Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom

by Vanessa Kelly

  “I do, my sweet,” he said. “And that is the pertinent question, isn’t it? Unfortunately, I don’t think we’ll know the answer until we discover the child’s parentage, and his standing within that particular family.”

  “And for that to happen,” Justine added, “his family must either claim him, which doesn’t seem very likely at this point, or—”

  “Or we must find the mysterious woman who left him here in the first place,” Griffin finished for her.

  She couldn’t hold back a smile, aware once again of how easy it was to talk to him. When she could put aside the bizarre nature of their circumstances—and the fact that he was now her husband, and all the complications which that entailed—she realized she hadn’t felt so comfortable with anyone since those long-ago days spent with her grandfather, poring through dusty but fascinating tomes in his library.

  “So, Dominic,” Griffin drawled, switching his attention to the older man, “what about the woman of mystery? Any new information on her to impart?” He made the questions sound like a challenge.

  Justine peered anxiously at her godparent. He’d resisted this line of questioning before, and with an uncharacteristically bad temper. Not that she could ever be afraid of Dominic—that was simply impossible for her—but the notion that anything could discompose him so greatly was unnerving.

  Dominic’s face might as well have been carved from the side of a granite cliff for all the information it conveyed. He and Griffin stared at each other for a few seconds, like two wary animals facing off. Justine held her breath, waiting for the flurry of snarling words and flying fur, but Dominic eventually lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

  “I’m sorry to say my investigations along that line have yielded little fruit. I will, of course, keep you apprised of any developments.”

  Griffin leaned back in his chair, flinging a casual arm over the back. Justine bit back a sigh. He might appear to be relaxed, but the flint in his gaze told her otherwise.

  “Now, why do I doubt that?” Griffin asked in a ruminating tone. “Oh, wait, I know. Because it’s not true. What the hell are you holding back from me, Dominic?”

  Even though he didn’t move a muscle, the chill emanating from Dominic would have reduced most men to cringing apology. Justine had seen him do it more than once, when he felt the circumstances called for it. Her godparent was not a bully nor was he ever unfair. Still, it was never a pleasant experience to be at the receiving end of his ire, and she found herself resenting the fact that he directed it toward Griffin.

  “I think you know me better than that,” Dominic said in a voice perfectly calibrated to depress pretension. “When you need to know something, I will tell you. If I do not, then you may trust it is of no import to you.”

  Griffin scoffed at him. “What a load of rot. That’s what you do, Dominic. You control the flow of information so you can keep us all dancing like puppets on the end of a string.” His gaze jumped to Justine, freezing her, before returning to the other man. “It’s what you did with us, wasn’t it? Why did you bring Justine into this household? Surely you could have found someone more suited to the task, couldn’t you? Someone not as likely to be harmed by her association with me. Why, then, didn’t you?”

  The logical part of her knew it was a very good question—she’d thought of it herself—but it was not one Dominic was likely to answer. Besides, if she didn’t break the spiraling tension in the room, the fur would begin to fly and the results would be ugly.

  “Yes, that’s all very interesting,” she said, “but we seem to be wandering away from the point.”

  They both stared at her as if they’d momentarily forgotten she was there. Or as if she’d lost her wits. Probably the latter.

  “I mean the immediate point, which is to secure the baby’s safety. That should be our first order of business, don’t you think?” she asked.

  Dominic broke first, reaching over to pat her hand. “Thank you for reminding us, Justine. The baby’s safety, as well as yours, is our immediate concern, is it not, Griffin?”

  His voice held a taunting note that reminded her of how very annoying and childish men could be. But it was unexpected in Dominic, and it told her just how much Griffin had managed to ruffle him.

  Griffin crossed his arms over his chest. “Of course I agree, but don’t think you’ll be avoiding my questions forever, Dominic. We will have this discussion whether you wish it or not.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dominic responded in a blighting tone. “But if you wish to speak with me when you return to London, I shall place myself at your disposal.”

