Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom

CHAPTER Seven



Despite the fatigue that weighed her down, Justine dragged herself from bed before the clock struck nine. She’d managed a few hours of sleep after she snuck the baby back into Rose’s room, but only after much tossing and turning. Another London day had gradually dawned, the inky dark fading to a gloomy gray before she’d finally fallen into a restless sleep. And even then she’d dreamed of dark-haired buccaneers with cold, hollow gazes, and a dragon wheeling overhead in a soot-colored sky, breathing fire and terrifying her with his shimmering eyes as he swooped down at her.

When she’d jerked awake, torn between fear and irritation at the silly nightmares, she’d been more than ready to escape from her bed. At least when she had Stephen to look after she could distract herself from the man who haunted her dreams.

After winding her hair in a simple knot, Justine grimaced at her reflection in the dressing table glass. She looked dreadful, to the point where she couldn’t bring herself to put on her cap. Not that it mattered that she looked like a dowdy old maid. Besides the servants and Rose, there was no one to see her looking well or ill, and no one would care about her appearance, regardless. Certainly, not Griffin Steele, as he’d made clear last night.

Except she thought he had cared, as least for a little while. He’d shown her an unexpected degree of interest and consideration, and she couldn’t deny the pleasure she’d taken in it. She even thought he’d flirted with her, and although she’d found that highly disconcerting, she’d been flattered, too. More than she cared to admit.

Despite herself, she’d responded to his interest. Something inside her had softened and unfurled, like a rosebud opening under the heat of the summer sun. And when she’d seen that astounding tattoo on his tanned, muscled chest, the breath had seized in her throat. She’d never seen one before, or imagined that something so strange could be so beautiful. The creature was superbly drawn—a fierce but noble beast inked in shades of black and gray by a touch both delicate and sure. The tail curling high, it marched across Griffin’s chest, presumably up over his shoulder. Justine had struggled with an almost irresistible desire to touch it, tracing each line with her fingertips.

To touch him.

But when he’d asked if she wanted to see it, reaching to open his dressing gown, she’d almost fainted with shock, more at herself than at him. She knew how outrageous he was, after all. But what had stunned her was how much she’d wanted to do it. To watch him slide the heavy silk robe off his shoulders and expose his masculine chest and shoulders. Justine had never thought of herself as someone much interested in the physical form, but Griffin was making her think and feel in entirely unfamiliar ways.

And when he’d looked at her with that dark, knowing gaze, so full of wicked temptation and intent, Justine had wanted . . . well, everything, even though she had no idea what everything even was. The strength of the impulse had scared the wits out of her, and brought her native caution slamming back.

And that was a good thing, since there could be nothing more ridiculous than a spinster firmly on the shelf developing a tendre for a scoundrel like Griffin Steele. The very idea of it was laughingly clichéd, as he’d made clear when he turned cool and dismissive. That was a humiliation she would not soon forget, and it served as a proper and timely warning. Soon enough, this unfortunate assignment would be over and she could return to her blessedly quiet life in the country, leaving any thought of him behind.


She stifled a self-pitying sigh and rose from her dressing table to fetch a shawl from the dresser and wrap it around her shoulders before she went to Rose’s room. But the connecting door opened and Rose stuck her head in.

“Miss, both Stephen and Sammy are asleep, so why don’t you go down and have your breakfast? I’ll wait here till you’re done and then I’ll take Sammy around to see his pa.”

“Oh, are you sure? Have you had anything to eat?” Justine asked doubtfully. She was almost afraid to go downstairs and could only pray that the master of the house was nowhere about. She needed more time to recover her equanimity.

Rose nodded. “Aye, if you just—” She broke off when she heard footsteps pounding up the stairs.

“Rose, where are you?” called a breathless female voice. “There’s trouble next door.”

Justine and Rose exchanged startled glances.

“That’s Maggie,” Rose said, “the housemaid at The Golden Tie.” She opened the door and a girl of no more than eighteen, simply but neatly dressed, fell into the room in a rush.

“You gotta come,” she exclaimed, grabbing Rose’s hands. “There’s customers come from last night and they’re raising an awful fuss.”

“Where is Deacon or Mr. Steele?” Justine asked. Maggie cast her a startled glance, then looked back to Rose for guidance.

“That’s the babe’s nanny. Now go on, girl,” Rose prompted. “Answer her question. Where are the men, or Mrs. Reeves?”

“Deacon and Mr. Steele went out, and Mrs. Reeves hasn’t come from home yet. Most of the girls were asleep, or they were until those louts forced their way in, raising a ruckus.”

“Is there not a footman or guard?” Justine asked. “Surely the girls have not been left unprotected.”

