Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(138)

“Well, yes, I would,” she said, her heart sinking a bit.

Griffin had clearly used the surgeon’s interruption to regain control over his emotions. Unlike before, his manner was now cool and faintly sardonic, and the tension she’d felt from him earlier had dissipated. Still, at least he was willing to speak about it, which she counted as progress. Normally, when Griffin declared a topic as taboo, it was well nigh impossible to shift him.

“Very well,” he said, taking the seat across from her. His habitual, languid sprawl indicated that his usual persona was firmly in place. “What would you like to know?”

“When did you find out that your mother was still alive?”

“Shortly after my fourteenth birthday. My uncle was on his deathbed after an apoplectic fit that almost killed him. I suppose his conscience troubled him, because before he drew his last breath he told me that my mother had not, in fact, died of a fever. When she finished school, she was put in service to a woman who lived outside of Leeds. My uncle, of course, had known this all along, but in his infinite wisdom had decided I was better off an orphan than tainted by any contact with my mother.”

Justine’s heart ached, both for the little boy and for the man who sat before her. Griffin might have a tight hold over his emotions, but she couldn’t miss the bitterness in his voice or the bleakness in his eyes.

“What an unkind man your uncle was,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “It’s a miracle you turned out as well as you did, given so bad influence on you.”

Her reply seemed to surprise him. “I suppose he thought he was doing the right thing by me.”

“You have a great deal more charity than he did,” she said. “What did you do with this knowledge?”

He was staring at her with an odd expression on his face, but then he shook it off. “I went through his papers and found the address where she was in service. Then I went looking for her.”

Justine stared at him, aghast. “You went to Leeds, by yourself?”

“Of course.”

“How did you get there? What did you use for money?”

He gave her a lopsided grin. “I cleaned out my uncle’s money box. There wasn’t much there, but enough to book me passage on the mail coach and pay for my meals. I also lifted some of his personal belongings—anything I could carry with me and later pawn.”

Justine rested her forehead on her palm, torn between horror and laughter. “For a boy raised in a vicarage, you took to a life of crime rather quickly.”

“Apparently I had an innate talent,” he said drily.

“Obviously. Were you able to find your mother?”

His smile faded. “Unfortunately, no. The woman who employed her, a Mrs. Lamotte, had died a few years before. She was wealthy but fairly reclusive, a Quaker who lived quietly. Shortly after she died the house was shut up and the servants moved on to other jobs.”

“And you heard nothing more about your mother?”

He shrugged, his gaze moving away from her to the darkness of the winter’s night outside the window. “I couldn’t find anything more. But I was only a boy, with few means at my disposal. I spoke to a few people who remembered Mrs. Lamotte, but no one had ever heard of a Chloe Steele.”

Justine shook her head. “But I don’t understand. Why did your mother not attempt to get in touch with you? Even if your uncle was determined to keep you apart, surely she could have found a way.”

When he met her gaze, what she saw in his eyes made her shiver. “Obviously, she didn’t want to. What woman in her right mind would want such a mistake thrown back in her face every bloody day of her life? Either that, or she had a heart of stone.”