One Night With A Prince (30 page)

She curled against his shoulder. “So you don’t think he had a mistress?”

“I never heard anything about him and other women. Apparently no one else did, either.” When she merely digested that in silence, he added, “Who told you that he had a mistress?”

She reached for the carriage blanket lying folded on the seat across from them, then pulled it up to cover them both. “It doesn’t matter. I probably jumped to conclusions—”

“Who, Christabel? Tell me.”

She swallowed. “His Highness.”

He stiffened. “Prinny?He’s the arse who told you Haversham had a mistress?”

“It wasn’t like that. I’m not sure he meant to imply—”

“Tell me exactly what he said.” When she bristled at his commanding tone, he nuzzled her hair to soften her. “And how did you come to discuss such a thing with the prince, anyway?”

She sighed. “The first time I became aware of the missing letters was when I was called to London for a private audience. The prince claimed that my husband had apparently sold my father’s letters. He was unsure how much I knew, but I admitted at once that I knew what letters he meant and what was in
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them. Then he said that Lord Stokely was threatening to publish them if His Highness did not…give him a certain boon.”

“What sort of boon?” When she remained silent, Gavin took her by the chin and turned her face to his.

“Come now, lass, surely it can’t hurt for you to tell me what Stokely wants for them. I’ve already guessed that they concern Prinny as much as your father, so you won’t be revealing that.”

She stared at him a long moment before uttering a heartfelt sigh. “I suppose not.” Her tone grew steely.

“The impudent scoundrel wants His Highness to broker a marriage between him and Princess Charlotte, now that her engagement to the Prince of Orange has fallen through.”

Gavin stared at her, stunned. “Is he insane?”

“Not entirely. She once carried on a clandestine correspondence with a handsome captain of the guards, so I suppose Lord Stokely figured that a baron would be an improvement over that.”

“I seriously doubt that her father sees it that way. According to Draker, Prinny means for Charlotte to make a politically advantageous match.”

Christabel nodded. “You can be sure that the prince has no desire to wed Princess Charlotte to Lord Stokely. But Lord Stokely seems determined to gain her as a wife.”

“I suppose he’s grown tired of being on the outside of society, even if he did put himself there with his scandalous house parties and wild living. Perhaps he thinks marrying a princess will erase his bad reputation.”

“That makes sense. But it doesn’t make his blackmail any less reprehensible.”

“No,” he agreed, though not wholeheartedly. After all, if he got his own hands on the letters, he meant to use them to gain something for himself, too. But at least he wasn’t aiming to marry the princess and drag her into it. That made him less a villain than Stokely. Didn’t it? And why did it matter how much a villain he was, anyway? When it came to Prinny, any villainy against the man was justified. “Go on. Prinny told you about Stokely’s threats, and…”

“I couldn’t believe Philip betrayed my trust by selling my family’s letters to Lord Stokely. So I told the prince that Lord Stokely had to be lying about having them. Even after the prince showed me the one letter Lord Stokely had sent as proof, I protested Philip’s involvement. But he said it was either Philip or me or…or someone else close to him…like…like…”

Tears filled her eyes, making an unfamiliar knot form in Gavin’s gut. “Like?” he prodded.

“Ph-Philip’s mistress.” She started to cry, and he wound his arms more tightly about her, cursing Prinny to hell. “I told him Philip didn’t…ha-have a mistress…and he pointed out that I wouldn’t know if he did…and the discussion ended there. I was too…shocked and numb…to ask who she was.”

Brushing away her tears, she pulled herself together. After a moment, she continued in a muted tone. “I assumed that the prince knew for sure that Philip had one. But now that I look back, he was probably speculating. And after he raised the possibility, it made sense to me—Philip came to town so often, and he never wanted me to accompany him.”

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“Was it during that meeting that Prinny got you to agree to this scheme?”

She nodded.

“Damnhim to hell. You were distraught, and he took advantage.”

“You don’t think he deliberately mentioned the mistress, do you?”

“I don’t know. Possibly. But Prinny is so cynical about marriage and women that he could have merely assumed Haversham had one.”

