Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(108)

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?”