“I don’t know,” Louise said. “The boy was sleeping in the back room. I suppose he must have knocked over a lantern.” Her chest hurt. She had to stop and cough before going on. “We’ve no gaslights. Sometimes Amanda leaves a candle or small lamp lit to soothe the child to sleep. There are no windows to let in light.”

She was sick with the realization of how close she’d come to losing them both.

“So you believe this was an accident?”

“What else could it be?”

He stared pointedly at her.

“Oh, no, it couldn’t have been the Fenians. Why would they have targeted . . .” But perhaps it was possible.

Amanda gave her a look then buried her face in her little boy’s scorched hair.

All around them, men rushed with hoses, buckets, and bowls—anything that might carry water. Others shouted encouragement and pushed a steam pumper into position. They doused not only the shop but also the neighboring buildings. If not contained, a fire like this could devastate entire blocks of the city.

Then the skies opened up and heaven released a deluge on them. Louise just sat there, soaking wet but grateful for the rain. Without it this might have been a far worse disaster.

Byrne said, “Let’s move you, Amanda, and the boy to the carriage. I’ve had your driver take it down the street out of reach of the fire.”

When they reached the barouche, her driver gave Louise a sheepish look as he helped Amanda and Eddie into the carriage. Louise supposed she couldn’t blame him for his refusal to enter the burning building, as terrifying as the fire had been. Still, she would not use him in the future.

“We should get all of you to the hospital,” Byrne said.

Amanda shook her head weakly. “No. Please, take us home. My husband will see to us.”

Louise understood. With the mention of the Fenians they all naturally wanted to be in a safe place. Or was there another explanation?

“Darvey,” Amanda whispered, turning to Byrne.

He scowled at her then shouted up at the driver, “Drive on, man!”

“The bawd. He might do something like this for revenge.”

Byrne’s jaw clenched. His neck muscles corded taut as ship’s rigging. “Tell me exactly what you saw and heard just before the fire broke out.”

“Nothing, actually.”

“No threats shouted at you or the shop? No Irish radical slogans found lying about?”

She supposed she knew what he was getting at. Why bother to burn them out if they didn’t take the opportunity to deliver their message and at least take credit?

“None,” she said.

“And you heard no sounds of someone breaking in?”

“No,” Amanda answered for her.

“Wait.” Louise laid a hand on Byrne’s arm and felt him tense at her touch. She left her fingers there for a moment, drawing strength from his presence, and he in turn seemed to relax. “I did hear soft sounds. They might have been someone moving about the room, just before we opened the door.”

“We thought it was Eddie.” Amanda drew the boy more tightly to her. He seemed cried out and had gone stone silent with shock, his face and hands smudged with soot, eyes glazed over. “But when I reached him, he was still asleep on the cot.”

“But there’s a door to the alley?” Byrne said.

Louise frowned. “Yes. How did you know?”

He ignored her question. “I agree with Amanda. This isn’t Fenian work. You had a convenient glass display window in the front of the building.” Which had exploded outward and into the street from the fire’s heat, she realized, not from anything being thrown through it from the street. “Why would they sneak in the back way and risk getting caught? All they had to do was lob one of their bombs through the front window. That’s much more dramatic. Makes a statement.”

“Then it really was Darvey’s doing?” she said, hardly feeling the jouncing of the carriage through her fury.

He nodded solemnly. “Most likely.”

“You haven’t had your ‘chat’ with him yet?” she said, not quite accusing him of slacking, but there it was.

If he heard that same tone of blame, he didn’t let it show. “Our meeting is now overdue,” he muttered darkly.

As if cued by the end of their conversation, the carriage stopped with a jolt. Louise watched Byrne duck out through the curbside door. She waited while he helped Amanda and Eddie out, observing him with a fresh eye.

He was, in many ways, quite normal in size for a man. More than a head shorter than John Brown. Broad of shoulders, but he didn’t have Brown’s horsey bones and bulk of body. If he had dressed in standard fashion—waistcoat, frock coat, and top hat—casting off that leather monstrosity and wide-brimmed hat that made him look like a ranch hand from the American West, he’d have blended well enough with any group of English gentlemen.

But Stephen Byrne, the Raven, wasn’t the sort to bother blending. And he wasn’t a gentleman, not by her or anyone else’s definition. He went his own way, made his own rules—she could see that now.

