Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom

by Vanessa Kelly

  “Roger. What’s yours?” the boy asked with a nervy curiosity that put Griffin in mind of a squirrel.

  “Griffin Steele, at your service. Now, perhaps you’d like to tell me what this is all about.”

  Roger gave a satisfied nod. “You’re the nob I was supposed to find. I’ve got a message for you.”

  “I’m not a nob,” Griffin replied automatically. If there was one thing in the world he did not want to be taken for, it was an aristocrat.

  Roger glanced around the hall and then raised his eyebrows, investing the look with a polite skepticism that would not have been out of place in the finest drawing rooms of the ton.

  Griffin sighed. “Well, get on with it then. Who’s trying to dump this baby on me and claim that I’m its—” He broke off, shaking his head. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

  The boy lifted his shoulders in an insouciant shrug. “Beats me, guv.”

  Muttering under his breath, Griffin gently pulled up the infant’s lace-trimmed robe and gingerly inched aside his swaddled undergarment. He couldn’t fail to notice the clothing was fashioned of the finest lawn, nor that the matching cap was trimmed with lace.

  “A boy,” he said, hastily tucking the material back around the obviously well-fed body.

  Everyone in the hall seemed to let out a collective sigh, as if they’d all been dying to know the answer.

  “Now that we’ve ascertained that pertinent fact, perhaps you can tell me what you’re doing with him, and why you brought him here,” Griffin said, gazing sternly at Roger.

  The boy opened his mouth to answer, but the words died on his tongue when the green baize door swung open and Madeline swept into the hall in all her sultry glory. Roger’s gobsmacked expression was one that Griffin had seen on much older faces more times than he could count.

  He cuffed the boy on the shoulder. “None of that. You’re much too young to even be looking.”

  Madeline rustled across the hall to join them. “Goodness, is this little one truly yours, Griffin?”

  “No,” he replied, trying not to growl with irritation. “But if everyone will kindly stop interrupting me, I might be able to find out who he does belong to.”

  Madeline was staring at the baby with a surprisingly maternal look on her face. “Well, he seems very sweet.” She gently stroked the now-drowsy baby’s rounded cheek.

  “Good, then you can hold him.” Griffin swiftly transferred the baby into her arms. She looked startled, but accepted the burden without protest.

  “Now, you were about to say?” he prompted Roger.

  “I haven’t a clue who the brat is, Mr. Steele,” the lad said. “Never saw him before a half hour ago. A lady said she’d pay me a ’alf a quid if I delivered him here, and waited to make sure you got him.”

  Griffin blinked at the ridiculous sum the boy had been offered. “Did she say why?”

  “Nah. Just said I was to deliver the basket straight to you and no one else. She was right certain about that. Said you, and only you.” Roger scratched his dirt-smudged nose, looking thoughtful. “Figured you must be the kid’s dad, she was that insistent.”

  “Then she didn’t actually say I was the boy’s father.”

  “Come to think of it, no.”

  “And how were you to get paid for this little errand? Were you to meet her afterward?” Surely this mystery woman would not be so foolish as to pay a street urchin before he performed his allotted task. If she hadn’t, then Griffin could use the boy to track her down.

  Roger gave him a gap-toothed, knowing grin, obviously comprehending exactly what Griffin was thinking. “Sorry, Mr. Steele. The lady already paid me. She walked me right up to your door and said she’d wait outside while I went in.”

  After a moment’s surprise, Griffin exploded into action, bolting across the hall and yanking the door open. He ran down the few steps onto Jermyn Street, fairly quiet this early in the day. A few carts lumbered down the street and several plainly dressed persons, probably servants, hurried about their business. Griffin cast a swift glance in both directions, but the only possible lead to the mystery woman was an enclosed black landau that was bowling swiftly down the cobblestones to round the corner only a second later.

  Cursing, he strode back into the house. “What did the woman look like? Did she come in a carriage?” he rapped out.

  “Don’t know. She wore a veil,” came the clipped answer from Roger.

