"Baron Archer?"
Griffin looked up from the muddy ground to see a footman in the St. Martin green and white livery.
"Y . . . Yes?" He pushed up off the street, managing to stand on only the second try. He didn't really need the servant's arm, but he allowed him to assist anyway, just so he would feel needed.
"You are well, my lord?"
Griffin tried to dust off his doublet, but his hands slid over the caked mud. Hell, he must have lost his cloak somewhere. Lena would be sorely vexed. She'd had it brought from the Holy Land for him.
"Fine. Superior." Griffin stiffened his spine and stood upright. He went to tip his feathered cavalier's cap, only to find it was gone, too. "Thieves," he explained, lowering his hand as he passed the servant who held his horse's reins. "They'll rob a man blind on the highways these days." Griffin couldn't recall having encountered highwaymen tonight, but surely it was possible. It sounded like a reasonable explanation.
"Yes, my lord." The boy followed, leading Griffin's horse.
"See . . . see to my horse." Griffin caught the iron rail of the front step. He wanted to see Julia. He had to.
"You going to the banquet, my lord?"
"I am. After all, I am the cousin of the groom. Bride, too, somehow." He tried to think for a moment. If he was Simeon's cousin by way of his mother's marriage to one of Simeon's cousins, and Julia was Simeon's first cousin, that made Julia his—ah, piss. He couldn't figure it out.
Griffin took the first step.
"My Lord Archer."
Griffin halted on the step that seemed to sway beneath him. It had been a long time since he'd been this drunk. Years. He'd forgotten how much he hated this feeling. He blinked, wishing the man would stand still when he spoke and stop swaying. It was making Griffin nauseous. "Yes?"
"Would . . . would you care to slip in the back up to your apartments and change your clothes first, my lord?"
Griffin glanced down at his doublet. By the light of torches sunk in the ground on either side of the stone steps, he could see that it was muddy and torn, and one horn button was missing. "So I'm a little dusty from my travel."
The servant lowered his gaze as if fearful to speak. "Your breeches, my lord."
"My breeches?" he asked indignantly. God's bowls, wasn't there a servant left in London who knew his place?
"Your breeches, my lord," he repeated apologetically. Then he pointed.
Griffin looked down, taking care to hold tightly to the rail, his feet firm on the step.
Hmmmm. His breeches were open, his cod swinging merrily in the breeze. He fumbled with the fabric, tucking himself in. But the ribbon that tied his breeches shut was gone. Had he lost the ribbon the last time he'd stopped alongside the road to relieve himself, or had the bandits gotten that, too?
Griffin eyed the servant. "You think I ought to"—hiccup—"tidy up a bit before I greet the bride and groom?"
The young man nodded. Griffin could have sworn he saw the flicker of a smile on the lad's face, but his voice was filled with an appropriate, subservient demeanor. Must have been the poor lighting.
Griffin backed down the step. "Excellent idea." He stumbled on a loose brick on the walk, but caught himself against his mount's side. He patted the wet, mud-splattered horse. "Good boy. Good horse, good whatever the hell your name is."
Griffin pointed toward a gate that led to the rear of Bassett Hall. "I think I'll go in the back and change before announcing my arrival."
"Yes, my lord."
Griffin tripped only once between the front door and the back, and complimented himself on his excellent carriage. He managed to reach his apartments on the third floor without a soul seeing him. Inside he flopped down on his bed on his back and closed his eyes so the velvet bed drapes wouldn't spin in circles above him.
"Christ's bones, I'm too old for this," he muttered.
Something warm and soft brushed against him. He heard the low hum of a cat's purr.
"Charles, Your Highness." Griffin opened his eyes.
The black cat purred and rubbed his head against Griffin's.
Griffin petted the cat. "Are you well, sire, king of all cats?"
Purring, Charlie placed first one front paw, then the other on Griffin's forehead, and began to knead it rhythmically.
"Get off." Griffin pushed the cat off his head, his wig going with it. "Don't you see I'm trying to get dressed?"
The cat placed both paws on the blond wig and kneaded. Purred.
