The Wild Princess (16 page)

He now saw where this was going. “You want me to find out what happened to Donovan Heath.”

“Yes, if you can. Yes, please.” The words rushed out of her, as if she were both ashamed and excited by the possibility. “And if he is still alive, I'd like to know where he is now.”

Bad idea,
he thought.
Very bad.
“Is that wise, Princess?”

Her eyes widened at his questioning her. “I don't care whether it's wise or not. It's not your job, Mr. Byrne, to doubt my wisdom or argue my decisions. I am asking this as a favor. No,
not
as a favor,” she hastily amended with a dismissive flutter of her hand. A nervous gesture she shared with her mother. “I understand your mercenary nature. I will pay you well for your services. Consider it a job.”

He stiffened at her implication. “I already have a job. And money isn't the reason I joined the queen's Secret Service.”

She sniffed and turned her back to him. “Very well then. I shall find someone else.”

He lifted his eyes to the vaulted ceiling and shook his head. Bother. Now he'd made things worse, hadn't he? He'd angered her. If he didn't accommodate her, or at least pretend to, she would stop listening to him, no longer heed any warning or advice he gave. No matter how serious the issue or how dangerous the situation into which she was prepared to thrust herself.

Byrne wasn't accustomed to apologizing for his actions, but there was no other way. “I'm sorry, Your Royal Highness. I didn't mean to offend. It's just that, in my experience, the past is often best left . . . in the past.” He watched her lovely shoulders rise and fall as she took a deep breath.

Slowly, as if the slightest movement required deliberate effort, she pivoted to face him. She blinked several times—flecks of darker blue within paler irises. And he realized, to his dismay, she was trying to hold back tears. For the first time it struck him that she might still be in love with this Donovan bloke.

He let out a breath of resignation. “All right. Listen, I'll do what I can. And I suspect your little speech about discretion at the beginning of this conversation means you don't want me to mention this investigation to anyone, including your mother.”

She gave a tiny nod of her head and started to raise a sleeve toward her face, as if to blot away the tears brimming over her lashes. But she thought better of revealing too much and stopped herself. “Thank you. Yes. That's my wish.”

“There is one problem,” he said.

“And that is?”

“I'm supposed to remain here at Balmoral, watching after you, your sister, and brothers. Leaving will be interpreted as a neglect of my duty.”

“I see.” She looked so utterly bereft and disappointed he wanted to wrap his arms around her in consolation, but he planted his boots and stayed where he was. For a moment her eyes flitted about the room, as if searching dim recesses for an answer to her problem. “So you're afraid of my mother too?”

He tightened his lips to keep from smiling. “In a manner of speaking, isn't everyone?”

“Not always.” She grimaced, as if remembering something painful from another time. Then suddenly her face lit up. “This is what you'll do. You will go to John Brown. Ask him to detail two of his men to watch over us in your place, just for a few days. Three men, if he wishes. Surely that will suffice.”

“May I remind you, Mr. Brown and I are not on the best of terms.”

“But if you tell him there is an urgent reason for your brief return to London. Perhaps a family emergency? No, you've no family in this country. Is that right?”

“Exactly.”

She tapped her chin with one finger. “I know. Your commander has ordered your return for some reason. I'm sure you can create an excuse that will sound logical to Brown. And to my mother.”

She was asking him to lie to the queen. That was tiptoeing dangerously close to treason, even if he wasn't one of her subjects.

But the cause was a good one. London, he thought. Exactly where he wanted to be. The temptation was almost too great. Kill two birds with one stone: do a fast search for the missing artists' model while spending most of his time tracking down the Fenian commander.

Louise must have seen acquiescence in his expression. She smiled. A tear trickled from her lashes, but this time she swiped it away quickly with her sleeve, as if it was no longer of consequence. “How much will you charge me?”

“Nothing, Princess—for the time being. I don't mind waiting for suitable compensation.”

Her eyes latched on to his, and he felt a rush of heat through his body. What had possessed him to say that? To flirt with a princess. He hadn't meant to step over the line of propriety. Hadn't intended to say anything that might be construed as provocative. But he was secretly gratified by the sparkle in her eyes and upward turn of her lips.

“Yes, well, when you have arrived at a reasonable return for your time and services,” she said solemnly, “please do let me know.”

“I most surely will.” He hesitated. There was another matter. But he was unsure how much harder he dare press for information. He stepped away toward a low table and picked up a graceful figurine carved from wood—a hunting dog. Perhaps one of her early art projects? “I have the young man's name. Donovan Heath?”

“Correct.”

He ran a finger over the smooth head of the hound, trying to appear casual as he admired the detail of the dog's furry ruff. “And he would now be in his early twenties?”

“Perhaps twenty-three or -four, if he still lives,” she said softly.

“Can you give me addresses he once frequented?”

