Byrne ordered the driver to leave him a block away, paid him, and strode off down the alley behind the physician’s house. He’d arrived almost too late.
Darvey stood on a crate, at eye level to a rear window of the Locock home. He was shoving a crowbar beneath the lip of a windowpane. From his end of the alley, Byrne heard the creak as the wooden frame weakened. It gave way with a dull crack.
Byrne broke into a run, loping toward the pimp.
Darvey turned to observe him with a welcoming expression that struck Byrne as inappropriate to being caught in the act. “Took you long enough, boy-o,” Darvey called out. “Another two shakes of a lamb’s tail, I’d a been on me girl, helpin’ her remember her trade.” He chuckled.
Byrne stopped just feet away from him. “You’re coming with me.”
“Is I? Where to?” Darvey looked more amused than worried.
“I’m taking you to Scotland Yard to be held for arson and attempted murder.”
Still looking pleased with himself, Darvey shifted the crowbar from right to left hand, and pulled a knife from inside the cuff of his pant leg. “So come ahead, Yank.”
Byrne brought out the Colt. He could shoot the man dead on the spot, or take him wounded to prison. It didn’t much matter to him which.
Darvey tilted his head to one side and eyed the weapon with the air of a connoisseur. “Nice piece. So, you’re in this for queen and another man’s country? Don’t seem reason enough for a fella to die.”
“I ain’t the one dying today, Darvey,” Byrne said.
“Oh no?” The voice came from behind Byrne at the precise moment something that felt like a lamppost came down on his head.
He felt the gun leave his hand, heard it skitter across the gravely ground. The sound of metal ringing against metal came to him from the far side of the alley. He staggered to find his balance.
When his eyes focused a second later, he turned and saw two men blocking the alley’s mouth. The Colt was nowhere in sight, but Byrne suspected the iron-barred sewage grate had swallowed it up.
“Come on, Yank,” Darvey taunted. “Let’s you and me have a bit of fun before my mates join the party.”
Byrne cursed himself for assuming the man fool enough not to have brought backup. Darvey had expected this confrontation. Was it possible this entire scene had been staged for his benefit? The casing of the house from the street observed by the crossing sweeper? The daylight break-in? All of this to ambush him.
But if he hadn’t responded to the challenge, what would have happened to the Lococks? He didn’t like to think of it.
The fight started out badly.
Byrne figured that taking out one of the thugs would at least even up the odds a little. With two against one, he had a chance. He spun and rushed the bigger of the two men, a head taller and thirty pounds heavier than him. His sudden aggressive attack surprised his opponent and landed him on his back with Byrne’s head buried in his gut. The man’s skull banged back against the rock-hard ground of the alley; he went out like a snuffed candle. But the second thug was on him the second Byrne scrambled to his feet. He grabbed Byrne from behind.
Darvey had waited his chance. Now he swung the crowbar at Byrne’s kneecap and connected with a sickening crunch. Byrne managed to stay on his feet just long enough for Darvey to drive a fist into the side of his face. He went down, the pain in his knee agonizing but only a shade less than the ringing in his head.
Lying on the ground, he fended off their kicks to his ribs and face as best he could. Byrne tried to regain his feet, but they kept knocking him to the ground. His face swelled up, his vision blurred, keeping him from getting a fix on Darvey in the hope he could wrench the iron bar out of his hands.
But what he saw next took his breath away, and with it went all hope.
Out of the shadows of the surrounding buildings loomed yet another figure, this one bigger than either of the others. The man seemed to fill the entire alley. His body blocked out even the narrow strip of sunlight that managed to slant between the brick walls around them.
Oh God. It’s all over now.
He might fight off two, if he could just get hold of something to use as a weapon. But not this monster as well.
“Told you I be keepin’ an eye on ye, lad.” The voice had a wonderfully familiar ring.
Byrne looked up in time to see a distorted image of John Brown clubbing Darvey’s remaining conscious partner on the head with his bare fist. Byrne got the impression the man’s feet must have been driven inches into solid ground with the impact of the blow. The thug’s eyes rolled once, his knees buckled, he dropped to his knees as if in prayer for just a moment before keeling over, face-first.
