Madeline exchanged a glance with Dominic. They were both evidently trying not to laugh. Griffin glared at them, wondering when he’d started to act like a querulous old woman instead of a man in control of his own fate.
Chapter Three
Justine Brightmore stepped out of the carriage to gaze at the imposing town house before her. Her anxiety abated slightly as she took in the marbled portico and the handsome Venetian windows of the elegant house on Jermyn Street. It certainly didn’t fit her idea of either a brothel or a former gambling club, although her knowledge of such places was obviously limited. And since Mr. Steele’s establishments catered to the highest levels of the ton, she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised by its genteel facade. Still, she breathed a mental sigh of relief that Dominic’s assurances that he wasn’t pitching her into a nefarious den of sin seemed to be accurate.
The corner of her godparent’s mouth twitched with a knowing smile as he helped her to the pavement. “Justine, you must realize that I would never expose you to anything I didn’t think you could manage.”
She winced. She’d hoped to hide her trepidation at embarking on this unwanted assignment, but had obviously failed. “Yes, I do. I know it’s silly to be anxious, and I’m going to lay the blame for my case of nerves on fatigue and lack of information. After all, I did get into London very late last night, and you have been sparing in your information.”
She’d received the express post from Dominic a few days ago, at Lady Hester Belgrave’s estate outside of Cambridge. Justine had been Lady Belgrave’s paid companion for a year and a half now, at the dowager countess’ old-fashioned but comfortable manor house. She’d been happy there. Lady Belgrave treated her more like a favored niece than a paid servant, and Justine relished the quiet order of their days. All was peaceful, sedate, and blessedly respectable, and she would miss it every minute she had to stay in London.
But she owed Dominic more than she could ever repay, and if he needed her help, then she must give it. Lady Belgrave had also insisted she take up the temporary post, claiming that it was time to have a little adventure in her life. Justine thought that caring for a mysterious baby for a man like Griffin Steele—in a brothel, no less—might be rather more of an adventure than she cared for.
Justine had had quite enough dramatics in her life while her father was alive. She loathed returning to the city where they had lived, and only her sense of duty and genuine affection for her godparent had overcome her steadfast reluctance.
Dominic flashed an apologetic smile as he led her up the shallow set of marble steps to the dark green door with its highly polished brass knocker. “Yes, and I’m a brute to send you into this without a proper rest, but Griffin’s last note sounded rather frantic, and he’s usually not one to exaggerate. Though it seems impossible one small baby could send an entire household into chaos, such appears to be the case.”
Chaos.
She hated that more than anything else. Still, there was no point in complaining. Best to get on with the job and wrestle order into the situation as soon as possible.
Justine gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. “You’re not to worry, Uncle Dominic. You know very well I’m fit as a fiddle. Besides, I don’t expect I’ll be getting much rest anyway, not with a little baby to care for.”
“Don’t you worry either,” Dominic said as he knocked. “You’ll have help.”
“Oh, yes. The ladies from next door,” she said, trying to sound as if working with prostitutes was nothing out of the ordinary. “I’m sure everything will be just fine.”
Justine often told herself that everything would be just fine, even when it clearly wouldn’t. It seemed to put her in a better frame of mind and give her a little boost of courage when facing a daunting situation. She’d faced more than a few of those in her twenty-four years, but this one was shaping up to be rather more challenging than she liked.
The door swung open. A wiry-looking man with a narrow face and long nose, dressed in plain black trousers and white shirt topped with a worsted gray vest, greeted them. Inexplicably, he took one look at Dominic and scuttled back, bobbing his head up and down like a drab little bird pecking at seeds.
“Sir Dominic, Mr. Griffin’s expecting you. In a right proper mood he is, too.” The odd man cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, as if expecting something alarming to emanate from the back quarters of the house.
“I expect he is, Phelps, although all seems quite calm right now,” Dominic replied as he ushered Justine in before him.
