Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom

CHAPTER Eight



Papa had always told Justine that guns had a remarkable capacity to focus the mind. She couldn’t say with any confidence that her actions had cleared the minds of the drunken louts before her, but she’d sharpened their attention. They gaped at her, slack-mouthed and stupefied, trying to make sense of what their bleary eyes told them.

All but one. The man who had so clearly retained his wits looked anything but shocked. In fact, he seemed even more interested in her than he had a few moments ago, and wore a strangely disconcerting expression of satisfaction.

“Now, there’s no need to get testy, my girl,” Mulborne finally said, releasing his grip on Patience’s arm. Patience scuttled in the opposite direction and ducked behind a leather club chair, keeping its substantial bulk between her and her attacker.

“I’m not feeling the least bit testy,” Justine replied. “I am merely dismayed by your lamentable lack of manners. If, however, you agree to depart immediately, I will not be forced to relay every sordid detail of this episode to Mr. Steele. And I promise, Lord Mulborne, that I will raise your concerns with him. I’m sure he will be able to address them to your satisfaction.”

Patience started to protest, but Phelps hissed her to silence.

Mulborne tried to fall back on his dignity, drawing himself up to his full height and tugging down his rumpled white waistcoat. Sadly, the effect was ruined by the burgundy-colored splotch that marred the garment.

“Well,” he said, looking down his long nose at her, “when you state it like that, I suppose we must comply. But you can be sure I will put about how poorly I have been treated in this establishment. Whores pulling pistols on gentlemen trying to reclaim what’s rightfully theirs? It’s simply disgraceful.”

“Hold on, old boy,” said the portly one, digging Mulborne in the ribs as he stared at Justine. “Thing is, I don’t think that one is a whore. I know I’ve seen her somewhere before, but I can’t quite puzzle it out yet.”

Justine tried not to flinch. Behind her, Phelps muttered an inarticulate curse.

“I’ve never seen any of you before in my life,” Justine said in freezing tones. “Now, will you please do us all a favor and take yourselves off. Immediately.”

Ignoring her request, the tall, sandy-haired man snapped his fingers, recognition firing in his eyes. “I’ve got it,” he exclaimed. “She’s Ned Brightmore’s daughter. Julia, was it? One of those J names. I know that at least.”

He beamed at her, as if presenting her with a delightful gift. Justine could practically hear her reputation crack and crumble to dust before her eyes.

“You mean Justine Brightmore, Viscount Curtis’ niece,” exclaimed the portly one. “But that can’t be right—the man’s the worst high stickler I ever met. He’d fall down in a fit if one of his relations turned into a barque of frailty.” He peered at her, then shook his head. “Haven’t seen the gel in a dog’s age, so I don’t know if I would remember her from Adam. But if she is Miss Brightmore, how the devil did she end up at The Golden Tie?”

A horrible paralysis gripped Justine. She couldn’t move or utter a word. In fact, she could barely draw a breath. If she didn’t get her lungs working soon, she’d be the one to fall on the floor in a dead faint.

“It is her,” Mulborne crowed. His eyes were bright with disdain and something else, something that made Justine’s skin crawl. “Now I remember her. She never finished her second Season. Never took, anyway. Too missish, and with that ridiculous red hair of hers.” An ugly leer parted his lips. “Although I’ve always wondered if the hair on her head matched the thatch over her cunny. I must say, I’d like to find out.”


“Here, now,” Phelps thundered. “You show some respect to the lady, or you’ll hear about it, you will.”

Justine closed her eyes, feeling sick to the depths of her soul. She’d been on the verge of denying everything, but Phelps had confirmed for everyone within hearing distance that she was exactly who they thought she was.

The sandy-haired man let out a low whistle. “Well, this is a pretty situation, ain’t it? Old Curtis’ niece working for Griffin Steele.”

Justine forced herself to speak. “For your information, I do not work at The Golden Tie.”

“Then what are you doing here, Miss Brightmore? Just visiting?” Mulborne taunted.

“I was next door,” she snapped. “And one of the—”

“Next door,” exclaimed the sandy-haired one. “At Griffin Steele’s house?”

The portly man, who had been staring at the floor as if trying to puzzle something out, glanced up and snapped his fingers. “Miss Brightmore dropped from sight when her father died. I’d bet my grandmother’s bonnet she took up with Steele somewhere along the line. He’s got a place out in the country—that’s likely where she’s been all this time.”

“By God, I bet you’re right, Phillips,” cried the sandy-haired man. “She must be Steele’s light o’ love!”

All three men roared with laughter, as if they’d just discovered the best joke in the world.

Justine had never thought it possible to be struck dumb with horror, thinking it only a cliché in gothic romances. But she realized now how apt the phrase truly was.

“Miss,” Phelps hissed in her ear. “We’ve got to get these blokes out of here before Mr. Griffin returns or there will be hell to pay.”

Justine clamped down on the panic twisting through her body. Whatever consequences stemmed from this incident, she’d deal with them later, after she’d routed the men from the house. Then she could go back to her room and fall apart.

