“Of course I do, Uncle Dominic,” she said with a warm smile. “You must know that I will do everything I can to help.”
“Would that you could help find this unfortunate baby’s parents so he could be returned to them posthaste,” Steele interjected in a long-suffering tone.
“I don’t know why you should complain, since Justine and Rose have largely relieved you of any inconvenience in this matter,” Dominic responded tartly.
Steele flicked his penetrating gaze to Justine. “One might think so, but then one would be wrong.”
She frowned. Could no one in this house speak in a straightforward fashion, in terms she could understand? There had been moments since arriving in Steele’s household when she imagined she’d been cast adrift in a foreign land, without knowing a word of the language.
“Then you’ll be happy to hear I have some news on that front,” Dominic said.
Steele’s elegant sprawl remained unchanged, but Justine had the uncanny sense he’d suddenly come alert. That was another thing she found so disconcerting—a heightened awareness of him whenever he was near. It was as if every nerve in her body pealed like a bell in response to him.
“I am all eagerness to hear this news,” he drawled.
Instead of responding, Dominic fished something out of his waistcoat pocket and handed it to Justine. It was a black velvet pouch, the kind used to carry jewelry. When she tilted her head in inquiry, her godparent nodded at her to open it.
Justine tipped a heavy gold signet ring into her palm. “Goodness,” she breathed, holding it up to the light. “Is this the ring that was tucked in Stephen’s basket?”
“It is,” Dominic replied. “What do you make of it?”
She peered at it from various angles. “It looks very old. Several centuries, I would guess.”
“Fourteenth, or possibly fifteenth century,” Steele said in a quiet voice, leaning forward to look at the ring.
Justine blinked. What would a man like him know about antique jewelry?
“Yes, I would say that’s correct,” Dominic said. “What else can you make out, Justine?”
She squinted at the engraved motto circling the crest. “My Latin is rusty . . . something about a wolf and not irritating, I think.”
“Irritate not the wolf,” Steele said.
She couldn’t help gaping at him. “You read Latin?”
His upper lip curled in a disdainful sneer. “I’m not a complete ignoramus, Miss Brightmore.”
Justine winced, annoyed that she’d allowed herself to be surprised into rudeness. “Forgive me, sir,” she said quietly. “I meant to suggest nothing of the kind.”
When he continued to inspect her with the same sardonic expression, her annoyance turned outward. “It’s simply that one doesn’t expect someone in your particular line of work to be a Latin scholar,” she said. “It hardly seems a useful skill amongst the muslin company.”
When his eyes widened a fraction, Justine wanted to kick herself. Why did she allow him to provoke her into such uncharacteristic behavior? She was acting as badly as he was, and he would surely bite her nose off for it.
But to her surprise, his eyes lightened with reluctant amusement. “Touché, Miss Brightmore. I suppose I walked right into that.”
“You certainly did,” replied Dominic as he retrieved the ring.
“It’s that bloody lace cap,” Steele complained. “You don’t expect cutting remarks from someone who tricks herself up like a dim-witted spinster.”
“Perhaps we can agree that appearances can be deceiving,” Justine said, trying not to clench her teeth.
Steele’s gaze dropped to her chest and lingered there for a long moment. “Yes, I think we can agree on that,” he said.
An odd warmth curled low in Justine’s belly. She found herself trapped in his dark gaze, one that had transformed from amusement to a heavy-lidded sensuality. She’d seen men with that expression on their faces before, but it had never been directed at her.
“What else can you tell us about the ring, Uncle Dominic?” she asked, a shade too loudly.
Fortunately, her godparent seemed not to notice anything strange. She didn’t dare look at Steele, since she just knew he’d be laughing at her. What he found in her that was so amusing, she didn’t know. She was the most boring woman alive, and her lack of suitors proved it.