She stared up at his face. “You really dislike His Highness, don’t you?”

“Hate and loathe would be more like it.”

She caressed his cheek with her hand. “My father used to say that hatred only hurts the hater; it does nothing to affect the hated. Which makes it an impractical emotion.”

It was the first time she’d mentioned her father in days, and her deeply affectionate tone gave him pause.

“How badly would it hurt your father if these letters are published?”

She swallowed. “It depends on how the scandal plays out and which political party wins the ensuing fight. The best scenario is that he might lose his commission and be disgraced; the worst is that he’d be hanged for treason.”

Bloody hell, what the devil wasin these letters? And what would happen toher if Gavin got his hands on them?

Nothingwould happen to her, he vowed as he tightened his arms about her. He wasn’t going to publish the letters himself—just use them to make Prinny admit the truth about his mother to the world.

“Well, none of that will happen,” he said firmly. “We’ll make sure of that.I’ll make sure of it.”

As if that solved everything, she flashed him a tender smile, then rested her head against his chest. But long after she’d fallen asleep, he continued to worry. What if he couldn’t get the letters from Stokely—what would happen to her then? And was there anything he could do to stop it?

with true hidden depths.

—Anonymous,Memoirs of a Mistress

Christabel was having the strangest dream. She was floating up into the sky, carried aloft by some gentle hand. Then it set her on a cloud, and her feet were released from their earthly bindings. A voice somewhere above her said, “Let her sleep. She needs the rest. She can stay in her gown a bit longer.”

It was the sound of a door closing that awakened her. Slowly, she opened her eyes to an unfamiliar room lit only by a blazing fire in the hearth. It hadn’t been a dream. They must have arrived at Byrne’s
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estate. He must have carried her up the stairs and laid her in this bed with its incredibly soft down mattress.

Sitting up, she winced as her corset pinched her breasts. She vaguely remembered waking from her nap in Byrne’s arms to find they were nearing a town where he meant for them to dine. Byrne had made love to her again, slow and easy and wonderful. And after dinner, their long ride had lulled her back to sleep. She rubbed her eyes, then glanced around for a clock. Midnight. They’d made good time. But where was Byrne? Did he mean not to share her bed while they were here? That didn’t seem likely of her lusty lover.

She surveyed the room more closely. Come to think of it, this didn’tlook like a bedchamber prepared for the master’s imminent arrival. Though the fire was starting to warm it, the air was still chilly, and bore the musty smell of a room long in disuse. Most of all, it was far toopink to be his, with lacy pink draperies, a pink canopy and coverlet on the delicate bed, and even a pink-and-cream rug. Not a Byrne room at all.

So where was he? Leaving the bed, she went to the door and opened it onto the main hall for the bedchambers. When she heard low voices from a few doors down, she went in stocking feet to explore. As she drew nearer the last bedchamber, she could make out Byrne speaking to someone. “So the doctor has seen her again? He’s sure she’s improved?”

Her? Who might that be? Her heart sinking, Christabel edged nearer, careful to stay out of sight of the doorway.

“Yes, sir,” said another voice. “I’m sorry that I sent for you.”

“Itold Ada not to,” another voice complained, this one reedy and thin, though the tone somehow managed to be imperious. “It’s nothing but a piddling cold.”

“That’s what you always say, even when you’re coughing up blood,” Byrne replied in the mildly indulgent tone of a man dealing with an invalid. “Fortunately, Ada has known you long enough to ignore you, Mother.”

Christabel’s heart began to hammer in her chest. Byrne’s mother was alive? And living here on his estate? Dear Lord, she couldn’t believe it!

What about the fire? Mrs. Byrne was supposed to be dead! Why did he continue to let the world think that she’d died? Though this did explain why he came to Bath whenever he was summoned.

“I’ll be here until tomorrow, Ada,” Byrne continued, “but I’ll have to leave first thing in the morning. If you’re sure she’s all right.”

“Dr. Mays says that she is, sir, but you did tell me—”

“Yes, and you were right to send for me. Thank you, Ada, you may go on to bed now. I need to speak privately to my mother.”

