At her intervention, the clamor ceased. She’d once again captured the attention of everyone in the room and she intended to use it.
“Lord Mulborne,” she said in a frosty voice, “you and your friends will leave this house immediately. If you do not, you will indeed be sorry. When Mr. Steele returns, you may apply to him directly with your concerns. But right now you will leave.”
Mulborne blinked at her, looking quite like an owl but not nearly as intelligent. Then the ugly sneer returned to his wet mouth. “Why should I take orders from another of Steele’s doxies? Do you really think your pathetic servants with their . . . rolling pins . . .” He and his drunken friends paused to let out hearty guffaws. “Do you think you will get rid of us so easily? I think not.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Stop making empty threats and run along before I turn my attention to you.”
Resisting the impulse to pinch at the growing headache between her eyebrows, Justine sighed. “I never make empty threats, sir.”
And with that, she lifted her pistol and pointed it straight at him.
Chapter Eight
Papa had always told Justine that guns had a remarkable capacity to focus the mind. She couldn’t say with any confidence that her actions had cleared the minds of the drunken louts before her, but she’d sharpened their attention. They gaped at her, slack-mouthed and stupefied, trying to make sense of what their bleary eyes told them.
All but one. The man who had so clearly retained his wits looked anything but shocked. In fact, he seemed even more interested in her than he had a few moments ago, and wore a strangely disconcerting expression of satisfaction.
“Now, there’s no need to get testy, my girl,” Mulborne finally said, releasing his grip on Patience’s arm. Patience scuttled in the opposite direction and ducked behind a leather club chair, keeping its substantial bulk between her and her attacker.
“I’m not feeling the least bit testy,” Justine replied. “I am merely dismayed by your lamentable lack of manners. If, however, you agree to depart immediately, I will not be forced to relay every sordid detail of this episode to Mr. Steele. And I promise, Lord Mulborne, that I will raise your concerns with him. I’m sure he will be able to address them to your satisfaction.”
Patience started to protest, but Phelps hissed her to silence.
Mulborne tried to fall back on his dignity, drawing himself up to his full height and tugging down his rumpled white waistcoat. Sadly, the effect was ruined by the burgundy-colored splotch that marred the garment.
“Well,” he said, looking down his long nose at her, “when you state it like that, I suppose we must comply. But you can be sure I will put about how poorly I have been treated in this establishment. Whores pulling pistols on gentlemen trying to reclaim what’s rightfully theirs? It’s simply disgraceful.”
“Hold on, old boy,” said the portly one, digging Mulborne in the ribs as he stared at Justine. “Thing is, I don’t think that one is a whore. I know I’ve seen her somewhere before, but I can’t quite puzzle it out yet.”
Justine tried not to flinch. Behind her, Phelps muttered an inarticulate curse.
“I’ve never seen any of you before in my life,” Justine said in freezing tones. “Now, will you please do us all a favor and take yourselves off. Immediately.”
Ignoring her request, the tall, sandy-haired man snapped his fingers, recognition firing in his eyes. “I’ve got it,” he exclaimed. “She’s Ned Brightmore’s daughter. Julia, was it? One of those J names. I know that at least.”
He beamed at her, as if presenting her with a delightful gift. Justine could practically hear her reputation crack and crumble to dust before her eyes.
“You mean Justine Brightmore, Viscount Curtis’ niece,” exclaimed the portly one. “But that can’t be right—the man’s the worst high stickler I ever met. He’d fall down in a fit if one of his relations turned into a barque of frailty.” He peered at her, then shook his head. “Haven’t seen the gel in a dog’s age, so I don’t know if I would remember her from Adam. But if she is Miss Brightmore, how the devil did she end up at The Golden Tie?”
A horrible paralysis gripped Justine. She couldn’t move or utter a word. In fact, she could barely draw a breath. If she didn’t get her lungs working soon, she’d be the one to fall on the floor in a dead faint.
