“Mr. Byrne?”
“My Christian name is Stephen,” he reminded her.
This would take some getting used to. “Stephen. I understand you’re a compassionate man. Comforting me and being my confidant is one thing, but . . . I need to know what you’re thinking. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Oh, well—” He lowered his lips to her throat and kissed her once, twice, thrice in a descending pattern to the top edge of her bodice. “I’m just trying to convince myself not to throw you down on this stone floor and make love to you.”
She reached up and placed her palms on either side of his face to make him look up from her breasts and into her eyes. “That would be a very ungentlemanly thing to do.”
“I suppose so. But then—”
“—you’re not a gentleman.”
“Right.” He cleared his throat and released her, as if the simple action of opening his arms required as much strength as lifting a smoldering timber off of Amanda. “But if you stay out here another five minutes with me, your reputation will be shot to hell.”
She smiled. “I suppose so.”
He took her by the hand. “Back to the ball, Princess.”
Thirty-four
In the days following Louise’s encounter with Stephen Byrne at Stafford House, Louise found it a challenge to think of anything but him. His strong arms holding her. The scents of leather and earth that seemed always to cling to him even when he was indoors. His eyes, as black as the onyx stone in the signet ring her father had left to her. In her dreams, he kissed her again, and again. Each time demanding more from her.
Louise’s only defense for shutting out these fantasies, and others far too vivid and intimate to even think about, was by keeping very, very busy. She decided the necessary distractions should come in the form of helping the American investigate the rat incident. While he was in pursuit of Darvey, she would lessen his load by doing a little sleuthing at Buckingham.
The first step, she decided, was to confer with her mother, a task she looked forward to with even less enthusiasm than usual, so soon after revisiting the most traumatic days of her young life.
Byrne had forced her to acknowledge her feelings of guilt, deserved or not, for giving up her son, and for hating (or at least deeply distrusting) her mother. That emotional catharsis was no doubt long overdue—though she failed to see why Stephen felt it his particular duty to bully her into confession. The problem now was—she feared this awakening of emotions might renew the tension of her daily encounters with her mother. Until this moment, their relationship, though strained, had survived. They had come to an uneasy truce. By unspoken agreement, neither spoke of the past. Her mother even seemed capable of pretending, while around Amanda and Eddie, that she wasn’t the boy’s grandmother. Incredible.
When she arrived at her mother’s office, she found the door shut. Her personal Cerberus looked up from his desk. “Your Royal Highness, I hope you’re well.”
“I am. Quite.” In fact, she felt positively renewed. As if she saw the world through fresh eyes, unclouded by self-doubt. “I need a few words with my mother.”
The secretary blinked at her apologetically. “I’m afraid she is in conference with Mr. Disraeli. I don’t know how long they’ll be.”
Louise sighed. “It’s quite urgent that I see her soon. I don’t suppose—”
The door swung open, and the magnetic gaze of Benjamin Disraeli peered around the doorframe’s dark wood. “I thought I heard your voice, Princess. Please, if you’d like to join us?”
She smiled. “I would indeed. Thank you, sir.”
An elaborate tea service for two had been arranged on a butler’s table.
“Ring for another cup if you like, dear,” Victoria said when Louise walked in.
Louise waved off the invitation. “It’s not necessary. I don’t want to interrupt, but I do need to discuss something of importance with you.”
“If it is of a personal nature,” Disraeli said, “I’ll be happy to take my leave.”
“Oh, Dizzy, no. Please don’t, you’ve only just got here,” her mother cooed.
“Only if you wish for me to stay, my Faerie dear.”
Louise rolled her eyes. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard the two of them exchanging pet names. This was a side of her mother she didn’t understand, or much enjoy. The woman could be a harsh taskmaster to her children, ruthless to politicians and clergy who stood in her way, as tough as a general when crossed by the court. But she always kept around two or three pet males whom she pampered and flirted with outrageously. The suave Disraeli was a current favorite. A choice she made obvious and which, Louise suspected, annoyed John Brown to no end. Not to mention Disraeli’s adversary, the present prime minister, Mr. Gladstone.