During her first Season, Justine had tried to become adept at the kind of light gossip and conversation that seemed to amuse young men, but she’d never mastered the art. Her aunt Elizabeth, who moved in artistic and radical circles rather than the upper reaches of the ton, would attempt to console Justine by saying that she had greater depths than the average young man at Almack’s, and that she should never be ashamed of her education or her serious turn of mind. Indeed, Aunt Elizabeth cherished her own reputation as a bluestocking, and encouraged Justine to do the same.
That was all very well and good until she found herself trying to make awkward conversation with a man she actually liked, only to see his eyes glaze with an all too familiar look of boredom.
She forced her attention back to her godparent.
“Some aspects of the signet suggest that it is Lombardic,” Dominic said, “from one of the cadet branches of the Hapsburgs, as I originally suspected. As to which one, that will require further research. Since the Italian states remain in some degree of turmoil after the fall of Napoleon, further investigation will be required before I can determine its provenance. But suffice it to say, I believe the ring suggests that our little guest has some Italian heritage, and is very likely from a noble family.”
Justine frowned. “Then what is he doing here?”
“That is the mystery,” Dominic replied. “One possibility is that either his father or mother—or both—was from a noble Italian family that came here in exile after Napoleon seized their lands. The ring suggests the child is legitimate, although we can’t be entirely sure of that.”
Justine grimaced, feeling a sharp pang of sympathy for the sleeping baby upstairs. “But if he’s legitimate, it makes no sense that he would be abandoned in so cavalier a fashion.”
Dominic sighed, seeming to slump a bit in his chair. For the first time, Justine noticed how weary he looked, with dark circles under his eyes. Her godparent had always seemed indomitable to her, but today he looked much older than his two and forty years.
Steele leaned forward in his chair, bracing his hands on his knees. He, too, was studying Dominic, with an intensity that surprised Justine.
“What of the note?” Steele asked. “Have you uncovered any additional information on that?”
“Nothing of any value,” Dominic replied. “You needn’t concern yourself with that.”
“I think I do,” the younger man fired back. “I saw how you reacted when you first read it. What aren’t you telling me?”
Dominic’s eyes glittered like polished emeralds. And he no longer looked like the tired man of a few seconds ago. Instead, in one breath to the next, he had transformed into the powerful—and deadly—spymaster Justine knew him to be.
“As I said, you needn’t concern yourself with it, Griffin,” he said in a hard voice. “In fact, I would strongly suggest that you not concern yourself with it.”
Steele slowly rose to his feet, a challenging smile playing around the corners of his cynical mouth. “Really, Dominic, is that intended to frighten me? If so, I must disappoint you.”
Dominic’s lips were drawn into a tight slash across his tanned face. He also came to his feet, anger and frustration coming off him in waves that seemed to crash loudly through the room. “You should be frightened, Griffin. I know I am.”
Then he turned and stalked out, slamming the door behind him. It was such an uncharacteristic response from a man Justine knew to be the epitome of discipline and control that all she could do was gape after him.
“That was certainly interesting,” Steele said, not looking bothered in the least. “It would appear that
our little guest upstairs is not the only one harboring secrets.”
Chapter Six
Justine came reluctantly awake. When her eyes finally blinked open, the dark-shrouded silence in the house was so profound she instinctively knew it was the deepest hour of the night.
Something had awakened her, some sound penetrating the veil of fatigue that had settled over her at the end of another long day. Perhaps the master of the house had returned from his duties next door and his footfalls had jolted her from sleep. But Steele moved as quietly as a cat. When she’d heard him come home before, she’d already been awake, tending to the baby or helping Rose with her son.
Sighing, she rolled to her side, hugging the pillow against her chest and hoping she could drift off again. Despite her exhaustion, it had taken her forever to fall asleep. The scene this afternoon in the drawing room had consumed her, along with the revelations about Stephen’s possible heritage. That mystery should be what concerned her most greatly, because the sooner they discovered the child’s identity, the sooner Justine could get back to her life.
