The Wild Princess (34 page)

Forty-four

If William Gladstone's butler had willingly allowed Byrne through the front door at 10 Downing Street, he wouldn't have had to force his way inside and interrupt the PM's meeting.

“Sir!” a red-faced Gladstone bellowed. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

The butler made a token snatch for Byrne's arm while the other half dozen men in the room wrenched about in their seats to stare at them. A warning glare from Byrne's black-as-sin eyes froze the PM's man where he stood.

“I need to speak with you immediately, Prime Minister,” Byrne said. “It is a matter of your nation's security.”

Gladstone returned his attention to the sheaf of papers before him on the table. “Winters, summon the police.” The servant evaporated through the doorway.

Byrne swore, not quite under his breath. “I
am
the bloody police, sir.” Not technically true, but that caught the prime minister's attention. Byrne extracted a card from his pocket and held it out. “Her majesty's Secret Service.”

Gladstone allowed him a stiff nod. “I remember you now. The American.” He said it as if he were naming a lower species.

“I need fifteen minutes of your time, in private please.” When he got no reaction he added, “The queen's life is at stake.”

A disturbed murmur rose around the table.

Gladstone scowled at Byrne but spoke to his ministers. “Gentlemen, allow me to humor the man. If you will adjourn to the parlor. Winters, please see to refreshments . . . where did the man go?”

“To summon the police,” Byrne said helpfully.

“Right.” Gladstone cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, thank you for your cooperation.”

The ministers filed out of the room, casting Byrne annoyed and doubtful looks. When the door closed behind them, Byrne turned back to face the prime minister and noticed a pistol had appeared on the desktop. It rested inches from Gladstone's right hand.

“That won't be necessary,” he said, meeting the PM's steely gaze.

“I'll be the judge of that.”

Byrne motioned to the chair nearest the prime minister. “May I?”

Gladstone nodded. “Be quick. I have business to attend to. The queen's life is, of course, important but I'm not yet convinced that what you have to say has anything to do with me.”

To Byrne's mind there were two equally critical issues at hand. He began with the one he knew the least about. “Your secretary, I see, isn't attending this meeting. I assume he normally would be here to take notes?”

“That's right. And I can tell you I'm most disappointed with Mr. Rhodes at the moment.”

“Then his absence isn't excused?”

“It is not.” Gladstone turned his famous glower on Byrne. “Have you come to inform me of the man's death?”

“Why would you think he's dead?”

“You've identified yourself as law enforcement. Has there been foul play? An accident? Another bombing?”

“So far as I know, Mr. Rhodes is not a victim of any crime. Quite the opposite.”

Gladstone's frown deepened. “Out with it, man.”

“It appears that your secretary may have delivered a threatening note and three rats into the palace on a day when he accompanied you there in March.” Seconds before Byrne had stepped from his carriage, one of his sweepers delivered a message from Louise, telling him of the secretary's sneaking into the family quarters.

“I won't be insulted.” Gladstone shoved himself to his feet. The halo of white hair that circled his head stood out as if electrically charged. “This is an outrageous accusation. To say I had anything to do with—”

“You couldn't have known, sir. The rats were probably doped to keep them quiet. Rhodes would have carried them in his valise. Can you recall if he gave an excuse to leave the queen's office for any reason?”

“I do recall.” Gladstone sat down again. “He needed to return to the carriage for papers he'd left there.”

“One of the queen's guards found him wandering the hall outside the private suites, claiming he'd become confused and lost.”

“Might that not be possible?”

“Yes, if it were not for other factors.” Byrne paused just long enough to make sure he had the man's attention. “Are you aware of Mr. Rhodes's heritage?”

“No particulars. Just that he was raised by his mother as his father died when he was very young. An uncle, I believe he told me, saw to his education.”

Lies blended with snippets of truth. “Rhodes is the bastard son of the late Baron Stockmar.”

Gladstone stared at him, his eyes narrowing to slits. “You are certain of this?”

“Yes. He was born in Ireland, came to England to be educated at the expense of his father, at Oxford. Lost his accent, made valuable connections within this country. We believe his sympathies for his country of birth led him to become involved with the Fenians. It's possible also that his loyalty to you encouraged him to plot against Mr. Disraeli, who was the intended target of the recent opera murders.”

Gladstone stared at him. “You accuse
me
of—”

“—of conspiring to murder your political adversary? No, sir. I have every faith you would have turned your secretary over to Scotland Yard had you any idea what he was up to.”

Gladstone huffed out a breath. He returned his pistol to the top drawer of his desk. “It's difficult for me to imagine such a quiet and obedient man could be involved in plots against the government. Are you quite sure?”

“As sure as I can be without actually catching him in the act.”

“Dear Lord, this is most distressing. To think I've harbored such a devil in my own home and delivered to him information—” He broke off and stared at Byrne. “But you said the queen was in danger.”

“Yes, her entire family in fact.”

