One Night with a Prince

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Then again, Mr. Byrne was rumored to be the prince’s natural son, like Lord Draker, which would make them half brothers. That might explain it. It might also explain His Highness’s willingness to ask the two men to help her.

  His Highness—oh dear. He would not be happy when he heard the outcome of the meeting. He’d wanted Mr. Byrne to act as a go-between only—not dangerously involved in the entire scheme.

  But what else could she do? Lord Stokely was threatening to have her family’s letters published if the prince didn’t meet his outrageous demands. And the prince had made it painfully clear what could happen to Papa if she didn’t get them back.

  “Would you like some of these, Lady Haversham?” Mr. Byrne asked from beside her, startling her.

  Forcing her attention to the heavy platter he balanced easily in one hand, she sighed with relief when she recognized it. “Oh, yes, I love oysters.”

  The sudden gleam in Mr. Byrne’s eye gave her pause. “Do you?” He scooped three out of their shells and onto her plate with the silver serving spoon. “Do I dare hope you’re also inordinately fond of pomegranate and Spanish fly?”

  “What’s Spanish fly?” she asked when the two ladies turned beet red, and their husbands scowled.

  “Stop teasing the poor woman, Byrne,” Lord Draker said sternly. “Can’t you see she has no idea what you’re talking about?”

  Christabel bristled. Perhaps she didn’t understand exactly what had brought that sensual huskiness into Mr. Byrne’s voice, but she wasn’t a complete fool. “I know it’s probably wicked.” She shot Mr. Byrne a side glance. “He seems to think women find wickedness attractive in a man.”

  Mr. Byrne grinned. “Some women do.”

  “Only the shameless females you consort with.” Hearing a choked sound from across the table, she glanced at their hostess, and hastily added, “Present company excepted, of course.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Lady Iversley said with a laugh, “we’re entirely in agreement with you about Byrne’s shameless females.”

  “You see, Draker?” Mr. Byrne said. “You needn’t try to protect Lady Haversham from me. The woman can hold her own very well.”

  “So we heard,” Lady Draker put in. “Pulled a rifle on you, did she?”

  Christabel wanted to sink under the table in mortification. Papa and his fellow soldiers might find the tale of her encounter with Mr. Byrne amusing, but this company would surely be shocked.

  Oddly enough, however, the only one showing disapproval was Mr. Byrne, who glowered at Lord Draker. “You told Regina?”

  With a smug expression, their host served himself the last of the roast pheasant. “How could I resist? It’s not every day that you get shot at by a woman.”

  “And you no doubt deserved it,” his wife added with a small smile.

  Christabel tipped up her chin. “He did indeed.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Byrne snapped. “Like a fool, I tried to collect my due after your husband ordered his banker not to honor his note. What was I thinking?”

  His sarcasm—and his lies—infuriated her. “Philip said you allowed him credit, then reneged.”

  “Haversham lied.”

  “He would never have done something so dishonorable,” she said stoutly.

  “Oh? Have you forgotten why you’re here?” Because your husband stole your property to gain money to pay his gambling debts?

  He was right, of course. Everything she’d thought about Philip had been turned on its ear since his death. “I should have shot you when I had the chance,” she mumbled.

  “So you really did fire at Byrne?” Lady Iversley’s eyes sparkled with curiosity.

  “She put one hole in my cabriolet and one in my hat,” Mr. Byrne said.

  “For all the good it did. He kept riding toward the house, cool as you please. You’d think people shot at him every day.”

  “They do,” he said. When she glanced at him, startled, he had the audacity to wink at her. “You’d be surprised how many dishonorable gentlemen roam London. But that’s never stopped me from getting what I want.”

  His gaze dropped to her mouth, and a delicious shiver swept down her spine. Blast him. How could she be attracted to this unrepentant devil?

  She sighed. How could she not? Women leaped into his bed for good reason. Look at him—he was built for the bedroom, with his tousled hair and night blue eyes and that cocky smile promising paradise in his arms.

  She jerked her gaze from his. Paradise, hah! Men didn’t give women paradise. Not a lasting paradise, anyway.