  Griffin murmured something under his breath that sounded like bloody bastard, but Justine chose to ignore it.

  “Well, now that we have that settled,” she said in a bright tone, “what’s next? If we are leaving town today, I still have to pack and help Rose with the babies.”

  “Rose will be coming with us,” Griffin responded. “But she’ll be leaving little Sammy behind. We need to draw as little attention as possible. Keeping one baby under wraps is difficult enough. Keeping two is well-nigh impossible, so I’ve instructed her to make other arrangements for her son’s keeping for the next few weeks.”

  She stared at him, aghast. “Griffin, how can you think to separate her from her baby like that? She’s still weaning him.”

  He sighed and rubbed the spot between his eyebrows, suddenly looking tired. Clearly, the night was finally starting to catch up with him. “My love, I do wish you would have more faith in me. Rose informs me that Sammy is now fully weaned, and that her mother can care for him for the next few weeks. In fact,” he added sarcastically, “Rose made a point of telling me that only having one baby to nurse will seem like a rare treat.”

  Justine winced with guilt. What with all the excitement these last few days, she’d shifted most of Stephen’s care onto Rose. “That’s my fault. I haven’t been doing my share, but I’ll correct that.”

  “You will not,” Griffin said, now looking both annoyed and tired. “I will not have my wife playing nursemaid. If we need more help, we’ll hire it when we’re set up in the country.”

  She frowned. “That hardly makes sense given that we’re trying to keep the baby’s presence a secret. I’m perfectly capable of looking after him.”

  “Justine,” Griffin started in a warning voice.

  “This is all very interesting, but I think it can be settled later,” Dominic broke in, rising to his feet. He touched Justine’s elbow, urging her to stand and start toward the door. “Dress warmly, my dear. You have a long day of travel ahead of you.”

  She stopped halfway across the room and frowned at him. “I haven’t even thought to ask where we’re going or for how long.”

  “I hope you won’t be away from town for more than a few weeks,” her godparent replied. “As to where you’re going—”

  He exchanged a grim look with Griffin, who picked up where Dominic left off. “Let’s hope it’s where no one can find us.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  After checking on Rose and the baby, Justine made her way to the main floor where she had earlier glimpsed a library off the entrance hall. Dominic’s manor house, unobtrusively tucked away in a corner of Sussex and set well back off a country lane, settled around her with a quiet hush, finally peaceful after the bustle of their late-afternoon arrival.

  Despite her fatigue and the strains of the day, she knew sleep would elude her. There was too much to think on—the baby, the potential danger to them all, and, of course, her new husband and how she truly felt about him.

  So far, Griffin had shown a great deal of consideration for the awkwardness of the situation. On their arrival, he’d taken charge of the arrangements, placing Justine in a comfortable bedroom on the same floor as a nursery that was surprisingly well-prepared to handle a baby and his wet nurse. Apparently, Dominic had sent word late last night, alerting the staff to prepare for their domestic invasion. After seeing wom
en and baby safely disposed, Griffin had informed them that dinner would be sent up on trays and then had promptly disappeared.

  Though Justine sensed his absence was his way of giving her time to adjust to the new arrangements, she nonetheless felt like he was avoiding her. She’d wondered most of the way to Sussex if he would insist on sleeping in her room, bolstering the fiction of their marriage. But he’d shown no desire to do so. There was no reason, after all, since the servants were in Dominic’s personal employ and therefore entirely to be trusted. Still, her husband seemed not the least inclined to spend time with her or continue with his campaign of seduction. Justine stoutly told herself she didn’t want that in any event, and that she was just fine on her own. Rose and the baby gave her more company than she needed, and would keep her busy. Dancing attendance on Griffin—whether he wanted her to or not—was certainly not part of Justine’s plan.

  Of course, he might simply be sick of both female and infant companionship, which was understandable after their journey. Even she could admit it had been a gruesome exercise.

