“But he was only a boy,” Christabel protested. “Twelve is so very young.”
“Not for Gavin. He’d already spent months taking care of himself, already found a way to support himself. I couldn’t help him in London—I could only be a burden to him. As it was, I was lucky I could care for myself at Ada’s cottage.”
“You could have taken him with you to the country.”
“To do what? Labor in the fields? Serve as apprentice to a blacksmith? He was too clever for that, too ambitious. And while Ada could earn enough as a nurse for me and her babe, she couldn’t support him, too.”
Her lips tightened into a grim line. “Do you think I liked being apart from my son? Living from monthly visit to monthly visit? Not knowing whether he was hungry or hurt or—” She broke off with a raspy cough. “But look at him now. Would he have come so far if I hadn’t left? I don’t think so.”
Christabel wasn’t so sure, but she’d never been in a situation where she had to make such a hard choice. What would she have done?
Mrs. Byrne’s voice filled with pride. “He grew up to be a fine, strapping man, a true son of a prince.” She patted Christabel’s hand. “You know about his father, don’t you?”
“Yes. Byrne, however, doesn’t seem so pleased by the connection.”
She sighed. “I know. He blames Prinny for everything.”
“He has good reason.”
“Perhaps. But he doesn’t see that his suffering and mine made him what he is—strong, fierce. Who would he have been if Prinny had kept up the annuity? An actress’s bastard son, that’s all, living off the fruits of his birth. But now he owns his own club, and he’s done so well that he bought this place so I could—”
“—banish yourself to the outskirts of Bath,” Byrne said from the doorway. Entering with the jug of water and a plate, he glanced from the candle fully illuminating his mother’s face to Christabel’s damp cheeks, then added gruffly, “Have you been telling her the whole sad tale, Mother?”
“She had to,” Christabel retorted. “You never would.”
“I couldn’t.” He strode over to the bed. “I made a vow.”
“You see?” Mrs. Byrne remarked. “Isn’t he a good son?”
“A very good son,” Christabel answered, her heart full as she watched him set the plate on the bedside table, then fill the cup with water.
He sat down in the chair Christabel had left and flashed both a rakish smile. “Keep that under your hat, or you’ll destroy my reputation for ruthlessness. Then I’ll have gentlemen refusing to pay their debts right and left.” He winked at Christabel. “Or sending their wives out to shoot me.”
“Byrne,” Christabel warned him, “don’t you dare—”
“That’s how we met,” he said, pure mischief shining in his eyes. “Lady Haversham shot at me when I came to collect on her late husband’s debt.”
“Did she really?” Mrs. Byrne chuckled. “That explains why you went after her. Your philosophy has always been if you can’t beat them, bed them.”
Byrne groaned. “For God’s sake, Mother—”
“I wasn’t born yesterday. I know what you do with your women.” She coughed. “Same thing I did with your father, though I can’t regret it, since it gave me you.”
“And a life of pain and misery,” he said in a hollow voice.
“Pish, everyone’s life has a measure of pain and misery. If I’ve had a greater share of it from time to time, I’ve also had a greater share of joy.” She patted Christabel’s hand. “Especially tonight.”
When she followed the comment with a fit of coughing, Byrne rose. “We’ll let you sleep now.” He bent to kiss her cheek, then turned to offer Christabel his arm.
As she rose and took it, his mother said, with an edge to her voice, “Which room did you put Lady Haversham in?”
“The pretty pink one.”
His mother smiled her approval. “At least you have some sense of decorum.”
Christabel choked back a laugh. For a woman who knew so much about her son’s mistresses, Mrs. Byrne was surprisingly concerned about appearances.
Then again, here at his estate Byrne might be an entirely different person—the lord of the manor, a respectable gentleman. Christabel could hardly imagine it.
“Good night, Mother,” Byrne said.
They started to leave, then on impulse Christabel broke from him and ran back to the bed to place a kiss on Mrs. Byrne’s scarred cheek. “Thank you for telling me about him,” she whispered.
Tears filled his mother’s eyes. “Thank you for trying to understand him.”
When Christabel returned to Byrne’s side, he was watching her with thinly veiled curiosity. As soon as they left the room, however, he said, “I take it you and my mother had a very emotional chat. I suppose she bombarded you with questions about your association with me?”
“What we discussed is private.”
“And I hope it will stay private outside of this house as well,” he said tersely, as they strolled together down the hall.
“I would never betray your confidence, or hers. Surely you know that.”
He shot her a shuttered glance. “I wouldn’t have brought you if I’d thought otherwise. Though I do wish she’d allow me to tell people about her. I’d like to have her in London, where she could be better cared for.”
“What does she suffer from?”
“Weak lungs. The doctors say it’s unrelated to the fire, but I have my doubts. In recent years, she’s been plagued by agues and pleurisy during the autumn and winter. They’ve brought her near to death a few times, so I often have to make emergency trips to Bath.”
He brought her to a halt outside her bedchamber door, and his manner changed. “I…er…that is…tonight you’ll—”
“Be sleeping alone.” She gazed up at him, eyes twinkling. “I gathered as much.”