He might pretend to take orders from his commander, her mother, or even from her. But he cut a wide swath through whatever instructions he’d been given. Why, she wondered, was he even in London when he could be back in his own country? No doubt making good money as a private bodyguard for men like J. P. Morgan or Mr. Rockefeller? Why come to England at all?

Whatever his reasons, she found she was glad he had come. To say she felt safe around him wasn’t quite accurate. It was more that his presence made her worry less about other dangers because she was concentrating so hard on him. Because he was the most unpredictable of men. Because she was as intrigued by him as she was wary of what he might say or do next.

Twenty-four

Byrne had just walked out through Buckingham’s gates into the street tangled with carriages when he heard the rapid thud of hobnail boots closing in on him from behind. He swung around, instinctively thrusting his right hand through the hip-high slit in the side seam of his leather duster, but didn’t pull out the Colt.

It was John Brown. His stomach tightened. The Scot’s eyes were bloodshot, as was often the case, but they fixed on him solidly rather than sliding away as when he was drunk. Reassuring. Brown appeared sober enough to not be a danger. Hopefully.

“Where you off to now, laddie?”

Byrne kept a neutral expression. “To do my job.”

“Your job is here, protectin’ the queen’s children.” Brown planted his big feet. Beneath the hem of his kilt, his legs looked like two knobby oak limbs. “I been savin’ your skin long enough from Her Majesty’s questions ’bout where you’re at.”

“Last I knew, the queen hadn’t provided me with an office. The family’s security relies on my confronting threats wherever they appear.”

The Scot lifted his lip in a snarl. Byrne’s hand closed tighter around the Colt’s grip. “Riddles. You’re full of riddles, aren’t you, Yank? What devilment you up to now?”

Byrne considered his options then thought, What the hell. He told the Scot about the fire, hours earlier at Louise’s shop, and watched the man’s face grow darker, word by word.

“The princess is uninjured?” Byrne nodded. “And this Darvey scoundrel, he’s still abroad?”

“He is.”

“You want help?” Brown grinned as if anticipating a good fight.

“Not necessary. You’re needed here. I can handle a lone pimp.” The truth of the matter was, he didn’t trust Brown. Byrne still felt as though putting his back to the man might end messily. “Besides, Victoria might disapprove of my . . . methods.”

Brown shook his head. “Just to make things clear—you don’t owe the villain sympathy.”

“Not an ounce,” Byrne agreed.

“Good luck then.” Brown started to turn away.

Byrne let him take two steps before he decided the time was right to take a calculated risk. “Donovan Heath,” he said.

Brown froze then slowly turned to face him. “There’s that name from the past again. What about him?”

“You know him?”

“Aye, I did. What of it? Told you in the garden I had nothin’ to do with whatever happened to the boy.” Byrne didn’t miss the choice of words. Not do, did know him. As one speaking of the dear, or not-so-dear, departed.

The Scot’s eyes glowed with malice, whether toward the mentioned name or the mentioner, Byrne couldn’t tell.

“Know where I can find him?”

“Best leave well enough alone, Raven.”

Byrne stepped closer to be heard above the clatter of the street traffic and calls of costermongers shouting out their wares. “Louise wants to know what happened to the young man.”

Brown sighed, and a great wind of boozy tobacco breath spewed from his lungs. His face contorted in anger. Byrne’s fingers moved to wrap the Colt’s grip again.

“What happened is the worthless little runt ditched Her Highness. That’s the whole of it.”

Byrne nodded. “Could be. But I don’t think so.”

“Don’t matter what you think, laddie. Is what happened. Now leave it be.” Whatever token goodwill the Scot had shown him moments earlier had vanished. He was being warned off well and good.

Bloody hell, Byrne thought. In for a penny . . . “Louise was in love with the boy, or thought she was.”

“So?”

Byrne tipped his head and looked up into the other man’s eyes for any sign of deception. “She thought he was in love with her.”

“That’s what women think when a man—” Brown pressed his lips together, apparently reconsidering his words. “No doubt he told her as much. She were a sweet little lass. Innocent. She’d a believed him.” Brown almost managed to sound tender. Then he straightened up to his full, impressive height, eyes as dark as a cave. “Leave it be, Raven. Or I’ll have to—”