One Night With A Prince (39 page)

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.”

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“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.

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

“Of course, but—” The prince eyed Christabel skeptically. “Yousaw 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.”

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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 sort 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 askfor 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 itdoes 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.”

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“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.”

She turned a wary gaze to the prince. “You don’t mean to punish him, do you?”

“For serving England?” the prince said dryly. “Routing Napoleon? Protecting his regent? The country would probably take up arms against me if I did, especially since all is now well.”

“Then why did you mention treachery?” Gavin snapped.

Her father was the one to answer Gavin. “When His Highness heard that you were married, he assumed you had somehow coerced my daughter into sharing the content of the letters with you. And that the two of you meant to tender your own demands in exchange for them. As soon as I landed at Dover two days ago, he had men waiting to bring me to London to witness this meeting, so that if anything went wrong, I could coerce her into doing the right thing.”

“I take it His Highness doesn’t know my wife very well,” Gavin said. “I haven’t met a man or woman alive who could ‘coerce’ Christabel into anything.”

Her father eyed Gavin consideringly. “Still, she does have a kind heart, and it sometimes leads her to trust the wrong sort of man.”

As Gavin bristled, she left her father’s side to go to his. “Not this time, Papa.” She slipped her hand in Gavin’s. “I know that you have good reason for your concern, and until you know him better, you won’t believe me. But Gavin is the finest man I’ve ever known.”

Gavin squeezed her hand. “I swear I would never let harm come to your daughter, sir,” he said in the most solemn tone she’d ever heard out of him, except for perhaps when he’d spoken his wedding vows.

“And if you give me the chance, I’ll prove I can be a good husband to her.”

Papa looked at them together, his face wary but resigned. “We’ll see, Mr. Byrne. We’ll see.”

“The ceremony will begin in ten minutes,” the prince said. “Ladies are not allowed in the gallery, so you will have to wait here, Mrs. Byrne.”

“I’ll keep her company,” Papa said. “We have much to tell each other.”

“Yes,” she told her father, “but if you could give me a moment alone with my husband first before he goes in—”

“Of course.”

After he and the prince left, she turned toward Gavin, her heart swelling with pride. “So my wicked Prince of Sin is to be a baron, is he?” she whispered as she straightened his cravat and brushed a speck of lint off his fine black coat. “Your mother will be so happy.”

He gazed down at her tenderly. “As a wise woman once told me, my mother will be happy if I am
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happy.”

“And are you happy?” she whispered.

“I was. Until you told your father that I’m the finest man you ever knew. Are you certain I can live up to that, darling?”

“I’ll make sure that you do,” she said lightly.

“And how do you mean to do that? By shooting at me?” Though his dry tone held a hint of the old Byrne, the bitter cynicism was gone.

“By loving you.”

His eyes darkened, and he kissed her, long and slow and tender. “Now that, my sweet, is a prospect worth reforming for.”

London

July 19, 1821

Marriage changes a man, and not always for the worse.

—Anonymous,Memoirs of a Mistress

The cannons and gunfire and other celebratory explosions had gone on all afternoon, which was why Gavin didn’t hear his butler’s approach until the man spoke.

“The first of the guests has arrived, my lord.”

Gavin had been a baron for five years and still couldn’t get used to being called “my lord.” “Thank you.”

He closed the account book for the Blue Swan and laid it aside on the desk in his study. Gone were the days when he spent hours at the club poring over the books. It was just as easy to do it at home, especially now that he’d hired a manager. Just as easy…and far more pleasant. His butler still stood nearby.

“Is there something else?” Gavin asked.

“Shall I inform her ladyship of the guests’ arrival?” the butler asked. “Or would you prefer to do it yourself?”

“She’s not down there already?”

“No, my lord. She was called to the nursery. Something about another Tweedledee emergency, I believe.” His butler was trying hard not to smile and failing miserably.

“I’ll fetch her,” Gavin said, chuckling. “You go explain to the guests about Tweedledee emergencies. If you can.”

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The butler headed off downstairs, while Gavin went in the opposite direction. As he approached the nursery, he heard Christabel speaking in even tones. “I told you, your papa is too busy right now to decide who will be Tweedledum. He’ll do it later. And if you don’t behave, I’ll make you both Tweedledee.”

“Papa has to do it, or it doesn’t count,” answered a child’s voice. Smothering a laugh, he paused in the doorway to watch. As always, at the center of the family contretemps was his black-haired, four-year-old daughter, Sarah, who’d inherited her father’s deviousness and her mother’s temper. Toddling after her was his two-year-old son, John, whose hair already held a hint of red and whose stubborn insistence upon doing whatever his sister dictated had landed him in trouble more than once.

Trying futilely to reason with them was his wife. His beautiful, adorable wife, whom he loved more every day. And to think he’d almost thrown her away for some vengeance that would have brought him naught but grief.

“If you won’t let me do it,” she said, “then you’ll have to be patient and mind Nurse until after dinner—”

“It’s all right,” Gavin said as he entered the room. “I’m here.”

“Papa!” his children cried as they raced over to throw their arms about each of his legs. He swallowed the lump that stuck in his throat every time he looked down to see those faces light up with joy.

“Makeme Tweedledum, Papa,” Sarah cried.

“No,me, Papa,” John said.

He ruffled their hair. “If I make you both Tweedledum, will you stop plaguing your mother?”

He must have been mad when he’d first read them the nursery rhyme and encouraged them to play the parts. But who would have thought they’d turn it into the competition of the century?

“We can’t both be Tweedledum,” Sarah complained. “John has to be Tweedledee. He was Tweedledum last time.”

His son’s lower lip began to tremble. “John Tweedledum. Not Sarah. John.”

“That’s not fair!” Sarah protested.

Gavin hid a smile. “I tell you what—you can be Tweedledum for the first hour, and John can be Tweedledum for the second. All right?”

Sarah nodded solemnly, which meant that John instantly followed suit.

“Jane?” he said.

Their nurse came forward, her face filled with exasperation. “I’m sorry the children disturbed you and
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my lady, but Miss Sarah ran downstairs to fetch her mother when my back was turned—”

“It’s all right. I know what a slyboots my daughter can be sometimes.”

“I wonder where she gotthat from,” Christabel muttered.

“Watch it, wife,” he teased, “or I’ll makeyou Tweedledee.”

“Mama can’t be Tweedledee,” Sarah said loftily. “She’s just Mama.”

When Christabel rolled her eyes, he stifled a chuckle. “Jane,” he said, “I hereby endow you with the authority to designate Tweedledums and Tweedledees. If either John or Sarah misbehaves while their mother and I are dining with our guests, you have my permission to turn them both into Tweedledees until they agree to behave themselves.”