One Night With A Prince (18 page)

She gaped at the woman. “Byrne has an estate?”

“Oh dear, oh dear, I wasn’t supposed to tell, but I thought you would know, you being his mistress and all!” Tears filling her eyes, Lydia pleated and repleated her apron between her fingers. “He told me and Mrs. Watts not to tell anyone, and now I’ve gone and—”

“It’s all right—I’ll keep his secret safe,” Christabel reassured the girl, but her mind was awhirl. Byrne reallyhad gone to Bath on business. But who would have guessed that he possessed land, and outside of London, too? In all the gossip she’d heard about him, no one had ever mentioned it. “I’ve only recently become acquainted with Mr. Byrne.” And clearly the man shrouded whole portions of his life in secrecy.

“I suppose you’ve visited his estate?”

“No, my lady. Why would I?”

“Because you…that is, you and he have…”

The girl’s eyes went wide. “Oh no, we have never—I mean, not that I would mind, he’s been so kind to
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me; but he never expected it, not even that night when Jim was so cruel as to leave me to him.”

The blood pounded in Christabel’s temples. “I thought you and your friend Jim played a rather wicked game of cards with Byrne and Lady Jenner.”

The girl blushed. “Yes, we did. And when that awful woman—” She stopped herself. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t speak of her like that.”

“It’s all right. She’s a nasty sort, isn’t she?”

“She enticed my Jim off to her bed,” Lydia said hotly, “and left me to Mr. Byrne.” Her tone softened.

“But he was a gentleman, didn’t lay a finger on me, even though I was…well…naked. He could tell at once that I—” She thrust out her chin. “I was raised for better, you see. My father was a gentleman farmer. Nearly broke his heart when I ran off with Jim. But I thought Jim meant to marry me, and once I was ruined, it just got worse and worse until…”

She trailed off with a heartbreaking sigh. “Anyway, Mr. Byrne said he could get me a respectable position if I wanted. That’s how I came to work for Mrs. Watts.”

“I see.” Yes, she saw a great deal. Byrne talked like a scoundrel, but somewhere buried in his cynical soul was a kernel of good.

Mrs. Watts bustled back in with the other items, but as Christabel tried on the “adorable little hat,” her mind was elsewhere.

What was she to make of the rascal?The girl was just a night’s entertainment. She snorted. What a liar. He spoke as if he were the greatest debaucher in the world, yet he hadn’t tried to force young Lydia—or Christabel—to his bed.

And he had an estate—an estate, for pity’s sake! Next she’d be hearing that the man regularly attended church.

Careful,her conscience whispered.This is how it begins—you soften toward a gentleman because he shows some merit, and next thing you know you’re sunk. Byrne keeps secrets—that should be reason enough for caution. And he’s helping you with this only so he can gain a barony. Don’t forget that. She wouldn’t. But neither would she assume that Byrne was entirely the devil that he seemed. They were done, so she walked out with the dressmaker and Lydia as the woman babbled on happily about the gowns and when they’d be finished. Mrs. Watts climbed into the carriage, but as Christabel started back up the steps, Lydia excused herself to return to her side.

“Thank you, my lady, for keeping my secret,” she whispered. “Mr. Byrne is lucky to have you for…a friend.”

“I hope you’re right.” She waited until the girl entered the carriage, then strode back inside and found the nearest footman. “I understand that Mr. Byrne left some books for me.”

“Yes, my lady, I have them right here.”

As he handed them over, she said, “I’ll also need a deck of cards. Do you know what happened to the
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ones I had last night?”

“They’re in the study,” the footman said. “I’ll fetch them at once.” When he limped back with them, he said, “Going to play a little Patience, are you?”

She gaped at him, then groaned.Practice your Patience . Of course. It wasn’t whist, but at least it was cards. Byrne would consider that better than nothing.

Fine, she wouldn’t disappoint him. Because when he returned, she meant to show him she could make him proud, even at Lord Stokely’s.

I always hired servants of superior

discretion and muscular build, because

sometimes only a servant stands between

you and a lover you wish to avoid.