  But as the dessert course replaced the dishes of sautéed this and fricasseed that, she couldn’t take her mind from Mr. Byrne.

  Her mission would be so much easier if she understood him. But he differed markedly from the bluff foot soldiers, courteous officers, and practical field physicians she’d grown up with. Even on Philip’s estate, Rosevine, the men had been easy to read, their roles simple to define.

  Everything about Mr. Byrne unsettled her. She’d always been a good woman. Unsophisticated, unfashionably forthright, but good.

  He made her want to be bad.

  She stiffened her spine. Surely she wasn’t fool enough to fall prey to a charming scoundrel again.

  Lady Draker daintily dabbed custard from her lips, then cleared her throat. “Have you been in town long, Lady Haversham?”

  Christabel stabbed a stewed plum. “Just a few days.” Long enough to answer His Highness’s summons and discuss what to do about the politically sensitive letters Lord Stokely had bought from Philip. The ones that would destroy her family if she didn’t get them back.

  “Then Katherine and I can show you the latest amusements.” Lady Draker flashed her a cheery smile. “When were you last in town?”

  “It’s been years.” When that seemed to startle her hostess, she added, “My mother died when I was young, so I grew up traveling with Papa and the army. That’s where I met my husband.”

  “The marquess?” Lady Iversley said, sounding surprised.

  “He was just a second son then, with a lieutenant’s commission. He inherited the title and estate after his elder brother died unexpectedly in our sixth year of marriage. That’s when we returned to England.”

  “How long ago was that?” Lady Draker asked.

  “Four years.”

  “Go on with you!” Lord Draker exclaimed. “Ten years married? You couldn’t be a day over twenty-five.”

  She laughed, flattered in spite of herself. “I married young, but not that young. I’m nearly thirty.”

  “A very youthful thirty,” Mr. Byrne put in, the faintest hint of a soft Irish burr humming along her senses. “Yet you never came with the marquess to kick up your heels in town.”

  “There was so much to do at Rosevine that I spent all my time there.” Let them think what they would. Her life with Philip—which, in their final years, was mostly spent without Philip—was private. “Of course, now that Philip’s cousin has inherited the estate and the title, I’m no longer mistress there. Fortunately, the new Lord Haversham allowed me to remain until he took up residence recently. Even then, he was generous enough to let me use the town house for my stay in London.”

  She was grateful to the young man for that—otherwise, she would have had to lease a town house she could ill afford on the tiny settlement Philip had left her.

  Mr. Byrne cast her a searching glance. “But the man’s generosity is temporary, no doubt. Once the season begins, the new marquess will be looking for a wife to go along with his title. He won’t want his sister-in-law and her staff hanging round.”

  His perception startled her. “True. I suppose I’ll lease a cottage somewhere until Papa returns from France.”

  “Ah, yes, General Lyon,” he remarked. “Still hunting the stray supporters of Napoleon, I suppose.”

  She nodded, a lump filling her throat. She wasn’t really sure where Papa was at the moment. That was the trouble. The army was cleaning up after the war, and Pa
pa was difficult to reach. “But as soon as he returns, I’m sure he’ll retire to the country somewhere, and I’ll go with him.”

  “You prefer country to town?” Lady Draker asked.

  She preferred not playing a marchioness, and no one would let her dispense with that in town. “I’m more comfortable in the country, yes,” she hedged.

  Lady Iversley smiled. “I certainly understand that. If not for our friends here, my husband and I would probably never leave Edenmore.”

  My husband and I. As pain sliced through Christabel, she forced a smile. She and Philip had once been of a single mind, too. But he’d changed after leaving the army. He’d started inventing reasons for racing off to town. She’d been too relieved at not having to go with him to realize he was going off to gamble and drink. And apparently visit a mistress.

  She’d thought he was happy with her. How could she have been so naïve?

  “If you haven’t been to town in a while, you probably haven’t seen Week’s Mechanical Museum,” Lady Draker put in. “Marcus and I are leaving town for a few days later in the week, but we could take you there tomorrow—”

  “Out of the question,” Mr. Byrne interrupted. “Lady Haversham and I are going for a drive tomorrow, aren’t we, lass?” When she blinked at him, he added, “And you said you’d be ordering new gowns in the morning, too.”

