Page 52 of One Night with a Prince
Relief flooded the elderly porter’s face. “Thank you, my lady, thank you. Mr. Byrne has been very good to me, and I do not want to give him reason to question my ability to do him service.”
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlThe poor fellow’s distress tugged at her heart, making her regret her little white lie. “I can’t imagine why he’d do so—you seem perfectly competent to me.”
“Thank you, my lady.” He drew himself up proudly. “Some of the younger members complain that I am too old for the position. Fortunately, Mr. Byrne appreciates the advantages of having a man with experience.”
She bit back a smile. “Of course he does. One always prefers experienced staff.” And despite Byrne’s teasing of her, clearly she wasn’t the only employer with a soft spot for down-on-their-luck servants. The porter frowned. “Oh, but look at me nattering on like an old fool while your ladyship is kept waiting.” With a discreet nod, he indicated one corner of the building. “I am sure your ladyship would prefer to enter where you cannot be seen. Just have your coachman bring you round to the back. Knock on the green door, and I shall admit you myself.”
“Thank you. Your help is much appreciated.”
Back in the carriage, she dug a coin from the depths of one of her new matching reticules, all of which were too small to hold a pistol. No doubt she had Byrne to thank for that. Once they’d driven round to the back, the porter let her in and accepted her coin with a nod and a murmured thanks. Before he led her down a private hall, she caught a glimpse of Grecian columns, surprisingly austere carpet, costly crystal chandeliers, and bronze busts displayed on pedestals. It seemed a very aristocratic club for a man who’d spent his boyhood with the blacklegs. He must have worked quite hard to make it so.
After ushering her into Byrne’s office, the porter whispered, “Forgive me for saying so, my lady, but you seem too…er…good to be one of Mr. Byrne’s ‘particular friends.’”
“Do I? I wonder.” She glanced over to where Byrne himself was sprawled along a couch in his shirtsleeves, with his waistcoat unbuttoned and his coat and cravat slung over the back. In repose, his features were oddly innocent. “I begin to think that no one is ever what they seem.” On impulse, she clasped the porter’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “Thank you again for your help.”
Mumbling a response, the man blushed and left.
She wandered over to gaze at Byrne, whose exhaustion was plain in the drawn lines about his mouth and his grayish pallor. And she’d thought he hadn’t cared about their preparations for Lord Stokely’s party—he’d clearly driven himself hard to get to and from Bath in such a short time, while still taking care of whatever estate emergency had required his sudden attention. Poor man. She reached out to stroke his whiskered cheek, then thought better of it. She didn’t want to wake him until she’d had a chance to examine his office. Knowing Byrne’s secretive nature, he would rush her off as soon as he awakened.
Strolling over to his desk, she noted the open account books. She knew a bit about accounting, having often overseen Philip’s steward in his absence, so she thumbed through the pages, astonished by how carefully they were kept. The precise handwriting was Byrne’s—she recognized it from his note. Despite never having attended school, he clearly grasped the concepts of accounting well enough to do it for his own business. Self-taught, he’d said. Amazing.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlNext she turned to the neat arrangement of papers on his desk—the bills of lading, letters to licensing offices, crisply cut newspaper articles…and carefully marked gossip columns with names highlighted. She swallowed, remembering Lady Jenner’s words about how he always seemed to know everything. With a glance in his direction to determine that he still slept, she dropped into his chair and thumbed through the clippings. There were hundreds—from provincial papers, cheap London rags, shipping lists. Each had something marked—a line, a name, a date—and they were pinned together in groups. Some of them she understood—the ones about gaming laws were obvious. But the rest was so much Greek to her.
Then she spotted the satchel lying beside his chair, obviously thrown there in haste upon his arrival. With her blood pounding, she picked it up and opened it ever so carefully, casting surreptitious glances over to the couch the whole time.
Keeping it open on her lap, she examined the papers inside. Most of them had to do with his estate—she still could scarcely believe he had one—but there was one folded piece of foolscap stuffed down between two innocuous documents that drew her interest. Stealthily she opened it. At first, she wasn’t certain what it was—it looked like a hodgepodge of notes. Then she saw the word “Ilsley.” Rosevine was two miles from Ilsley. And not far from the road to Bath either.
Fear crept up her spine. Quickly she scanned the paper, but most of it she couldn’t decipher. Byrne apparently had some code for notes to himself. She did make out one notation that arrested her—the date she and Papa had left England for Gibraltar. In a panic, she examined the other notations, but couldn’t tell if they mentioned anything important.
It didn’t matter—Byrne’s notation of the date meant he’d asked questions. And while he might not yet know what to make of the answers, he would surely figure it out eventually. Especially if he ever got his hands on Papa’s letters.
Byrne’s only possible reason for investigating her past was to discover what her property was, and that meant he hoped to use it for his own purposes. The scoundrel. Not that it surprised her. But his active probing of her secrets made her task even more difficult. She needed him, and she dared not trust him. A potentially dangerous situation. Some sound from the couch made her start. Hastily, she shoved the note into the satchel, which she set back where she’d found it. When she turned, it was to find Byrne staring at her through sleep-dazed eyes.
“Christabel?” he asked.
Her heart thundered in her ears. Had he seen her reading the note? What would he do if he had? She had a fox by the tail, and if she weren’t careful, he would turn and bite off her hand.
“Hello, Byrne,” she said, forcing a game smile to her lips. He sat up to scrub his hands over his face. Then his gaze flicked from her to the satchel at her feet, but seeing that it was closed, he let out a long breath. “What are you doing here?”
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
“I came looking for you, of course.”
A slow grin touched his lips. “Missed me, did you?”
She made a face. “Not a bit. You were supposed to be teaching me whist, and you ran off.”
Leaning back against the couch, he looked her over. “At least you came dressed to give me a proper welcome. Stand up and let me see.”
She rose, her hands suddenly clammy as she twirled slowly for his benefit. She wished she were elegant like Lady Hungate or even flagrantly sensual like Mrs. Talbot, instead of just a general’s daughter in a lady’s fancy gown.
And how silly of her to care what he thought, anyway. Although she knew he wasn’t feigning his desire for her, he might be trying to seduce her in the hopes that he could find out her secrets. So she shouldn’t let what he thought about her sway her.
Yet it did sway her.He swayed her. He’d made her desire him, curse his soul, and now she was rapidly sinking in over her head. It wouldn’t be a problem if she were able to give and receive pleasure without a qualm, free to behave like some decadent descendant of the hedonistic Romans. But at her core she was a simple woman. She wanted something more from a man than pleasure, and Byrne would mock that as he mocked everything else—propriety, patriotism, loyalty, and honor. Yet the heated glance he trailed down her form wasn’t mocking, and the approval in his face seemed honest. “Come here,” he said in a throaty murmur.
Despite all her caution, a thrill shot through her. “Absolutely not.”
“Come here.” Keeping his eyes riveted on her, he reached over to pat the suspiciously bulging pocket of his coat. “I have something to show you.”