“Quiet,” she said in a crisp voice. “Gentlemen, once again, I must ask you to leave. If you have any consideration or manners, you will do just that.” She flicked a glance at the elegantly garbed mystery man who hadn’t moved from his corner since Justine entered the room. “Sir, you seem to have some sense. Can you not persuade your friends to leave?”

He smiled that strange smile again and lifted his shoulders in an elegant shrug. “Your wish is my command, dear lady.”

Justine frowned, startled by the man’s accent. She couldn’t quite identify it, but thought it was Spanish, or possibly Italian.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Count Marzano,” Mulborne drawled. “I have no intention of leaving, not until I’ve finished my little chat with Miss Brightmore.” He ogled her, making his intentions clear.

Justine’s muscles trembled with fury, and her fingers clenched around the butt of the pistol. She realized she’d allowed the weapon to drop down to her side, barrel aimed at the floor. Slowly, she raised it, pointing it at Mulborne’s chest.

“Get. Out. Now,” she snarled.

The portly one, Phillips, finally began to look alarmed. “Um, perhaps we ought to shove off, Jerry. Miss Brightmore does appear to mean business.”

Mulborne laughed. “Ridiculous. She probably doesn’t even know how the damn thing works.” He bared his teeth in a ghastly smile. “You won’t shoot me, darling, will you?”

As Justine debated whether to shoot him in the arm or the leg, she caught a blur of motion out of the corner of her eye, but too late to prevent a long-fingered hand wrapping itself around her wrist, forcing her to point the pistol at the floor.

“She might not be able to shoot you, Mulborne,” Griffin Steele said in a voice as cold as death. A moment later, he’d deftly plucked the pistol from her hand. “But I will.”

Justine gaped at him, no doubt looking as stupid and surprised as every other person in the room. After a quick glance at her face, Griffin stepped in front of her, shielding her with his body. Irrationally, it made her anger spike.

“I’m perfectly capable of shooting a man,” she snapped.

“I’m ecstatic to hear that, my love,” he replied, not bothering to look back at her. “But I insist you allow me the pleasure of dealing with this tiresome situation.”

My love? Had everyone in this wretched house gone mad?

Before she could recover her wits enough to answer that question, Griffin had strolled across the plush carpet to confront Mulborne. The peer’s companions stumbled out of Griffin’s way, although the foreign gentleman remained where he was, barely moving but with an avidly curious expression on his face.

“Ah, Mulborne,” Griffin sighed as he stood toe to toe with the viscount. “I suppose I should have expected trouble from you after last night, but I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to darken my doorstep again. I clearly underestimated your tragic lack of brains.”

The viscount glowered at him. He topped Griffin by an inch or two and certainly outweighed him, but there was no doubt in Justine’s mind who was the most dangerous man in the room. Even she, who barely knew him, could tell that Griffin was quietly enraged. It radiated from his every pore, filling the room with a tension that made sweat prickle under her stays.

When Griffin turned his head to shoot a quick glance at the foreign gentleman, Justine caught her breath. Griffin’s handsome features were almost terrifyingly blank and calm, but his black gaze glittered with a cold fury she could only hope would never be directed her way. For the first time, she realized how he had attained his lethal reputation.

“Who is your friend, Mulborne?” Griffin asked. “I don’t recognize him.”

“Oh, that’s Count Marzano,” Phillips piped up anxiously. “He’s attached to the Papal Nuncio, or some such thing.”

The count bent an elegant head. “Mr. Steele? I am at your service.”

“I doubt that.” Griffin returned his attention to Mulborne. “I warned you last night never to come back here, did I not?”

“Your girl over there.” The viscount jerked his head at Patience, who by this time had inched behind Phelps. “She stole from me.”

“We put that canard to rest last night, my lord,” Griffin said. “My girls never fleece or cheat their customers. Now, I will ask you once more, with a courtesy you do not deserve, to leave the premises.”

For several fraught seconds, the two men eyeballed each other. As far as Justine could tell, Griffin’s anger was rapidly transforming into boredom. He went so far as to raise one eyebrow with polite incredulity, but there was no mistaking the deadly intent behind his words.

Lord Mulborne capitulated, the first intelligent thing he’d done since the awful incident had begun. “Oh, very well,” he groused, throwing up his hands in frustration. “I’m sure we can find more convivial company in any number of whorehouses, and your brandy is appalling, Steele, if you want to know the truth.”

“My lord, that is a lie,” Griffin drawled with an aristocratic disdain that could not have been equaled by any man in the Upper Ten Thousand. “If I wasn’t in such a forgiving mood, I might call you to account for that insulting comment.” He punctuated his remark with a smile so cold that Justine couldn’t repress a shiver.


His grip on her arm, although unbreakable, had been strangely gentle, too, and he’d steered her steps with a sure guidance she hated to admit she’d needed. The muscles in her legs had apparently turned to jelly—along with her brain, since she could barely muster a coherent thought—and without his support she would have tripped over her clumsy feet as he ushered her to his office. Mrs. Phelps had been standing outside the kitchen, a worried look on her face when they’d come through, and Griffin had murmured a few quiet orders and instructed that they not be disturbed. Then he had walked her into his office and firmly shut the door.