Maggie tugged on Rose’s hand, trying to drag her out the door. “There’s four of them, miss. One of them bashed Thomas over the head while the others rushed in.”

“What are they doing?” Justine asked, trying to get a better picture of the situation.

“One of them dragged Patience down to the parlor and he’s accusing her of stealing. Oh, do hurry, Rose.” Maggie practically danced with impatience. “They’re all top-heavy and raising a terrible fright.”

Rose’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “I’d best go, Miss Justine. If you’ll run downstairs and see if you can find Phelps or Joshua, I’d be much obliged.”

With disastrously impeccable timing, Sammy set up a startled, lusty wail. A moment later, Stephen added his healthy cries to the din.

“No, you stay here,” Justine ordered as she crossed swiftly to her dresser.

The fracas next door prickled all her instincts, telling her that she needed to make sure her charge was well protected. She might be overreacting, but she hadn’t grown up in a spy’s house for nothing. Papa had told her more than once that she had sound instincts and that she should follow them. Those instincts were shrieking at her right now, and with the baby’s safety in her hands, she couldn’t afford to ignore them.

“Rose, go with the children and lock the door. Don’t come out until either I or one of the servants comes for you.”

Rose started to protest, but Justine cut her off. “Just do it,” she snapped, extracting her pistol from beneath a shawl in the drawer.

Whatever protest Rose was about to raise died on her lips. She and Maggie froze in an almost comical tableau, staring at the weapon in Justine’s hands.

“Is that loaded?” Rose asked in a faint voice.

“Of course.” That was another thing Papa had taught Justine—to be ready for any problem that might crop up. When she was younger, she’d thought it ridiculous that her father had insisted she always have a weapon close at hand to protect herself, but over the years it had become a habit. For once, she was very glad the habit had stuck.

She grabbed Maggie by the elbow and steered her to the door. “Get in the room now, Rose,” she tossed back over her shoulder. “And don’t come out no matter what you hear.”

Understanding dawned on Rose’s face. “Don’t worry, miss,” she said in a grim voice. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to little Stephen.”

Justine heard the bedroom door slam and lock behind her. She let go of Maggie’s arm and rushed down the stairs, holding the pistol pointed at the floor in one hand and her skirts up with the other. When she came to the bottom, she headed for the back of the house where the corridor branched off either to the kitchen or to the brothel next door. She called for Phelps, although she suspected he was out. He surely would have responded to all the commotion if he’d been home.

The door to the kitchen flew open and Mrs. Phelps, a short, plump woman, stood in the doorway, an alarmed expression on her normally cheerful face. “Lord, Miss Justine, whatever is the matter? You gave me such a start!”

“There’s a problem next door,” Justine rapped back. “Is Phelps or Joshua about?”

“Joshua went out in the carriage with Mr. Steele, but Phelps just stepped out to the mews. Do you want me to fetch him?”

“Yes, hurry. Some men have forced their way in next door and are raising a commotion. I’m going over there with Maggie now.”

Mrs. Phelps slapped a dramatic hand to her ample bosom. She’d clearly been in the middle of baking because a little cloud of flour puffed up from her bodice. “Lord, miss, whatever are you thinking? You can’t go over there—what if someone were to see you? Think of the scandal!”

Justine ran straight into a mental wall. She hadn’t even considered that problem, which only showed how fuzzy-headed with fatigue she was.

“Let me fetch my husband,” Mrs. Phelps said in a determined voice. “You wait here.”

“There’s no time,” cried Maggie. “One of those awful men dragged poor Patience out of her bed and was shaking her up something fierce.”

Silently cursing, Justine knew what she had to do. “I’ll come right away. It’s unlikely that anyone will recognize me, especially four drunken louts. I haven’t been in London in over two years, and I never went about much as it was.”

Mrs. Phelps waved her apron in distress. “Mr. Steele will have my head, miss. Besides, what can you do to stop them?”

When Justine raised her pistol, the other woman’s jaw went slack. “Now stop wasting time and go fetch Phelps,” Justine ordered. She spun on her heel and strode along the narrow passage, little more than a long closet that ran between the two town houses. It opened up on the service floor of the brothel, right outside the kitchen. Justine pushed open the swing door but the room, as neat and well-ordered as the kitchen next door, was deserted.

“Good God,” she muttered. “Is there no one in this blasted house who can help?”

“Cook went out to do the shopping, miss,” Maggie said, a little out of breath from all the rushing about. “It was just me in the kitchen when those men came banging on the door.”

“Well, that’s certainly convenient,” Justine said, frustration coloring her reply.

Maggie spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “It’s a whorehouse, miss. Nothing happens at this time of day.”

“Apparently. Now where is—”


A loud thump sounded overhead, followed by a shrill, female voice.