  They’d started out well enough. She and Griffin had taken the town coach to Aden and Vivien’s house shortly after breakfast, as if they were calling for a morning visit. They’d slipped out through the back garden, cutting through the mews to meet up with Phelps, Rose, and the baby, who had escaped detection by sneaking out through the back of The Golden Tie and making their way by hackney to meet up with them. They had then all crammed into a nondescript traveling carriage—with shades drawn, of course—and departed London, hoping to escape notice in the throngs of people and vehicles lumbering out of the city every day.

  Justine’s father would have thoroughly enjoyed the melodrama, but all it accomplished for her was to make her bad-tempered. Rose obviously shared that feeling, since she’d grumbled various imprecations about villainous thugs and the inconvenience of early morning travel. Stephen also didn’t take well to the journey, fussing and crying much of the way into Sussex. Fortunately, Rose managed to curtail the worst of it by hauling down her bodice and plunking him onto her breast at regular intervals.

  The first few times the young woman had so casually disrobed herself, with Griffin and Phelps so close on the opposite seat, Justine had been more than slightly aghast. But Phelps hadn’t turned a hair and Griffin had simply lifted a mocking eyebrow at Justine before tipping his hat forward over his eyes and going to sleep. It was an impressive display of insouciance that Justine could only envy. She consoled herself by noting that since both men worked in a brothel they were obviously inured to the sight of bosoms, even very impressive ones like Rose’s.

  But by the time they had reached the manor house in Sussex, even Griffin’s temperament was showing the strain. Several hours buttoned up in a coach with a fretful baby, four adults, and an assortment of bandboxes and bags—stopping infrequently as to minimize contact with anyone who could possibly identify them—would try even the most patient of saints. As Justine very well knew, there were no saints in their little band of escapees.

  So, she really couldn’t blame Griffin for disappearing soon after they’d arrived. It had been a trying day and the poor man deserved a respite from the catalog of troubles heaped on his doorstep—troubles that included her. If Justine had a particle of sense she would take herself off to bed for a much-needed rest, leaving Griffin to whatever he was up to.

  And she did have every intention of doing just that once she found a book that might help read her to sleep. Well, that’s what she told herself, since it made no sense and would have been highly improper if she were, in fact, looking to run into a husband who clearly would have sought her out if he wished to see her.

  Or seduce her.

  Justine mentally scolded herself for those scandalous thoughts as she reached the bottom of the stone staircase. Perhaps Griffin, caught up in the moment last night, had wanted to seduce her, but that moment had clearly passed. Only a fool would regret it.

  The ubiquitous Phelps appeared from a cross-corridor leading off the old-fashioned and squarely practical entrance hall where Justine stood. “Mrs. Steele, can I be getting you anything?”

  Initially, she’d been surprised that Phelps had come with them on the journey, but she should have realized that Griffin wouldn’t travel anywhere without him. The odd, wiry man served as factotum, valet, and butler all rolled into one, always available and ready to handle any crisis. Dominic’s people could be trusted, of course, but in the unsettling circumstances, Justine took comfort from seeing a familiar and reliable face.

  That she should come to think of Phelps as comforting—a man who’d helped run brothels and gaming clubs—told her just how far she’d stepped beyond the carefully controlled boundaries of her former life.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she replied. “Uncle Dominic’s house is very comfortable, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, missus, very comfortable,” he said in a gloomy voice. “But I’ve never been one for the country.”

  “No? But this seems such a pleasant place.”

  Justine hadn’t realized that Dominic owned a manor house. Perhaps he used it in the course of his work, but it seemed more like the country seat of a gentleman. Not large, but well-maintained and elegantly appointed, without ostentation. From what she could tell, it was a comfortably compact house with a masculine decorating scheme of muted colors, polished wood, and classically elegant furniture. She had every intention of exploring it and the grounds she’d glimpsed from the carriage as soon as possible.

  Her remark occasioned a morose sigh from Phelps. “It ain’t home is all I’ll say.”

