One Night with a Prince Page 22

  His companions had now grouped themselves on either side of the ladies. Talbot offered to hand Eleanor her rifles, and Kingsley offered to hand Christabel hers.

  Stokely dictated the rules. “The beaters will flush the partridges, and I will count down to the start. Talbot will keep track of the birds Lady Jenner fells, and Kingsley will keep track of Lady Haversham’s. Once each has felled three, whoever fired last is the loser, and I shall determine who that is. All right?”

  Everyone nodded their agreement. After asking the ladies if they were ready, Stokely ordered the beaters out to the fields. As the birds broke into flight, Stokely said, “On the count of three…One, two, three—”

  The noise was deafening as each woman fired the one shot from her loaded rifle, tossed it aside, then grabbed another and so on until each had fired three times. Even before the smoke cleared, Gavin could tell that Eleanor had fired the last shot. So why was she beaming with triumph as she set down her rifle?

  “Lady Haversham finished shooting first,” Stokely declared. “Talbot and Kingsley, what is the count?”

  “Lady Jenner took down three partridges,” Talbot announced, gesturing to different points of the field.

  Kingsley looked uneasy. “Lady Haversham shot down two partridges.”

  “And a blackbird,” Christabel added. “That’s three birds in all.”

  The dogs were indeed sniffing something in the grass where she pointed. Kingsley went to investigate, then announced cheerily, “It’s a blackbird all right, neatly taken down with one shot.”

  Eleanor’s expression turned thunderous. “Blackbirds don’t count,” she snapped. “Only partridges.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Christabel retorted, “but the wager was for the first person to fell three birds.”

  “Three partridges,” Eleanor countered.

  “Sorry, Eleanor,” Lady Hungate put in, “but you did say birds.”

  “The men are out here shooting partridges,” Eleanor complained. “So I assumed that we meant partridges.”

  “If the point was to determine who was the better shot,” Gavin said, “the point has been made, whether it’s birds or partridges.”

  “But we all understood it to be partridges,” Eleanor spat. “And she knows it.” She stalked up to Christabel with her hand outstretched. “You know you lost, so give me that fan.”

  “I will not!” Christabel backed away from the woman. “And you owe me a hundred pounds.”

  Lady Jenner snatched one of the still-loaded rifles from a nearby servant and leveled it on Christabel. “Give me the fan, you little bitch.”

  Gavin’s heart dropped into his belly. “It was just a bloody wager, Eleanor. If you want, we can do another trial and specify partridges—”

  Stokely came up behind Eleanor and grabbed her gun, jerking the barrel up in the air. It went off, the ball hurtling up at the massive oak branch above them.

  Seconds later, when Eleanor let out a bloodcurdling scream, Gavin realized that the ball had ricocheted off the branch to hit the trunk, then ricocheted back at Eleanor. The others turned just in time to see her lifting her skirts to reveal her left boot ripped open and blood gushing from her ankle.

  Eleanor took one look at the blood and fainted. Chaos ensued—ladies rushed to her side or looked faint, while the gentlemen stamped about chastising Stokely for his precipitous action and belatedly ordering the footmen to empty the other loaded rifles.

  “Stand aside!” Christabel ordered, striding over to where Lord Jenner sat in the grass, cradling Eleanor’s head in his lap as the other ladies crowded round.

  The ladies parted to let her approach. Eleanor was just coming to, but as she saw Christabel loom over her, she cried, “Keep the murderous woman away from me! She tried to kill me!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Christabel snapped as she knelt beside her. “You shot yourself. Now let me see that ankle.”

  Eleanor tugged her leg back from Christabel, then let out a yelp at the pain.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, let her look at it,” Gavin seconded, coming up beside the women. “Lady Haversham spent years traveling with the army. I’m sure she’s dressed a wound or two.”

  “Indeed I have,” Christabel said. “Come now, it won’t hurt to let me look.”