Brown was all physical masculinity, the gillie from Balmoral that Victoria had made into a personal bodyguard and attendant. The commoner from Scotland wasn’t much liked in court, whereas Disraeli’s charm and elegance won him the admiration of many women in and outside of the English court. Predictably, neither man seemed particularly fond of the other.
“What is it you wish to speak to me about?” Victoria asked, setting her cup down on its saucer in her ample lap.
Louise arranged her skirts around her feet as she settled into the chair Disraeli pulled up for her.
“I wish your honest opinion and observations, Mama.”
“I would never give any but honest ones, my dear.” Victoria tossed Disraeli a coy smile.
Louise wished she’d caught her mother in a more serious mood, but saying so would only set her mother against her. There was nothing to do but begin. “Neither Mr. Brown, nor your agent Mr. Byrne, have discovered who released the rats into the nursery. Is that so?”
“It is,” her mother said then glanced at Disraeli with sudden anxiety. “Oh, Dizzy, it was such a terrible scene. So disturbing. And with a threatening note to my dear children. Horrifying!”
“I was here that day. Remember, dear lady?”
“Oh, yes, of course you were. As was Mr. Gladstone.”
Now this is something, Louise mused. She had worried that someone among their staff might not be trusted. But she hadn’t considered visiting dignitaries. Including men of such stature as the current and past PM among the suspects, well, that seemed illogical.
But was it really?
She tried to remember if she’d seen either man, with or without accompanying secretaries, wandering the castle’s hallways or anywhere near the nursery wing. But she couldn’t say that she had. Then again, so much had happened since then to cloud her memory of that day.
“I know that thinking about that day is unsettling to you, Mama. But here’s my question: if you were to consider someone in our midst who might turn on us from within, could you offer up any candidates?”
Her mother’s jowls trembled and tiny porcine eyes sparked with displeasure. “God help us, Louise, how can you even suggest such a thing? Of course no one in our service, or in the court, wishes us ill.”
“I would like to think so as well,” Louise said carefully. “But the fact remains, someone did smuggle those rats into the castle. And, according to Mr. Byrne, the spy, intruder, or whatever you wish to call this person, also seems to be feeding information to the Fenians about our daily routine and travel schedules, making it easier for them to plot further assaults.”
“He’s said as much to me.” Victoria pursed her lips in displeasure.
“Dear lady, if you will allow me.” Disraeli spoke to his queen but flashed a conspiratorial gaze toward Louise. “Princess Louise is right, as is your agent. Concern for your security outweighs your loyalty to those around you. No one should stand above suspicion.”
Victoria shook her head in denial but didn’t interrupt.
Disraeli continued. “I myself have many enemies.”
“I cannot believe anyone would harm you, Dizzy.”
Louise rolled her eyes. Oh, Mama.
“Of course they would, for a purpose. One must be ever vigilant.” Disraeli sighed. “Thus your report from Mr. Byrne makes perfect sense.”
“Report? What report?” Louise said.
Disraeli reached over and patted her hand. “Violence between men is nothing new, Your Royal Highness. We have merely refined our weapons over the years.” He turned back to Victoria. “I’m grateful to Mr. Byrne for his acute eye and for warning me to take precautions.” He pointed to a copy of the Times that lay on the table beneath the tea service, then slid it out from under the heavy silver tray and handed it to Louise.
The page to which it was opened showed photographs of two men. They looked as if they’d been taken for government identification. The headline read: BOTH MURDER VICTIMS MINOR SECRETARIES TO THE MINISTRY OF FINANCE.
Louise stared at the faces of the two men. Only after a moment did she look up at the former PM with understanding. “You and this one gentleman are not unlike in certain respects.”
“Yes,” Disraeli said, “that’s what Mr. Byrne has pointed out. He believes it was my life the attackers intended to take—and these poor men were innocents. He also told your mother that my death would have served the Fenians well. The man has a way with words.” He shook his head. “Ice water runs through his veins, I’m sure.”