“I suppose you find this very amusing,” he grumbled.
“That the wicked Mr. Byrne would put his mistress in a separate bedchamber out of respect for his mother?” she teased. “No, indeed. Why should I find that amusing?”
With a dangerous glint in his eyes, he pressed her against the door. “Perhaps I should remind you how I got my reputation for wickedness in the first place—”
He kissed her, so deeply and soulfully it roused a painful ache in her chest that had nothing to do with desire. When he drew back long moments later, she could see in his eyes that he felt something else, too.
But all he said was, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Treating my mother like a person.”
She stared at him. “She is a person.”
“I know. But people confronted by a monstrous face tend to treat the person beneath it as a monster, too. Thank you for being better than that.”
“You’re welcome,” she said softly, a lump in her throat. When he bent to kiss her again, she stopped him. “But if you keep kissing me, I may be tempted to make your sacrifice to propriety all for naught.”
He laughed. “Then I’d better say good night, darling.”
“Good night…Gavin.”
He started to walk away, then stopped as it registered that she’d called him by his Christian name. He glanced back at her, one eyebrow raised.
She shrugged. “So you have two women calling you that—why not?”
“Why not indeed?” he answered. But his eyes burned into hers a long moment before he walked down the hall and entered his own room.
“Sleep well, my sweet prince,” she whispered after his door was closed.
Her dear, sweet Prince of Sin. Christabel entered her own room, feeling bereft not to have him there with her. He was rapidly proving to be not so sinful after all. He was proving to be a man she might be able to trust, to care for…to love.
Never say those words to him if you want to remain his mistress.
Blinking back tears, she unfastened her gown, then stripped off her stockings and sat down on the
bed. What was she going to do about Gavin? About loving Gavin? Because she did love him. She saw that now. And she began to believe that in time he might actually be capable of loving her, too.
But they didn’t have time. The letters lay between them like the proverbial elephant in the room. Now that she knew the full extent of why he hated the prince, she knew he would never give up until he learned what was in them, even if he had to deal with Lord Stokely privately to do so.
She groaned. Gavin and Lord Stokely could make plans together, and she would never know. She couldn’t be with Gavin every minute of every day, and as time grew short, she wasn’t the only one who’d grow more desperate.
Well, she could fret over how he’d act if he got to them on his own and realized their massive significance. Or she could trust him with the truth. She could take a chance that if she told him everything and impressed upon him the seriousness of what would happen if he tried to use the letters, he might let his conscience be his guide.
A week ago, she wouldn’t have attempted it. But that was before she’d seen the side of Gavin that understood how important it was to save one’s family. If she made him understand that she must protect her father as he’d protected his mother, she might get through to him.
Or she might not. Did she dare risk it, with Papa’s life hanging in the balance?
Did she dare not? She needed him to get the letters—that grew more painfully clear with each passing day. And the barony wasn’t enough to motivate him to remain on her side—having a title wouldn’t take away his mother’s pain, a pain that so clearly ate at him. Gavin wouldn’t stop until he’d avenged her.
Unless Christabel could show him that vengeance brought only more pain.
You make me want to be good.
Oh, Lord, she prayed he’d been telling the truth. Because now was his chance. And if he decided to use the knowledge for vengeance instead…
He had to do the right thing. He had to. This wasn’t a gamble she could afford to lose.
Chapter Twenty
The man is always the last to know when
Cupid has struck him.
—Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress
Gavin wasn’t sure how to read Christabel’s mood. Ever since they’d left Bath this morning, she’d been staring out that bloody window as if the answer to her troubles lay in the softly carpeted hills and autumn-hued trees they hurtled past.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have brought her to meet his mother. But now that it was done, he couldn’t regret it. Unless it was Mother’s tale that haunted her. How much had his mother told her about those dark, early years?
“What’s wrong, lass? Why so quiet?”
“I’m thinking about what will happen when we return to Lord Stokely’s.”
He relaxed. Now, that he understood. “You’re worried about the eliminations, I suppose.”
Her gaze shot to him. “I wasn’t. Should I be?”
“It depends on who’s left to play.”
“You and I will be partners from now on, won’t we?”
He cast her an indulgent smile. “Of course, my sweet. Tonight Stokely will gather everyone who has the money to stay in the game. When he asks us to choose our partners, we’ll choose each other, simple as that. From then on, it will be the two of us, for better or worse.”
“Until death do us part,” Christabel said dryly. Before he could react to that astonishing comment, she asked, “Is that why you never partnered with any of your mistresses? Because even that bespoke a more permanent connection than you wished to have?”
“I never partnered with any of my mistresses, darling, because Stokely’s a better player than any of them.”
“Including me,” she said with a frown.
“Until you,” he corrected her.
She snorted. “If I didn’t have to play to stay—and if you hadn’t made that wager with Lord Stokely—I would quit right now. Because I know I can’t play well enough to beat everybody who’s left.”
