One Night with a Prince

by Sabrina Jeffries

  It was enough to steady her hands and her nerve.

  She forced herself to concentrate, to remember every card played. Earlier in the week, she’d partnered Lady Kingsley a few times and even Lord Stokely once. She dredged up every memory of how they’d played, every strategy they’d exhibited. And she put it to good use.

  They lost the first rubber. But Lord Stokely and Lady Kingsley lost the second. It was down to one.

  They were in the final game, nearly even in points, when Lord Stokely said, “I suppose you told Byrne about our encounter this morning, Lady Haversham.”

  “Of course.” If he was trying to rattle her, she wouldn’t let him.

  “And the caresses we shared. Did you tell him of that?”

  Now he was trying to rattle Gavin. “Shared implies that both of us participated, Lord Stokely. But as I recall the only caress I gave you was of the painful variety.”

  Gavin laughed. “Grabbed you by the ballocks, did she? You’d better be wary of Christabel, Stokely. She can bring a man to his knees, and not in a good way.”

  In the end, the only person rattled by the interchange was Lord Stokely, which gave her immense satisfaction. After that, he kept his opinions to himself. Which was a good thing, because the cards took all her concentration.

  Still, they kept fairly well apace with Lord Stokely and Lady Kingsley, although the couple had the lead.

  Then disaster struck. She stared at the abysmal hand she’d been dealt, praying that Gavin had a better one.

  She glanced over the table at him, but his face showed nothing as he examined his own cards. Just once, she wished he would break his stoic manner and give her some sign of how good his cards were. But if he did, there was always the chance that the other side could see, too, and that would be dangerous.

  They were four points behind Lord Stokely and Lady Kingsley, four tiny points. Yet it might as well be a hundred with a hand like this. She could feel the panic rise in her throat, feel the terror building.

  Then Gavin’s voice came to her from that long-ago night when he’d first started teaching her to play. Whether ten pounds or ten thousand ride on your hand, you must leave emotion out of it. Play to the cards you have. Always.

  So she did. She forced herself to block out her fear and concentrate on the cards.

  Lady Kingsley was saving her diamonds, no doubt, since diamonds were trump, so Christabel must save bigger ones. She let a jack of clubs pass that she could have taken with a two of diamonds, barely suppressing a sigh of relief as Gavin took it with the king of clubs.

  And that’s how it went, each of them playing to the other’s strengths like an old married couple. They won that trick and the next, until with a final flourish, Lady Kingsley brandished the queen of diamonds.

  And Christabel topped it with her only good card—the one she’d saved so carefully—the king of diamonds.

  Gavin smiled widely. “We won, my love. We won.”

  “It can’t be,” Lady Kingsley whispered, her gaze fixed on the king of diamonds. “I was sure Lord Stokely had it. From the way you were playing, I didn’t believe…I couldn’t imagine—”

  “It’s all right, my dear,” Lord Stokely said, seeming oddly unperturbed. “We changed the terms of the game, so you and I still get to keep the pot. They merely get to have these.”

  When he tossed them across the table at Christabel with nonchalant unconcern, she grew suspicious. She picked them up and thumbed through them, her delight turning rapidly into fury.

  “What is it?” Gavin asked.

  “Three are missing.” She shot Lord Stokely an accusing glance. “And knowing you, they’re probably three of the most damaging.”

  The baron shrugged. “Your husband must have kept them out for that reason. These are the only ones I have.”

  “You blasted cheater,” she hissed. “You’d better produce those other three letters, or I swear I’ll—”

  “What? Tell all of London about them and risk your father’s neck? Not likely, my dear.” His eyes gleamed at her. “But thank you for the pot, both of you. I can always use the funds when I go to court my…ah…future royal wife.”

  “I don’t understand,” Lady Kingsley put in. “What on earth is this about? What are those?”

  “Nothing you need worry about,” Lord Stokely reassured her.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Christabel saw Gavin reach for the knife in his boot, then realize it wasn’t there. When his gaze met hers, she understood, and instantly slid her fan across the table.

