She could almost swear from the way he refused to meet her eyes that he knew something. Whatever it was, he appeared disinclined to share with her. “If it is terrible news, I still must know. Do you understand? I want to hear what you’ve discovered. Good news or bad, I’ve paid you for the truth.”

Byrne’s eyes slowly drifted from the bench to her. She felt their weight as if they were two hot black river-stones laid on her shoulders.

“I’m not sure that I do understand, Your Highness. Frankly, if your friend left you without explanation, he probably had a reason. Perhaps he didn’t wish to hurt your feelings. Maybe there was someone else, and he took the coward’s way out.”

“No! That’s impossible.” Too late, she realized she’d shouted her objection. She lowered her voice again, not daring to look toward Lorne to see if he’d heard. “He loved . . . I mean to say, Donovan had a fondness for our conversations about art. And we had an . . . an understanding, a friendship that was very special.”

Louise sighed, tears threatening. How pitiful she must sound. Byrne undoubtedly saw straight through her. To keep up this charade was senseless. But how could she admit to him, to anyone, what she’d done? She blinked away her tears, angry with herself for caving in to emotion.

“I don’t care how insignificant whatever you found seems to you. Tell me. Now!”

Byrne grimaced, looking as resigned to his fate as a man before a firing squad. “I have contacted as many individuals as I could find who knew Donovan Heath from his days in Kensington.” He looked at her and waited, as if expecting a reaction. She kept silent, but her heart tripped, then began to race. “I spoke with your old teacher there, and later with Gabriel Rossetti.”

Louise’s pulse shifted from racing to a dead stop. Her stomach clenched; her knees threatened to give out entirely. No, no, no! This wasn’t what she’d wanted at all. He was going about his search all wrong. This was supposed to be about Donovan’s reason for disappearing and his current location. Not about her. Not about her past. Did the man have no sense of discretion?

She drew herself up and gave him her best imitation of Victoria’s haughty glare. The one she used on her ministers when displeased with them. She must remind this Raven that he was “the help,” whereas she was a royal princess who held the power in this relationship.

“Gabriel Rossetti,” she said, “was most cold and cruel to my friend. He treated Donovan abysmally. You are not to go back to that man for any reason or take his word for anything but slander.”

Byrne stared at her as if she’d ordered him to renounce walking in favor of flying. He stepped closer to her and lowered his voice to a frightening rumble that reminded her of how unpredictable he could be. “Listen, Princess. You asked me to track him down. How am I supposed to do that without questioning people, without trying to find those who knew him before he disappeared? People he might have told where he was going and why. Either you want me to do this, or not.” He took yet another step closer. “Make up your mind, Louise.”

She glared up at him, feeling the need to back away but refusing to let him intimidate her. “How dare you speak to me in that tone.” She couldn’t keep her voice from shaking even in her anger. Lorne was right. The man had no manners whatsoever. And calling her by her first name—such nerve.

“All right then.” He let out a sound from deep in his throat, rather like a growl. “Here’s what I’ve found so far. It appears that no one who knew Donovan Heath, either in London or the surrounding countryside, has any idea where the fellow has got to. He simply vanished. There are rumors, but I assume you want proof, not hearsay.”

“Why don’t you let me decide which they are.” She opened her eyes wide and tilted her head in a suggestion of challenge. “Just give me the information you’ve gathered.”

“Very well.” He removed his hat, making him look only a little less a cowboy out of one of her brothers’ penny dreadful novels. “The theories proposed by the people I’ve interviewed range from Donovan having found a rich woman to provide for him, to his falling drunk into the Thames and drowning. Some say he might have left England for Brussels, Paris, Venice, or Frankfurt in pursuit of his art. But the supposition that makes the most sense to me was voiced by Mr. Rossetti.” He stopped and studied her, his hat rotating in his hands, as if he actually were capable of being nervous.

“Go on, go on,” she said.

“Rossetti believes the boy might have either been frightened off or more forcibly encouraged to leave London, because of your association with him.”

She let his words soak in, for a moment unable to speak.