“It is her,” Mulborne crowed. His eyes were bright with disdain and something else, something that made Justine’s skin crawl. “Now I remember her. She never finished her second Season. Never took, anyway. Too missish, and with that ridiculous red hair of hers.” An ugly leer parted his lips. “Although I’ve always wondered if the hair on her head matched the thatch over her cunny. I must say, I’d like to find out.”
“Here, now,” Phelps thundered. “You show some respect to the lady, or you’ll hear about it, you will.”
Justine closed her eyes, feeling sick to the depths of her soul. She’d been on the verge of denying everything, but Phelps had confirmed for everyone within hearing distance that she was exactly who they thought she was.
The sandy-haired man let out a low whistle. “Well, this is a pretty situation, ain’t it? Old Curtis’ niece working for Griffin Steele.”
Justine forced herself to speak. “For your information, I do not work at The Golden Tie.”
“Then what are you doing here, Miss Brightmore? Just visiting?” Mulborne taunted.
“I was next door,” she snapped. “And one of the—”
“Next door,” exclaimed the sandy-haired one. “At Griffin Steele’s house?”
The portly man, who had been staring at the floor as if trying to puzzle something out, glanced up and snapped his fingers. “Miss Brightmore dropped from sight when her father died. I’d bet my grandmother’s bonnet she took up with Steele somewhere along the line. He’s got a place out in the country—that’s likely where she’s been all this time.”
“By God, I bet you’re right, Phillips,” cried the sandy-haired man. “She must be Steele’s light o’ love!”
All three men roared with laughter, as if they’d just discovered the best joke in the world.
Justine had never thought it possible to be struck dumb with horror, thinking it only a cliché in gothic romances. But she realized now how apt the phrase truly was.
“Miss,” Phelps hissed in her ear. “We’ve got to get these blokes out of here before Mr. Griffin returns or there will be hell to pay.”
Justine clamped down on the panic twisting through her body. Whatever consequences stemmed from this incident, she’d deal with them later, after she’d routed the men from the house. Then she could go back to her room and fall apart.
“Quiet,” she said in a crisp voice. “Gentlemen, once again, I must ask you to leave. If you have any consideration or manners, you will do just that.” She flicked a glance at the elegantly garbed mystery man who hadn’t moved from his corner since Justine entered the room. “Sir, you seem to have some sense. Can you not persuade your friends to leave?”
He smiled that strange smile again and lifted his shoulders in an elegant shrug. “Your wish is my command, dear lady.”
Justine frowned, startled by the man’s accent. She couldn’t quite identify it, but thought it was Spanish, or possibly Italian.
“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Count Marzano,” Mulborne drawled. “I have no intention of leaving, not until I’ve finished my little chat with Miss Brightmore.” He ogled her, making his intentions clear.
Justine’s muscles trembled with fury, and her fingers clenched around the butt of the pistol. She realized she’d allowed the weapon to drop down to her side, barrel aimed at the floor. Slowly, she raised it, pointing it at Mulborne’s chest.
“Get. Out. Now,” she snarled.
The portly one, Phillips, finally began to look alarmed. “Um, perhaps we ought to shove off, Jerry. Miss Brightmore does appear to mean business.”
Mulborne laughed. “Ridiculous. She probably doesn’t even know how the damn thing
works.” He bared his teeth in a ghastly smile. “You won’t shoot me, darling, will you?”
As Justine debated whether to shoot him in the arm or the leg, she caught a blur of motion out of the corner of her eye, but too late to prevent a long-fingered hand wrapping itself around her wrist, forcing her to point the pistol at the floor.
“She might not be able to shoot you, Mulborne,” Griffin Steele said in a voice as cold as death. A moment later, he’d deftly plucked the pistol from her hand. “But I will.”
Justine gaped at him, no doubt looking as stupid and surprised as every other person in the room. After a quick glance at her face, Griffin stepped in front of her, shielding her with his body. Irrationally, it made her anger spike.
“I’m perfectly capable of shooting a man,” she snapped.
“I’m ecstatic to hear that, my love,” he replied, not bothering to look back at her. “But I insist you allow me the pleasure of dealing with this tiresome situation.”