  “And what about the carriage?”

  The boy gave a nod. “Aye. She found me in Piccadilly. We rode to the top of the street, and then we got out and walked the rest of the way with the baby.” He looked thoughtful. “Wondered why we just didn’t drive up to your doorstep.”

  “I imagine she didn’t want anyone looking out the window and sighting her carriage,” Griffin replied, feeling more frustrated by the moment. Whoever the mystery woman was, she’d taken great care to hide her identity while at the same time making sure the baby was safe.

  “Did you notice anything particular about the carriage?” Madeline asked the boy after casting a worried glance at Griffin. “A crest on the side, or unusual markings?”

  “It was black.”

  Griffin pinched the space between his eyebrows. “Thank you for that trenchant observation. Anything else?”

  Another careless shrug of the boy’s bony shoulders was the only answer.

  “Too smitten with the blunt that lady gave you to pay attention to anything else, I reckon,” Tom said with sarcasm.

  “I reckon you’re right,” Roger replied with a grin. “Can you blame me?”

  “No, I suppose not,” Griffin said. “And you’re sure you never saw this woman before?”

  “Aye.”

  “And there’s nothing else you remember.”

  Roger blinked rapidly several times, which seemed to aid the process of extracting a final bit of information from his brain.

  “Aye. She said to make sure you read the note in the basket, and not to lose the ring, neither.”

  Griffin hunkered down beside the basket and rummaged through the blankets. They were of white wool, soft and well made, finished with satin ribbon. Like the baby’s clothes, they were scrupulously clean and obviously expensive. It appeared that someone cared a great deal about this infant.

  He fished out a folded note, sealed with red wax. He tucked it into the waistband of his breeches and continued his search, digging through the blankets until he got to the bottom of the basket. Finally, he extracted a small, black velvet bag cinched shut with a drawstring. He untied it and upended the contents into his palm.

  A ring rolled out. A heavy signet ring, worked in thick gold and with an intricate design carved into its face. Griffin slowly straightened up as he examined it.

  Tom let out a thoughtful whistle. “That cost more than a bob,” he said, leaning close to inspect it. “What do you figure the markings for?”

  Griffin held it up, trying to catch the light coming in through the arch window over the front door. “It looks to be a family coat of arms, maybe Italian. I can’t be precisely sure until I get it under a magnifying glass.”

  “How do you know it’s Italian?” asked Phelps in a hushed voice, as if someone might overhear them.

  Griffin glanced around. The little group in the hall had inched closer, eagerly straining to see the ring and obviously caught up in the bizarre drama. Even Roger seemed enthralled, creeping close to gaze at the heavy piece of jewelry. Or so Griffin thought, until he felt a flutter of movement near the back of his coat.

  “I don’t think so.” He grabbed Roger by the wrist and pulled the boy in front of him. “You’ve already picked enough pockets today.”

  The boy let out a dramatic sigh. “Can’t blame me for trying, guv.”

  “Oh, yes, we can,” barked Tom, seizing the boy’s shoulder and propelling him toward the front door. “To think you would try to fleece Griffin Steele, of all people. If you don’t have anything more to tell us, you little blighter, yo
u can be on your way.”

  Tom glanced at Griffin, silently asking permission.

  “One more thing,” Griffin added. “Roger, if you ever see this veiled woman again, I want you to follow her until she arrives at her destination, and then come report to me.” Not much hope of that happening, but he might as well cover off every eventuality he could.

  He nodded at Tom, who fished a shilling out of his pocket and gave it to the boy.

  “There will be more of that if you come to me with useful information,” Griffin said.

  Roger tipped his threadbare cap, gave them one, last gap-toothed grin, and slipped out the door.

  “Open the note,” Madeline prompted as she gently bounced the baby up and down in her arms.

  Griffin glanced at the expectant faces of his staff. “Everyone loves a mystery,” he murmured, shaking his head. He didn’t. He hated mysteries and all the drama that came with them.