“Nonsense. When you put your mind to it, you’re as good as any of them. The only one who might pose a problem is Eleanor, because she tends to rouse your temper. But perhaps fortune will be with us and her injury will take her out of the game entirely.
“As for the others, Lady Hungate plays better than you, but she lacks your aggression. And when you play Lady Kingsley, remember that she tends to save her trumps. That should help you best her. If you pay attention. Which I begin to think might be a problem.”
“It won’t. By tonight, I’ll be ready to focus on the game.” She dragged in a heavy breath. “But first, there’s something important I must discuss with you.”
“Oh?” He eyed her warily. After last night, he had no idea what to expect. Especially after her comment about “until death do us part.” Was that what she wanted from him? Marriage? Did he want her to want it?
That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? He began to think he wanted far more from her than a short affair. Or even a long affair. She made him yearn, and that scared the hell out of him. He’d taught himself long ago not to yearn for anything he wasn’t absolutely sure he could have.
“Let’s put our cards on the table, Gavin,” she said. “So to speak.”
His pulse began to race. “Why not?”
“If you could gain the letters right now, what would you do with them?”
He blinked. The letters. She was talking about the bloody letters. “What do you mean?”
“We both know you want them for yourself. If you had them—if I could give them to you—what would you do with them?”
“It would depend on what’s in them.”
“Suppose I said it was something that could damage His Highness.”
“Create a scandal, you mean?” When she didn’t answer, he debated whether to tell her the truth. But after last night, surely she’d understand and sympathize with his aims. “I’d use them as leverage to force him to make a public apology to my mother, among other things. To declare that she wasn’t the liar and the whore he painted her, but the true mother of one of his by-blows.”
“You know it’s highly unlikely that he would ever agree to that,” she pointed out. “His reputation is soiled enough right now; it would damage him too much before the people to be painted as a liar and a cheat.”
“Which he is.”
“Yes,” she admitted with a sigh. “What you want isn’t unreasonable. And perhaps he might grant it if you can obtain the letters.” She stared at him. “I’ve decided to tell you what’s in them.”
That he had not expected. He gazed at her with suspicion. “Why now?”
“Because I’m hoping that once you understand their importance, you’ll treat them with the proper care. Perhaps you’ll even show some mercy toward your father, despite his many sins.”
He wasn’t about to tell her that she was wasting her breath, not when he was this close to hearing the truth.
She swallowed. “I’m praying that any man who cares as much for his mother as you obviously do could never harm another mother who sacrificed for the good of her child.”
His eyes narrowed. “What other mother?”
She squared her shoulders, clearly gathering her strength. “Maria Fitzherbert. Whom some still consider to be Prinny’s lawful wife.”
“Mrs. Fitzherbert has no—” He broke off, his blood thundering in his veins. “She has a child?”
“A son. In Gibraltar. Where my father took him twenty-odd years ago, along with a soldier and his wife who took him in. The letters are from Mrs. Fitzherbert to my father, discussing their plans for…er…removing the child from England and having him become known as the soldier’s son.”
The ramifications of her words shook him with the force of a tempestuous sea. “Bloody, bloody hell. Prinny has a son by Mrs. Fitzherbert. You know what that means.”
“Of course. Why do you think they had him whisked out of the country and hidden all these years?”
“If the child is rea
lly his by Mrs. Fitzherbert, the succession would be in danger.” He leaned forward, hardly able to contain his excitement. “This is no by-blow of a mistress. The Catholic Church still considers their marriage valid, which means plenty of people would consider the boy a legitimate heir to the throne. And neither George III nor Parliament would let the crown pass to Prinny when Prinny’s own heir is in question.”
She nodded. “Exactly. That’s why His Highness is so desperate to regain the letters. Because if they’re published now, it would put an end to any hope that he’d ever be king.”
“My God,” he crowed, “I’d hoped for leverage to force him to admit the truth, but this is far better! A way to rid the country of the bastard once and for all!”
She’d gone white as ash. “Gavin, listen to me. I don’t blame you for hating him, but surely even you can see why these letters must never be published. You have to think of more than yourself in this.”
“Why?” he snapped. “That arse has never thought of anyone but himself. The country would be better off without him: He’s a bloated, self-serving cancer eating away at the good name and reputation of England. Plenty of people would thank me for making it impossible for him to succeed to the throne.”
“But others, like the Tories, would champion him. It would embroil England in chaos for years, Gavin. Years. The dispute over Charles II’s succession went on for over fifty years and caused the Glorious Revolution, not to mention the Jacobite rebellion a mere sixty years ago. Why do you think Mrs. Fitzherbert agreed to send her son away? Because she didn’t want him at the center of such a storm. Because she loved him too much to put that burden upon him.”
“No, she did it because Prinny forced her to. Because she let that arse pull the wool over her eyes.” He’d be damned if he’d accept her comparing Maria Fitzherbert’s sacrifice to his mother’s. “And once again, Prinny gets what he wants. But don’t you understand? This is the chance to rid England of him. To make him suffer—”
“For what he did to you and your mother.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Gavin, all you want is vengeance. But wreaking your vengeance would split the country apart.”
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