She cast a quick glance around as she stepped into the narrow hall. The lovely cream marble floor showed not a speck of dirt. The walls were painted a golden yellow, trimmed with elegant moldings in polished brown. For all she knew, she could have been stepping into a town house owned by any member of the aristocracy or the wealthy landed gentry rather than into the lair of one of London’s most notorious hellions.
Phelps eyed Justine with dubious curiosity before returning his attention to Dominic. “You might say that now, but you wouldn’t if you’d been ’ere last night.”
“Oh, what happened last night?” Dominic inquired.
“Gas,” Phelps said morosely as he took Dominic’s hat and greatcoat. “According to Rose.”
When Phelps dropped Dominic’s things on a chair and started down the hallway, Justine frowned. The man was clearly not a trained butler or footman. But Dominic’s only reaction was to give her an uncharacteristic wink as he waved her after the servant.
Justine followed in Phelps’ wake. While the house might have the external appearance of quiet elegance with its polished floors and elegant trim, it was clearly an unconventional household, as Dominic had already explained. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t ignore the small twist of anxiety in her stomach.
And she certainly was not looking forward to meeting the master of the house. Even she had heard rumors about Griffin Steele—years ago, while she still lived in London. None of those rumors displayed Mr. Steele to advantage.
Phelps opened a six-paneled door, painted in the same rich brown as the floor moldings, and stepped back to let them enter. Justine paused on the threshold, blinking at the vibrant colors that shimmered in the glow of giltwood wall lights on either side of the fireplace, a cut-glass chandelier, and matched sets of crystal and Wedgwood candlesticks scattered about the room. There was even a pair of Coalport Lustres on an occasional table by the window, for good measure.
“Goodness,” she said in a faint voice.
When Dominic touched her on the shoulder, she slowly advanced into what was clearly a formal drawing room, but unlike any she had ever seen. Most of the furniture was in rich shades of yellow and red, as were the velvet draperies pulled back from the windows with heavy gold tassels. Several tables of varying sizes crowded the room, and an especially beautiful rosewood sofa table trimmed with inlaid brass held pride of place in the center of the room. Its top seemed to rest on the back of what she thought was a gryphon, with its dramatic clawed feet forming the base of the table.
Clearly, Mr. Steele had a flair for the dramatic as well as a rather arrogant sense of humor.
The other furniture consisted of daybeds and window seats, and a matched pair of needlework armchairs covered with red and pale purple carnations. The jumble of styles and bright colors, by any design logic Justine could think of, should have clashed and competed with each other. But everything worked in some odd fashion, giving the room warmth and light on a dreary winter’s morning. She’d always preferred a quieter, more elegant style, with pale, soothing colors, but something about the room struck her as . . . cozy, for lack of a better word. It was ridiculous, given the luxuriously decadent appointments in the room, but she couldn’t help thinking how lovely it would be to snuggle up with a book in front of the glowing coals in the cast-iron grate, surrounded by a wealth of comfort and heat.
With a touch on her elbow, Dominic steered her to a red velvet daybed that stood in front of the sofa table, sil
ently urging her to sit. He took a seat across from her in one of the armchairs.
“Phelps,” he said pointedly, “would you inform Mr. Steele that we’ve arrived?”
The servant, who had been inspecting Justine with what appeared to be disapproval, snapped his gaze to Dominic. “Oh, sorry, Sir Dominic. Right away.”
“And have some tea brought up for Miss Brightmore.”
“Right you are, sir. Right away,” Phelps babbled, backing out the door.
“Gracious, what an odd man. He seems almost frightened of you,” Justine observed. “Are all the servants in Mr. Steele’s household so, ah, unusual?”
Dominic stretched his hands out to the warmth of the fire. “No, Phelps is in a category by himself. For some unaccountable reason, I seem to make him nervous. Griffin says it’s because he’s afraid I’m going to have him taken up by the law.”
Justine frowned. “Why would you do that?”
