is always plain to me who knows you so well, my dear, that this will be truly annoying news.”

Louise hesitated. This was not going to be easy. “I expect the newspapers may soon carry a vicious rumor involving my husband.”

Victoria rolled her eyes. “The marquess promised me he would be good.” Her voice came out as a whine.

Louise took a breath for patience. In many ways, her mother remained naïve to the ways of the world, particularly when it involved sex. Victoria didn’t seem to understand that Lorne’s preference for the company of other men wasn’t something he could turn off like a water spigot.

Apparently Lorne was becoming bolder in his evening activities, thinking he was safe from the law, now that he had married a princess and been accepted into the royal family. Louise took from her sleeve the note she’d received from Stephen.

“This information just came to me. Scotland Yard has been carrying on an investigation of certain gentlemen’s clubs in a provocative part of the city and—”

“Oh, give me that!” Victoria snapped. “I don’t see why you can’t just come out and say what the trouble is.”

Because, Louise thought, you can’t tolerate the truth.

“It can’t be so very bad,” Victoria muttered. Her tiny glittering eyes darted across the page. She looked up at Louise with a frown then glanced down to reread the note while Louise waited, her heart racing.

“But this is preposterous. Impossible! Who wrote this letter to you?”

“Stephen Byrne.”

“My Secret Service American?”

Louise hesitated. Hers? As if he were a pet poodle or a mahogany chiffonier. “Yes.”

“But he is to report directly to me. By what right does he write to you?”

This was touchy ground indeed. “I believe he is concerned for your feelings. He had thought I might more tenderly couch the news about Lorne than if you’d discovered his activities from the newspapers.”

“Tenderly couch?” Victoria roared, her cheeks flushing with rage. “These are lies!”

“Mama—”

“It says here that Lorne has been diddling rent boys at this awful establishment.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Has he not accepted his marital responsibilities? Is he not content with your bed?” Her voice was accusatory, her eyes brittle. Louise felt as if they were slicing through her flesh.

“Lorne’s proclivities are different than I had believed when I married him. But you knew, Mama. You knew he was—”

Victoria held up an imperious hand. “I knew he was different and perhaps had experimented. That’s what men do—they experiment. Until the right woman draws them to the straight and narrow.” The queen’s voice shook with emotion. “You are not trying hard enough with him, Louise. If you had satisfied the man in bed he would not be—”

“Mama!” Louise shot to her feet. “How dare you turn this into my fault. His character is his own doing, or God’s doing . . . I don’t know or care which. But you cannot blame me for the man’s actions.”

Victoria waved the note at her. “It’s no matter. I don’t believe this for a minute. When I see that Raven, I’ll—”

As if the mention of his name conjured him out of the atmosphere, Stephen Byrne appeared in the doorway. Louise turned to him with a desperate look, hoping against hope he could calm her mother and help her see reason.

“Your Royal Majesty,” Byrne said, removing his hat. He inclined his head toward Louise. “Princess.”

“I was just now relating your information to my mother,” Louise said, her words clipped with exasperation.

“I can see that.” Byrne focused on the note in the queen’s hand. “I thought it important that you learned of this investigation before it became public knowledge, ma’am.”

“It’s rubbish, Mr. Byrne. This is a trick of my enemies in Parliament. They are trying to make trouble for my family.” She arranged her mouth in a grim smile. “My children are quite happy in their wedded state.” She looked at Louise as if daring her to say otherwise.

Louise shook her head at Byrne, in resignation as much as denial.

It was a nearly unnoticeable gesture, but unwise. The queen’s eyes narrowed.

“I am not at all pleased, sir, with your pursuit of private matters in my family’s life. They are of no concern to you. Your job is to provide for us security. Lorne is not a threat to us. Do you agree?”

“I do, ma’am.”

“Then you have severely overstepped your mandate, sir. I shall have to ask for your resignation.”

Louise gasped, overcome with shock. She felt dizzy, unable to breathe. She took a shaky step forward. “Mama, please. Mr. Byrne has been nothing but sincere and diligent in his protection of our family.”

“I see it differently.” Victoria’s lips compressed into a thin line. She looked from one to the other of them. “I will tolerate no secrets. Do you understand? Neither will I tolerate vicious gossip about members of my family.”

“But Lorne has been seen!” Louise burst out. “It’s past rumors and gossip now.” She stepped closer to Stephen, the better to support his argument. “If Scotland Yard is investigating a sex ring, this business of the rent boys being brought into the clubs, it’s only a matter of time before the newspapers catch on, if they haven’t already. Then it will be all over London. All over the country, Mama.”

“Don’t you shout at me,” Victoria warned.