"I can't be bothered with cats. I've more important business to attend to. Secrets to discover. Vicious plots to dethrone our king to uncover."
The cat turned and sat back on Griffin's face.
Griffin gave the cat's rear end a push, spitting cat fur. "That's what I always get, isn't it? The ass end. The first time I've ever wanted something for myself in my life, and nothing but the crust for good old Griffin."
He grabbed the bedpost to steady himself and sat up. "What I need is another drink."
Griffin yanked off his riding boots, dropped them to the floor, and with a heave ho, came up off the feather tick.
"Gotta have a drink. Gotta get dressed." He poured himself brandy. "Gotta let Julia know I'm here if she needs me." He belched and wiped his mouth with the torn sleeve of his shirt. "Here if she needs to be comforted."
Griffin wove his way across the room, shedding his clothes as he went. He would wash and dress, go downstairs, and simply speak to the bride and groom, offer them his congratulations, and return to his bedchamber to sleep off his drunk. With all the commotion of the festivities, few would know he had ever passed through.
Naked, Griffin emptied his glass with one hand as he threw open his clothes press with the other. What was this world coming to that a Baron had to dress himself? Where was Jabar? A man needed a manservant to dress properly.
The glass slipped from Griffin's hand. Crap. Where was Jabar? He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, trying hard to remember. Where was his faithful, turbaned friend? Surely Jabar had not been taken by highwaymen, along with his hat, his cloak, and the string to Griffin's breeches?
Then it came to him in a moment of revelation. He and Jabar had parted at the first crossroads, Griffin taking the road to London, and Jabar riding west to carry a message. He'd be home later tonight, or in the morning if he chose to take shelter in a tavern's barn.
"Phew, that was close," Griffin threw over his shoulder in the direction of the cat. Charlie was sleeping soundly, curled up inside the cap of his wig. Griffin returned his attention to the task at hand—getting dressed. Focus. He had to focus. He reached for a doublet that hung on a peg. A fuchsia floral. Next, a pair of breeches. Pink and orange stripes. Perfect.
"There's that blessed shirt I've been looking for." He pulled from the bottom of the press a pink linen shirt with wide lace cuffs. "My favorite shirt. I knew it wasn't lost. Jabar only hid it from me." He tossed the shirt over his shoulder. "Shoes. Shoes."
No shoes in the press.
He crouched to look under the press. No shoes. He tried to stand, swayed, and went down on both knees, which was actually fine because the best way to capture shoes was to search for them on their own level. He discarded the clothing he'd chosen, and crawled across the floor to look under the bed. He found one heeled slipper in bright pink and another in green. Griffin sat up. Where were the matches? Where did Jabar keep his damned shoes?
He crawled across the polished plank floor searching under chairs, piles of papers, and discarding clothing for one of the missing shoes. Damn, it was cold on the floor.
"Where are you when a man needs you, Jabar?" he said finally, sitting back to lean against his bed and allow the room to cease spinning. "I've got to get down there. My Julia needs me."
He took a deep breath and crawled on all fours in another direction. The damned shoes had to be here somewhere . . .
Chapter Thirteen
Julia was surrounded by bantering hens. The painted women with their too tight gowns and flutt
ering fans all talked at once, engaged in what seemed to be one of London's favorite pastimes, gossiping. As Julia listened with one ear, it seemed to her that the women fought to determine who could ruin whose reputation with the most originality.
"Well, I understand she's been sent to the country to whelp another bastard," cooed a woman with eyebrows drawn in an inverted V. "Second in three years. You think her husband would either claim them or drown them. He certainly won't be getting any children with her, not where his interests lie." She fluttered her lashes.
"No!" another woman exclaimed. "Do tell. I heard that he got her youngest sister in situation, and she'd had to be married off to a parson's son only last month!"
A thin woman with a mousy, pinched face squealed and fanned her face vigorously. "Emma! How dare you spread such slander about my cousin!"
The women in the catch grew instantly round-eyed. Caught.
"Indeed not. I'll not stand here and allow such untruthful babble. It will be the ruination of poor Sarah." The mouse's nose twitched as she leaned closer. "Now, let me tell you who really fathered the babe."