Darvey looked around him, as if unsure of his next move. Now he was alone against one man standing, another man down. He scowled at Brown then, apparently having made up his mind, came at him in a run. Darvey swung the crowbar hard at Brown’s knees, just as he’d done to Byrne. It didn’t work this time. Because the targeted knee was a foot higher than the pimp’s accustomed angle of attack, his swing of the metal bar seemed to throw him off balance. Brown reached out, grasped the bar, and whipped it out of the man’s hand. He tossed it aside as if it were a toothpick.
“There now, son, you won’t be needin’ that. You sit yourself down over there and cool your heels before you hurt yourself.” Turning to Byrne, Brown grasped him by the shoulders of his leather duster and hauled him to his feet.
“No,” said Darvey. “NO!” He pulled a pistol from inside his jacket.
Byrne didn’t wait to see what Brown had in mind as a response. He put all of his weight on his good leg and launched himself low at Darvey. A shot went off. Byrne plummeted to the ground but took the pimp down with him.
He willed himself to turn and see if Brown had been hit, or whether Darvey was aiming now for him. But every time he tried to get his legs beneath him, his vision grayed with the pain. He felt dizzy then nauseated then surreally light-headed.
With effort, he brought his head up. His vision returned, and he saw Darvey throw his pistol at Brown’s face. Had he emptied all the chambers? Byrne wondered if he’d blacked out; he hadn’t heard a thing.
In two strides, the Scot was face-to-face with the pimp. He pulled back his arm and unleashed his fist straight from the shoulder, stepping into the punch, and drove it into the bridge of Darvey’s nose. The knuckles seemed to plow straight through skin, cartilage, bone, and brain.
Darvey’s body didn’t so much as fall over as cave in. Dead before he hit the earth.
Thirty-seven
At first Louise wasn’t certain of the source of the noises. The uproar that invaded the tranquil garden where she sat reading with Lorne sounded like a cross between braying donkeys, caterwauling felines, and some otherworldly beast. She had to listen for a bit before she began to pick out two distinct human voices—one a full octave deeper than the other. As they came nearer, she finally made out actual words of an old Scottish drinking song:
Towerin’ in gallant frame,
Scotland my mountain hame,
High may your proud standards glor-i-ously wave,
Land o’ my high endeavor,
Land o’ the shining ri-ver, Land o’ my heart forever,
Scotland the brave!
Then she knew.
Although it was still early in the afternoon, this could only be the drunken carousing of men. Two in particular. Not again, she thought.
Lorne shot to his feet and stood at the ready, as if to protect her from armed invaders.
“It’s all right.” She touched his arm as she set her book aside and rose from the stone bench. “I have a feeling I know who it is.”
John Brown and Stephen Byrne lurched around the hedgerow, arm in arm, bleating out another verse she suspected they’d made up themselves. Something about bloody battles fought and foes vanquished in Londontown.
Lorne stared with incredulity at the American. “How any of the ladies of the court
can find that man appealing . . . ,” he muttered.
It was all she could do to keep from laughing. At Lorne’s comment, as well as at the incongruity of what appeared to be a burgeoning friendship. The antagonism between Byrne and the Scot had been so constant and extreme, she’d never imagined them in such a companionable, albeit filthy and disheveled state.
If her mother saw them like this . . . She stepped forward, blocking their progress toward the main wing of the palace. “Gentlemen?”
“Oh,” Byrne said, staggering to a halt with a sheepish grin. “It’s a . . . a princess.”
“That it is, my bonnie lad. A royal personage of great beauty. Your Highness.” Brown bowed tipsily, but his sloppy smile faded as he took in a solemn Lorne. “And her sweet little . . . whatever.”
“Sh-sh-sh,” Byrne said, finger to his lips. “Is a secret.”
“Not much of one!” Brown bellowed, laughing so hard he pressed a hand to his belly as if it hurt.