  Though Eleanor’s expression was mutinous, she didn’t resist as Christabel drew her leg out and examined it with surprising gentleness.

  “It looks like just a flesh wound, but it will have to be cleaned before I can be sure that the ball didn’t fracture a bone.” Christabel lifted her gaze to Stokely. “You should call for a surgeon. This is beyond my limited skill.”

  “It shall be done at once,” Stokely said, looking a bit green about the gills as he called a footman over and ordered him to Salisbury to fetch the surgeon.

  “We need to get her inside,” Christabel said, turning her gaze to Gavin.

  Muttering a curse, he bent and picked Eleanor up, then carried her down the hill toward the house. He could have told one of the footmen to do it, but Eleanor was already accusing Christabel of shooting her—if anything happened to her between Christabel’s brief treatment of her and the surgeon’s arrival, she’d blame that on Christabel, too. He wasn’t about to allow that.

  Eleanor glared up at him. “Your new friend is a nuisance, Byrne. She doesn’t belong here.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” he answered tersely. “She’s too good for the likes of us. But she happens to be excellent at whist, and I happen to be fond of her, so I intend to keep her around. And that means I will be decidedly irritated if something were to happen to her.” He cast her a cold glance. “Understood?”

  Eleanor’s face whitened before she glanced away. “Understood.”

  Thank God the bitch knew better than to cross him. Because right now, he could easily strangle her for threatening to shoot Christabel.

  Once they got her inside, and the surgeon finally arrived, the man’s examination revealed that the ball had only nicked the bone, but her flesh would require stitching. Although the surgeon advised her against participating in outdoor activities for a few weeks, he said that a night’s rest would probably be all it took to get her up and around enough to play cards. He insisted that she not do any card-playing that night, a decree that sent Eleanor into wails of outrage, since the eliminations were to begin then.

  Only after she’d elicited Stokely’s promise to suspend the eliminations—and all whist games entirely—for one night did she agree to let the surgeon administer laudanum for the pain.

  Then Gavin and Christabel followed Stokely, Talbot, and the surgeon out of Eleanor’s bedchamber. As the other three men walked ahead of them down the stairs, in deep conversation with the surgeon, Gavin offered Christabel his arm.

  “Congratulations,” he quipped. “You managed to eviscerate Eleanor without turning a card.”

  She glared at him. “It isn’t my fault that the woman shot herself. And you know perfectly well I won that match.”

  “I’m only teasing you, my sweet. Trust me, no one blames you. If anything, I blame myself. Eleanor isn’t usually that foolish, but she was smarting over how I humiliated her lover. Since she chose to take it out on you, I concede that I probably shouldn’t have pushed Markham so far last night.”

  “Or slept with every woman in creation,” Christabel muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. But now that we don’t have to worry about cards tonight, I have the perfect way for us to spend the evening.”

  He took one look at the gleam in her eyes and groaned. “Please tell me that what you’re thinking of involves bed-sheets and a chilled bottle of good Madeira.”

  She eyed him askance. “I know where the letters are. They’re somewhere in Lord Stokely’s room. I went there to search earlier, but the door was locked. So all we have to do is pick the lock—”

  “We? Do you have yet another skill I was unaware of?”

  “Well, no, but surely you could—
”

  “I’ve had a relatively checkered past, I’ll admit, but thievery wasn’t part of it.” That was perfectly true, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t pick a lock. Not that he wanted her to know that. He meant for her to be sound asleep when he searched Stokely’s bedchamber. If Stokely was fool enough to keep the letters there.

  “But you said you could get into any safe—” She broke off at the sight of a footman rushing up the stairs toward them.

  He held out a sealed note. “An urgent message has come for you, sir.”

  His heart thundering in his chest, Gavin murmured a thank-you and took it. He read it quickly, then tucked it in his waistcoat pocket so she couldn’t get a look at it. “I have to go to Bath.”