—Anonymous,Memoirs of a Mistress

By the evening of the second day without Byrne, Christabel was starting to fret. She’d read his books and practiced her Patience until she saw cards in her sleep. She was even wearing a new gown, rushed over to her by Mrs. Watts.

And still, no Byrne. What if he’d decided to spend a week in the country? What if he’d even begun to rethink their endeavor?

Such thoughts were plaguing her when an ornate card arrived for her. Certain that it was from Byrne, she eagerly opened it, astonished to find a gold-engraved invitation. To Lord Stokely’s house party. Her pulse began to race. Byrne had done it—she was invited. Astonishing!

She leaped to her feet. Unfortunately, only a week and a half remained, and she was little closer to being an expert whist player than before. Enough of this waiting around—she must locate Byrne. Or at least get a message to him at his estate about the invitation.

She called for her carriage but had no clue how to find him. She didn’t even know the address of his town house, much less his estate.

But Lord Draker would know. Wait, hadn’t Lady Draker said they were going into the country around this time? And Lord only knew where the Iversleys lived. Besides, they might have gone into the country as well.

At least there was one place where enough people were well acquainted with Byrne to tell her what she needed. And fortunately, her coachman seemed to know the Blue Swan’s precise location, for he went right to it.

As she climbed from the carriage, she hesitated. The brightly lit building on St. James’s Street looked rather daunting. Sounds of distinctly male laughter filtered out into the night air, and the entrance door of solid English oak with its oddly austere brass knocker practically shouted, “No women allowed!”

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She drew her new silk shawl more tightly about her, and her footman limped close. “Is there anyone you wish me to ask for, my lady?”

“No.” She gathered her courage. “Wait here. I’ll speak to the porter myself.”

She didn’t have to go far. The ancient servant, all starch and vinegar in his pristine blue livery, met her at the top of the stairs before she could knock. “Pardon me, madam, but this is a club for gentlemen only. If there is a particular gentleman to whom you wish to speak, I can give him your request that he meet you outside.”

“I’m looking for the owner, Mr. Byrne.” When the man’s leathery features didn’t change, she lied, “He and I had an engagement tonight, but he hasn’t appeared or sent word. Perhaps you know where he is?”

The porter looked wary. “And whom shall I say is calling, madam?”

Byrne washere ? How long had he been back in town? Her temper short, she nearly snapped, “Tell him his mistress is here,” but no lady with any care for her reputation would say such a thing.

“I would prefer not to give my name,” she said as imperiously as she could manage. “But I am a particular friend of his.”

Her manner seemed to give the man pause. He scanned her new gown of green-spotted muslin with its matching hat and parasol, then glanced beyond her to Philip’s smart town rig, which she’d inherited. Then his rigid features crumbled from proper to panicked. “Lady Haversham?” he whispered. She blinked, then nodded.

“Forgive me, my lady…I must have mistook…Mr. Byrne is napping in his office. When he returned from Bath, he said to wake him by 7:00P.M . so he could call on you. I must have got the time wrong. But he didn’t say he was expected for an engagement, and I assumed—”

“It’s all right,” she said hastily, hiding her surprise.

“I am truly sorry, my lady, that my mistake caused you to have to come down here. I shall go wake him at once—”

“No, don’t do that.” She thought quickly. Now was her chance to see his famous club…and learn more about the enigmatic Byrne. “Let him sleep. If you will show me to his office, I’ll just wait until he awakens.” She arched one supercilious brow. “Unless that’s not allowed.”

The porter hesitated, but self-preservation must have won out over rules. “Mr. Byrne does occasionally have ladies in his office. I am certain he would not mind if you wait there.” He lowered his voice. “And if your ladyship would be so kind as to tell him when he awakens that I did not mean for him to miss his engagement—”

“I’ll simply say I came here early on a whim and begged you not to wake him.” Which was the absolute truth. She cast the porter an indulgent smile. “He needn’t know when I arrived, after all.”

Relief flooded the elderly porter’s face. “Thank you, my lady, thank you. Mr. Byrne has been very good to me, and I do not want to give him reason to question my ability to do him service.”

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The poor fellow’s distress tugged at her heart, making her regret her little white lie. “I can’t imagine why he’d do so—you seem perfectly competent to me.”