“I wouldn’t,” he replied. “But Phelps seems to take to heart my remarks that his master is little better than a crime lord. Griffin isn’t, although he hasn’t always walked on the right side of the law. At the moment, he’s ridding himself of his more unsavory businesses and investing his capital in respectable enterprises.”
Dominic hadn’t shared that pertinent piece of information until now. “I wonder what prompted him to make such a dramatic change.”
The gathering frown on his brow as he pondered his reply pricked Justine’s curiosity. She knew very little about his relationship with Mr. Steele, and had often wondered why her godparent would be friendly with a man of so disgraceful a reputation. When she’d asked him, he’d simply replied that he’d once been close to Mr. Steele’s mother, and still felt a sense of obligation to the son.
“That is a complicated question, my dear,” he finally replied. “I wonder if Griffin even knows the full answer to that.”
She was used to that sort of cryptic answer. After all, her father, Edward Brightmore, had until his death at the Battle of Salamanca been one of Dominic’s most trusted agents. Justine had managed her father’s accounts and even handled some of his more sensitive correspondence. Papa had trusted her completely, as had Dominic.
But by the time she was sixteen, Justine had learned that certain information would always be withheld from her. Her father had often apologized for that, but she had never minded. Although she did whatever she could to help Papa, Justine hated the life he led—hated that he would disappear for long stretches of time, with no guarantee that he would return home to her and her younger brother, Matthew. She’d learned long ago that the best way to manage worry and fear—and life—was to avoid asking questions and pretend that everything was as peaceful and orderly as a Sunday church service in the country.
But she had to admit she was growing curious about Griffin Steele. Unfortunately, before she could extract more information from Dominic, the door opened and a man—obviously the master of the house—strolled into the room, and every coherent thought fled. His gaze, dark and glittering as an Egyptian obelisk, fastened right on her. It pulled a heated flush up her neck and to her cheeks, and she had to clamp down hard on the skittering that danced along her nerves.
As Mr. Steele strolled leisurely forward, Justine tried not to stare. She failed miserably, but since the man was eyeing her without the least attempt to veil his curiosity, she decided she might as well return the favor.
Although not as tall or as broad as Dominic, Steele conveyed a sense of presence that dominated the room—and considering the riot of colors and textures in the drawing room that was quite a remarkable feat. He was dressed in black breeches, highly polished boots, and a black coat and waistcoat. The dark garb was relieved only by the white linen of his shirt. Justine’s pulses jumped when she realized he wasn’t wearing a proper cravat, only a white cloth tied casually around his throat. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen a gentleman without proper neckwear, not even on her uncle’s estate in the country, where she often spent the summer months.
His features were aristocratic and arrogantly handsome, with an expressive, well-shaped mouth, high cheekbones, and a sharply cut, determined jaw. For all those sharp angles, however, there was something rather sleek about him. In fact, he moved with a lithe grace that put her in mind of a cat. A black and rather feral cat, quite evidently up to no good.
But it was his hair, gleaming blue black like a raven’s wing, which made her blink. Swept back from a widow’s peak, it was long, flowing down to his back, and pulled into a semblance of order by a narrow leather band. With his black garb and leather boots it gave him the appearance of a buccaneer from another century. That impression was enhanced by a thin, faint scar running down from his left temple to below his cheekbone.
Griffin Steele looked altogether exotic and disreputable, and he set her teeth on edge the closer he got to her. One would have to be blind not to perceive the sense of danger inherent in the man, and Justine was far from blind.
Steele was judging her, too. From the surprised lift of his eyebrows and the slight, sneering curl of his mouth, he was as little impressed with her as she was with him.
Dominic came to his feet with what Justine could swear was a slightly taunting smile. “Ah, Griffin, there you are. Allow me to introduce Miss Justine Brightmore. She’ll be looking after Stephen for the next while. I’m sure the two of you will get along splendidly.”