Louise threw up her hands in defeat. “I’m not shouting. I’m trying to reason with you. Lorne will always be Lorne. We can caution him, but he will not change. And you shouldn’t blame the messenger”—she waved a hand at Byrne—“for bringing bad news. He’s just doing his job.”

“I will do as I please. Until my death I am queen, my girl. On the day the Prince of Wales takes the throne, you may petition him as you wish. Until then—” She whisked her hand through the air, leaving the rest of her thought unsaid. There was to be no further argument. “Good-bye, Mr. Byrne. Your services are no longer needed. You may return to your own country.”

Louise’s mouth fell open. Her heart plummeted to her feet. She peered up from beneath eyelashes already damp with rising tears at her Raven. Not her mother’s Raven. Hers. This was the man who had captured her heart. Who would too soon leave her. Would she never again see him?

She closed her eyes, unable to watch him go.

When Louise heard no retreating footsteps, she slowly opened her eyes and looked out through her misery. Miraculously, Stephen Byrne still stood there, straight and strong, his black eyes clear and solemn. He didn’t look as if he were aware he’d just been canned, sacked, dismissed . . . given the royal boot.

When he spoke, his voice sounded to her as calm as a country brook. “Ma’am, there is another issue. It is my duty to report this to you before I leave my post, as it pertains to your personal safety.”

“Then you may deliver your report to Mr. Brown or the captain of my guard.” Victoria leaned back in her chair, folded her plump hands across her lap, and fixed a stony gaze on him.

Byrne still didn’t move toward the door, but his dark regard shifted momentarily to Louise before returning to her mother. “Under your orders, ma’am, I have continued my investigation of the Fenian threat.”

“I say, leave me now, sir!”

“And it appears danger is imminent. The opera murders were a mistake. The intended victim was Mr. Disraeli, and the aim to cause you distress, as he is one of your favorites and you his supporter.”

Victoria’s eyes flashed her fury. “You’ve told me all of this before.” She shifted in her chair, and a shadow of pain crossed her face as she readjusted her foot on its cushion.

“Yes, but we’ve now discovered the identity of the man responsible for ordering Disraeli’s murder, as well as for bringing the rats into the palace and leaving the threatening letter. He is Mr. Philip Rhodes, your prime minister’s secretary—and secretly an officer in the Fenian army.”

Louise reached out with the intention of grasping Byrne’s arm, but her mother’s sharp eyes stopped her hand midair. “Has Mr. Rhodes been arrested?”

“He has disappeared.”

“Good riddance then.” Victoria smiled, as if that solved everything.

“But not forever, I fear. I searched his room and found he’d vacated it but left behind evidence that a large quantity of black powder had been stored there. Since it has been moved from its hiding place, and with the Accession Day celebrations just one day away, I worry this means an attack is imminent.”

“And you, too, would have me change my mind about the parade and ceremony?”

“I would, ma’am.”

Louise saw a flicker of fear in her mother’s eyes, but then her features screwed into their customary mask of obstinacy. “Mr. Brown has been informed of these theories of yours?”

“He has, ma’am.”

“And your commander in my Secret Service has also been informed?”

“Yes, and we have alerted Scotland Yard. Reinforcements from the army have been sent to search the parade route, Westminster Abbey as well. But we cannot guarantee your safety. I respectfully beg you to stay where you are safe—here at Buckingham.”

Louise held her breath, hopeful that Byrne’s argument for caution would have more effect on her mother than her own pleas. She counted her heartbeats in the ensuing silence: one, two, three . . .

The queen blinked up at Byrne. “On the contrary. I’d say all is in good hands now, with so many precautions taken.” Her lips turned up in a satisfied smile. “My men will keep me perfectly safe.”

Louise let her eyes drift shut in resignation. They were at the mercy of bomb-wielding lunatics. And Victoria, with her twisted iron will, seemed intent on making their nefarious work all the easier for them. Brown had already informed her of the route.

Rather than proceed the short distance directly from the palace to Westminster Abbey, no more than a ten-minute carriage ride, she had insisted on a wider loop through the city. They would drive along Vauxhall Street, across the bridge, then circling round to recross the Thames River on Westminster Bridge, thereby taking in a variety of elite and poor sections of the city, to see and be seen by more of her subjects.

A moment later, Louise became conscious that Byrne was speaking again.

“I request one favor before I leave England,” he said in that deep, tranquil voice that resonated with her soul.

Victoria merely looked at him, offering no encouragement for him to continue.

Byrne said, “I would like to remain long enough to see to your family’s safety this one last time. Please allow me to accompany you tomorrow on the way to the church.”

Louise got the sense that he wanted to turn and look at her, that he was trying to say something personal to her. But he refrained from making eye contact.

“We thank you for your service,” Victoria said. “We wish to not see you again, Mr. Byrne. Have a safe voyage home.”

And that, thought Louise with a sinking heart, is that.