“Thank you, my lady.” He drew himself up proudly. “Some of the younger members complain that I am too old for the position. Fortunately, Mr. Byrne appreciates the advantages of having a man with experience.”

She bit back a smile. “Of course he does. One always prefers experienced staff.” And despite Byrne’s teasing of her, clearly she wasn’t the only employer with a soft spot for down-on-their-luck servants. The porter frowned. “Oh, but look at me nattering on like an old fool while your ladyship is kept waiting.” With a discreet nod, he indicated one corner of the building. “I am sure your ladyship would prefer to enter where you cannot be seen. Just have your coachman bring you round to the back. Knock on the green door, and I shall admit you myself.”

“Thank you. Your help is much appreciated.”

Back in the carriage, she dug a coin from the depths of one of her new matching reticules, all of which were too small to hold a pistol. No doubt she had Byrne to thank for that. Once they’d driven round to the back, the porter let her in and accepted her coin with a nod and a murmured thanks. Before he led her down a private hall, she caught a glimpse of Grecian columns, surprisingly austere carpet, costly crystal chandeliers, and bronze busts displayed on pedestals. It seemed a very aristocratic club for a man who’d spent his boyhood with the blacklegs. He must have worked quite hard to make it so.

After ushering her into Byrne’s office, the porter whispered, “Forgive me for saying so, my lady, but you seem too…er…good to be one of Mr. Byrne’s ‘particular friends.’”

“Do I? I wonder.” She glanced over to where Byrne himself was sprawled along a couch in his shirtsleeves, with his waistcoat unbuttoned and his coat and cravat slung over the back. In repose, his features were oddly innocent. “I begin to think that no one is ever what they seem.” On impulse, she clasped the porter’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “Thank you again for your help.”

Mumbling a response, the man blushed and left.

She wandered over to gaze at Byrne, whose exhaustion was plain in the drawn lines about his mouth and his grayish pallor. And she’d thought he hadn’t cared about their preparations for Lord Stokely’s party—he’d clearly driven himself hard to get to and from Bath in such a short time, while still taking care of whatever estate emergency had required his sudden attention. Poor man. She reached out to stroke his whiskered cheek, then thought better of it. She didn’t want to wake him until she’d had a chance to examine his office. Knowing Byrne’s secretive nature, he would rush her off as soon as he awakened.

Strolling over to his desk, she noted the open account books. She knew a bit about accounting, having often overseen Philip’s steward in his absence, so she thumbed through the pages, astonished by how carefully they were kept. The precise handwriting was Byrne’s—she recognized it from his note. Despite never having attended school, he clearly grasped the concepts of accounting well enough to do it for his own business. Self-taught, he’d said. Amazing.

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Next she turned to the neat arrangement of papers on his desk—the bills of lading, letters to licensing offices, crisply cut newspaper articles…and carefully marked gossip columns with names highlighted. She swallowed, remembering Lady Jenner’s words about how he always seemed to know everything. With a glance in his direction to determine that he still slept, she dropped into his chair and thumbed through the clippings. There were hundreds—from provincial papers, cheap London rags, shipping lists. Each had something marked—a line, a name, a date—and they were pinned together in groups. Some of them she understood—the ones about gaming laws were obvious. But the rest was so much Greek to her.

Then she spotted the satchel lying beside his chair, obviously thrown there in haste upon his arrival. With her blood pounding, she picked it up and opened it ever so carefully, casting surreptitious glances over to the couch the whole time.

Keeping it open on her lap, she examined the papers inside. Most of them had to do with his estate—she still could scarcely believe he had one—but there was one folded piece of foolscap stuffed down between two innocuous documents that drew her interest. Stealthily she opened it. At first, she wasn’t certain what it was—it looked like a hodgepodge of notes. Then she saw the word “Ilsley.” Rosevine was two miles from Ilsley. And not far from the road to Bath either.

Fear crept up her spine. Quickly she scanned the paper, but most of it she couldn’t decipher. Byrne apparently had some code for notes to himself. She did make out one notation that arrested her—the date she and Papa had left England for Gibraltar. In a panic, she examined the other notations, but couldn’t tell if they mentioned anything important.