“You are both disgustingly drunk,” Louise accused them. “Don’t pay any attention to them, Lorne. Goodness. In the middle of the day and in the queen’s garden of all places. What’s wrong with the two of you?”
Byrne removed his companion’s arm from his shoulders and stood to attention, favoring one leg. “Right you are, ma’am. We are sloshed.”
“In-inebriated,” said Brown.
“Seven or eight sheets to the very wind.” Byrne spiraled a hand skyward.
“Good lord.” Louise looked at her husband, who seemed no less perplexed than she. It wasn’t unusual for Brown to carry an alcoholic aura on his person through the day. But she’d only ever seen him truly drunk on a few occasions, and then just late at night after her mother was off to her bed. The only time she’d seen any evidence of Byrne’s drinking at all was in Scotland, the morning after his brawl in the pub with Brown. “What has happened? Why this ridiculous display?”
“Cele-brating,” Byrne stated. He swiped his Stetson, much the worse for wear, from his head and smiled at it crookedly.
“Defeated the emenn-emy,” the Scot said.
She bent down to better look up into Byrne’s eyes and waited for them to focus on her. “What enemy?”
“Dirty Darvey,” he said. “Dead. Long story. Need to sit down now.” His knees began to fold under him and, if Lorne and Brown hadn’t held him up, he would have collapsed to the ground.
Louise spoke to the only sober male in the group. “Lorne, we’d best get them both inside and cleaned up before my mother sees them. She’ll have a fit.”
“As well she should,” he grumbled. “Who is this Darvey, and have they really killed the man?”
“Later,” she said.
Lorne went ahead to chase the servants out of the lower kitchen. Once she and Lorne had maneuvered the pair inside where there was access to water and soap, Louise got to work cleaning up Stephen Byrne, while Lorne stood by with towels as Brown gave his hands and face a scrubbing and told the story of their battle with the bawd’s gang.
She wasn’t sure how much of the tale might be true, and how much a product of the Scot’s love of drama. But one thing was clear to her—Stephen Byrne had risked his life to protect Amanda’s family. Indeed, he’d saved the life of her son, the only child Louise could ever expect to have.
With bruised and scraped hands and faces clean, the extent of the pair’s injuries seemed less life threatening than they’d at first appeared. “Now off with your shirts,” she said.
Byrne smiled at her. “Thoughtyou’dneverask,” he slurred, and reached for her.
“Stop that.” She smacked away his hands and caught Lorne’s curious gaze hesitating over her then shifting to Byrne. Whatever he was thinking, she hadn’t the time to find out. She frowned at the gash in Byrne’s left trouser leg, which appeared to be crusted with dried blood. “What’s this now?”
He shrugged. “Crowbar. Hurts”—he hiccupped—“like hell.”
She tried to roll up the pant leg. When that didn’t work she peered inside the slashed fabric but could see nothing. “Drop the pants.”
Byrne grinned.
She cast Lorne a desperate look. “He’s hopeless.” When she turned back again, her mother’s agent had collapsed against a cabinet, eyes closed, his beard-stubbled face pale as porcelain. While he was passed out and harmless, she ripped off the pant leg at the tear. “Oh my, that is bad.”
“Don’t think it’s broke,” Brown mumbled, resting his head in his hands. “He was walkin’ on it. To the pub and back here.”
“Was he now?” She examined the purpling flesh and jagged wound. Best if it were seen by a physician, but perhaps it would heal on its own. She did all she could to clean up the rest of him, trying to ignore the little spurts of heat through her fingertips as they grazed his lovely muscled abdomen and chest.
It occurred to her, as she heard more of the story from Brown, that Stephen Byrne might have died in that alley had the Scot not come along when he did. The thought sickened her. Moreover, she would have been the cause of his death. Had she known Darvey wasn’t just a bully capable of picking on the weak, that he was truly a dangerous killer, she’d never have asked Byrne to confront the man.
Louise cleaned him up as best she could then ordered Brown and Lorne to carry him to one of the empty servants’ rooms in the attic, to sleep off the drink. She followed along, thinking it was probably a good thing he was drunk. The alcohol numbed the pain, for the time being.
