“Putting a good lock on the door might help.”

“Do you have any idea how much a lock and getting it installed properly costs these days? I don’t even own the place. Making improvements isn’t worth it.”

Byrne looked around the room. Clearly improvements of any kind weren’t the artist’s priority. Partially finished paintings leaned against the walls, rested on easels, or hung from wires pegged with wooden clothespins. The sparsely furnished room was thick with fumes of various sorts, not all of which seemed connected with art. An undertone of cannabis sweetened the air, overlaid by whisky.

As he’d often done before, Byrne decided against identifying himself as an employee of the queen or a representative of any form of law enforcement. In his experience those living in risky circumstances, financially or otherwise, tended to lose their ability to speak when the police were mentioned.

“I’m looking for a young man who, I’m told, once worked for you. He did some modeling at the art school in Kensington before you hired him. Name of Donovan Heath.”

Rossetti frowned at his painting, laid another dab of deep blue on it. “Can’t be of much help to you, sorry. Haven’t seen the little rascal for—let me think now—three . . . four years? Maybe a good deal more.”

“Did he leave to work with someone else?”

“Probably, though he never told me. He’d have had to make a living somehow. There’s precious little he was capable of. Standing naked—he managed that well enough. The boy could stand in one position for hours. Days.” Rossetti winked at him. “I suspect his mind was of the sort that rarely sought challenges.”

Byrne wondered what, exactly, about this very ordinary lad had so intrigued the beautiful and intellectually gifted Louise. But then, there was no figuring what made a woman fall for some men. Still, he was hopeful about coming upon the truth soon. At least the information he was gathering was consistent. By the end of the day, he might actually find Mr. Heath. Then, depending upon what the man looked like, and how he answered the questions put to him, Byrne would decide whether or not to tell Louise.

His growing compulsion to protect her kept whispering into the back of his mind. Tell her . . . don’t tell her . . . tell her . . . don’t . . .

However, there was always the possibility that something, or someone, had tempted Donovan away from London. In that case, he wouldn’t find him today or, possibly, ever. Actually, he hoped Donovan had seen an opportunity far away and taken it. And he hoped he’d left on his own volition. Without Victoria’s help.

“To your knowledge, did he have any particular girlfriends? Women he might have visited or gone away with to live? Might I find him with one of them?”

“Lady friends is it now? Then you don’t even know what he looked like.” The artist lifted a questioning brow at Byrne, who kept a straight face. “Guess not.” Rossetti laughed. “Donovan was unabashedly, exquisitely beautiful. An Adonis. I’ve painted his face on the bodies of angels. He had no lack of female companionship, I’ll tell you. Do you know, he actually seduced one of the royal princesses? Had the nerve to bring her up here to my apartment.”

“Really.” Byrne kept his reaction in check. Despite the acid leaching into his stomach that made him want to throw a fist into Rossetti’s leering mouth, he contrived an expression of disbelief.

So it seemed Louise had fallen for a common womanizer, a scoundrel, a juvenile Don Juan. Well, why not? She was an innocent, unaccustomed to anyone treating her badly. Donovan, with a handsome face and willing body, shared her interest in art. He was a free spirit who gave a curious young royal a glimpse of how the other half lived. He would have fascinated her.

“You don’t believe me?” Rossetti said, misinterpreting Byrne’s silence. “My friend and I walked in on them. Donny-boy had Her Royal Highness Princess Louise on that divan over there.” He pointed. Byrne tried not to look at the tattered mud-colored upholstery but couldn’t stop himself. “The girl was half naked, drunk as a dog on cheap wine. We managed to get her dressed, bundled her into her coach, paid off her driver to hold his tongue. And off she went.”

Byrne swallowed his rage with increasing difficulty. After all, it wasn’t Rossetti who’d seduced Louise. But until now he’d held out the hope that the two men had interrupted the young would-be lovers before things went too far. He still clung to one last possibility—that the inseparability her teacher had observed had been only a friendship after the embarrassment of being caught that one time.

“And that was the end of the affair?” he prompted.

Rossetti turned back to his painting, his gaze dissolving into the canvas. “Doubt it,” he mumbled. “The girl was quite the little fool.”

The man’s callousness pricked at Byrne. He felt his control slip. He reached out, clamped a hand on Rossetti’s shoulder, and wrenched the man around to face him. The brush flew out of the artist’s hand.