Oh, yes. Her godparent was definitely taunting Steele.
She filed that knowledge away and dipped into a respectful curtsy. Her host might be a reprobate and a rake, but that was no excuse for poor manners. “Good morning, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
His dark brows arched with an elegant disdain she suspected was the habitual response to situations not to his liking.
“Permit me to express my doubt on that score, Miss Brightmore,” he drawled. “Not that I can entirely blame you, given the circumstances.”
Even as she struggled not to bristle, she couldn’t help noting that although his voice hinted at the roughness of a street brawler, he spoke in cultured tones. That first element didn’t surprise her, but the last did. It warned her to beware of making quick assumptions about him.
Before she could make any kind of appropriate response, Steele turned his disgust on Dominic. “Good God, what have you done? You’ve brought me a lady, one barely out of the schoolroom. Have you gone mad?”
“Hardly just out of the schoolroom,” Dominic replied, resuming his seat. “Justine is entirely capable of doing what is required here.” He nodded at her. “Is that not correct, my dear?”
She also sat, smoothing her gloved hands down over the skirts of her mustard-colored pelisse. “I must believe so, Uncle Dominic, or you would not have asked me.” She couldn’t refrain from giving Steele a challenging look. “And for your information, sir, I am four and twenty. Well past the age of the schoolroom, to be sure.”
He stared back at her, sucking in an audible hiss of air. “Dominic, you brought your own niece to do this?” He looked genuinely horrified, but then a puzzled frown marked his brow. “I didn’t even know you had a niece, or any surviving family, for that matter.”
Dominic watched Steele with calculating interest. He obviously had some deep plan, one that eluded her at the moment but which obviously involved Steele and possibly her, too. Dominic had told Justine that he hadn’t been able to find anyone else to care for the infant—at least not anyone he could trust. The few female agents that could take on this sort of task were all unavailable. Not that Justine was one of his agents—anything but. Still, Dominic knew he could trust her, and from what he’d told her about the situation, trust and discretion were of primary importance.
But her instincts, finely honed after years of living with her father, pricked themselves to alert. Dominic was up to something, and Justine needed to factor that into her dealings with both him and Steele.
“Justine is not my niece. She is my godchild,” Dominic rep
lied. “Her father was Edward Brightmore.”
Steele’s dark gaze flickered back to her as he took the matching armchair next to Dominic’s. He subsided with a negligent but elegant sprawl of limbs as he continued to study her.
“Ned Brightmore? He died a few years ago at Salamanca, did he not?”
When Justine nodded, she thought she detected sympathy in his gaze.
“My condolences, Miss Brightmore. He seemed to be a good man. Certainly better than most of the men of his class who walk through my doors.”
“You knew my father?” she asked with an eagerness that surprised her. She usually avoided talking about Papa. It was still too raw a wound to probe.
“You’ll find that Griffin knows most everyone in London,” Dominic responded.
“Yes, and most of them have been more than willing to allow me to fleece them, for which I am profoundly grateful,” Steele said in an acidic tone.
Justine was trying to decide whether to be horrified or not at the idea that her father had sampled the dubious delights of Steele’s gaming clubs and brothels when the arrival of the tea tray spared her the choice. As far as she knew, Papa had never gambled. And if he had visited the brothel next door, she did not want to hear about it.
Phelps set the tray on the sofa table in front of Justine, so she took it upon herself to serve. The strangeness of the situation made her head spin, but since she would be living in the Steele household for at least a few weeks, she might as well make herself useful.
Her host waved away an offer of tea, but Dominic allowed her to prepare him a cup. After she’d poured her own and Phelps retreated, Steele started back in on her godparent.
“Since she’s Brightmore’s daughter, I understand why you trust her, but that is hardly the point.” Steele turned his gaze back on her, all traces of sympathy vanished like smoke. “It’s damned inappropriate to have a girl of her ilk staying here, and you know it.”
Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom Page 4