  He slipped the ring into a pocket and then extracted the small note from the waistband of his breeches. The paper was heavy, obviously of good quality. Slipping his finger under the wax, he gently peeled open the note. The handwriting was clear and feminine, and the message contained only a few lines.

  The child’s name is Stephen. His life is in grave danger. I beg you, Mr. Steele, to keep him safe until I contact you again. May God bless you!

  A friend

  Naturally, the note lacked any other identifying marks. That would have been far too easy.

  “What does it say?” asked Tom with a curiosity he rarely displayed.

  “That the baby’s name is Stephen and that we are to keep him safe until further notice,” Griffin said, repressing the impulse to curse.

  “Well, that’s a right proper mystery, ain’t it, Mr. Griffin?” said Phelps in a voice of wonder. Clearly a mystery that Griffin’s employees found quite enjoyable. He didn’t share the feeling.

  “It is,” he replied in a grim voice. “Phelps, I want you to find Sir Dominic Hunter. I don’t care if you have to drag him out of his damn office in Whitehall or from the deepest pits of hell, but do not come back here without him.”

  Chapter Two

  With a grateful sigh, Griffin shoved aside the ledger as the knock from the front door sounded through to his office. He’d sent Phelps out to search for Dominic over two hours ago, then before stalking back to his office had ordered Madeline to find someone to take care of the baby. What those orders entailed in the short term, he hadn’t a clue. In the long term, he prayed to God that Dominic could take the infant off his hands. Griffin had enough to worry about without adding a blasted and inconvenient mystery on top of everything else.

  Naturally, Dominic had taken his sweet time answering Griffin’s urgent summons. Phelps had finally run him to ground, but had been sent back with a curt message that Dominic would come as soon as he could, after he had completed his business. Repressing an oath, Griffin had sent Phelps to check on Madeline and the baby while he tried to plow through the mountain of work on his desk. He hadn’t been very successful, too caught up in his irritation and curiosity—irritation that the entire affair might turn into a complication that would delay his departure from London, and curiosity over both the infant and the annoyingly elusive veiled woman.

  He had, he was forced to admit, a reluctant compassion for the little mite. Griffin knew all about abandonment. It twisted the soul into unnatural shapes that changed one forever. As much as he wanted to divest himself of this unwanted responsibility, he knew he couldn’t until the child was safely accounted for.

  Phelps popped his head around the office door. “Sir Dominic’s in the morning room, guv.”

  Griffin nodded as he rose from his desk. “Fetch Madeline and have her bring the baby down.”

  Taking his time, he locked the ledger in the cabinet behind him, slipping the key into his waistcoat pocket, where it clinked against the signet ring in its little velvet pouch. Then he slowly made his way up to the morning room, having every intention of making Dominic wait that extra minute or two.

  The ridiculous game that Griffin played with his erstwhile and usually unwanted mentor was less about trying to annoy Dominic than asserting some control over their relationship. Dominic had been trying for years to bend Griffin to his will, in his best interests, or so Dominic calmly asserted. But Griffin didn’t like any man—or woman—exerting control over him. For too many years he’d been subject to the whims and sometimes the fists of others, and he’d worked too hard to gain full mastery over his life. He had no intention of allowing Dominic to chip away at that, no matter how well-intentioned the man might be.

  Unfortunately, Dominic had a knack for putting him in his place with an uncanny ability to predict Griffin’s reactions and even his emotions. There was a reason the man sat near the pinnacle of England’s Intelligence Service—indeed, near the Crown itself—quietly exercising influence over anyone who crossed his path. Dominic seemed to know everyone’s business better than they knew it themselves, from the Prince Regent down to the most downtrodden whore in the stews, and they all owed him favors. It made him one of the most powerful men in England, and a royal pain in Griffin’s arse.

  Because for some demented reason, Dominic had made it his mission to reform Griffin, as he called it. It seemed to matter not one whit to the man that Griffin had no desire to reform. But once Dominic set his mind to something, there was no convincing him otherwise.