Now he leaned forward in his chair, forearms braced on his thighs as he subjected her to a narrow inspection. It made Justine’s nerves skip and jump like a waterbug on a pond, despite the calming effect of the brandy.

“Feeling better?” he murmured.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Steele.”

One corner of his sensual mouth pulled up in a sardonic twist. “Really, Justine, there’s no need to address your husband in such formal terms.”

That cut through the muzzy feeling in her brain. She forced her spine straight and clasped her hands firmly in her lap, adopting a stern stare.

“As to that, Mr. Steele, what in God’s name were you thinking? The situation was difficult enough as it was. I cannot begin to imagine how—”

He leaned forward, his eyes going dark as pitch but cold as ice. Whatever protest she’d been about to make died on her tongue.

“And what in God’s name did you think would happen when you rushed over there like Joan of bloody Arc? Had you not even a thought for your own safety or reputation? Good God, woman! How could you be so foolish?”

Justine had to resist the temptation to shrink back in her chair, or to sheepishly agree that he was right. “What else could I do?” she retorted. “You were nowhere to be found, nor was Deacon or Mrs. Reeves or Joshua. It seems to me that you left your people very much at risk, with only one footman on duty to protect them.”

He flinched. Just a slight jerking of his broad shoulders, but she knew she’d scored a hit.

“I hate to admit it, but you are unfortunately correct,” he said after several fraught moments of silence. “Until now, no one has dared invade my premises. I will be taking immediate precautions, you may be sure.”

When Justine nodded, as if to say I told you so, he leaned in another intimidating inch.

“But that still doesn’t excuse your behavior, Justine, or the fact that you left your charge without protection. Despite your tender regard for my staff, your only responsibility is to the baby. Or have you forgotten that?”

“Of course not,” she snapped. “And Rose was with him the entire time. I only—”

She stopped, sucking in a breath as she thought of the mysterious Count Marzano. “The baby,” she gasped, starting to bolt up from the chair.

Griffin placed his hands on her shoulders and gently pressed her back down. “Stephen and Rose are fine. Mrs. Phelps already checked on them. All was quiet here throughout the entire incident.”

She let out a relieved sigh and subsided. “Thank God. That man—Count Marzano—I don’t know what he was doing there.” She cast him a troubled glance. “I don’t trust him. He didn’t seem to fit in with the others, and not just because he was a foreigner.”

“Very perceptive of you, my dear. I suspect that Marzano is not all that he seems. The question is what he was doing with Mulborne and his cadre of idiots? Hanging about with members of foreign legations is hardly their style.”

Justine frowned. “If you’re suspicious, too, then why were you so eager to invite him back to The Golden Tie? Surely you’re not lacking for business.”

He raised his eyebrows at her tone, which sounded a touch shrill, even to her. Then he settled back into his chair, assuming an elegantly careless demeanor. He stretched out his legs, the muscles clearly delineated by the clinging fabric of his breeches, until his boots all but brushed against Justine’s skirts.

“You must learn to trust me, my love,” he said. “I will take care of the count, I assure you.”

Despite her best efforts not to react, Justine’s cheeks grew hot. “That is the second time you have used that ridiculous endearment, and I do not appreciate it in the least, sir. Which brings us back to our original point—what is to be done about your outrageous assertion that we are married?”

He leaned his head against the high back of the leather chair, studying her under half-closed eyelids. He looked almost ready to fall asleep. “What else did you expect me to do? Deny that you were my mistress and proclaim the sanctity of your spinster state to the world at large?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what you should have done.”

His cynical smile faded until he was inspecting her with as sympathetic an expression on his face as she had ever seen. For some reason, it made her want to burst into tears.

“Justine, it wouldn’t have mattered a damn what we denied. The very fact that you set foot in my house, much less The Golden Tie, doomed you from the minute you were identified. The only rational thing to be done was to proclaim you my wife.”

Her throat seemed to close. “But then what?” she managed. “We cannot possibly keep up with such a charade for long. It’s demented.”

He sighed as he allowed his shoulders to slump a bit. Suddenly, he appeared both frustrated and tired. “No. I’m afraid that for both our sakes, the charade must soon become a reality.”

Aghast, Justine stared at him. “You cannot be serious.”

“No?” His laugh seemed to come from deep within his chest, harsh and unforgiving. “I think you’ll find we have every need to be serious.”

Justine stared into his raven-black eyes, seeing not a shred of humor or irony. Nothing that would indicate he was playing a monstrous joke on her.

“You couldn’t possibly want to marry me,” she whispered, even as something overpowering, something more real than anything she had ever felt in her life, stretched up and loomed over her, blotting out the light from the lamps and the roaring fire in the grate. She could see nothing but Griffin.

To her astonishment, a gleam of amusement sparked to life in his gaze.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said in a musing tone. “Any woman who, by her own admission, is capable of shooting a man in cold blood is likely the perfect wife for me.”