When the other two men left the room, Louise lingered behind. She tenderly pulled the sheet up over Stephen Byrne, smoothed her fingertips through the black wing of hair fallen over his forehead. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so very sorry.” Then she sat down to watch over him while he slept.
Thirty-eight
Byrne woke with a start. He flung a defensive arm wide and bolted upright—disoriented, lungs rasping. No one came at him with knife or cudgel, but needles of pain jabbed his knee.
On a bed. He was on a bed, alone in a room . . . somewhere. He fell back down into the linens with a groan, lay still, waited for the wretched knee and dregs of the nightmare to subside. But now his ribs ached from the sudden movement. And his head throbbed like a military drum. He squinted down at his body. Someone had undressed him, but for breeches, and taped his knee and ribs. His face felt stiff with bruising. Every muscle in his body called out to him.
He had imagined himself back in the alley, set upon by a dozen pipe-wielding thugs. Then he recalled that Darvey was dead. And, unless he was still mixing dreams with reality, there had been a bizarre interval of camaraderie with the Scot that must have resulted in his current hungover state.
Slowly events reeled back through his mind. He recalled Brown retrieving his Colt from the grate, hauling him to his feet.
Byrne looked around the dim, silent room, trying to place himself. The space was not much larger than a closet, the bed narrow, single window darkened with a heavy muslin curtain. The walls were plastered and clean but bare, except for a plain wooden crucifix over the door, as if left by a previous occupant or put there as a suggestion of piety to a future resident. A monk’s cell? More likely servant’s quarters.
But of course. Brown, or whoever had helped him out of his clothes, and into bandages and bed, wouldn’t have snugged him up in Buckingham’s family wing. They’d hidden him away, hoping Victoria wouldn’t discover he’d been fighting again. And yet he wasn’t concerned. It was fighting Brown that had gotten him into trouble before. Not fighting alongside the Scot, for the protection of the queen’s daughter and grandson. Although, he was sure, Victoria would never publicly recognize Edward Locock.
Slowly, muscle by tender muscle, Byrne eased himself into a semitolerable sitting position and shifted his legs off the side of the bed. He let his body adjust to this new angle, then looked down and saw a sodden bundle of toweling. Ice, he thought. Someone had taken care to apply cold compresses to his injured knee while he slept. That was probably why the swelling
was no worse than it was now.
He tried to stand and felt elated when he was able to put weight on the leg. A minor miracle.
Someone had cleaned and hung on a peg his clothing—minus pants, which must have been ruined. They’d been replaced by another pair with a drawstring at the waist that looked like something a gardener might wear. He relieved himself in the chamber pot then dressed, cuffing the too-long trousers. It took him a good twenty minutes to make himself moderately presentable.
He heard someone on the stairs outside his door and tensed. A moment later a soft knock sounded at the door.
He hobbled over and opened it.
Louise stood there, her face aglow, her lovely golden brown hair brushed loose and shining down her back. She looked even younger than her years. She smiled. “You’re standing.”
“I am. Damn proud of that.”
She held up a tray arranged with what appeared to be a fortune in silver-domed dishes. “I thought you might be hungry.”
“Starving, but you didn’t need—”
“I did need to. What little I would have paid you to watch out for the Lococks wasn’t sufficient for risking your life as you did.”
“I doubt it was that serious.”
Louise gave him an “oh, please” look and brushed past him and into the room. She looked around, seemed startled to see no table to set it upon. It occurred to Byrne how heavy the blessed thing must be and he kicked himself for not having taken the tray from her right away. He pulled the one straight-back chair over near the bed then took the tray from her and set it on the chair’s seat—an improvised table.
She said, “I heard enough of Mr. Brown’s recital of the fight to come to the conclusion you very nearly died in the line of duty, Mr. Byrne.” She met his eyes. “Stephen,” she amended.
“I am, I admit, in debt to the Scot. But it’s possible I’d have survived.”
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