“Don’t you ever again speak of Her Royal Highness like that! Your queen’s daughter deserves respect.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it.” The man’s eyes narrowed, locking with Byrne’s, as if trying to gauge the likelihood his visitor might assault him further. “Who are you?”

“Nobody.” Byrne released him, locking down his emotions again. He’d get nothing more out of the man by pummeling him, though he deeply longed to. “I just need information. Preferably, the truth. If you have any idea where Mr. Heath might be, you need to tell me. Now.”

“Wait. I’ve heard of you. You’re the American. The Raven they call you.” Rossetti scrutinized his clothing. “I’d say closer to a vulture, feeding off of human carrion. Are you just curious? Or on an official mission for HRM?”

Byrne ignored the man’s questions, annoyed that word of him had spread in London. “What happened after you found them together?”

Rossetti retrieved his brush from the floor and rinsed it in solvent before tenderly reshaping its point with his fingertips. “He didn’t bring her here again, I’ll tell you. He knew I’d toss the two of them out. I mean, was the chit insane? A member of the royal family! But I saw them together walking in the park more than once after that. Clearly they were enthralled with each other. I’m not trying to be rude or disrespectful when I say that girl couldn’t have had any common sense whatsoever—taking up with a boy like that.”

“She was how old?” Byrne said. “Seventeen . . . eighteen? How much sense do any of us have at that age?”

“Was she really that old then? Yes, I suppose she must have been. Acted and looked more like a child, if you ask me. I suppose she must have been very sheltered. Probably knew nothing of young men’s desires or tricks of seduction.”

“Undoubtedly,” Byrne growled. “And the boy just disappeared? He told no one where he was off to?”

“Seems so. But I’ll tell you what I have always thought happened.” Rossetti pointed the tip of his brush at him, his eyes solemn. “I believe our good queen caught a whiff of the romance and arranged for that young man to be, shall we say, discouraged?” He quirked a heavy brow meaningfully.

“How, discouraged?” Byrne knew exactly what he meant—had thought it himself all along. But he was hungry for details now that he’d found a witness to Louise’s affair.

Rossetti shrugged. “Unfortunate things sometimes happen to people who cross a king or queen. The Tower. Expulsion from the country. An unexplained accident. Beheading used to be very popular. Not much in vogue in this country, these days. But I hear she has men at her disposal, men who will do as she commands, whatever that might be.” He looked away from Byrne, as if to pretend he wasn’t talking about him personally.

Byrne’s stomach twisted; another shot of acid burned. It was one thing to harbor his own fears. But hearing someone else voice similar suspicions, someone who actually knew Donovan and had watched his relationship with Louise develop—that sent him over the edge. “You’re accusing the queen of—”

“If I were you,” the artist interrupted, leaning toward him, as if someone else in the room might overhear, “I would have a man-to-man talk with Mr. John Brown about the convenient disappearance of Master Heath.”

Byrne went rigid. “Why Brown?”

“Everyone in London knows Brown does the queen’s bidding, even when it has nothing to do with her stables. It’s said the Scot can be meaner than a she-bear with cubs when it comes to protecting HRM.”

“You’re saying John Brown might have done . . . what exactly?”

Rossetti returned to his painting. “Who can say? A skinny runt like Donovan confronted by a man like that? All it might have required was shouting ‘boo’ in his face. Or Brown might’ve chased him off into the country. Or across the channel to the Continent. The chit could be anywhere.”

Bloody hell, Byrne thought.

“Or, the Scot might have just done the easy thing.”

“Easy?”

Rossetti smiled. “I’ve heard it said a single blow from the Scot’s fist could kill a man. Wouldn’t it have been so much simpler if the loyal gillie was able to report to his queen that Donovan Heath, penniless commoner, would never again bother her daughter?”

“And if you’re wrong? If he’s still alive and somewhere in London?”

Rossetti shook his head. “I can’t tell you where to look for him. He’s not modeling, that’s for certain. And I’d know if he were in the city. Maybe he found a rich woman. That would be a dream come true for someone like him. Fucking for a living. Ha!”

Byrne had heard enough. It was all he could manage to offer a civil thank-you to the artist and leave the studio without punching a hole through the wall.