  Gavin caught it, and seconds later was on his feet behind Lord Stokely, jerking the man’s head back by the hair so his other hand could press the blade to the man’s neck. “The missing letters, if you please,” he growled.

  Lord Stokely’s surprise rapidly twisted into fear. “I don’t have them.”

  Gavin stared down at his old “friend.” He didn’t believe for a minute that Stokely didn’t have the other letters. Especially since Christabel’s expression showed that she didn’t believe it either. “Then what happened to them?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “A pity.” Gavin pressed the blade closer. “Now I’ll have to kill you so you can’t use them.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Stokely whispered, though his hands were shaking, and sweat had broken out on his brow. “For God’s sake, Byrne, I’m a lord of the realm. Kill me, and you’ll end up on the gibbet.”

  “Not when Prinny hears of it. He wouldn’t hesitate to free the man who acted to save his throne.” He lowered a blade a bit. “But you do have a point—if I kill you, I won’t get the other letters, and someone else might stumble upon them who could use them.”

  “Yes,” Stokely said, breathing a little easier.

  “So I’ll just have to remove pieces of you until you recover your memory.” Gavin slid the knife around until it lay directly beneath Stokely’s left ear. “Shall I start with this?”

  “You wouldn’t—”

  “You forget where I was raised.” Gavin could feel both ladies watching him in horror, but he dared not respond to that. Stokely had to believe he would do it. “I learned all sorts of things living in Drury Lane. Did you know that a man can survive very well without his ear? And if you’re worried it might make your head look uneven, I could always remove the other—”

  “Enough,” the man said hoarsely. “The other letters are in the safe. Behind you. In the mantelpiece.”

  “Where exactly?” Gavin demanded. With his free hand, he grabbed Stokely’s ear and dragged him up out of the chair by it. “Show me.” Gavin drew back the blade just enough to allow Stokely to edge toward the mantel.

  The baron pressed something, and a piece of the marble swung open to reveal a safe.

  “Right here in the card room,” Christabel said in disgust. “How you must have enjoyed knowing that we were looking everywhere but here, that we were playing cards a few inches from your safe.”

  Stokely’s shrug ended when Gavin pressed the knife against his neck once again. “Open it.”

  “I thought you knew how to open a safe,” Christabel said.

  “This is how.” Gavin shot her a faint smile. “You can get any man to open a safe if his only other choice is losing his life.” He shifted the knife to beneath Stokely’s ear. “Or parts of his anatomy.”

  Stokely stiffened but complied.

  The safe swung open to reveal not only the pile of pound notes that constituted the pot, but the missing letters. “I always like a man who pays his debts,” Gavin growled. Reaching inside, he ignored the money and took the letters. Then he retracted the blade, pocketed the fan, and thrust Stokely aside. “It’s been a pleasure, Stokely, but we must be on our way.”

  Gavin scooped up the other packet of letters where Christabel had left them.

  “What will you do with them?” Stokely asked, his voice less shaky now that he no longer had a blade at his throat.

  But Gavin didn’t hear him. It had finally d
awned on him what he held in his hand. Power. The power to hurt Prinny. The power to avenge his mother. If he had them published—

  “Give the letters to me, Gavin,” Christabel whispered.

  Her voice penetrated his consciousness, drawing his attention. He looked over to find the blood draining from her face.

  She stretched her hand out to him. “Gavin, please, think what you’re doing.”

  “Yes, think,” Stokely prodded with a malevolent smile. “You could ruin His Highness forever.”

  “He could ruin himself,” she said hoarsely. “Be quiet, blast you.”

  Himself. She was worried about him being ruined. Not her father or even her, but him. Had any woman, other than his mother, ever considered him and his needs first? Or put his welfare and future ahead of her own?

  The weight of that love rained down on his long-dried-up soul, renewing and restoring it, until he realized he had no choice but to honor it.

  He stepped over to the fireplace, then looked at her again. “Yes?”

  As always, she understood without his having to explain. She nodded.