My love? Had everyone in this wretched house gone mad?
Before she could recover her wits enough to answer that question, Griffin had strolled across the plush carpet to confront Mulborne. The peer’s companions stumbled out of Griffin’s way, although the foreign gentleman remained where he was, barely moving but with an avidly curious expression on his face.
“Ah, Mulborne,” Griffin sighed as he stood toe to toe with the viscount. “I suppose I should have expected trouble from you after last night, but I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to darken my doorstep again. I clearly underestimated your tragic lack of brains.”
The viscount glowered at him. He topped Griffin by an inch or two and certainly outweighed him, but there was no doubt in Justine’s mind who was the most dangerous man in the room. Even she, who barely knew him, could tell that Griffin was quietly enraged. It radiated from his every pore, filling the room with a tension that made sweat prickle under her stays.
When Griffin turned his head to shoot a quick glance at the foreign gentleman, Justine caught her breath. Griffin’s handsome features were almost terrifyingly blank and calm, but his black gaze glittered with a cold fury she could only hope would never be directed her way. For the first time, she realized how he had attained his lethal reputation.
“Who is your friend, Mulborne?” Griffin asked. “I don’t recognize him.”
“Oh, that’s Count Marzano,” Phillips piped up anxiously. “He’s attached to the Papal Nuncio, or some such thing.”
The count bent an elegant head. “Mr. Steele? I am at your service.”
“I doubt that.” Griffin returned his attention to Mulborne. “I warned you last night never to come back here, did I not?”
“Your girl over there.” The viscount jerked his head at Patience, who by this time had inched behind Phelps. “She stole from me.”
“We put that canard to rest last night, my lord,” Griffin said. “My girls never fleece or cheat their customers. Now, I will ask you once more, with a courtesy you do not deserve, to leave the premises.”
For several fraught seconds, the two men eyeballed each other. As far as Justine could tell, Griffin’s anger was rapidly transforming into boredom. He went so far as to raise one eyebrow with polite incredulity, but there was no mistaking the deadly intent behind his words.
Lord Mulborne capitulated, the first intelligent thing he’d done since the awful incident had begun. “Oh, very well,” he groused, throwing up his hands in frustration. “I’m sure we can find more convivial company in any number of whorehouses, and your brandy is appalling, Steele, if you want to know the truth.”
“My lord, that is a lie,” Griffin drawled with an aristocratic disdain that could not have been equaled by any man in the Upper Ten Thousand. “If I wasn’t in such a forgiving mood, I might call you to account for that insulting comment.” He punctuated his remark with a smile so cold that Justine couldn’t repress a shiver.
Phillips rushed over and grabbed his friend by the elbow. “Exactly, Steele. No need to add insult to injury. We’ll just toddle off now, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, indeed,” exclaimed the portly man. “The whole thing’s become a dead bore.” If so large a man could be said to scamper, he certainly did. He cast Justine an apologetic smile as he rolled by.
While Phillips argued with Mulborne, tugging him by the arm toward the door, Count Marzano finally bestirred himself to follow.
Griffin held up a negligent hand. “My dear sir, will we be seeing more of you at The Golden Tie?”
The enigmatic foreigner thought about it and then gave another one of his elegant shrugs. “Who is to know, Mr. Steele? The future is a mystery to us all.”
“Indeed,” answered Griffin. “But please be assured that you are welcome at my establishment any time. I will personally see to your needs.”
Justine crossed her arms and let out a disapproving snort. This entire episode was nothing less than a monumental disaster but apparently all Griffin could think about was business. But, really, why should that surprise her? If she’d learned nothing else these last few days, it was that Griffin Steele was entirely cold-hearted, and cared for nothing but his business concerns.
He cut a glance her way, his dark eyes narrowing to irritated slits that clearly said, I’ll get to you in a moment. She glared back at him, refusing to be cowed.
At the door, Lord Mulborne made a point of leering at her. “Miss Brightmore, if you ever find yourself in need of a new patron, you must be sure to look me up. Such a pity for a girl of your breeding to throw herself away on a bounder like Griffin Steele.”
