The Wild Princess (25 page)

Regardless of the motive, he felt shocked and disgusted at the thought of what might have happened to Louise's baby.
If
Beatrice was right.
If
it ever existed.

Byrne took off in long strides across the courtyard. He was nearly to the palace gate when he saw Victoria's carriage stop at the porte cochere. A footman climbed down and opened the carriage door. Victoria appeared from inside the palace, attended by her son Leo and Brown. John Brown lifted the queen in his arms up and into the brougham, then climbed in after Leo. Byrne stepped back into the shadows and waited until the carriage had moved away down the drive toward the gate.

Byrne turned and rushed through the palace doors the queen had just left. Less than a hundred yards down the hall he reached the first of the royal offices. One of the queen's secretaries sat at his desk, just outside her private inner-office.

Byrne stopped and smiled at the man. “I hope I haven't kept Her Royal Majesty waiting.” He smiled apologetically at the man.

The secretary squinted at him, looking confused. “Oh dear.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You've just missed her, Mr. Byrne. She only now left here for her carriage. Brown is riding with her though, so you needn't worry.”

Byrne shook his head in mock consternation. “She told me she needed my report by this morning, as early as possible.” He did his best to sound panicky. “You don't suppose you could flag her down before they get out the gate, do you?”

The secretary was already up and out of his seat. “It must have slipped her mind to tell me you'd be here. I don't even have it on her calendar. She's doing that more and more often these days. Forgetting things, not keeping me informed. I'm so sorry.” He rushed out the door, his words trailing after him. “Wait right there, sir.”

Not bloody likely
.

Byrne spun toward the closed door leading to the queen's private office. He tried the knob. It turned; not locked.

Byrne let himself in.

He crossed the room that had become familiar to him over the months he'd been detailed to the palace as a member of the queen's Secret Service. Although he'd seen a range of file cabinets across one wall of the outer office, he suspected that anything as delicate as the queen's personal medical records would be kept by her alone, away from the prying eyes of clerical help.

He bypassed the double desks facing each other in the middle of the room. Neither had collected a speck of dust although one hadn't been used in all of the years since Prince Albert's death. Victoria insisted on her husband's blotter, inkwell, writing instruments, and framed portrait of her remaining on his desk, just as they'd been while he was alive and they'd worked here together.

Sure he'd noticed a file cabinet somewhere in the room, Byrne looked around. And there it was. Between the two tall windows, a small three-drawer mahogany chest. He squatted in front of it and pulled at the top drawer. It was locked, as were the two beneath it.

Byrne drew a slim leather wallet from his inside coat pocket. It held assorted fine-tipped metal picks. He selected one. Thirty seconds later, he was into the first drawer, flipping through neatly labeled file folders
A-G
. He moved to the second drawer on the theory that
M
for
Medical
should be there. It was.

Shouts wafted up from the courtyard. The secretary, calling out to the sergeant at arms to stop the carriage. How many minutes before the secretary, or an angry queen, appeared at the door?

He grabbed for the folder marked
Medical
. His eyes skimmed dates at the top of pages, moving back through the years—1870, '69, '68, '67. He slowed down. Nothing in any of them about Louise or any of the other children. In fact, there wasn't a word on any of the pages about anyone in the family but Victoria. Frustrated, he knew the most he now could hope for was the name of the doctor who had delivered the queen's children. Did a gynecologist do that? He didn't know.

Beatrice was the last of the babies in the royal family, and she was now fourteen. He looked in the appropriate year, found Victoria giving birth on 14 April 1857, at Buckingham Palace.

And there it was. The baby was delivered by a Dr. Charles Locock.

Locock.
The name hit him with the impact of John Brown's fist. He didn't even have to stop to think about why it sounded familiar.

Was it mere coincidence that Louise's friend Amanda had married a Henry Locock?

He fumbled the pages back into order. Closed the file. Shoved it into its place. Shut and locked the drawer.

The sound of a door opening in the outer office sent him rocketing from a crouch to his feet. Footsteps approached. Hesitated. “Mis-ter Byrne?” came the secretary's voice, sounding irritated.

Byrne dove for one of the guests' chairs, kicked one boot up to rest across his knee, and leaned back in a posture of relaxed waiting.

The door swung open the rest of the way. “Mr. Byrne.” Displeasure tugged at the secretary's narrow, white face.

“I hope you were in time,” Byrne said with a note of concern, flicking a crust of mud from his boot and onto the pristine carpet.

“You shouldn't be in here when—”

“No luck, huh? Too bad.” He stood up and moved toward the door. “Best schedule me at Her Majesty's pleasure but preferably soon. She'll want my report before the prime minister's speech on Thursday.”

Twenty-eight

Louise sat with her family in the queen's opera box. Victoria loved Gilbert and Sullivan's operettas, and although Louise was somewhat less fond of the performers' silly antics she adored music of all kinds. And the songs in
The
Pirates of Penzance
were delicious.