Fans fluttered and the matrons drew behind them to hear the latest tidbit. They took no notice as their hostess backed away, knowing she'd not be missed. "Your servant, ladies," Julia said softly.
As she excused herself from the gossips, there was a stir on the far side of the parlor. She heard numerous gasps and a few giggles. Someone cleared his throat to gain another's attention, while a man in a curly periwig laughed aloud. Julia searched the room until her gaze reached the source of the commotion.
Griffin.
He wasn't supposed to be here. Her heart leapt beneath her breast. Thank God he'd come.
But something wasn't right. She recognized it immediately.
Griffin was wearing two different shoes, one green, one pink. Both were heeled, but one slightly higher than the other, forcing him to stand with one knee perpetually bent.
She couldn't take her eyes off him.
He was dressed abominably, even for him. Stripes with florals? Fuchsia with red and green? He looked like a man who had been draped by a dressmaker's scraps from the cutting room floor.
Julia lifted her hand to cover her mouth and trap a nervous giggle. It really wasn't funny. Simeon tolerated his ridiculous fashions because it amused him, but Griffin had pushed the matter too far tonight. To appear at the Earl of St. Martin's wedding banquet dressed like that would be a mockery to his title . . . or was Griffin mocking himself?
Guests immediately encircled Griffin, all talking at once. He was popular among the ladies as well as the gentlemen, and the lords didn't seem to mind how much time he spent with their wives. No doubt they thought themselves safe from being cuckolded by him, believing him a homosexual.
Only Julia knew otherwise.
Her first impulse was to go to him. She wanted to touch him, to hear him speak her name, to share a secret smile. She could greet him as she would any guest; no one would think oddly of it. But she didn't trust herself to speak, not yet. She could hear Simeon's distinctive voice nearby. It wouldn't do for him to see her and Griffin together right now, not as vulnerable as she felt. Simeon might sense something, smell it.
Julia heard Griffin guffaw and others followed suit. He didn't sound like himself, not even the Griffin others thought him to be. She watched him sway in his mismatched shoes, and a gentleman offered a hand to right him.
Heavens! Was Griffin drunk? Julia had seen him pretend to be so on more than one occasion, but tonight the slightly slurred speech and lack of balance appeared genuine.
Julia lifted her painted fan to give herself some air. What could Griffin have been thinking? If his "business" was as dangerous as he implied, as dangerous as indicated from the incident in the Three Bells, surely he knew better than to become intoxicated. With Bassett Hall so filled with guests, any one of the men could be Griffin's enemy. How could he be so foolish as to put himself at such risk?
Julia's concern for herself and her impending first night with her new husband slipped a notch in priority. None of that mattered at this moment. She needed to get Griffin upstairs to his apartments and out of the house, out of danger's way until he was sober. The only question was, how?
"By the king's cod!" Griffin's voice startled her, and she glanced up to see him coming directly toward her.
"There she is! Our bride." He pushed through the circle of ladies and gentlemen, his arms outstretched to her. "Your servant, my Lady St. Martin." He bowed deeply, presenting a fetching pink-stockinged leg and green slipper. As he rose, he would have fallen had one of his companions not seized his arm.
"My Lord Archer." Julia curtsied as anger tightened her chest. Griffin was drawing attention to himself. To them both. What could he be thinking?
"Might I offer my grand congratulations." He clasped her hand, and lingered too long with a kiss.
"Thank you," she said from between her compressed lips as she pulled her hand from his grasp. Didn't he realize people were watching? But even drunk, the man had a way of getting under her skin. The memory of his warm lips burned on the back of her cool hand. "His lordship thought your business would keep you from London. I'm pleased that you could come, after all."
"Pity I couldn't make the church." His gaze met hers.
Julia felt her cheeks grow warm. There was too much emotion in his voice. He spoke too familiarly to her. Someone was going to take notice. The gossips in the far corner would be talking.
Damn a man and his drunkenness, she thought. Was this the only way they could deal with their emotions? Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the clutch of matron hens watching, whispering. How could they miss the sparks that leaped between her and Griffin?
