Byrne adjusted the stiff-brimmed black felt hat John Batterson Stetson himself had fashioned for him when they’d met up in San Angelo, Texas—Byrne’s birthplace. But that’s not where his thoughts were today. He was relieved to see the queen’s party hadn’t yet left for Scotland. Some of the tension released from his road-weary back.

Three days after the grand celebration surrounding Princess Louise’s wedding to the marquess, carriages lined the raked gravel drive, looking like a parade of trained circus elephants—tail to nose. This was to be the couple’s honeymoon, though not a traditional one, because it included not only the queen herself but also part of her court. Starting with the largest and most ostentatious coach reserved for the queen and newlyweds to share, the carriages diminished in size and luxury to the humblest flatbed cart piled high with overflow luggage. The line of conveyances stretched around the drive, nearly to the Indian chestnut trees in the winter-ravished gardens.

Each carriage was accompanied by a driver and footman. Most appeared already to contain their passengers, but for a few gentlemen of the court who had become impatient and stood off to the side, idling about and smoking. He’d say from their irritated expressions they must have been cooling their aristocratic heels for a good while already.

He, for one, was glad the procession was running late. Catching up with the royal party on the road north would have made his task far more difficult. As it was, he thought the fuss and spectacle of the excursion to Balmoral, in the north of Scotland, ridiculous and foolhardy. He might have been amused had the situation been less serious. But things were far more grave than anyone in the queen’s entourage could possibly guess.

The journey required days of hard travel and necessitated overnight stops at the estates of the queen’s wealthiest subjects, who would then be obliged to provide lavish food, suites of rooms, and entertainment for Her Royal Majesty and her court. At least a portion of the passage might have been made easier if Victoria had agreed to use the new northern train line that she and Albert had enjoyed riding together. But she claimed now to hate the noisy, smoke-belching locomotives. So the trip up and back would be by plodding coach, through village after village after factory town, making the work of her security detail a veritable nightmare.

Aside from his feelings about the idiocy and unnecessary risk of such a trip, he had other opinions of the royal goings-on. If he were marrying—which he wasn’t, and never would—he’d damn well not take his mother-in-law and her friends along on his honeymoon. But then, the more he’d seen of the young marquess, the more he wondered if Lorne might not care one way or the other about protecting his private time with his new wife.

Nearly a year earlier, Byrne had first come to England as a member of Her Royal Majesty’s elite Secret Service, on loan from President Ulysses S. Grant’s detecting force, based in New York City. Now, as before, he did as he was commanded to do. He reported directly to the queen and never asked questions. Almost never.

To his frustration, his first assignment in England had less to do with the Crown’s security than with good old-fashioned matchmaking. “I require tactfully acquired personal information on several gentlemen I am considering as potential husbands for my fourth daughter,” the queen had told him.

“But, ma’am,” Byrne protested, “I’m sure there are other sources for such—”

“This is my preference,” Victoria said firmly, her gaze fixed on him like a leech. “You will say nothing to others of this assignment and report directly to me.”

There seemed no point in arguing.

Slowly he warmed to his task as he came to learn more about Princess Louise from a discreet distance. She was a blue-eyed beauty with a flawless oval face and long, soft brown hair. Her figure was much more agreeable to his taste than those of her sisters or mother. Somewhat taller than any of them, she lacked their classic Hanoverian bosom, which seemed perfect for the prow of a ship but less so for a lady in real life. And she was by far the best dresser of the bunch. To his mind, Louise would have no trouble at all finding a husband on her own.

He doubted she even realized he was watching, and investigating, her as closely as he was her prospective mates. He collected a detailed personal history for each gentleman as well as an inventory of assets, debts, assignations, and religious inclination. To this he added any gambling, drinking, or other addictions or obsessions Victoria might find distasteful in a son-in-law.

At first, the Marquess of Lorne was one of five men on the queen’s list and, to Byrne’s mind, by no means the most promising. He’d felt sure, once he informed Victoria of the marquess’s habitual attendance at certain disreputable gentlemen’s clubs in London—including the infamous Cleveland Street Club—as well as the gentleman-only private parties and weekend hunts in the country (no ladies allowed), she would immediately eliminate the minor lord as a contender for her daughter’s hand. Byrne had been shocked when the marquess rapidly vaulted to the top of her list.