  “Now?” she asked. “But, Byrne, the eliminations—”

  “They won’t start until tomorrow. I can be there and back before then.” He chucked her under the chin. “Don’t worry, my sweet, I won’t abandon you to the wolves at the card tables.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And while you’re gone, I can search Lord Stokely’s room. I suppose I could try sneaking in while he’s asleep—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, his heart skipping a beat at the very thought of her in Stokely’s room in the dead of night. “And that won’t be possible anyway. Because you’re going to Bath with me.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I never allowed any man to insult me. Just

  because I was a mistress didn’t mean I had

  to endure rudeness.

  —Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress

  Christabel could tell from Byrne’s expression that he hadn’t meant to say that. His dismay was almost comical. But then his eyes grew steely. “You’re coming with me to Bath. Now.”

  She was tempted to refuse: At last she had a chance to search for the letters without him around. But getting into Lord Stokely’s room could prove tricky, and if the baron had a safe there, she couldn’t break into that. No matter what Byrne said, he probably knew exactly how to pick locks. So a trip to Bath would give her the chance to talk him into helping her do just that.

  All right, so she was making excuses—the truth was, she wanted to go with him because she wanted to see his estate, wanted to get a glimpse of the real Byrne that no one else had.

  “I’ll have to take Rosa,” she said.

  “If you’re worried about your reputation you’d be better off leaving her here, since we’ll have to stay at my estate overnight. She can make the others think you never left. We’ll only be gone one night, so you don’t need a bag. If you meet me down the road, Rosa can tell anyone who asks that the incident with Lady Jenner left you feeling unwell. Then not even other servants will be able to enter your room to determine if you’re there.”

  He had a point. And though she suspected that her reputation was already damaged beyond repair, it couldn’t hurt to keep this trip a secret. “All right.”

  “I leave within the half hour. I’ll meet you down by those hedges on the far lawn. They’ll shield you from view of the house.”

  Then he was gone. She barely had time to stuff a few essentials into one of her old large reticules and instruct Rosa on what she should tell people, before it was time to meet Byrne.

  Only after they were well away from Stokely’s estate, did she relax. “Did you tell Lord Stokely you were leaving?”

  Byrne nodded. “The bastard seemed inordinately pleased. He probably thinks he’ll get the chance to seduce you, now that I’m gone.”

  “I don’t understand his interest in me—though we might be able to use it.”

  A scowl knit his brow. “How so?”

  “Well, you said you don’t know how to pick locks.” She smiled innocently. “If we can’t figure out any other way to get into Lord Stokely’s bedchamber, then I can always cozy up to him so that he brings me—”

  “No,” he said tersely. “You will not do any such thing.”

  “I’m not saying I would share his bed; just that I’d let him have a kiss and flirt a little until he invites me there.”

  Byrne’s face was stormy. “Once there, you’d end up in his bed whether you wanted to be or not.”

  Christabel stiffened. “Don’t you trust me not to allow a man to seduce me?”

  “I’m not talking about seduction, lass. I’m talking about force. He’d call you a tease and do as he wished, feeling justified that any woman who came to his bedchamber meant to share his bed, no matter what she said. And no one would fault him for it, either.”

  “I can handle myself with him, and you can always stand outside and wait for me to call out if I’m in trouble—”

  “No, it’s too dangerous. I won’t let you whore for those letters.”

  There was that word again. “Aren’t I doing that already?” she asked quietly.

  A deadly stillness came over him. “Are you saying you shared my bed only to gain my help?”

  “Of course not. But the fact remains that thanks to this scheme, I began sharing your bed.”

  A curse erupted from him. “You are not a whore, Christabel.”

  “What am I then?”

  “My mistress.”

  Like all the others. All the many others. Her throat grew painfully tight. “I see little difference between a whore and a mistress.” Though the past two days with him had been mostly heaven, the reality of her position had plagued her conscience. “You’re funding my part in these card games. You bought my gowns. Isn’t a whore someone who exchanges her favors for financial gain?”