“What may I do to help? Is there another plot brewing?” He sighed. “I expect you wouldn't be here if the rat prank were the only threat.”

“True. I believe it's possible that Rhodes is a Fenian officer who has been orchestrating recent bombings and may have plans to kidnap one of the royal family, as a means for pressing Ireland's case for separation from England.”

“I see.”

“I need Mr. Rhodes's home address. It's urgent that we find him. If we can capture and question him, we may be able to avoid a terrible tragedy. At the very least, if I'm right about his involvement, we will have removed one of the most active Fenian officers from the conflict and get the names of others from him.”

Gladstone was on his feet and rushing to an outer office where a small secretary's desk, bare except for blotter and inkwell, stood beside the door. Byrne followed and watched as he drew out a notebook—addresses—and flipped through it.

“No, not here.” Gladstone gave him a frustrated look.

“He wouldn't need to keep track of his own address.”

“Yes, of course.” The PM raced back to his own office and unlocked another file drawer, from which he pulled a thin folder. “Interviews for the position of my secretary. Here it is.” He copied the address quickly on a clean sheet of paper. “I needed an address to get back to the man if I decided to hire him. Would that I had chosen more wisely. It's more than a year old, but maybe it will help, even if it's not current.”

“Thank you, sir.” Byrne took it from him.

“Please know, and reassure the queen and Mr. Disraeli, that I had nothing to do with this man's schemes.”

“I will tell her.” Byrne turned to leave.

“Sir,” Gladstone called out, “do you know his next move?”

“No, sadly.”

Gladstone thought for a moment. “The queen's Accession Day parade and ceremony, June twentieth. If the Fenians wish to make a grand statement against the monarchy—that will be the time.”

Byrne mentally whacked himself upside the head. Had he been more familiar with the country and its customs, it would have occurred to him immediately. Here they were, just days away from the ceremony. “The usual precautions are being taken for security along the parade route and at the church,” he said.

“I'm sure they are. But are they enough?”

“If we have the men, I'd like to see the church thoroughly searched, top to bottom, the day before the ceremony then kept clear. All those attending can be screened as they enter.”

“I'll see that you have as many men as you need,” Gladstone said. “We'll bring in constables from the countryside if necessary. Meanwhile, I hope you'll find Rhodes at that address.”

Byrne nodded. He held out little hope. If Philip Rhodes was the mind behind recent deadly attacks, he would have gone underground by now. But what Byrne did hope for was evidence and, if he was very lucky, a clue to where and how the next attack would be staged.

Forty-five

John Brown took the note from the runner. Having made his delivery, the crossing sweeper, who couldn't have been more than eight years old, held out his grimy little hand in a bold manner. Brown grunted his irritation and pressed a shilling into the lad's palm.

“Off with you now,” he grumbled, stepping back inside the palace gate where he'd been summoned by the sentry.

There was no envelope, just a torn quarter sheet dirty as barnyard muck from the boy's grip, but he recognized Byrne's spiky hand. He stopped walking as soon as the meaning of the two brief but chilling sentences grasped him:

 

Accession Day plot by Fenians. Tell Her she must postpone ceremony.

 

Her. Victoria, of course.

Brown thrust a hand through the wiry tufts of hair at his crown and curled his lip. He had vowed to protect Victoria Regina with his life, and by God he'd do it. But Byrne must think him a miracle worker if he believed him capable of convincing the woman to not venture out on the anniversary of her taking up the crown. He went off anyway, to try.

John Brown found the queen not in her office but with Beatrice, Louise, and Arthur in the palace's Blue Salon. “I would speak with you in private, woman,” he said.

Arthur slanted him his usual disapproving look. Beatrice pretended she was too engrossed in sorting her playing cards to notice him at all. Louise looked up at him mildly and smiled.

Victoria raised her brows and tilted her head toward him in question. He knew he sounded like a man giving his wife an order, a tone the queen tolerated from no one but him. Sometimes she even seemed to enjoy when he spoke so intimately to her. In front of others, though, he usually took care to address her with formal deference.

“She is not a woman,” Arthur said. “She is Your Royal Majesty to you, sir.”

Victoria waved her youngest son to silence. “Can't you see we are engaged in a game of whist? Let it wait awhile, John.”

He looked down at the note, considering just handing it to her. Lately she seemed to place more trust in Byrne's advice than in his, at least when it came to matters of security. At first, he'd resented the Yank's influence over her, as he would any man's. But if Byrne's efforts made her safer, he was for it.

He held the scrap out to her.

“And what's this?” Without laying down her cards to take the note from him she let her eyes drift over the smudged words. “What sort of nonsense is this? A plot? On my anniversary?”

“They wouldn't dare,” Arthur scoffed.

“I expect they would,” Louise said, and Brown thanked God there was one level head in the family.

Victoria started to set down her cards then seemed to change her mind. She played one card, watched as Arthur, Beatrice, then Louise played in turn. She took the trick with a satisfied smile.