“Very good, sir.”

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The woman’s low murmur sent Christabel into a panic, but before she could even hide, the woman left the room and headed down the stairs away from where Christabel lurked in the shadows. She didn’t even see her.

Uttering a silent sigh, Christabel edged back toward the door. Byrne was speaking again. “I brought someone with me on this visit, someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Another doctor? Please, Gavin, no more doctors. I’m doing better these days, no matter what Ada says, and Dr. Mays takes good care of me—”

“It’s not a doctor,” he broke in. “It’s a friend. A woman.”

“I see.” A long silence ensued. “So you’ve told her about me then.”

“Of course not. You vowed me to silence, and I’ve kept my vow until now.” When his mother said nothing, Byrne went on in a tight voice, “I’ve always abided by your wish to live in the country when I could make you more comfortable in town, and I know how you feel about meeting new people. But I’m asking you to make an exception for her. Please.”

A lump lodged in Christabel’s throat. She’d never heard Byrne use the wordplease to anyone.

“All right,” the woman rasped. “Before you leave in the morning, bring her to me, and I’ll speak to her.”

“I’ll do that, thank you.” His voice turned gruffer. “Now let’s see about making you more comfortable. This room is too damned cold. And your water jug is half-empty, too. I’ll call a servant to come fill it—”

That was all the warning Christabel had before Byrne came out the door and saw her. Caught in the act of being kind, he blinked at her like a fox startled by the hounds.

“Gavin?” his mother called out when he just stood there without summoning a servant. “What’s wrong?”

He let out a breath. Then a slow smile curved up his lips. “It appears you’ll be meeting my guest sooner rather than later, Mother.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Christabel stammered. “I didn’t mean to pry…I woke up, and you weren’t—”

“It’s all right.” He offered her his arm. “Come. Let me introduce you.”

Painfully aware of her rumpled gown and her lack of shoes, she touched a hand to her fallen hair, and said, “Oh, Byrne, I don’t know—”

“She won’t care about that, I promise you,” he said with a trace of irony. “Come on.”

Taking his arm, Christabel let him lead her into the room. A massive half-tester bed presided over the darkest corner of what must have once been the master bedchamber. Now it was a sickroom, the pungent odor of medicinal concoctions mingling with the sweet scent of freshly cut roses. She couldn’t see much in the dimly lit room, but the furnishings appeared feminine—delicate Windsor chairs, an elegant dressing table, and drapes in pretty prints that were probably cheery in the morning with the sun pouring in through the two massive windows. The bed itself wasn’t cheery in the least,
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however, for its hangings draped its inhabitant in impenetrable shadows. Byrne led her near it. “May I present my friend Christabel, the Marchioness of Haversham. Christabel, this is my mother, Sally Byrne.”

“Good evening, my lady,” his mother said in a taut whisper. “And where is your husband this fine night?”

“She’s a widow,” Byrne bit out.

Not sure what else to do, Christabel gave a little curtsy. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Byrne.”

Apparently that amused his mother, for a reedy laugh sounded from the depths of the bed. “Are you indeed? Never thought to have a marchioness in my bedchamber claiming the pleasure of my acquaintance.” A gnarled hand emerged from the shadows, beckoning to her. “Come closer, dear. Let me look at you.”

Swallowing, Christabel approached the bed. She could now make out a small form practically swallowed up by the night. But though the face was hidden, the eyes reflected the candlelight to play over her with an insulting scrutiny.

“She’s a pretty one, I’ll grant you that,” Mrs. Byrne finally said. “But short.”

“Mother,” he warned, “be nice.”

“It’s all right,” Christabel put in wryly, “there are plenty of times when I find shortness to be a defect myself.”

The woman chuckled, then coughed. “I’m almost as short as you, so if it’s a defect, it’s one we share. Don’t know how I managed to produce anything as tall as that rascal standing next to you.”

Silence fell as they all thought the same thing: The prince was tall.

“Gavin,” his mother added, “would you go fill that water jug for me while I chat with your friend?”

“Why?” he demanded. “So you can pummel her with questions about her character and her family?”