“They’re upstairs, miss,” Maggie said, anticipating her. “I’ll show you the way.”

The girl brushed past her and hurried to the front of the house. As Justine followed, she got a fleeting impression of rich opulence even more extravagant than in the house next door. The scents of perfume and tobacco hung in the air, but were neither oppressive nor vulgar.

Maggie led her to a set of stairs at the front of the house. “Upstairs, miss. They was in the drawing room when I left.”

As they went up, the voices got louder, and now Justine could hear masculine tones—outraged ones. Before she reached the top, she could see a room just to the right, its double doors flung open. A muscular young man in neat servant’s garb stood in the doorway, his shoulders hunched forward, looking ready to launch himself into the room. In a cluster farther down the hall, the young women who worked at The Golden Tie huddled in various states of undress, robes or shawls thrown over plain shifts. Some looked terrified while others simply looked furious.

Justine glanced over her shoulder at Maggie. “Tell the girls to keep back. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”

The maid nodded and clattered down the hall where she immediately engaged in high-pitched chatter with the other women.

The servant, probably Thomas, jerked around at the noise, his features stark with a mixture of anger and dismay. He sported a swollen cheek and a purpling left eye.

“Oh, no,” he groaned. “Where’s Phelps or Mr. Steele? We’re in a right pickle, here.”

“Thomas, is it? Phelps will be up in a minute,” Justine said in a firm voice. “Now, please step aside.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, miss. Those gentlemen are in a right foul mood, they are. Mr. Steele would have my head if anything happened.”

“Do they have one of the girls in that room?” she asked.

“Aye, poor Patience. And every time I try to get in there, two of those bastards come at me.”

Justine blew out an exasperated breath. “One would think that Mr. Steele could properly arm his servants for this sort of incident.”

Thomas turned fully around to face her, blocking the doorway with his formidable bulk. “Mr. Steele don’t like guns. He says that in the wrong hands they cause all kinds of trouble.”

Justine showed him her pistol. “I assure you, this particular gun is in the right hands. Now, move.”

Thomas gaped at her in almost comical surprise. “But, miss—”

Hearing raised voices in the room, including one of a clearly frightened woman, kicked Justine into action.

“For heaven’s sake, get out of the way,” she snapped, shoving past the footman.

As Justine swiftly assessed the scene before her, her heart gave a heavy thump. It was as bad as Maggie had described.

The large room was luxuriously appointed, with plush velvet divans and leather club chairs arranged in small, intimate groupings. A space in the middle of the room, covered by a thick cream and gold carpet but with no furniture, appeared almost as a stage. Everything about the drawing room indicated a place where customers could relax and drink—an enormous sideboard loaded with crystal decanters stood against a wall—while they met the girls and made their selections for the evening. The very thought made Justine’s gorge rise, but she forced it out of her mind and concentrated on the mess in front of her.

A terrified woman stood backed up against the marble surround of the fireplace. Patience wore a flimsy wrapper over her short linen chemise, her black, silky hair tumbling in a fall over her shoulders. Before her loomed a man in formal but disheveled evening wear that suggested he’d not yet been to bed. He also appeared foxed, weaving slightly as he jabbed an accusing finger at Patience.

“You doxy,” he snarled. “I know you took my money last night after I shagged you. I’ll have it back if I have to wring your bloody neck.”

Despite the vulgarity and sloppiness of his speech, his accent indicated a man from the upper classes. A spike of fury had Justine clenching her fingers tight. She forced herself to loosen her gun hand, so as not to accidently fire the pistol. But, God, she hated men like this—the drunken cads of the aristocracy. She’d seen too many of them in her short time out in society. That was one of the many things she’d been glad to leave behind when she moved to the country.

“That’s it, Jerry! Give the little slut what-for,” cried one of his companions.

As Maggie had claimed, the brothel had been invaded by four men. One was the aforementioned Jerry, and the other three clustered several feet back, egging on their friend. Like him, they were garbed in expensive evening attire that proclaimed their wealth and status. Like him, they appeared top-heavy.

“I didn’t steal your damn money,” Patience exclaimed with a show of spirit. The poor girl was trembling hard enough to set the lace ribbons on her wrapper to fluttering, but she was clearly ready to stand up for herself. “Mr. Steele pays us good blunt. We’ve got no need to pinch from our customers. Besides, if we did, he’d throw us out faster than you can say jackrabbit.”

Jerry leaned in with an awful sneer on his puffy, red face. “You’re a damn liar, and I’ll prove it.”

“That’s it, Jer,” shouted one of the men, a beefy fellow who looked to be in his midtwenties. Justine had the uneasy feeling she should know him. “Maybe she’s got your blunt on her. Rip her damn clothes off and search her.”