“Of course.”

He was hesitant, circling around the one critical question. Hoping it would seem of no more importance than the others. “And you said he had no other close friends or family in London, or elsewhere. So far as you know.”

She frowned at him, as if unable to understand why this should be of concern to him. “It's been five or more years. Many of our friends from the school have moved on in their lives, as have I. I'm afraid you must work with the little I've supplied.”

“Nevertheless, giving me as much information as possible, about your relationship with your friend and others who knew him, will help.”

“Of course.” She gave him a sideways look.

“Was your mother aware of the relationship?” There it was—the one question he needed answered before this went any further.

Louise's eyes narrowed, as if she were a wild creature that sniffed a trap. “Aware of our . . . friendship?”

“Yes.”

Her gaze drifted away from him. When she at last spoke her voice was barely a whisper, but it sliced like a saber through the silence between them. “No. I should think not.”

“You never mentioned his name to the queen?”

“Why should that matter, Mr. Byrne? I'm losing patience with you, I must say.”

“Because if the friendship seemed to Victoria a serious one, she might have disapproved. Don't you think, Princess?”

“If you're implying that the queen would have done anything to keep me from seeing my friend again, I suppose you're right,” she snapped back at him. “Oh all right, yes, I
did
mention him to her. She knew we were friends.”

A shadow seemed to fall over the room, chilling it. He knew Victoria would have been furious with her daughter if she even guessed Louise was encouraging a personal, possibly intimate relationship with a commoner. And a destitute artist at that. There was no way she would have tolerated the notion of their becoming a couple.

He was aware of Louise's wide-eyed gaze, studying him with something like fear. As if she were trying to decide whether he was friend or foe. Calculating the risk of honesty.

“You're saying,” she began, “that you believe my mother might have had something to do with Donovan's going missing?” There seemed barely enough air behind her words to propel them into the room. He swore he could hear her pulse from ten feet away. “That's simply outrageous.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But she might have sent someone to persuade him to leave London. Out of concern for you. A mother protecting her innocent young daughter.”

Louise let her gaze drop to her hands, clutched again in front of her skirt. All the spit and fire seemed to drain from her body as he watched. Her shoulders lowered and shrank. Her color fled. “Yes. All right. Yes, I suppose she might have done something to—” She shook her head and sighed. “I actually thought as much at one time. But my friend would have got word to me, don't you think? He would have sent a letter, a message through mutual acquaintances, something to let me know she'd frightened him off.”

“If he could have.” Byrne looked at her with meaning, wishing he didn't have to say such things to her. Words that might or might not be the truth, but that would be guaranteed to hurt.

She blinked at him, shaking her head in unconcealed revulsion. “You don't believe she could have done anything . . .
drastic
, do you?”

There was no doubt in his mind the lengths to which Victoria would go to protect her family. The only question in his mind was this: how far had her daughter's relationship with the fellow already gone before Donovan disappeared? If Louise had taken him as a lover, and Victoria confronted Louise, who then refused to be parted from him, would the queen have been desperate enough to . . .

To do what?

She would have done whatever was necessary to scare off the young man. Threats, beatings . . . or worse. And if it was this last option, if an assassin had been dispatched to resolve the problem of her daughter's indiscretion, then Byrne knew he'd never find Donovan Heath alive.

Nineteen

Louise waited patiently, then not so patiently for word from Stephen Byrne after he left for London. She neither saw nor heard from the man for thirteen days. Gossip among the staff and reduced court at Balmoral had it that the handsome American was recalled to London by his superiors. Probably for disciplinary measures. And yet several of the queen's ladies expressed, within Louise's hearing, a wistful longing for his return. The man seemed to have a powerful effect on females, her mother included. Maybe that was why John Brown appeared happy to see him gone. The Scot would have the queen's full attention for as long as Byrne stayed away.

Louise admitted to herself, although to no one else, that she was not entirely immune to Byrne's brooding, dark good looks and demonstrable physical prowess. The man was positively magnificent astride a horse. And his entrance into a room seemed to suck all of the air out of it. Nevertheless, she intended to limit their relationship to conversations of a purely business nature. Anything more
friendly
was, after all, impossible. She was a married woman and would remain so until either she or Lorne passed from this life.

Even the vaguest romantic imaginings that included the Raven, she chased from her mind.

When Byrne finally returned to Balmoral, he sent Louise a maddeningly curt note by way of Lady Car:

 

Nothing of value to report on the matter of your inquiry.

 

Louise didn't trust the man. Despite his refusal to accept payment for his time, she had given him a very generous stipend to cover his travel expenses, meant to last for as long as it took him to find Donovan. For all she knew, he'd already spent it on gambling, drink, and the sorts of women who plied their trade in the artists' districts where she'd indicated he'd most likely find Donovan.