This had awakened his curiosity.

Why would the Queen of England allow such a common—no, not even that—a questionable union? One that had the potential to result in scandal. Her three eldest daughters had married extremely well. Vicky, the Princess Royal, wed Prince Frederick William of Prussia. There was every reason to believe that “Fritz” would someday become emperor. Alice married Louis IV of Hesse and already had produced an heir and spares. Bashful Helena (known as Lenchen in the family) was only twenty-five but had presented her royal husband, Prince Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, with three babies.

Whereas, and this was what puzzled him and he noted in his journal: The marquess of Lorne offers little more than a minor hereditary title and a modest Scotch duchy. As far as I can see, he has little money of his own and no skills other than a love of the hunt.

To Byrne’s surprise, the newspapers barely blinked at the announcement of the engagement. Instead they gossiped that this must be a rare but true love match. All of London gushed at the romance of the pairing and dismissed the unsavory rumors involving Lorne.

But Stephen Byrne was a military man accustomed to ferreting out secrets. And he smelled a whopper.

He didn’t have to wonder for long why a Scottish subject of the queen, with a less than gleaming reputation, might hold out hope of winning this particular English princess as his wife. While on an unconnected mission to the Isle of Wight, Byrne ran into two gruff old pub sitters. They were only too willing—for the price of a couple of pints—to gossip for his benefit on the subject of the royal family.

“Years back, when the princess was not much more’n a girl, she showed up on the island with only a tutor for company. Polite folks said her mama sent her here to study, away from London’s distractions.”

“At Osborne House,” the other local man supplied, “the royal family’s estate.”

“And what did folks who weren’t so polite say?” Byrne asked, after offering another round of liquid lubrication.

The more talkative of the two leaned closer to the queen’s agent. “Was a rumor, sayin’ the queen was pure frantic to get her daughter away from boys at her school. Chaps that might lead her astray.” He winked.

In fact Byrne had already learned that Louise, who was perhaps seventeen or eighteen at the time, had been studying at the National Art Training School in South Kensington. Some of the students were a bit wild and experimented with strong drink, laudanum, and other drugs. He wouldn’t have been shocked if sex had been part of the mix.

If Louise had gotten herself deflowered or, worse yet, knocked up, Byrne speculated the queen would have had more than enough reason to remove her daughter from her unsavory friends and shield her from court gossip. Aside from Louise’s reputation as the wild child of Victoria’s family (which might mean anything or nothing, given the shaky validity of London’s rumor mill), if she was no longer a virgin her choice of husbands would be severely limited.

But Lorne—what if Lorne had his own secrets to hide? Even if he were innocent of what British law termed “debauchery,” a man with his eye on gaining status in society would make no complaint against a wife who came to him experienced, ruined, tarnished, compromised, or whatever label society cared to brand her with, particularly if she provided an entrée into the royal family.

Now, back at Buckingham, Byrne caught the eye of an equerry of the royal mews and handed over the reins of his horse. He strode toward the diplomatic entrance to the palace to report a different sort of news to the queen, but his mind lingered on Louise. What did a spirited young princess think of the match her mother had made for her? At the very least, it would seem, the queen had set her daughter up for a celibate life.

To his mind, this was an unthinkably cruel act and an utter waste of womanhood. The few times he’d been in a position to observe the princess, his body had responded with healthy approval. And, he’d noticed, he was not alone in his lust. The woman was a looker.

Louise’s passing figure turned men’s heads everywhere she went. Moreover he suspected she rather enjoyed the attention. Her eyes sparkled with sensual playfulness. The fact that she always behaved in the most proper way, at least whenever he’d observed her, made her all the more intriguing to men.

Distracted by these troubling thoughts, Byrne watched the gray, frost-covered paving stones pass beneath his feet without really seeing them. He crossed the courtyard, took the stone steps, approaching the door that would take him into the great hall and from there to the queen’s private offices.