  When Griffin opened the door to the morning room, Dominic looked up from making notes in his small pocket book and graced him with a faintly sardonic smile. “For someone who was so eager to see me, you certainly aren’t in a hurry.”

  Griffin affected surprise. “Have you been waiting long? Do forgive me. I hope Phelps offered you something to drink. A cup of tea, perhaps?”

  Dominic’s barely there smile slid into a rare grin. “For some odd reason, I seem to make Phelps nervous. The poor man couldn’t wait to get out of the room. Fortunately, I availed myself of your excellent cognac while awaiting your arrival. I may even be able to convince myself that you acquired it by legal means.”

  “I expect Phelps is afraid you’ll have him arrested. Perhaps for free-trading, if nothing else comes to mind. You must understand that it makes my servants a tad unsettled when you insist on treating my business ventures as little better than criminal enterprises.”

  “Not that it ever stopped you,” Dominic commented with a hint of acid.

  Griffin strolled over to the four-tiered whatnot tucked between two windows, plucked up a crystal decanter, and poured himself a few fingers of cognac. “No, but as you are wont to point out, I am sadly lacking in nerves. You must admit that it’s a useful quality for a man who makes his living the way I do.”

  “The way you used to make a living. Now that you’ve sold all your gaming clubs at a spectacular profit, I understand you’re about to complete an agreement to turn over the brothel to Madeline Reeves and a few of your other girls.”

  Griffin eyed Dominic with disapproval. Of course, he would know about the impending deal, even though Griffin and his staff had a strict policy of keeping all business within house. The air of mystery that surrounded Griffin and his dealings both enhanced his reputation and prompted others to treat him, if not with respect, then with healthy caution. In some quarters, he was looked upon as little better than a crime lord. Griffin had always found it to his advantage to foster that perception, especially when it came to persuading others to see his point of view on business and financial affairs.

  The fact that he was also willing to exact appropriate retribution against anyone who was fool enough to betray him also helped. Reputation meant little without the will and the means to support it with an iron fist. His hardscrabble years on the streets of London had taught him that long ago.

  “I’m not going to ask how you found out about that,” he said as he settled into one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace.

  “Best not to,” Dominic replied in a sym
pathetic tone totally at odds with his somber, craggy features. “Besides, I doubt you’d want to know.”

  Griffin didn’t bother rising to the bait, instead enjoying the truly excellent cognac—which had, of course, come from free traders—and letting the velvet burn slide down his throat.

  Dominic took the matching chair opposite him. “I am pleased at the direction you’re heading in, Griffin. You’ve invested well and your fortune—your legal fortune—will continue to grow. But what I cannot understand is why you wish to leave everything behind to go haring off to parts of the world best left alone, now that you’ve so effectively consolidated your position.” He leaned forward, his gaze compelling. “Surely you know that’s not necessary. Given a little time and patience on your part, and some effort on mine, I have no doubt you’ll gain acceptance among even the first families of the ton.”

  Even though Griffin had barely mentioned a word about his plans to anyone, Dominic had known for a long time that he wished to leave England—and his past—far behind him. As soon as Griffin’s business affairs were settled, he had every intention of catching the first ship sailing east to the Orient.

  “I already come from the first family of the ton,” he replied. “I have no desire to interact with the rest of them, at least not outside the confines of a gaming house or brothel.”

  Dominic’s eyes narrowed to flinty chips of emerald green, as they so often did when Griffin annoyed him.

  “I know,” Griffin said with a mocking sigh. “I’m a trial. But I didn’t ask you here to speculate about my failings or my impending travels. An unfortunate problem has been deposited on my doorstep, and I’m hoping you can take it off my hands.”

  Dominic stared at him for several seconds before he obviously decided on a tactical retreat. “So I understand. Phelps left a ridiculous message about babies and signet rings and veiled ladies. It sounded like a bad melodrama. I trust there really isn’t a baby, is there?”