Before Louise could corner the annoying man and demand to know—
in detail, sir, with a list of interviews you've accomplished on my behalf!
—what the hell he'd been doing all of that time. Victoria decided the family must return to London. Parliament was soon to be called into session, and the PM was adamant that the queen make an appearance on opening day.

And so barely two months after their arrival in Scotland, all of the queen's ladies and gentlemen, family members in residence, and staff, again packed up their finery and necessities to head for London. But this time Brown, with the support of the American agent and the captain of the royal guard, insisted that the journey south be accomplished by railway, a more secure and faster means of travel.

Victoria allowed that this made sense, considering the level of alarm raised by recent articles in the London press with regard to the “Irish problem.” But she informed Louise and Baby, “I will be in agony and tears the entire trip, thinking of my dear husband who last traveled this way with me.”

Louise had come to believe her mother relished mourning more than most any other activity in the world, and said nothing.

Once they were on their way, in the far more comfortable accommodations offered by the private train cars provided for the royal family, Louise spent hours seated beside her silent husband, dwelling upon her future—such as it was. She made several important decisions, which she shared with no one. Nevertheless they provided her with a modicum of comfort.

First, she would join Amanda in attending a demonstration in support of women's suffrage, despite her mother's admonitions that she should not become “involved.” Her friend had become more active than she in the movement and often wrote broadsides to be posted about the city.

Louise was so very proud of Amanda, who had come such a long way since her days as a lowly maid of all work. To Louise's joy, Amanda's marriage to young Dr. Henry Locock had transformed her friend. While little Edward was but a baby, and Amanda tied to home and hearth, Louise had sent one of her old tutors to her, so that she might learn to write better and improve her speaking skills, a desire Amanda often had confided to her. Amanda's success was proof of what women, when properly educated, were capable of.

What truly perplexed Louise was her mother's attitude toward suffrage. For some unfathomable reason, the Queen of England, the most independent-minded woman she knew, refused to acknowledge her sisters' basic rights. Louise knew her mother would be furious if she found out one of her daughters had attended a public rally or, worse yet, a protest march. But she felt compelled to lend her voice and proclaim the injustice of male rule.

Louise's second decision, made during the journey back to London, involved the Raven. At the first opportunity after they settled back into Buckingham Palace for the Season, she would confront Byrne and demand a full report. Exactly where had he inquired and what had he learned about Donovan Heath's fate? No matter how slight the information might seem to him,
she wanted it
!

Louise was convinced the American knew something and was holding back from her. Why else would he avoid her like this, communicating only through a terse note? There were days when she had sensed his presence at Balmoral, yet when she went looking for him he disappeared, as if he were no more than a puff of smoke on the wind.

Thirdly, she vowed to devote more of her time to the Women's Work Society
—
reorganizing the crafts and handwork they'd acquired, updating the displays, and working with Amanda to create new brochures to pass out or post around the city and let people know about the shop. She also wanted to develop a training program to broaden the skills of the women who came to her, giving them more options for earning a living wage.

And lastly, there was her art, which she dearly missed. Preparing for the wedding, she'd neglected it. She hadn't begrudged the time she'd taken from her sculpting and painting, because she truly believed she was investing in a sound and satisfying marriage. Now that time seemed squandered. As soon as possible, she would set up a studio in the house she and Lorne would share. While their new home was being prepared for them, they would occupy a suite at Buckingham and she'd paint in the garden or set up her easel in the music room where the light was best. Her sculpting would need to wait for more space and privacy.

All in all, Louise kept telling herself, she was lucky to have a full, meaningful, and challenging life. She was young, in excellent health, and moderately attractive, if she did say so herself. As the daughter of the queen, she would never have to worry about money. The idea that her future entirely lacked sexual gratification, that she would never again enjoy the physical companionship of a man she cared deeply for, or bear children—well, she would simply have to put these losses firmly out of her mind and move on. The many excellent avocations and people already part of her world would have to suffice.

 

The morning of the suffrage rally, Amanda was in exceptionally high spirits. As Louise watched in dismay, her friend literally bounced off cabinets and walls in her enthusiasm, twice knocking over displays, shattering a pottery bowl, and spilling loose tea leaves all over a set of embroidered antimacassars.

Amanda barely took a breath between words as she chattered away at Louise. “And do you realize who will be there?”

“The prime minister?” Louise teased, knowing full well Mr. Gladstone would rather shoot himself in the foot than attend a women's suffrage rally.

“Of course not.” Amanda laughed, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Although there are members of Parliament who support our cause in theory, I doubt they'll dare show their faces at a major public demonstration like
this
one.”

“What's so special about today's?” Louise handed Amanda three hand-worked lace collars to add to the display in the consignment shop's window, along with a charming painted tea set and selection of crocheted sweaters.