  He tossed the letters into the fire, feeling peace steal over him as they burst into flame. One fire had begun his torment; it was only fitting that another should end it.

  Stokely shot up from his chair. “You’re insane! Do you know what those are worth?”

  “Yes. That’s why I burned them. As long as they’re intact, someone can and will use them.” Gavin flashed Christabel a rueful smile. “I can’t take the chance it might be me.”

  Her heart shone in her answering smile, as wide and giving as any man could wish for in a sweetheart, a lover…a wife. Coming to his side, she stretched up to press a kiss to his mouth, then took his hand. “Come, my love, I think it’s high time we go home.”

  Home. He didn’t bother to ask if she meant his town house or hers, or even the estate at Bath. Because it didn’t matter. From now on, home was wherever she was.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Occasionally, a man will actually marry

  his mistress, but that is rare enough as to

  be remarkable.

  —Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress

  So much had happened that Christabel could scarcely believe it had been two weeks since Lord Stokely’s house party. First there’d been the quiet wedding at Gavin’s house in Bath, with his mother meeting his half brothers and their wives for the first time.

  Then she’d reported to His Highness about the outcome of the mission, though he didn’t yet know that the letters had gone up in smoke. She was waiting to reveal that until Gavin received his part of the bargain. She didn’t trust the prince any more than he did.

  All week she’d been busy settling her household matters so she could move out of the Haversham town house and into her new husband’s. Not to mention planning for today’s ceremony.

  She glanced over at Gavin, who stared pensively out the window of the waiting room at Westminster Palace. Her heart swelled with love. What a dear he was. Marriage suited him.

  “Clearly His Highness isn’t going to meet with me privately as he promised.” Gavin turned from the window to face her. “I knew he’d renege on that term of our agreement.”

  She didn’t blame him for his skepticism. The ceremony to bestow his barony on him began in only thirty minutes. His half brothers were already inside, taking their seats with the rest of the lords.

  “He’ll come.” Going to his side, she tapped his arm with her fan. “If he doesn’t, he’ll force me to use this.”

  A faint smile touched his lips, the first in the past hour. “Assaulting a prince is a treasonous offense. You’d hang, my sweet.”

  “Nonsense,” she teased. “How could he possibly hang the wife of his son?”

  Gavin’s smile faded. “His son, whom he has yet to acknowledge and never will.” He took her hand in his. “At least he’s giving me the barony. That’s something, I suppose.”

  But then the door opened, and His Highness entered. He’d kept his promise after all.

  Christabel dropped into a deep curtsy, but Gavin, for better or worse, just stood there and stared. He’d never met his father, had he? The very thought of not knowing one’s own father made her heart ache for him.

  Especially when the prince said in a remotely formal voice, “Good afternoon, Mr. Byrne, Lady Haversham.”

  “Mrs. Byrne,” she corrected him fiercely. “I’ve taken my new husband’s name.”

  “Ah, yes, I’d heard that the two of you were married. But I rather thought you’d prefer to continue going by Lady Haversham.”

  Widows of high rank had a choice when they married a man of lower rank, and plenty of them chose to retain their loftier appellation. Christabel had been thrilled to rid herself of the title of marchioness.

  “Of course,” His Highness went on, “you will shortly be able to don a new title—Lady Byrne.” The prince turned to Gavin. “You still wish to have Byrne as the name of the barony?”

  Gavin nodded. “It’s the least I can do to honor my mother.”

  At the mention of Sally Byrne, His Highness stiffened. “I suppose that’s why you wanted the private meeting with me. So you could blackmail me with the letters into admitting—”

  “The letters are gone,” Gavin snapped. “I burned them.”

  His Highness gaped at Gavin.

  “That was what you wanted, wasn’t it, Your Highness?” Christabel said hastily. “For them to disappear?”

  “Of course, but—” The prince eyed Christabel skeptically. “You saw him burn them?”

  “Yes. So did Lord Stokely and Lady Kingsley, if you need witnesses.”