  Yes, fashionable gowns. The sort his mistress might wear. “Of course.” She pasted a smile on her face for Lady Draker. “I’ll be busy tomorrow. I’m so sorry.”

  Lady Draker glanced from Christabel to Mr. Byrne, her eyes narrowing. “No need to apologize. But if you change your mind—”

  “She won’t,” Mr. Byrne put in.

  The steel in his tone made Lady Draker stiffen. She glanced pointedly at the clock, then cast Mr. Byrne a smooth smile. “I believe it’s time for the gentlemen to have their port and cigars.” She rose with a polished grace that Christabel envied. “Come, ladies, let’s retire to the drawing room and leave the men to their fun.”

  When Christabel hesitated, unsure how she’d fit in with these two ladies she barely knew, Mr. Byrne leaned over to whisper, “Don’t worry—you’ll be fine. Didn’t you say your pistol is in the drawing room?”

  Casting him a glare, she left with the other ladies. But as she followed them up the stairs, her stomach began to roil. How would she ever complete her mission successfully when the mere idea of making polite conversation with the elegant Lady Draker and the well-spoken Lady Iversley made her sick with apprehension?

  It would be far worse at Lord Stokely’s estate. She could easily guess the sort of female who would be there: sophisticated ladies of rank who could effortlessly entertain twenty people at dinner, then dress themselves in the height of fashion to meet their lovers in the boudoir the next morning.

  Christabel didn’t even have a boudoir, unless you could count her modest dressing room littered with her failed attempts at needlework and souvenirs from her travels. And although she could load a rifle as well as any guardsman, fashion a field dressing out of an old petticoat and some twine, and tell a naughty joke about a harem in Turkey, she knew nothing about entertaining guests of the lofty sort.

  Then again, perhaps that wasn’t so important for a mistress. And the naughty joke might even be acceptable. She sighed. The trouble was, she didn’t know what was acceptable.

  As they entered the refined drawing room that well suited the fashionable Lady Draker and Lady Iversley, Christabel searched for something appropriately refined to say.

  She didn’t get the chance. As soon as they sat down, Lady Draker turned to her, eyes alight. “Lady Haversham, you simply must tell us what’s going on. My husband is being surprisingly close-mouthed.”

  “So is mine,” Lady Iversley put in. “What in the dickens were you and Byrne discussing so privately earlier this evening?”

  “I can’t tell you,” Christabel said bluntly, taken off guard by the sudden feminine assault. “It’s a matter of strictest secrecy.”

  “Involving you and Byrne,” Lady Draker prodded.

  “Yes.” She smoothed her features, straightened her spine, and folded her hands in her lap as she’d seen haughty ladies do. “That’s all I have to say.”

  “He’s helping you with an estate matter?” Lady Iversley probed. “Or is this about the debt your husband owed to him?”

  Dear Lord, they weren’t the least put off by her attempt at a marchioness’s manner. And they seemed very inquisitive ladies. Perhaps if she told them something, they’d let her be. “My husband paid his debt to Mr. Byrne before he died. All I can tell you is that Mr. Byrne and I are engaged in a rather delicate…business transaction. But I really can’t say one word more about it.”

  “Business transaction?” Lady Draker looked skeptical. “When he’s undressing you with his eyes, taking you for drives, and discussing aphrodisiacs?”

  “Aphrodisiacs?”

  “Foods to increase one’s appetite for lovemaking,” Lady Iversley explained.

  “Oh,” Christabel muttered, hot color suffusing her cheeks.

  “All of which is rather more intimate than one usually gets with business associates,” Lady Draker continued.

  Christabel scowled. “I still can’t discuss my connection with Mr. Byrne.”

  Lady Iversley leaned over to take her hand. “I’m sorry, I know we must seem rather…er…”

  “Nosy?” As soon as the tactless word left her mouth, she groaned.

  Lady Iversley merely laughed. “Yes, nosy. But we’re only concerned. Don’t misunderstand us—Byrne is a dear friend to both our families, and we adore him for that, but he isn’t the marrying sort.”