Louise covered her mouth with one hand, hiding her smile. Not always.
“Enough of this talk of assassins.” Victoria waved a hand in dismissal. “They’re hooligans, all of them—out to cause mayhem to no purpose. Louise, you said you came to discuss our rats? I can think of no less delightful topic.”
“Yes, I did.” Louise ignored her mother’s chiding glare. This had better be worth my time, the queen’s eyes warned. “I’ve been thinking. Mr. Brown and your guardsmen assure us that no deliveries were made the morning the rats appeared. And all visitors were accounted for—those, at the time, being Mr. Disraeli, Mr. Gladstone, and their secretaries. And the rats could not have been in Bea’s room for long without being discovered.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Disraeli agreed. “Have the staff as well as gentlemen and ladies of the court been questioned?”
“They have. To no good result.” Louise paused. “I believe, therefore, that the person to blame is someone not presently among us. Some person or persons who at one time deserved our trust but now harbors a violent grudge, and has become allied with the Fenians for the purpose of revenge.”
Her mother blanched to nearly the whiteness of her lace collar but said nothing.
“You know someone who fits that description. Don’t you, Mama?”
Victoria’s eyes met hers and slowly widened. Louise watched her mother’s fear transform into revulsion. “The baron,” she whispered.
Louise shuddered at the mention of the man. There were, of course, many who owned that title, throughout England and the Continent. But she had no doubt who her mother meant.
“Baron Stockmar,” Louise said to Disraeli’s questioning look. She turned back to her mother. “He’s dead, though, isn’t he?”
The queen broke into a smile and actually cackled her pleasure. “He hates me so much, maybe he’s come back from the grave to haunt us.”
Louise chewed her bottom lip. Yes, she thought, if such a thing were possible, she had no doubt Stockmar would do it. The question remained—how?
Thirty-five
Rupert stood on the splintery dock inches above the fetid flow of slime called the Thames River. He listened to what the Lieutenant was saying, but used the time to get a better look at him. The man’s cap brim hid the upper half of his features. A thin slash of lips interrupted a beardless jaw. His chin jutted forward in a way that made him look as if he was always leaning forward, on the verge of striding out, even when he was standing still. He spoke with the slightest of accents—an Irish lilt mixed with something else. Northern European? Napoleon III had just lost the Franco-Prussian War. Maybe he was a defeated soldier like them?
It didn’t really matter. Rupert was used to taking orders as long as there was a strong man at the helm. He didn’t even blame the Lieutenant for speaking harshly to him and Will after it became clear they’d killed the wrong men in the park. Will had worried the Fenians would send him and Rupert packing without so much as a penny for a pie. Or worse, shoot them and dump their bodies in the river, no one the wiser.
But he also knew that one good black powder man was worth a battalion of foot soldiers. So he wasn’t surprised when the Lieutenant kept them on despite their mistake.
“Arrangements have been made for the two boats you requested,” the man was saying. “A skiff and a steamer.” He glanced down at Rupert’s right hand. “You say you can manage both vessels between the two of you?”
Rupert stuffed his injured hand in his pocket and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The first vessel, a sturdy, flat-bottomed rowing boat, would be loaded with powder and primer and, after he and Will worked their magic, become their bomb. The larger steam-powered ship was a retired ferry, just twenty feet long and a rusty junker, but with a solid working engine. Like the other boat, it would blend in with the commercial craft clogging the river. Neither boat would attract attention from the queen’s security detail.
“Yes, sir. Will here, he ran a steamboat afore the war, on the Missouri.”
“Excellent. Let’s be clear, gentlemen. I need that center span destroyed and the queen’s coach isolated from the forward escort, so that my men can move in and make the snatch.”
Rupert imagined the violent clash of the two forces on Vauxhall Bridge above them. The queen’s Hussars would fight to the death to protect her. “Our boys’ll have to come in from the rear and overcome the following guard,” he pointed out.