  His Highness’s expression shifted to one of incredulity. “Did Mr. Byrne know what was in them when he burned them?”

  “He did, Your Highness. Yet he burned them right there before Lord Stokely’s very eyes.”

  The prince released a long, heavy breath. “That would explain why Stokely fled the country.”

  “Did he?” Gavin asked.

  “Went to Paris. He wasn’t waiting to see what measures I’d take to ruin him.” His Highness gave Gavin a cold smile. “But he’ll find out eventually.” He paused to assess Gavin. “When you first agreed to this scheme, Mr. Byrne, you said you wanted to meet with me privately. Why?”

  “Why do you think? Because I wanted—still want—something from you.”

  “Oh?” the prince said stiffly. “The barony is not enough?”

  “To repay him for how you treated his mother?” Christabel put in. “How you left him friendless to—”

  “Hush, my love, it’s all right.” Gavin took her hand, rubbing his finger along her wedding ring, which matched his own. He turned to the prince. “You owe my mother an apology for many things, but especially for how you called her a whore to any who would listen. My mother didn’t deserve that. You and I both know she wasn’t one.” When the prince said nothing, he went on, “I don’t expect you to make a public declaration—I know that it wouldn’t be politically prudent. But among your friends—the ones who matter, the ones who gossip—I want you to set the matter straight.”

  The prince inclined his head. “I suppose I could do that.”

  “Secondly,” Gavin went on, “I expect you to fulfill your promise to pay her an annuity. I want you to pay it in full, going back to when you first stopped it, and continuing it until her death.”

  Christabel blinked. She hadn’t heard about this.

  The prince’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, Draker told me about your mother’s surviving the fire. He says you keep her comfortable at your estate at Bath, so I don’t see why she needs an annuity.”

  “That isn’t the point,” Gavin ground out. “It’s the principle of the thing. So I want you to establish a charitable annuity in her name, to be paid to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital for indigent women. St. Bartholomew’s took care of her after the fire. And your establishing the annuity will show to the world that she wasn’t the sor
t of woman you made her out to be.”

  “All right,” His Highness said, his expression showing that this new demand had caught him by surprise. “Anything else?”

  “No,” Gavin said tightly.

  “One more thing, Your Highness,” Christabel put in. Her proud husband wouldn’t ask for himself, so she would ask for him. “After all that Gavin has been through, the least you can do is privately acknowledge him as your son.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Gavin told her. “I did what I did for you, not for him.”

  “I know, darling. And I also know it does matter to you, in your heart.” She turned back to the prince, who was watching them with interest. “Please, Your Highness, just this once admit who he is.”

  The prince let out a heavy sigh. “Of course you’re mine, Gavin. No one with eyes could ever doubt it.” Then he stiffened. “And we will never speak of it again.”

  “Of course not…Father,” Gavin retorted, clearly unable to pass up his one chance to annoy his sire. “Don’t worry, I’ve lived this long without a father—I certainly don’t need one now.”

  But his hand gripped hers, and his voice shook. He might not need a father—but he needed to know he had one.

  “Speaking of fathers, I almost forgot,” the prince said, turning toward a nearby door that led to an adjoining room. “Come in, General. You were right—there was no treachery involved after all.”

  “Treachery? What do you m—” Christabel broke off as a man stepped into the room. “Papa!” she cried, and ran to his side. “Papa, you’re here! You’re back!”

  “Yes, dearling, I’m back.” As he enveloped her in his embrace, all the changes and difficulties of the past two months swamped her until she couldn’t restrain her tears. Her father gripped her tightly and said in a voice gruff with emotion, “There, there now, Bel-bel, since when does my brave little soldier cry?”

  “You must forgive my wife,” Gavin said tersely. “She’s been worried sick about you.”

  “Oh, Papa,” she choked out, “I am so sorry…for everything. For showing Philip the letters…for betraying your trust—”

  “Nonsense,” he whispered, “do not blame yourself. Your fool of a father should never have kept those letters in the first place.” He lifted his head from hers. “A point that His Highness has made abundantly clear.”