Lorne sat on her right, every now and then leaning over to whisper a comment in her ear. He reached for her hand and drew it over to rest on his thigh. A tender gesture that meant nothing, she'd learned. No doubt for the benefit of others in the box, and for the second and third grand tiers, whose occupants employed opera glasses to spy upon their fellow audience members. Gossip would start afresh the next day based on the pairings of the night, the jewels worn, the indecency of a neckline, a straying hand or stolen kiss.

Louise sighed and played along with their marital charade while the actors rushed about onstage. But her mind flew off to another place and time, and a face other than the actors' or her husband's.
The Raven
. His dark aspect continued to haunt her.

With ruthless resolve she banished Stephen Byrne from her thoughts and concentrated on the news he'd brought her.

Donovan was alive and in Paris.
What might that mean to her now or in her future?

The action below on the stage seemed to dissolve into mist before her eyes. She tried to remember what her first (and only) lover had looked like on the last day she'd seen him. What would he have said or done if he'd known of her secret suspicions. At the time of his disappearance, she'd already begun to notice the changes in her body, but she hadn't yet told him of her fears. Would he have stayed in London if she had told him she was carrying his child?
Stayed with her?

Louise felt herself flush as she recalled the delicious, intimate things they'd done whenever they'd had the chance. In artists' garrets during the day. In the park under cover of darkness. And, most dangerously, in the cozy attic of the art school. A flow of warmth worked its way down through her belly. She let her head drop back, felt the beginnings of a long-absent release, and . . .

Horrified, she withdrew her hand from Lorne's and clasped her fingers in her lap. Breathing deeply, she tried to calm herself.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Lorne asked, studying her face. “You look feverish.”

“I'm fine,” she whispered, but even those two words sounded, to her ears, intense with lust.

Lorne frowned at her.

“It's just . . . the music, it's so very moving,” she said quickly.

“Hush,” her mother said from her other side. Victoria turned to whisper to Alice, seated behind her, “They can hardly contain themselves, so in love they've lost their manners.”

As soon as the lights came on for intermission, Louise rose to her feet, feeling desperate to escape the closeness of the royal box and prying eyes. Most of all, she needed to get away from Lorne. They would never be lovers. Never be husband and wife in the most intimate sense. But he already understood her too well, read too much in her reactions. If he suspected she might try to see Donovan, he'd likely feel threatened and tell her mother.

She couldn't let that happen.

“I need to walk,” she said, moving toward the draped entry to their box. She knew her mother wouldn't follow. Victoria never left her box to mix with the crowd in the chandeliered foyer.

But the queen's hand reached out for her. “Sit, dear. It's far too crowded out there. Our gentlemen will bring refreshments.”

“No, truly,” Louise said. “I need fresh air. It's stifling in here with the perfumes and flowers and hot lights—”

“I'll accompany you,” Lorne offered, standing up from his seat.

She closed her eyes and wished him away, but there was nothing she could do to make him let her go alone.

“You've always been so restless, Louise,” Victoria scolded. “I don't understand what's wrong with you. Stay here where you're safest.”

Louise glanced at John Brown to see if she could use him as an ally. But he merely shook his head, cautioning her against leaving, or perhaps just against challenging her mother.

All of her life she'd been a prisoner. Cushioned in luxury, yes, but a prisoner nonetheless. She refused to remain so any longer.

Besides, was this plush velvet-lined box, which tonight suddenly reminded her of a casket, safer than any other place outside of the palace? Wasn't the American president assassinated in a theater?

Well, one couldn't live in constant fear. Risks had to be taken to enjoy life.

“I won't be long,” she promised, shooting Lorne a look that begged him to stay behind. She slipped between the curtains, past the uniformed guardsmen standing watch.

Lorne caught up with her before she'd gone a dozen steps. He clasped her hand and drew her arm through his. When she looked up at him, his smile was closer to a pained grimace. “You shouldn't push her so.” His blue eyes flashed with urgency.

“Why should I give in to my mother's every whim? She gets more impossible every day.” Her throat and cheeks felt unbearably hot. She had half a mind to claim illness and call for the carriage.

“Certainly you can let her have her way in little things,” Lorne suggested. Now that they were out among the glittering crowd in the lobby, he let go of her hand to light his pipe. “Like how to spend intermission.”

“You don't understand.” She turned away then swung back at him, tugging her heavy skirts around in an awkward pirouette. “I'm a married woman now. Our arrangement was supposed to give me more freedom, not less. If I don't assert myself she will destroy me.”

He laughed, his eyes suddenly brighter, less concerned. “Destroy? Isn't that a trifle melodramatic, my dear?”

“You have no idea. None at all,” she huffed. She started to move away from him before he could ask her to explain, but a cluster of men sipping cognac at the bar stood in her path.

“Louise, my dear.” A tall, elegantly turned out gentleman stepped out from the group.

Lorne said, “Disraeli.” He dipped his head in acknowledgment to the politician and writer.

The former prime minister pursed his lips and slanted a sly look at her husband. “Marquess. And how does married life suit you?” Did she imagine an amused twist to his lips?

