He didn’t need to say who they was. The Fenians. “Not a clue. You?”

“Naw, laddie. Wish that I did.” He ordered up another drink for himself.

Byrne declined a fifth . . . or was it a sixth? When he shook his head, it felt like it was sloshing with a brew of beer and worries. He knew he should keep his mouth shut. It had a habit of getting him into trouble. But he couldn’t ignore what he’d just witnessed.

“I’ve been here drinking close to two hours,” he murmured.

Brown released a soft humph of amusement. “Alone?”

Byrne nodded. “One of our friends from up the castle dropped by for a short while. Don’t think he saw me.”

The Scot scratched his beard and nodded his head. “Someone I should know ’bout?”

“Maybe you already do.”

“Wouldn’t be our bonnie bridegroom would it?” Brown offered him a quick glimpse of bearish yellow teeth, almost a snarl.

Byrne didn’t bother to answer. “Does she know?” The words stuck in his throat. He felt the muscles of his neck and shoulders go rock hard. His jaw locked.

“The princess?” Brown drained his current pint, at the same time signaling the barkeep for another. “Expect she does. Victoria said she was sure Louise was aware of the company the man kept in the past. But I don’t know. The princess discounts court gossip more often than believes it. This is one rumor she should have listened to.”

“Such a beautiful woman,” Byrne mumbled. “Ah, Louise, Louise . . .” He was feeling dizzier by the moment. The bottles arranged along the bar back blurred and swam before his burning eyes. Pretty shades of amber, ruby, crystalline clear and jade, they looked to him rather like a pretty image through a child’s kaleidoscope.

Byrne heard himself talking, as if his voice came from another person across the room. As if he was just sitting there on his stool, listening to a stranger ramble on about whatever rattled through his brain, as blokes do when in their cups. It wasn’t until he felt a shadow fall across him, blocking the light from the lamp over the bar, that he looked up to see Brown standing there, fists digging into hips, glowering down at him.

“Watch what you say, laddie,” he growled, threat crowding his words.

“I’ll say what I pleash,” Byrne slurred, not entirely sure what he had said but feeling boozily determined to defend his opinions, whatever they might be.

All of a sudden, the anger and bitterness and frustration that had been building inside of him rose as an unbearable pressure in his chest. The thought that this very special woman had signed on for a lifetime of deception and unhappiness was too much for him to handle while in his sodden state. The indignity of her situation burned like a hot poker.

“All I said,” he blurted, “was Louise is bea-oo-ti-ful.” Or something along those lines. More or less.

Brown appeared to swell in size, his head moving toward the ceiling as he drew himself fully erect. “You said more’n that, you villain. It’s blasphemous it is. Even thinkin’ of putting yourself in that man’s place in her bed—”

“I said that?” Byrne smiled. It was the first pleasing thought of the evening. “Well then, who’s to say it’s such a bad idea. Me and the princess—”

He never got to finish his sentence.

Brown’s fist connected with Byrne’s jaw, sending him flying off his stool, sprawling on the rough oak floorboards. Although he was nowhere near as large a man as John Brown, and that massive clot of knuckles had the power to shatter bones, Byrne’s jaw survived intact. It happened to be one part of his anatomy, he’d learned from experience, that was as hard as Connecticut granite.

He glared up from the floor at the Scot. The room’s spinning slowed then snapped into focus as the giant’s blow produced a rapid sobering effect.

“I meant no offense to Her Royal Highness,” Byrne said, pushing himself to his feet. “But, Mr. Brown, you and I both know it was bloody wrong, that match. I won’t pretend otherwise.”

The Scot’s chest expanded as he pulled in a mighty breath that sounded like the wind foreshadowing a violent storm. “I’ll not have you so much as lookin’ at the lady. Hear me well, Raven. You mind your investigatin’ and stay away from Victoria’s family.”

Byrne nearly laughed at the man’s preposterous bullying but thought better of it. He also should have thought better of his next move. He poked a finger at the center button of the giant’s shirtfront, emphasizing his words. “It’s—not—your—place to give orders to a man in the queen’s Secret Service.”

Brown’s fists kneaded at his sides. His eyes glowed, dangerous coals. “I says it is.”