A smile creased the officer’s cheeks. “All we need is the advantage of surprise and half the queen’s men out of action. John Brown out of commission, or dead, would be the best possible outcome.”
It was a daring plot, and Rupert knew they’d lose brave comrades. But taking Victoria herself would, sure as the sun rises in the east, bring worldwide attention to the Irish cause. It was a grand and glorious statement of the will of a small nation. David victorious over Goliath.
Rupert felt a surge of exhilaration unlike any he’d felt since his last mission for the proud South. “We’ll do our part, sir.”
He’d spent the last eighteen hours designing the most effective blast. He and Will would hand-light the fuses, rather than trust a flint and timer. Neither could they rely on charges planted directly on the bridge with a pressure trigger for a carriage wheel to strike. He’d tried to think what he’d do, if he were in charge of the queen’s safety. First, order all roadways and bridges along the parade route searched. And he’d send a hundred men to crawl through every inch of Westminster Abbey, where the ceremony was to be held, then secure it until half an hour before the ceremony. He’d send an outrider or wagon ahead of the first carriage to make sure there were no trigger plates or trip wires.
That left only one way to blow this damn bridge—from the water.
“You’ll of course move far enough away,” the Lieutenant was saying, “to protect yourself from the blast. But then I want you to hold up as close as possible for five minutes or so after the explosion and keep an eye on the water.”
Rupert understood. For survivors. “For our fellas?”
The Lieutenant shook his head. “If all goes well, our boys won’t be the ones in the water.” He turned to observe the bridge. “You’ll be our insurance. In case one of the royal family takes a plunge.”
Rupert nodded his agreement. But he figured the chances of them hauling a live body out of the water were pretty damn slim. If the blast or the fall didn’t kill ’em, a dunk in this poisonous old river likely would.
Thirty-six
A noxious fog, thick as his mother’s New England fish chowder, obscured Byrne’s view of the street. He didn’t see the boy coming until the lad thrust a scabby head through the open window
of the moving carriage in which Byrne and Princess Beatrice rode, on their way to her favorite bookshop.
Byrne had set half a dozen young crossing sweepers to watch for Darvey and report to him when the pimp turned up. Now the lad, hanging on like a monkey to the outside of the jouncing carriage, whispered into Byrne’s ear.
“Hey, you boy, get off from there!” the footman shouted down from his perch at the back of the carriage.
Byrne slipped a coin into the boy’s hand before the urchin dropped down from the side of the vehicle and darted away between rumbling omnibuses, costermongers’ barrows, and pedestrians.
“What a filthy little boy,” Beatrice said, wrinkling her nose. “What did he want?”
Byrne scowled at his hands. “Nothing important, Your Highness.” Before she could ask another question he said, “Will you be long in the shop?”
“No more than two hours,” she said. “I shall read for a while, before deciding if I will buy anything. Will you hate having to wait for me?” Her smile had just a hint of girlish infatuation in it.
“Not at all. In fact, I have some business to attend to. I’ll leave you in the care of your coachman and guard. If I’m not back by the time you’re ready to leave, they’ll take you home.” He’d replaced the usual footman with one of the queen’s guards. The man was armed and trained to protect the family. Beatrice would be in good hands.
“You needn’t hurry,” Beatrice said. “I can spend hours and hours in a bookshop. Mrs. Shrewsberry doesn’t mind, and she always has jam cakes for me when I come.”
“Good,” said Byrne, thinking what a relief it must be for the youngest princess to be free of her mother for even a few hours. Victoria treated Beatrice more like a personal maid than her child. As a result, he’d noticed, the girl had little time to herself and no friends at all her own age. Byrne’s heart went out to her.
After securing the bookshop, which closed its doors to other customers while the princess visited, Byrne waved down a hansom cab and directed it to Henry Locock’s home and dispensary. His crossing sweeper had spotted someone who looked like Darvey in the Lococks’ neighborhood.
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