  Anger tightened his features. “I’ll grant you that a mistress does that, too. But there’s a difference.”

  “Oh?” She trod dangerous ground—his mother had played that role for Prinny, after all. But she had to make him understand. “Aside from the fact that a whore has encounters with several customers and a mistress has several encounters with one, I’m not sure I see the difference.”

  The word “customer” made him flinch. “Then you haven’t seen what I’ve seen, or you’d know the difference.” He leaned forward. “I spent my entire boyhood around whores. You’ve never had a man beat you until you were blue. Or break your arm with impunity because he knew nothing would be done about it. You’ve never had to go out hunting for men just to gain the blunt to purchase a few hours sleep in a flea-ridden bed with three other women huddled together because there’s no heat. You’ve never had to watch while a gin-soaked workman in the depths of despair slits his own throat, which, by the way, is the method of choice for killing oneself in Drury Lane—”

  “Byrne, enough.” Her heart ached at the thought that he’d seen such things probably before he was old enough even to understand them.

  He breathed heavily, his eyes almost feral. Slowly, he calmed himself. After a few short breaths, he said, “The point is, you’re not remotely a whore.”

  She hesitated. Should she continue to press him when he was so upset? She had to; he still didn’t understand. “You seem to be saying that the difference between a whore and a mistress is one of station. Granted, the life of women in Drury Lane is pitiable, but that doesn’t change the fact that both mistresses and whores take money in exchange for their favors.”

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “You’re forgetting that one has a choice, and the other doesn’t.”

  She thrust out her chin. “In what way does a mistress have a choice?”

  “She can refuse to share her lover’s bed, for one thing.”

  “She won’t last long as a mistress if she does that often,” Christabel said dryly. “And a whore can choose not to take a customer if she pleases.”

  “Damn it, you are not a whore!” he cried, clenching his fists in his lap. “Fine, you don’t believe me? I’ll show you the difference.” Jerking down the window shades, he settled back against his seat, his eyes icily bleak. “Unbutton your gown.”

  She blinked at him. “What?”

  “You’re my whore, remember? I bought and paid for you. So unbutton your
gown. Now!”

  Her eyes narrowed, but her pride wouldn’t let her back down and let him win the argument. “Fine.” She did as he bade. “Anything else, sir?” she said, the words deliberately sarcastic.

  His face was a rigid mask. “Show me your bubs.”

  Though the crude word brought her up short, it had another entirely unexpected effect. It aroused her. She couldn’t imagine why, unless it was because it reminded her of stripping for him when they’d played Whist for the Wicked.

  So although it took her some effort to get her gown and chemise unfastened and lowered to her short corset without any help from him, she managed it. And she gained a measure of satisfaction from his surprised look that said he really hadn’t expected her to comply.

  “Now touch yourself,” he said hoarsely.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The chill had left his eyes, replaced by a heat that sent the blood roaring through her veins. “Caress your breasts. Your nipples. So I can watch. That’s what I like. To watch.”

  Fire leaped up through her, blooming into a blush in her cheeks. But she couldn’t help noticing he hadn’t called them “bubs” again. “All right,” she said, her voice coming out sultry rather than merely compliant.

  Gavin couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Moment by moment he was losing control of the lesson he’d meant to teach her, but how could he have known the bloody wench would take to this so well?

  Her eyes heavy-lidded, she rubbed first one breast, then the other, until the nipples tightened into tempting peaks. Until he had to forcibly suppress the urge to leap across the carriage and suck her lush breasts until she begged him for more.

  He wouldn’t do it, damn it! He wouldn’t let her bloody stubbornness turn this into a seduction. He meant to prove to her once and for all that what they had wasn’t the same as the sordid association between a whore and her customer.

  Unfastening his trousers and drawers, he shoved them down just enough to free his rampant erection. “Now,” he ground out, “suck my cock.” Somehow he managed to add in a choked tone, “Whore.”