  Lady Draker nodded. “Believe me, we’ve tried and tried to marry him off.”

  “He pokes fun at the very idea of marriage,” Lady Iversley said with a sigh. “Though that doesn’t stop women from falling in love with him, even when he states outright that he has no interest in a respectable connection.”

  Christabel withdrew her hand from Lady Iversley’s. “Thank you for your concern, but I assure you I’m no more interested in marriage than Mr. Byrne. And I’m perfectly capable of handling myself around him. Unlike some women, I’m not the least bit impressed by rumors that he has a royal connection—”

  “Impressed?” Lady Iversley shook her head. “Trust me, he succeeds with women despite, not because of, his ‘royal connection.’ His Highness’s public refusal to acknowledge Byrne as his son and those nasty rumors he spread about Byrne’s poor mother practically ensured that the man would never gain any advantage from that.”

  “Now, Katherine—” Lady Draker began.

  “It’s true, Regina, and you know it,” Lady Iversley said. “The prince may be a friend of your family’s, but he treated Byrne and his mother very wrongly. No boy should be forced into the streets to help support himself at the age of eight.”

  “At eight!” Christabel said, horrified at the very idea. If His Highness had treated him so ill, why was he willing to help her? She had to know more. “What sort of job could he have found at eight?”

  “Running errands for the blacklegs. That’s how he got his start in gambling. He was ten when he started helping with the E-O tables at the races.”

  Christabel knew about blacklegs and Even-Odd tables from Philip. The blacklegs were swindlers in the gaming world. As for E-O, authorities had been trying to stamp out the low form of roulette for years, but it persisted at the races, where E-O table runners descended to offer gambling to anyone who would play. The game was foolish at best and shady at worst, run by scoundrels who often got into fights with customers suspecting them of crookedness.

  “Dear Lord, that’s young to be working an E-O table.” Christabel’s heart ached at the thought of any ten-year-old boy forced into such an environment. “Did he run his own?”

  A voice came from the open doorway. “Not until I was twelve.” Mr. Byrne strolled into the room, casting Lady Iversley and Lady Draker
a dark glance. “But that was after the fire.”

  Christabel sucked in a breath. She’d heard that his mother died in a fire, but hadn’t realized he’d been only a boy when it happened.

  “Eavesdropping, Byrne?” Lady Draker asked.

  A hint of defiance touched his brow. “Always. Actually, I’ve come to tell you I must dash off. An emergency has arisen at the Blue Swan.” Lady Draker began to rise, but he shook his head. “No need to get up. I can show myself out.” He turned to Christabel. “I’ll come for you tomorrow at 2:00 P.M.”

  “So late?”

  “I run a gaming club, remember? Two o’clock is first thing in the morning for me.” He bent to clasp her bare hand, then pressed a lingering kiss to it that made her skin feel all shivery. Eyes gleaming, he murmured, “Until tomorrow, my sweet Christabel.”

  Blast him. She’d been feeling sorry for him until he’d exposed her lie about their being involved only in a business transaction. Mindful of her companions, she forced a cordial smile. “I shall see you then, Mr. Byrne.”

  Though he lifted an eyebrow at her formality, he released her hand to stroll toward the door. But he paused on the threshold to flash the other two ladies an arch glance. “Try not to elaborate on my wicked exploits for Lady Haversham. I hate repairing holes in my cabriolet.” With a wink at Christabel, he left.

  As soon as they heard his footsteps descending the stairs, Lady Draker muttered an unladylike oath. “That man is up to no good. We wouldn’t blame you if you shot at him again,” she told Christabel.

  “I can’t,” Christabel said woefully as she held up her reticule. “I forgot the balls for my pistol at home.”

  Lady Draker stared at her blankly. “You brought a pistol with you?”

  “Of course. London is by no means safe.”

  Lady Draker burst into laughter. “Oh, heavens, you’re perfect for him.”

  “Perfect,” Lady Iversley agreed. “Blunt, practical, and as suspicious as he.”

  “He doesn’t stand a chance,” Lady Draker told her friend. “She’ll never let him get away with a thing.”