Before Mulborne finished speaking, Griffin had moved with a speed that made Justine gasp. His hand shot out and wrapped itself around the viscount’s wrist, gripping it tightly enough to make the man yelp with pain.
“Lord Mulborne,” Griffin said in a voice laden with menace, “I would suggest you keep such scurrilous thoughts to yourself if you don’t wish to end up on the receiving end of a bullet.”
Justine’s heart lurched against her breastbone. Although some feminine and deeply idiotic part of her warmed to Griffin’s defense, the last thing any of them needed was a duel. Her situation was dire enough as it was, without adding that to the mix.
She laid a restraining hand on Griffin’s forearm. Through the fine broadcloth of his coat, she felt the hard flex of muscle. “He’s not worth it, sir. Please just let him go.”
Griffin didn’t even spare her a glance. “I won’t allow you to spread any lies or insult the lady, Mulborne. Do you understand me? You will keep your disgusting comments to yourself.”
“Yes, yes, whatever you want,” Mulborne whined. His face had flushed bright red all the way up to his thinning hairline. “Just let me go, damn you!”
“Not before you apologize to the lady,” Griffin said in a soft but no less lethal voice.
“Very well,” the viscount grumbled, glaring at Justine. “Please accept my apology, Miss Brightmore. Can’t imagine for a moment why I said the things I did. They are clearly without any merit.”
Justine gritted her teeth, not missing the hatred and contempt in his gaze. There was, however, no point in raising objections. Her reputation was well and fairly ruined, and Lord Mulborne’s apology counted for nothing in the larger scheme of things.
But before she could respond, Griffin tightened his long fingers on the man’s arm, making the viscount gasp again with pain.
“Ah, but you entirely mistake the situation, Lord Mulborne,” Griffin said. “The lady no longer goes by the name of Miss Brightmore. She is now Mrs. Griffin Steele.”
“Drink this,” Griffin said in a dry voice as he handed Justine a generous glass of brandy.
She grimaced, rubbing the spot at the base of her neck where the accumulated tension of the morning produced a throbbing knot of pain. “I hardly think getting drunk will make this morning’s debacle any less of a disaster.”
“It couldn’t hurt. Besides, you’ve had quite a shock.”
He gently pried her hand away from her neck. “Your fingers feel like icicles.”
Justine’s pulse jumped at his touch. Flushing, she pulled her hand from his. “I thank you for your concern, but I’m perfectly well.”
His eyes narrowed with irritation. She was becoming familiar with that look, since she seemed to trigger it on a regular basis. It meant he was about to become stubborn and overbearing, and that he would no doubt start issuing orders. If there was one thing Justine had learned about her host over the last week, it was that he hated being denied.
“Very well, if it will make you happy,” she groused. He would simply nag at her until she complied.
She accepted the heavy cut-crystal tumbler and took a cautious sip. The liquid seared her throat, but a few moments later she felt the velvet burn slowly seep its way from her stomach into her veins. Not that she would ever tell him, but it did seem to warm her chilled limbs.
With a little nod, she tried to hand the glass back to him. He placed a finger under the bottom of the crystal and tipped it back up to her mouth.
“All of it,” he ordered.
She glared at him but capitulated, tossing back the liquid defiantly. Of course, that resulted in nothing more than a scorched throat and watering eyes as she struggled to recapture her breath.
“Better,” he murmured.
He relieved her of the glass and set it on his desk before pulling a leather club chair around to sit right in front of her. He watched her with a hooded gaze as she dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve.
They were back next door, where Griffin had marched her to his office. After he’d made the earth-shattering announcement to Viscount Mulborne that Justine was his wife—freezing everyone in place, including her—Griffin had sprung into action. He’d turned the viscount around by the shoulders and shoved him toward the door with a clipped order to the thunderstruck Phelps to clear the house of their unwelcome visitors.
The admonition had hardly been necessary, since Mulborne and his friends had been pathetically eager by then to be on their way.
Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom Page 11