This time when the Scot lunged for him, Byrne was ready. He ducked then went in low and fast with a right fist to Brown’s gut. Followed with a lightning fast left hook to the ridge of bone just under one eye.

Brown swung back at him, powerful as a steam locomotive. If the punch had connected with the intended side of his opponent’s head, there was a good chance Byrne might not have stood up again. Ever.

Byrne dodged and ducked again. Fist and arm sizzled over his head.

The rest of the fight happened fast, as bar fights do, eating up no more than five minutes before it was over. But to Byrne’s bleary memory, it was a beautiful battle: stools cracking over backs and shoulders, bottles exploding, knuckles smashing and oozing blood . . . until neither man was capable of lifting a hand through his exhaustion.

Only then did the barman climb out from behind his counter, club in hand, and chase them out the door into the night with a warning they’d be paying for the damages.

Eleven


Louise woke to a blinding streak of ochre sunlight slashing through her window that forced her to close her eyes again. She smelled the early blooming lilacs Lady Car had arranged in a vase beside her bed the day before, and the sundried linen beneath her cheek. Urgent-sounding footsteps raced lightly across her room. A cupboard door clicked open then snapped shut.

It occurred to Louise that a terrible emergency must have arisen during the night. But when she sat upright in bed and looked around, she saw that a silver tray had been set on her bedside table, and Car was pulling Louise’s blue day dress from the wardrobe.

Louise lifted the domed lid on the sterling salver to find a generous serving of bacon rashers and thick slices of toasted oat bread. Pots of honey and dairy-fresh butter accompanied, making enough breakfast for three.

“What’s happened to make you feel the need to fortify me so?”

Lady Car turned to her, concern mirrored in her gentle eyes as she flew back across the room with Louise’s clothing. “Your Highness, I fear this morning may prove a bit more taxing than others.”

“Oh, dear.” Louise blinked, preparing herself for the worst. Another intruder? One of her siblings ill? Her mother . . . well, it could be anything if it had to do with her. “Details then. No sugarcoating.”

“Yes, well . . .” Car set royal blue satin slippers to match Louise’s dress on the floor beside the bed. “Her Majesty has sent word that you are to rise immediately and come to her as soon as you are dressed. It appears that a serious issue has presented itself. Her secretary would only say that the queen refuses to deal with it on her own.” She shrugged her shoulders in apology. “I’m sorry, that’s all I know.”

Something her mother felt incapable of handling without her? Now she was just as curious as worried.

Louise tossed off the bedclothes, struggled out of her night shift, and made a hasty job of her toilet. While her lady laced her up Louise thrust a piece of bacon into her mouth, bit into the toast, and chewed. She sipped her tea, well sweetened with honey. She’d eaten spartanly since the attack on the coach, having lost her appetite for days after. The thought that, had there been a live bullet in the young protester’s gun, she might not now be alive, had quite unsettled her.

Louise dusted the toast crumbs from her fingertips then waved off all attempts by Car to dress her hair. “No, no. Leave it loose. It will take too much time.” Anyway, she much preferred to let her long brown tresses fall down her back. Though her mother wouldn’t like it.

“I will go with you,” Lady Car offered.

“No. It might be nothing.” But if it was serious, she didn’t want to expose the poor woman to unnecessary trauma. Best she face her mother alone.

When Louise arrived, breathless, at her mother’s suite, she knocked once then opened the door and stepped inside.

Victoria was sitting primly behind her desk in a black mourning gown whose only noticeable difference from her others was a high starched white collar held together at the throat by a simple cameo pin. The queen’s expression was stern, her eyes sparking anger, but it was not Louise’s little dragon of a mother who captured her attention. Her gaze immediately shifted across the room to stop on the two men standing at attention in the middle of the crimson-and-gold Persian carpet under Victoria’s steely gaze.

Louise clapped a hand over her mouth and gasped. John Brown and Stephen Byrne appeared to have freshly arrived from the front lines of a war.

The Scot and the Raven were a bruised, bloody, scraped, and scabby mess. Their shirts and trousers might have been torn from their bodies, run over by market carts in a filthy road, and restored to their use as garments without any attempt at laundering. And they smelled. Of various forms of alcohol, if she wasn’t mistaken.

“What happened to you two?” Louise said. “Were you attacked? Are others hurt?”