She turned her back to the women. "My lord, would you care for a refreshment?"
His face lit up in a lopsided grin. "I should think I had enough, my Lady St. Martin"—he emphasized her title with mockery—"but if you insist."
Several guests laughed.
This time she made no attempt to hide her displeasure. "I was thinking perhaps coffee, my lord, or tea. Something without spirits."
Again, their audience chuckled.
"Touché, my Lady St. Martin." Griffin pulled his hands to his chest and grimaced as if he'd been struck by a sword.
More laughter. Wedding guests were filtering into the small withdrawing room off the great hall, all anxious to see the baron's latest performance. Julia had to get him out of the house before Simeon saw him like this.
She tapped him on the shoulder none-too-lightly with her folded fan. "I could use some cool air, and I'll warrant you could as well. Care to walk with me, my lord?"
"A pleasure." He grinned.
She did not.
Griffin sauntered up to Julia with an awkward gait, thanks to his mismatched shoes. She allowed him to clasp her arm, but steered him toward a balcony door that had been left slightly ajar to cool the room.
She tried to remain calm and in control. In Simeon's world, he or she who retained control prevailed. "This way, sir."
"But the drink is yonder." He hiccuped, fondling her arm with his fingertips.
"But the cold air and my sharp tongue is this way, my lord," she whispered between clenched teeth as she feigned a smile.
He arched an eyebrow. "Ah, hah. And there is the rub, my lovely, isn't it?"
Griffin opened the door to the outside balcony, and Julia passed him. The air was cold, but the rain had ceased and moonlight illuminated the iron railing.
"What do you think you're doing?" Julia hissed, the moment she thought they were out of earshot of the wedding guests. She faced him, her back to the rail, her petticoats bunched in her hands so they'd not drag in the puddles on the stone floor.
"Doing, my lady?" He punctuated his question with a hiccup.
"Coming here drunk! You said you had business elsewhere. You said you would be in the country. You said you would be with your wife!" She hadn't meant to sound accusa
tory. What right did she have to condemn him for being married? She was wed, now, too, wasn't she? Yet as she said the word, she felt the pain of the truth of their impossible situation.
"My heart is broken, my hopes shattered." He clutched his hand to his heart dramatically. In his drunkenness, he had either not heard the pain in her voice, or was too caught up in his performance to react.
"My true love," he continued, "is all but dead to me now."
She dropped her pink petticoats, not caring if the hem got wet. She hated the damned gown anyway. "Griffin!" She tried to speak softly, but it was all she could do to keep from shouting. She touched his arm. "You need to go upstairs and go to bed."
"Alas"—he touched the back of his hand to his forehead—"there is no sleep without you, no—"
She grabbed his shoulders and gave him a shake. "Griffin! This is dangerous and, even in your state, you know it! You can't afford to behave this way. You'll give yourself away. Or us."
His buffoon's mask fell away. Griffin's bloodshot gaze met hers and his blue eyes filled with sadness. "Julia, I—"
The glass door behind him swung open.
Julia's gaze darted from Griffin to the man in the shadows. She sucked in her breath and exhaled with his name. "Mr. Gordy." She prayed he didn't realize how greatly he'd startled her.
Gordy lowered his gaze, but not before absorbing the intimate way Julia and Griffin stood facing each other, the way she drew her hands from his shoulders and tucked them behind her back. Surely he was setting it all to memory to be recounted in Simeon's office.
"My Lady St. Martin, there is a matter I believe you may wish to attend to."
Griffin whipped around. "Can't you see we're having a private conversation?"
Gordy continued to stare at the damp hem of Julia's wedding gown, ignoring Griffin as if he didn't exist. "It would be best if you came immediately, my lady."
"What is it?" She sidestepped Griffin. "Simeon? Is he ill?"
"No, my lady." The secretary cleared his throat and spoke so softly that Griffin could not have heard him. "Lady Elizabeth."
Julia felt a trickle of cold fear. She brushed past Griffin. "Where?"
In Love with the King's Spy (Hidden Identity) Page 13