But again and again her thoughts returned to the disconcerting struggle between her host and her godparent. It wasn’t so much what they’d said to each other, but what they hadn’t said. The history between them was obviously of more import than Justine had assumed. Though she’d asked Dominic about it, of course, he’d simply said he’d known Griffin Steele for years and found him to be a useful source of information. She knew now there was more to it than that, although she was quite certain Dominic would refuse to elaborate even if she did probe further.
Nor did she expect her host to provide any additional information, either. After Dominic had stormed out of the room, Justine had turned to Steele with no attempt to hide her astonishment. But after his almost offhand comment about secrets, he’d excused himself and strolled from the room as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She’d been tempted to follow and demand an explanation, but a moment’s reflection had told her how absurd that was. Steele would be just as closed-lipped as Dominic and, really, it was none of her business. Her only business was to take care of the baby and stay out of the way. Justine excelled at that sort of thing, which was why Dominic had asked her to perform this task in the first place. She’d always known when to ask questions and when to keep her mouth shut.
Clearly, this was a situation where the latter strategy was appropriate.
With a determined effort of will, she cleared her mind and allowed her bone-deep fatigue to pull her toward sleep. But then something intruded, jerking her awake once more.
With a smothered exclamation, she sat up, glaring into the darkness. But this time, she saw the faint glow of candlelight in the gap under Rose’s adjoining door. Then she heard the muffled sound of a fussy baby, followed by the padding of bare feet pacing the floor.
Throwing off her bed linens, Justine pushed aside the curtain on the four-poster and climbed out of bed. She shivered in the cold and hurried to pull on her dressing gown while feeling around with her feet for her slippers. Dragging her long braid out from under the robe’s collar, she hurried into the next room.
Looking heavy-eyed and frustrated, Rose paced the carpeted floor of the small but comfortably appointed bedroom, her voluminous linen shift billowing around her legs each time she made a turn. She carried little Stephen in her arms who, unfortunately, stared up at her, wide-eyed.
“Oh, dear,” Justine whispered as she gently closed the door behind her. “Is he colicky again?”
Rose blew out an exasperated breath. “No, he just won’t sleep. I know he’s not hungry, neither. Just fed him a half hour ago.” She scrunched her face up and touched her nose to the baby’s. “You’re going to be the death of me, you little bugger, aren’t you?”
Stephen chortled with baby glee, clearly delighted to be up with his nurse in the middle of the night.
Justine glanced over at the bed, where Rose slept with her son. Sammy, thank goodness, was deep in slumber, his little arms flung out wide with innocent abandon.
“Have you tried putting him down in his cradle?” Justine asked. “I can’t believe he’s not asleep, since he was awake for most of the day.”
Rose shook her head. “He fusses like anything when I put him down, miss. Normally I don’t mind, but Sammy kept me up the first half of the night, and now this one is like to do it for the second half.”
Justine glanced at the rocking cradle positioned in front of the fireplace. She could always sit in the comfortable armchair right next to it and try to coax the baby back to sleep, but that would hardly be conducive to Rose getting much-needed rest.
“Here,” she said. “I’ll take him. If you don’t get some sleep, you’re going to fall flat on your face.”
Rose handed the baby over with some reluctance. “Are you sure, Miss Justine? The fire must be out in your room and it’s a powerful cold tonight. I don’t want either of you catching your death.”
Justine settled Stephen in her arms, smiling down into his rosy-cheeked face. “I’ll take him downstairs to the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea. That way, we’ll both stay warm, and when he falls asleep I’ll bring him back up and put him in his cradle.” She dropped a soft kiss on the baby’s forehead. “How does that sound, Master Stephen?”
The baby responded with another chortle as he managed to snake one arm out from under his blanket, grasping the lace collar of her wrapper in his tiny grip.
“I would be ever so grateful,” Rose said with a mighty yawn. “I’m starting to think that the only way I’ll get some shut-eye is to go back to work next door.” She gave Justine a sleepy grin. “At least I’m flat on my back when I’m working over there.”