She swallowed, threw him a look of desperation, then choked out the words, “But that’s preposterous. Who would have done such a thing?” In her heart she knew what he was going to say. And it terrified her. “If you are about to accuse my mother of forcing my friend to leave the city, that’s simply outrageous.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked, his voice slipping into unexpected gentleness. His black eyes focused on her face.

“Because he disappeared before she even knew I was—” She swallowed back the damning words. “Before I told her we’d been special friends.”

“You’re telling me that Her Majesty has no way of discovering what is going on in her children’s lives unless they tell her?” He kept a straight face, but somehow she knew he was laughing at her.

“I’m sure she has her methods of spying upon us when she’s inclined. I’m just saying that, at the time Donovan disappeared, she had no reason whatsoever to be concerned.”

Byrne leaned forward, making her feel even more uneasy at his proximity. She smelled the road on him, horse and leather, and a masculine tang that sent a strange thrill through her. He said, “Explain to me, Princess, what might concern the queen more than the danger of a commoner—in fact, not just any commoner but a boy barely out of the gutter—becoming intimate with her daughter?”

Louise caught her breath and raised a hand, overwhelmed by an impulse to slap him for his insult. Before she could make good her intent, he’d grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer still.

“Your mother must have known what was happening,” he whispered in her ear. “Must have been beside herself with fear, realizing the boy would be your ruin.”

“Stop it. Stop it this instant!” She choked back tears, wrenched her arm out of his grip, and pushed herself away from him. She pressed fingertips to her burning eyes. “You must not press this issue. Whatever happened between us is inconsequential. Totally beside the point.” Her voice broke. “You must take my word that my friend had been missing for a month or more before my mother would have had reason for concern.”

Byrne’s eyes narrowed to dark slits, studying her as though trying to unravel a riddle she’d presented him. Did she secretly want him to know the truth? Was she feeding him just enough information to let him guess at what had happened—then falling back on her rank to deny him the answer? But that would be absurd.

Louise cleared her throat and looked up at him, surprised to find they still stood within inches of each other. She tried to make her feet step back, but they refused to cooperate.

“Now tell me,” she said, in as firm a voice as she could muster, “what are your next steps toward finding Donovan Heath?”

Byrne rolled his eyes, shook his head. He jammed his hat down on his head and tugged the brim low over disturbingly stormy eyes. “There are a few leads I suppose I might still follow.”

“And what leads are those, laddie?” a familiar voice thundered.

Louise felt her heart leap into her throat. How long had John Brown been lurking behind the hedge?

“You’re not discussing your search for the Fenian captain with the princess, are you?”

“No,” Byrne said. Whatever emotion he’d revealed to her a moment before now washed away from his features.

“It’s a personal matter,” she responded, giving the Scot a dark look. She felt Byrne tense beside her, as if he feared her revealing anything more.

Brown looked at her, then at Byrne. Animosity crackled in the air between the two men. “Personal,” he repeated, tasting the word for hidden flavors. After a long moment, he gave a nod, as if he’d come to a decision. “I need to discuss a matter of security with Mr. Byrne. Might I borrow him from you for a moment, Princess?”

She hesitated, unsure she dared leave the two of them alone together, but gave him a nod of approval. “I still need to finish my conversation with Mr. Byrne, when you’re done.” If anything’s left of him, she thought as she walked back the way she’d come, into the garden to where she’d left her drawing supplies, canvas carryall, and her elegant but hopelessly unavailable young husband.

Louise reached down for her sketch pad then hesitated, her fingertips tingling with suspicion. The binding was tucked low into the open mouth of the sack, half buried beneath a rag she’d used to wipe her hands. Had she stuck the pad down so deep? She stole a look at Lorne, who appeared not to have moved from his lawn chair in her absence. What if he’d seen the sketch of the American?

But perhaps it was just her imagination. The thing might have slipped of its own weight.

Loud voices disturbed her thoughts and the peace of the garden.

“Bloody hell. What’s that all about?” Lorne grumbled. He rustled his paper, looked up for a moment. “Oh, it’s just the Scot.” He turned a page and disappeared inside his newsprint again.