Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom

CHAPTER Twenty-Five



“Will there be anything else for you or the baby, Mrs. Piper?” inquired the innkeeper’s wife as she smiled at Stephen, who was nestled comfortably in the borrowed cradle.

“No, but thank you,” Justine replied after a moment’s hesitation. “I believe we have everything we need.”

She wasn’t even familiar with her true married name, much less that of the fictitious Mrs. Piper, a widow from Bath traveling to visit her in-laws. Justine had clearly failed to inherit her father’s more exotic talents, because all this skulking about with assumed names and identities had frayed her nerves.

Still, she was beginning to think she could match her father for reckless behavior. Kidnapping a baby and running away from one’s husband would certainly seem to qualify.

“If you need anything else,” said the pleasant-faced Mrs. Parks, “you just give a holler down the stairs. One of us will come up in a twinkle.”

Justine thanked her again, although she would not be hollering down the stairs or anywhere else. Chloe Steele had made it abundantly clear that secrecy could well mean the difference between life and death for little Stephen. Justine could only hope that the quiet little inn near Peckham was as safe and out of the way as it seemed.

She eased down on the hard, straight-backed chair next to the cradle. Her head was spinning with the events of the day—starting with the rise of her mother-in-law from the proverbial dead. Justine hadn’t been able to muster a coherent thought for a good two minutes after that particular revelation. And when she finally recovered her ability to speak, she’d stumbled into a morass of questions followed by the wild desire to drag Griffin’s mother back to the house on Jermyn Street. Chloe, however, had decisively taken control. She’d promised to answer all Justine’s questions, but only after the baby was safely hidden outside London.

Initially, Justine had been dead-set against the plan, and had insisted they should go immediately to Dominic for help. But Chloe’s intensely delivered arguments to the contrary had finally, if reluctantly, led Justine to agree with her. She certainly hadn’t needed any convincing that Stephen was in danger. The only question at that point had been how to kidnap a baby out from under the noses of vigilant servants and a husband with an uncanny sense of perception.

Well, there had been another question, too, one that loomed over everything—how could she leave Griffin, the man she’d fallen in love with? The man she would likely never see again.

And even if she did, would Griffin want anything to do with her? Justine couldn’t decide whether he would be furious that she’d run away or relieved that he’d rid himself of two unwelcome responsibilities. Whatever the answer, she suspected he’d want nothing more to do with her. Her marriage was over, and the sooner she learned to accept that, the better.

Eventually, once the baby was safe and she settled on where she wished to live, Justine’s life would return to normal. Everything would be fine again, she supposed, although she no longer had any idea what fine would look like without Griffin Steele in her life.

Fighting the impulse to succumb to overwrought tears, she focused on the drowsing baby by gently rocking his cradle. Stephen was all that mattered now. She’d made a promise to Chloe—and herself—that she would allow no harm to come to him. Whatever she had to do to accomplish that goal, she was prepared to do it.

Letting out a weary sigh, she let her gaze wander around the small but cozy room tucked up under the eaves of the small inn, finally coming to rest on the bed. Not that she’d likely have any use for the comfortable-looking, four-poster with its homespun, fluffy quilts. Chloe had promised to join her shortly before nightfall. Then they would be on their way again, traveling north in a hired chaise to put as much distance between themselves and Count Marzano as they could. It was nerve-wracking to be sure, but so far all had gone according to plan.

Justine still couldn’t believe the relative ease with which she’d escaped, especially while toting a squirming baby and an overstuffed carpetbag. Chloe had assured her that a private chaise would be waiting around the corner from the house on Jermyn Street, ready to carry her and Stephen out of the city. All she had to do was return home, fetch the baby, and sneak out of the house.

Her heart in her throat, Justine had done just that. She’d simply waited for Rose to go out and for the rest of the servants to be absorbed in their duties at the back of the house. Her greatest fear had been that she would stumble into Griffin. Justine had never been a good liar, and she knew she had no chance of fooling her husband. Especially since part of her—a very big part—wanted nothing more than to throw herself into his arms and beg for his help.

