Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(109)

“Aye. Me and the missus used to run a snug little tavern near Covent Garden. Mr. Griffin fetched up there one day when he just come to London.” He gave a funny little snort. “Skinny runt, he was, just a lad with nary a clue how to get on. My Ellie took pity on him and fed him now and a bit, just to keep him from starvin’. But he never forgot it, did Mr. Griffin. When he bought The Cormorant, he up and offered positions in his house, and happy to take them we were, too. We’d had enough of being on our own, all the care and worries on us and precious little help. We knew Mr. Griffin would take care of us.”


Justine leaned against the banister rail, fascinated by the glimpse into Griffin’s past. “And when was that, Phelps? When did you come to work for him?”

The narrow little man seemed to recollect himself. “Oh, years ago, missus,” he said with a vague wave. “I don’t rightly remember. You’d best ask Mr. Griffin if you really want to know.”

She gave him a polite smile at the answer that typically greeted any question posed about Griffin.

“He’s waiting for you in the library,” Phelps added as she crossed the entrance hall. “Will you be wanting any tea?”

Justine’s step hitched, but she managed to hold back her surprise. “No, thank you. Not this late.”

She continued across the hall, mentally wincing at the thought that she was so lamentably predictable when it came to Griffin. Part of her wanted to turn tail and flee up the stairs, but that would surely brand her as a coward.

What in heaven’s name was there to be afraid of, anyway? Nothing was going to happen between them, of that she was certain.

Justine slipped into what appeared to be a combination library and drawing room. It was probably the largest room in the house, she guessed, with one wall covered in floor-to-ceiling bookcases fashioned from polished rosewood. A great marble chimneypiece dominated another wall, topped by a magnificent pier glass in a gilded wood frame. Several brocaded chairs and sofas in muted shades of green and old gold were scattered in front of the chimneypiece, and an imposing rosewood desk stood at right angles to the bookshelves, clearly setting off that corner of the room as an office or study. All was pulled together by a plush carpet in shades of gold and cream that covered most of the floor’s surface. With the roaring fire behind noble brass dogs, the effect—despite the spaciousness of the room—was unexpectedly cozy, as if a large, happy family had just gone to bed, leaving the master to drink his brandy in peace.

Ensconced in a wing chair in front of the fireplace, and looking unnervingly like that imaginary lord of the manor, Griffin glanced over as she slipped into the room. He came to his feet with leisurely grace, placing his brandy on the small table beside his chair.

“I wondered when you would come exploring,” he said. “Is all well upstairs?”

She nodded, casting another curious glance around the room. Normally, Griffin insisted on a wealth of lamps and candles in any room he spent time in, clearly preferring a bright blaze of light and color. She’d always found it an ironic comment on a man whose life seemed to be lived in the shadows.

Tonight, however, there was only the crackling fire and a few branches of candles scattered about the room, barely illuminating the dim corners. Justine had become used to the bright lights and vibrant colors of Griffin’s house, and to the bustle of London. But now she found her body relaxing, seeming to breathe out a mental sigh of relief. These last few weeks had seen one assault after another on her senses and emotions. Only now, in the muted quiet of this lovely room, could she understand how much she’d been craving the peace and quiet of the country.