“How could a man not be deliriously happy, married to the most beautiful woman in all of London?” Lorne proclaimed, a little too loudly.

“How indeed?” Benjamin Disraeli's intelligent gaze skimmed Louise from beneath half-lowered lids. Her mother thought the man handsome and virile, as did many women both in London and abroad. Louise was not in the least attracted to him. He was too full of himself. “And you, my dear, I see color in your cheeks. Can I hope that the cause is connubial bliss?”

“You may,” Louise lied.

“It is lovely as well as lucky that I should run into you tonight, Your Highness.”

“Really, why lucky?” she said.

Disraeli's gaze slid almost imperceptibly toward Lorne, as if to let her know he preferred to speak to her without her husband present. “Why, for the pure pleasure of your company.”

“Lorne dear,” she said, “would you mind hunting up a glass of Champagne for me? The servers are so slow reaching this end of the lobby.”

He drew another puff from his pipe and smiled agreeably. “Of course, my dear.”

Louise watched him go then turned back to Disraeli. “The queen will be deeply hurt if you don't stop at her box to pay your respects.”

“And I certainly shall. I was just introducing my friend, visiting from Paris, to a few MPs.” He glanced back at the group he had just left. “But I'm glad we have a chance to chat.”

“About what?”

“I have been desperately worried about your mother.”

She frowned. Did he, a close confidant of Victoria's, know something she didn't? “Why worried?”

He laughed and shook his head. “How can I not worry? There have been more than one attempt on her life in recent months. The Balmoral trip, a case in point.”

“A lone student, most likely drunk.”

“Not that. The other incident. The aborted bombing.”

“And where did you hear about that, since it has been kept from the newspapers?” Louise squinted at him. Victoria's advisers had agreed that the failed Fenian plot should be kept from the public so as not to cause panic. No longer prime minister, Disraeli had not been briefed. “Did my mother tell you? Brown advised her not to.”

He shrugged, as if to say
, Well, so what if she did tell me?
“It's no secret that the Fenians are determined to force the Crown's hand. They believe if the queen gives in to their demands, Parliament will follow. If she's frightened enough, she might give up Ireland. And if she were dead, the Prince of Wales would succeed her, and fearing the loss of more family members, he might be moved to release his troublesome Irish subjects.”

“And are they right?” she asked. “Do you think it would work in their favor—an assassination?”

Disraeli tipped his head to one side in thought. “Who knows. But it might be one of the partisans' more effective moves.” He lowered his voice and leaned in. “I've also heard you have faced a setback in one of your personal ventures.”

It took her a moment to untangle his meaning. “The fire,” she said. “Yes, the shop had only just started to be successful and draw regular clients. Thankfully, we only had to close down for a few days to repair and clean up.”

“I admire your efforts, dear lady. Although I must admit your political views are far more liberal than mine. A woman's days should be spent in the home, not in business. Even your mother upholds that very sensible rule.” He held up a hand when Louise opened her mouth to object. “Nonetheless, I would like to make a small donation.” He slipped his hand inside his evening coat and brought out an envelope. “As I've said, I had hoped I'd see you here tonight, and I came prepared.”

She took it from him. “This is very generous, sir. Thank you.”

“It won't build you a new shop, but it might at least cover a good deal of the repairs.”

She smiled, forgiving, for the moment, his all too commonly held views of a woman's role in society. At least he was willing to help this once. “Would that other gentlemen felt as moved to aid our cause and reduce the number of women forced to the street.”

“I shall do my best to pass the word,” he said. “Perhaps there is some middle ground. Compassion shouldn't be limited to either Tories or Whigs.”

The lights in the lobby flickered, signaling the end of intermission. Louise tucked away the envelope in her reticule.

Lorne returned with her Champagne. “Too late, I fear,” he said.

“Not at all. I'll just bring it along with me.” She took his arm. “Delicious to sip through the second act.”

As the crowd moved toward their seats, Louise looked around, half expecting to see Byrne somewhere among them. After all, wasn't he supposed to be watching over her and her siblings?

But then John Brown was here, along with her mother's guard. And she'd sent Byrne off to deal with the awful Mr. Darvey. She should he happy that he was following her orders. For once.

“What did that sly devil want?” Lorne asked as they took their seats.

“Disraeli? He donated money to the Women's Work Society. A rather generous amount, I'd guess, from the plump envelope he just gave me.”

“Really.”

“Yes.” She was amused by the irritated look Lorne cast across the concert hall toward Disraeli's balcony. Apparently masculine pride leaped barriers of sexual preference. “I'll let you know how much he contributed to our cause, dear.” She patted his cheek with her white-gloved hand. “Perhaps you'd like to match his donation?” She grinned up at him.

He looked startled but recovered quickly, straightened his lapels, and dipped his head at the idea. “Why not? Maybe I'll even double it.”

This might turn into a better night than she'd expected. She celebrated the moment, mentally prioritizing the additional improvements she'd now be able to afford.