But after everything that had occurred over the last few days, she knew how dangerous it would be to give in to her weakness for him. She could no longer trust either Griffin or Dominic. That left her feeling more alone than at any other time in her life, even after the dark days following her father’s death.

So, instead of asking for help from the husband who’d shown her nothing but respect and kindness, she’d stuffed necessities and some clothing into the carpetbag, wrapped the baby in a warm blanket, and snuck out of the house. And in doing so, she had once again altered her life in a way she could never have imagined. There was little doubt in her mind that marriage to Griffin Steele had changed her, and perhaps not for the better. She barely recognized herself for the calm, careful woman she used to be.

When the clock in the nearby church tower struck the hour, she glanced toward the window, frowning at the fading light. If Chloe didn’t arrive soon, it might be too late to start out. That thought sent anxiety crawling along her nerves.

She was trying to decide whether to order a light meal—she hadn’t eaten all day—when she heard the rumble of a carriage. Jumping up, she hurried to the window. Unfortunately, her room was at the side of the building, affording only a sliver of a view of the carriage yard in front of the main entrance. Although she could hear the stamping of horses and gruff male voices, she couldn’t see a thing.


Justine turned from the window, straining to hear. Her instincts prodded her, but she heard only the quiet murmur of voices drifting up from the taproom downstairs. She stood silently for a minute or two, finally concluding that the new arrivals must be regular wayfarers seeking food or shelter.

Grimacing at the lamentable state of her nerves, she started toward the cradle when a loud thump and then a raised voice from downstairs—cut off in midcry—brought her up short. Those alarming noises were followed by the even more alarming ones of footsteps pounding up the stairs toward her room.

She dashed to the bed and flung open the carpetbag, rummaging through the tumble of clothing and baby things for her pistol. A shattering knock pounded against her door as she frantically dug down. Her fingertips finally hit the cold metal and she hauled the weapon out. At the sound of another heavy bang against the door, Stephen woke with a startled wail.

Justine spun around as the door crashed open, half-battered off its hinges. She started toward the cradle with the pistol tangled up in her skirts, but jerked to a halt when a hulking brute in rough clothing charged into the room. On his heels was Count Marzano, dressed for travel in boots, breeches, and a heavy greatcoat.

Instinctively, she held her position, keeping the pistol hidden in her skirts. “How dare you break into my room!” she yelled over the baby’s cries. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

Marzano casually swung a silver-tipped ebony cane as he gazed at her with a supercilious smile. “You dare to kidnap the son of the Duke of San Agosto, Mrs. Steele? Such an action constitutes a serious crime, since your government supports the duke’s claim to the boy.”

Justine flicked a glance at the thug standing off to the side. The man was huge, with massive shoulders, beefy fists, and a prizefighter’s face. Even worse, his muddy brown eyes were cold and flat, almost bored. And from the cruel sneer that curled his lips, Justine suspected he would have no qualms performing any command his master might give him, no matter how ugly.

“What have you done with the innkeeper and his wife?” she asked slowly, trying to buy time. Chloe should be arriving any minute, and hopefully not alone.

“My men have them contained in the taproom,” Marzano said. His gaze narrowed on her with sinister intent. “They will not be harmed and neither will you—if you have the good sense to stay out of my way.”

Justine sidled over to the cradle and glanced down. Stephen’s wails had subsided to hiccupping whimpers, but his tear-streaked, red face made her heart turn over in her chest. Though she longed to take him in her arms she needed to keep her hands free.

“I will not let you take this baby,” she said defiantly. “Your secret is out, sir. I have spoken with the child’s guardian and it’s clear you’ve been lying from the beginning. It is the duke’s desire that the child remain in England, in Mrs. Piper’s care.”

“Ah, but no longer. The duke has changed his mind, you see,” replied Marzano. “He wishes the boy to come to Italy, to be with his family.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” she retorted. “You come at the command of the duchess, and I know that she aims to eliminate the scandal of the child’s birth. In fact, I am sure Stephen will never even reach Italy if you get your hands on him.”