He tried again. “Mr. Byrne and I strongly advise canceling, or at least postponing the ceremony.”

The queen huffed at her remaining cards. “I can't do that. There have been so many complaints about my seclusion since dear Albert's death. Bertie says I really must appear in my coronation coach in our parade to the church. I have been too long a recluse. The nation must see their queen.”

“Mama,” Louise said, “please listen to Mr. Brown. If Mr. Byrne has uncovered another plot, remaining here in Buckingham or removing to Osborne House might be far wiser.”

“And do you believe we are secure here?” Victoria snapped, glaring at her daughter. “Have you so soon forgot the rats? For weeks you've all tried to convince me that we have enemies within. I tell you, I feel safer among the street people these days.”

“Please be reasonable, ma'am,” Brown pleaded.

“Am I to be a prisoner in my own home?” Victoria shouted. She slapped her cards down on the table. “No. I cannot disappoint my subjects any longer. They complain bitterly of my absence, so I shall show myself. A monarch must set an example, so says Mr. Gladstone. She must be strong. Accession Day will come as planned.”

Louise shook her head and gave Brown a sympathetic look. He noticed the princess didn't look half as cheerful as last time he'd seen her. All the light seemed to have drained from her bonnie eyes. Another spat with her mother? Or was something else behind her melancholy?

“Mama,” Louise said, “at least eliminate the parade. Let your guardsmen convey you to the church in a less visible way.”

“She's right. It's the ceremony that counts,” Bea added, barely above a meek whisper.

Victoria laughed. “Have you not heard what I've just said, all of you? My subjects wish to
see
their queen. They have a right.” Her eyes shrank to dangerous pinpoints as she glared up at Brown, and then he knew the cause was lost. “As we haven't room for all of London in the damn church, John, I must show myself along the way there and back.”

“This is ridiculous,” Arthur said, groaning. He shook his fistful of cards at Brown, who wished he could knock them out of the boy's hand and give him a good thrashing. “Have we not sufficient guardsmen to protect the royal entourage? Order up a hundred Beefeaters if necessary. A thousand! Add as many from the army as you require. A handful of anarchists won't stand in the way of the will of the British Empire.” Anarchists . . . Irish, the boy didn't seem to know the difference.

“It's my bloody job to see your mother's safe,” Brown bellowed.
You pompous little ass
.

“Children, Mr. Brown . . . please, you are giving me a headache.” Victoria touched both her hands to her temples, as if to demonstrate. “Louise, do you agree with Mr. Brown? Must I surrender to these ruffians and give up my day of celebration?”

Brown looked hopefully to the princess, who had settled down so well after her troubled youth. Perhaps he could count on her as an ally?

“Mother,” Louise said, her voice a cheerless shadow of its usual spirit, “we all wish you safe, of course.”

Victoria leaned across the card table toward her daughter, forcing their eyes to meet. “And you, my girl, what would
you
do in my place, if
you
were queen? Would you let criminals frighten you into hiding? Would you let your own men, who claim to care for your security, worry you to death with their warnings and bully you into staying away from your subjects?”

Brown got a sinking feeling in his gut. Something was going on between these two—mother and daughter—and there was no way he was going to insert himself.

“What
I
would do,” Louise began, her eyes flashing with anger, body rigid in her seat, “and what
you
should do are two different—”

“Are they?” Victoria cut her off. “Are
we
really that different, Louise Caroline Alberta? You who brazenly refused to listen to your parents, your governesses, or anyone else who stood in the way of your pursuit of whatever whim struck you. You who still ignore your duties as a princess to pursue your
private passions
?”

A hidden message passed through the air, one Brown could not hope to interpret. Arthur and Beatrice exchanged glances, looking no less confused than he was.

Victoria continued. “Tell me, Louise, were you in my position—would you take orders from these men?”

Louise hesitated, glancing at Brown with an apologetic look. “No,” she whispered. “I suppose not.”

“Speak up, girl.”

“No!” Louise shouted, grit in her voice that made him think of ground glass. “No, Mama, I would not. I would go out to my people and let them see I was not afraid.”

There was an eruption of objections from Arthur and, remarkably, from meek little Beatrice. But Brown knew the damage had been done. He shook his head at Louise, but rather than turn away she rose to stand in front of him.

“The note's from Mr. Byrne, isn't it?” she said. “He's found out something more.”

“Aye, and you should be ashamed of yourself, encouraging her like that.”

“Should I?” She looked toward her mother, busy fending off objections from her other two children. She was a small woman, plump in her later years. But what Brown saw now was a woman whose course had always been set, whose will was iron and destiny had never been determined by any of the men in her life. Not even by him.

“I think she's already made up her mind, Mr. Brown,” Louise said. “Nothing you or I can say will change it. You know that as well as I.”

He closed his eyes. “Then God help us come Accession Day.”