“Yes, well, don’t worry,” Justine said, eager to cut short that particular line of conversation. “I’ll make sure Stephen is well asleep before I bring him back up.”
With another yawn, Rose went back to bed while Justine hefted the baby more comfortably over her shoulder and opened the door into the hallway. As usual, a lamp was burning on a side table in the hall. There always seemed to be someone awake in the Steele household, regardless of the hour. Not that it ever kept her awake or seemed to disturb anyone else. She’d learned early on that the master, as unconventional as he was, ran an orderly household. For a man reputed to be a crime lord, he certainly seemed to prefer peace and quiet, at least when it came to his living arrangements. There was little about him that wasn’t dramatic and, yes, fascinating, but she’d quickly discovered that he was a highly disciplined and organized man who demanded the same qualities in his staff.
Cradling the baby, she carefully went down the stairs, holding on to the banister. She followed the hallway toward the back of the house, pushed through the baize door, and descended a set of shallow steps to the kitchen. When she stepped inside, her slippers whispering on the flagstone floor, she wasn’t surprised to see Phelps checking the door to the yard behind the house, making sure it was bolted. As far as she could tell, he seemed to exist on only a few hours of sleep, and was always close by and ready to respond whenever needed.
Phelps glanced over his shoulder, his eyes going wide for a moment as he took in her state of undress. Then he looked at the baby in her arms and shook his head. “Little mite at it again, eh? Is it the colic?”
“No, thank goodness, but he is fussy and Rose needs her sleep. I thought I’d come down to the kitchen since it’s warmer for the baby, and make myself a cup of tea.”
Phelps pointed to one of the rush-bottomed chairs around the large kitchen table. “You sit yourself down, miss, and I’ll make it for you before I heads off to bed.”
Justine winced. “I hate to keep you from your rest, Phelps. You must be exhausted after such a long day.”
The wiry little man scoffed as he retrieved the kettle from the hob. “Not me, miss. You know what they say—I’ll sleep when I’m on the other side of the dirt.”
That did seem to be his prevailing philosophy, and he se
emed to have a boundless supply of energy. She’d come to learn that Phelps functioned in a number of roles, including butler, valet, and general factotum.
There were other servants, of course. Mr. Phelps’ wife was cook and Tom Deacon, a rough and ready but intelligent man, was Steele’s business manager. There was also Clara Lewis, the Phelps’ daughter, and her husband, Joshua. Clara served as maid and Joshua was both groom and stableman.
Given Steele’s wealth, he could certainly afford more staff, but Justine had learned that he valued loyalty and privacy above all else. His staff had been with him for years, and they were slavishly devoted to him. Although not anything like the servants Justine was used to—they all spoke as if they’d been plucked from the stews around Covent Garden—they managed his house with quiet efficiency. And, thankfully, they had accepted Justine into the establishment with nary a shrug. They didn’t seem to care that she was a well-bred spinster living in rather scandalous conditions. As far as they were concerned, their master had approved her presence and that was all that mattered.
In this house, Steele’s word was gospel.
Justine settled into the chair, trying not to jolt little Stephen. His eyelids were starting to droop, but any noise or quick movement would startle him awake.
As Phelps bustled into the scullery to fetch water, Justine allowed herself to relax into the warmth of the cozy room. She sat at a long pine table, scrubbed and sanded to a high state of cleanliness, across from the fireplace and the cast-iron range. Two large dressers held pots, crockery, and dishes, one of them beneath a high window looking out to the yard that during the day let in a fair amount of light. The altogether tidy and straightforward kitchen appealed to Justine’s domestic soul. She supposed that revealed a sad lack of imagination on her part, but she truly preferred it to most of the other rooms in the house, despite their luxury and sybaritic comfort.
Of course, she could appreciate luxury as much as the next person, but she’d always preferred a simpler approach to life. But simple and uncomplicated would certainly not describe either Griffin Steele or his business dealings and way of life.
Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom Page 7