She’d thrown that last bit out as a taunt. The startled expression that flashed across Marzano’s face told her everything she needed to know about his plans for Stephen.

“My God,” she breathed, almost choking on the horror of it. “You do plan to kill him, don’t you?”

He let out a contemptuous snort. “You are a very foolish woman to even think such nonsense. To accuse the duchess of wanting to murder—”

“You may deny it all you want,” she said fiercely as she took a step back and to the side of the cradle. “But I will not let you touch this child.”

The count’s distinguished features pulled down in a snarl. “You are indeed a fool, Mrs. Steele.”

With a deft twist of the wrist, he pulled a slim, lethal-looking blade from his walking stick. Justine stifled a gasp. Sweat gathered under her stays and at the base of her spine.

Marzano flicked a glance at his henchman. “Fetch the child.”

The thug had barely taken a step when Justine whipped her pistol up and pointed it straight at his chest. In some distant part of her mind, she heard her father’s voice whispering encouragement and counseling her to hold the weapon in a steady yet comfortable grip.

The big brute pulled up, rolling a startled glance at Marzano.

The count had gone still, but his dark gaze sparked with heightened fury. He studied her, clearly calculating the risk. “Put the gun down, Mrs. Steele, before I am forced to hurt you.”

She raised her eyebrows. “And yet I would appear to be the only person in this room holding a pistol.”

He gave her a smile that chilled her to the bone. “But you will never use it. Even you cannot be so foolish to think you can simply murder the lawful representative of San Agosto, ally to the British Crown. I have the Regent’s personal support. No one could save you in those circumstances, not even your precious Sir Dominic.” He laughed. “And certainly not your husband.”

Again Marzano flicked a glance at his man. The thug started toward the cradle.

“Perhaps,” Justine said. “But I can shoot him.”

She pulled the trigger and the pistol kicked in her hand. Her ears rang as she saw the brute grab his shoulder and stagger into the chair by the cradle, tangling himself up with it and falling to the floor. The baby’s high-pitched shrieks echoed the deafening explosion of the gun.

For an instant, Justine and Marzano froze in a horrible tableau. Then he whipped up his blade, his countenance red with fury.

“She-devil,” he hissed. “Now I will kill you.”

He crouched as if to spring, but before he could come at her someone hurtled through the door, taking Marzano down to the floor. The crash of bodies shook the floorboards.

Griffin.

Justine gaped as her husband fought Marzano for control of the blade, still clutched in the Italian’s hand. Terrified the glinting length of steel might catch Griffin, she started toward them.

“Stay back,” her husband snapped in a voice more exasperated than breathless. “I’ve got this under control.”

And despite the harrowing struggle, he did. In mere seconds, he had hold of Marzano’s wrist, twisting it backward with a brutal, efficient snap. She heard the sickening crunch of bones over the count’s shrieks. As the blade clattered into the corner, Griffin swarmed to his feet in a fluid blur. Reaching down, he grabbed Marzano by his coat with one hand, lifting him halfway off the floor. Then, with his other hand, he drilled a punishing right fist into the man’s jaw. Marzano’s eyes rolled back in his head and Griffin released his grip, letting the count thump back to the floorboards.

Griffin straightened up, tugging his tailcoat back into place. Aside from the long hair tumbling out of its tie and the slight flush across his cheekbones—and the bleeding knuckles of his right hand—her husband seemed hardly discomposed. Justine could only stare at him, openmouthed, stunned at how quickly and effectively he’d dispatched his opponent.

His armed opponent. It would appear that Griffin Steele had more than earned his deadly reputation.


Justine heard a half-moan, half-growl behind her, and whipped around. She’d forgotten about the other man, who had hauled himself up onto his knees. But Griffin was already crossing the room. He grabbed the man by the hair and clunked his head against the wall. Like his master, the man’s eyes rolled in his head as he slumped back down to the floor.

Griffin peered down to inspect the blood seeping through the rough fabric of the man’s coat. Then he cast her a wry glance. “Well, Mrs. Steele, you finally got to shoot someone after all.”