When one of the other men called out a hearty approval of that plan, Jerry grabbed for Patience. She cried out and pressed her shoulders into the hard mantel, penned in with no escape.

“Gentlemen, you will cease this unruly behavior this instant,” Justine exclaimed, striding up behind the men. She kept the pistol hidden in the folds of her skirt—for now.

The men stumbled around to face her, peering at her with a mix of irritation and befuddlement. Justine met them look for look with the nastiest glare she could summon.

“You have no business forcing your way in here,” she said. “And shame on you for abusing this poor, defenseless girl.”

For a good ten seconds, a stunned silence reigned as the men took Justine’s measure. She did her best to preserve a calm exterior, although inside she was shaking. Not from fear of the men, necessarily, but more from her hatred of drama and confrontation.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” asked Jerry.

“Who I am is entirely beside the point.” Without turning, she sensed Thomas moving to stand behind her and her tense muscles relaxed a fraction. “You will leave this house immediately, because if Mr. Steele returns to find you threatening one of his girls, I assure you that the resulting scene will not be pleasant.”

While Justine had been talking, Patience had begun to slide sideways along the mantelpiece, moving with quiet stealth. Not quietly enough, though, since the loathsome Jerry jerked to attention and made a grab for her.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he snarled, snaking his hand inside the collar of her peignoir. “You come back here.”

Justine heard a commotion out in the hall, and then Phelps appeared by her side, carrying a . . . rolling pin. Ignoring her startled glance, he scowled at the aristocratic intruders. “Here, now, what’s occurring? You gentlemen best take yourselves off before Mr. Steele and Mr. Deacon get back, else you’ll find yourselves at the wrong end of their fists.”


That set off another round of loud insults and aggrieved claims that Patience had stolen Lord Mulborne’s purse. When Justine heard the man’s name, her stomach thudded to the floor. She didn’t recall meeting Lord Mulborne, but she’d danced once or twice with his younger brother, Reggie. As for one of the other men, the portly one, she had a sinking feeling that she had met him at one point or another.

While Phelps argued with Lord Mulborne and his portly friend, Justine anxiously scanned the features of the other two men. One of them, a tall, thin man with sandy hair who was wearing a bright scarlet waistcoat, also looked vaguely familiar. Fortunately, he seemed too inebriated to fully take in what was happening around him, although he now seemed more interested in staring at her than at Patience.

As for the fourth member of the group, he struck her as . . . different. He was a handsome man with a smooth, olive complexion and wavy black hair, and he was as expensively garbed as the other three society bucks. But, unlike his friends, this man was neat as a dandy. His coat was without a wrinkle, his satin breeches showed not one speck of dirt, and his cravat looked as fresh as if he’d tied it only moments ago. Even his evening cloak, thrown carelessly back over his shoulders, looked pristine. And, as was evident by the clear-eyed, calculating way his gaze skipped around the room, analyzing everything in its path, the man was most decidedly not drunk. In fact, he looked as sober and rational as a judge, which led Justine to wonder what he was doing in the company of three jug-bitten louts.

At that very moment, his restless gaze fastened on her. They stared at each other, and then the oddest thing happened. A rather chilling smile lifted the edges of his full lips, and his dark eyes seemed to blaze with satisfaction. Not put out by the way she was glaring at him, he gave her a friendly nod, as if to say, “Ah, yes. I’ve been wondering where you’ve been hiding yourself.”

The prickling feeling that boded no good rushed back at her with twice the strength. Something was very wrong with the little scene playing out in front of her, and she was convinced there was more to it than Lord Mulborne’s missing purse.

Justine raised a hand and chopped it down in the air. “That’s quite enough,” she announced loud enough to be heard over all the competing voices. Every instinct she possessed was urging her to end this scene now and eject the men from the house so she could check on Rose and the baby.

At her intervention, the clamor ceased. She’d once again captured the attention of everyone in the room and she intended to use it.

“Lord Mulborne,” she said in a frosty voice, “you and your friends will leave this house immediately. If you do not, you will indeed be sorry. When Mr. Steele returns, you may apply to him directly with your concerns. But right now you will leave.”

Mulborne blinked at her, looking quite like an owl but not nearly as intelligent. Then the ugly sneer returned to his wet mouth. “Why should I take orders from another of Steele’s doxies? Do you really think your pathetic servants with their . . . rolling pins . . .” He and his drunken friends paused to let out hearty guffaws. “Do you think you will get rid of us so easily? I think not.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Stop making empty threats and run along before I turn my attention to you.”

Resisting the impulse to pinch at the growing headache between her eyebrows, Justine sighed. “I never make empty threats, sir.”

And with that, she lifted her pistol and pointed it straight at him.