  “No, and I’m sure you must be missing Mrs. Phelps.” She hesitated for a moment, and then gave in to her curiosity. “Have you always lived in London?”

  “Aye. Me and the missus used to run a snug little tavern near Covent Garden. Mr. Griffin fetched up there one day when he just come to London.” He gave a funny little snort. “Skinny runt, he was, just a lad with nary a clue how to get on. My Ellie took pity on him and fed him now and a bit, just to keep him from starvin’. But he never forgot it, did Mr. Griffin. When he bought The Cormorant, he up and offered positions in his house, and happy to take them we were, too. We’d had enough of being on our own, all the care and worries on us and precious little help. We knew Mr. Griffin would take care of us.”

  Justine leaned against the banister rail, fascinated by the glimpse into Griffin’s past. “And when was that, Phelps? When did you come to work for him?”

  The narrow little man seemed to recollect himself. “Oh, years ago, missus,” he said with a vague wave. “I don’t rightly remember. You’d best ask Mr. Griffin if you really want to know.”

  She gave him a polite smile at the answer that typically greeted any question posed about Griffin.

  “He’s waiting for you in the library,” Phelps added as she crossed the entrance hall. “Will you be wanting any tea?”

  Justine’s step hitched, but she managed to hold back her surprise. “No, thank you. Not this late.”

  She continued across the hall, mentally wincing at the thought that she was so lamentably predictable when it came to Griffin. Part of her wanted to turn tail and flee up the stairs, but that would surely brand her as a coward.

  What in heaven’s name was there to be afraid of, anyway? Nothing was going to happen between them, of that she was certain.

  Justine slipped into what appeared to be a combination library and drawing room. It was probably the largest room in the house, she guessed, with one wall covered in floor-to-ceiling bookcases fashioned from polished rosewood. A great marble chimneypiece dominated another wall, topped by a magnificent pier glass in a gilded wood frame. Several brocaded chairs and sofas in muted shades of green and old gold were scattered in front of the chimneypiece, and an imposing rosewood desk stood at right angles to the bookshelves, clearly setting off that corner of the room as an office or study. All was pulled together by a plush carpet in shades of gold and cream
that covered most of the floor’s surface. With the roaring fire behind noble brass dogs, the effect—despite the spaciousness of the room—was unexpectedly cozy, as if a large, happy family had just gone to bed, leaving the master to drink his brandy in peace.

  Ensconced in a wing chair in front of the fireplace, and looking unnervingly like that imaginary lord of the manor, Griffin glanced over as she slipped into the room. He came to his feet with leisurely grace, placing his brandy on the small table beside his chair.

  “I wondered when you would come exploring,” he said. “Is all well upstairs?”

  She nodded, casting another curious glance around the room. Normally, Griffin insisted on a wealth of lamps and candles in any room he spent time in, clearly preferring a bright blaze of light and color. She’d always found it an ironic comment on a man whose life seemed to be lived in the shadows.

  Tonight, however, there was only the crackling fire and a few branches of candles scattered about the room, barely illuminating the dim corners. Justine had become used to the bright lights and vibrant colors of Griffin’s house, and to the bustle of London. But now she found her body relaxing, seeming to breathe out a mental sigh of relief. These last few weeks had seen one assault after another on her senses and emotions. Only now, in the muted quiet of this lovely room, could she understand how much she’d been craving the peace and quiet of the country.

  “Yes,” she replied as Griffin handed her to the matching armchair next to his. “The baby is asleep and Rose has finally stopped her grumbling.”

  “Thank God. I thought Phelps was going to throttle her about two hours into the journey.”

  Justine rounded her eyes at him. “Really? I could have sworn that was you.”

  He laughed. “Touché, Madame Wife. Would you like a brandy?” He wandered over to a sideboard with a row of crystal decanters.

  She sighed. “I’m sure I shouldn’t, but perhaps it will help me to sleep.”