“Representatives of the NSWS have said they'll come. Do you believe it? Oh, this will be a great and historic event, I can just feel it.”

Louise knew the National Society for Women's Suffrage lobbied all the MPs, regardless of their party affiliation, encouraging them to support women's suffrage. Perhaps soon they would have a little success. If they managed to get even a handful of these powerful men to step up and announce their commitment to the cause, it would be an amazing coup for women's rights.

“Our la-dies are a-comin' from all o'er the town,” Amanda sang to a bawdy tune then reverted to less melodious speech. “And from well into the countryside, I do hear. Rumor has it Laura McLaren is traveling all the way from Edinburgh, and the famous Millicent Fawcett will attend as well.” She patted an ecru lace collar into place on a throat-and-shoulders plaster mannequin that Louise had designed to show off their wares. “This is so very thrilling. I feel as if we are on the verge of a revolution of sorts. Don't you taste it in the air, Louise? This modern age will be so wonderful for all of us.”

“Don't get your hopes up too high, my girl.” After all, as daughter to the queen, she was in the privileged position of overhearing the queen's ministers' opinions, which weren't often encouraging. The MPs clung to the old ways, foolishly arguing that women could depend upon the generosity of their men for everything good in their lives. But she only had to remember desperate stories of women like Amanda to know that leaving the protection of women, and children, to the males of the species guaranteed nothing. Hadn't the
Times
only recently revealed in an editorial that tens of thousands of homeless women wandered the streets, begging or selling their bodies simply to survive? And what about all of the orphaned children? What men had stood up to save
them
?

It was an outrageous situation that had to end.

“Do you know how many will be at the rally?” Louise asked.

“Oh, hundreds . . . perhaps thousands!” Amanda climbed down from the shop window, grabbed Louise around the waist, and danced her around the room, narrowly avoiding the refurbished picture frames stacked in one corner.

Louise laughed and firmly brought her friend to a stop. “Where's little Eddie today?”

“Henry offered to stay with him. Eddie will probably sleep through much of the afternoon. The child was so tired this morning after a late night with his mum and da. Once he's asleep nothing will wake him. Henry will be able to see afternoon patients without distraction.” She threw her shawl around her shoulders and twirled one last time in the middle of the shop. “Oh, it will be absolutely glorious—we sisters, rich and poor alike, linked by a common cause.”

Louise hugged her. “Yes, dear heart, I'm sure it will be. And we'll all do what we can to make the day come sooner when we can determine our own fates.” It occurred to her that, ironically, her friend, a commoner, would likely have more freedom than
she,
a princess, ever would. Louise fought off a wave of remorse and placed a sign in the shop window, saying they would return in two hours. She locked the door behind them.

The day was warm, the sun brilliant. After a recent rain the air now smelled cleaner than on most London days. The ever-present smog seemed to have temporarily washed away. They strolled, arm in arm, up the street and back through the market district, toward Hyde Park, where the rally would take place. From blocks away, Louise could hear drums thumping, horns blaring. The buzz of hundreds of voices came to them, louder and louder as they approached.

Louise felt her heart rise on a wave of hope. She wanted, like Amanda, to believe they were on the precipice of a historic moment. Someday, very soon, women would hold the same rights as men in English society—and, who knew, perhaps around the world. What a triumph that would be. Women would be free to enter into any profession, to travel as far as they wished, on their own if they liked. They would own property, perhaps even businesses—and wasn't their little shop a modest beginning in that direction?

With each step Louise's anticipation grew. She matched her stride to Amanda's, felt her body take up the intoxicating rhythm of the drumbeat. Soon they were marching alongside dozens of other women, all descending upon the park. Some were attired in the height of fashion, in full afternoon toilette or chic Dolly Varden walking suits, others in the smocks of shopgirls. A few broke into a run in their enthusiasm to greet their sisters. Others moved with stately seriousness. Then there were those who ventured only small, timid steps, parasols half hiding their faces, as if fearful they were doing something wrong but still wished to be part of the brave effort.

The rally began with a prayer for solidarity, everyone holding hands in long human chains. Some men stood alongside their wives, sisters, or mothers, but they were few. Then a woman in a black coatdress and wide-brimmed hat that dwarfed her tiny face stepped onto a makeshift stage. She spoke to the gathering in a voice that carried surprisingly far. No one had introduced her, but her name was whispered throughout the crowd.

This is the famous Millicent Fawcett. The woman who had been an inspirational force in the struggle since its very inception.

She spoke of dedication. Of the need to reassure members of Parliament, husbands, brothers, and even other women that their goals were nonpartisan and nonthreatening. She encouraged her audience to seek the support of any man or woman who agreed that all people, regardless of sex, should possess the same rights. It was a stirring and brilliant speech. At its conclusion a great shout of joy and dedication swept through the crowd.