Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(16)

Dominic flashed an apologetic smile as he led her up the shallow set of marble steps to the dark green door with its highly polished brass knocker. “Yes, and I’m a brute to send you into this without a proper rest, but Griffin’s last note sounded rather frantic, and he’s usually not one to exaggerate. Though it seems impossible one small baby could send an entire household into chaos, such appears to be the case.”

Chaos.

She hated that more than anything else. Still, there was no point in complaining. Best to get on with the job and wrestle order into the situation as soon as possible.

Justine gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. “You’re not to worry, Uncle Dominic. You know very well I’m fit as a fiddle. Besides, I don’t expect I’ll be getting much rest anyway, not with a little baby to care for.”

“Don’t you worry either,” Dominic said as he knocked. “You’ll have help.”

“Oh, yes. The ladies from next door,” she said, trying to sound as if working with prostitutes was nothing out of the ordinary. “I’m sure everything will be just fine.”

Justine often told herself that everything would be just fine, even when it clearly wouldn’t. It seemed to put her in a better frame of mind and give her a little boost of courage when facing a daunting situation. She’d faced more than a few of those in her twenty-four years, but this one was shaping up to be rather more challenging than she liked.

The door swung open. A wiry-looking man with a narrow face and long nose, dressed in plain black trousers and white shirt topped with a worsted gray vest, greeted them. Inexplicably, he took one look at Dominic and scuttled back, bobbing his head up and down like a drab little bird pecking at seeds.

“Sir Dominic, Mr. Griffin’s expecting you. In a right proper mood he is, too.” The odd man cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, as if expecting something alarming to emanate from the back quarters of the house.

“I expect he is, Phelps, although all seems quite calm right now,” Dominic replied as he ushered Justine in before him.

She cast a quick glance around as she stepped into the narrow hall. The lovely cream marble floor showed not a speck of dirt. The walls were painted a golden yellow, trimmed with elegant moldings in polished brown. For all she knew, she could have been stepping into a town house owned by any member of the aristocracy or the wealthy landed gentry rather than into the lair of one of London’s most notorious hellions.

Phelps eyed Justine with dubious curiosity before returning his attention to Dominic. “You might say that now, but you wouldn’t if you’d been ’ere last night.”

“Oh, what happened last night?” Dominic inquired.

“Gas,” Phelps said morosely as he took Dominic’s hat and greatcoat. “According to Rose.”

When Phelps dropped Dominic’s things on a chair and started down the hallway, Justine frowned. The man was clearly not a trained butler or footman. But Dominic’s only reaction was to give her an uncharacteristic wink as he waved her after the servant.

Justine followed in Phelps’ wake. While the house might have the external appearance of quiet elegance with its polished floors and elegant trim, it was clearly an unconventional household, as Dominic had already explained. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t ignore the small twist of anxiety in her stomach.

And she certainly was not looking forward to meeting the master of the house. Even she had heard rumors about Griffin Steele—years ago, while she still lived in London. None of those rumors displayed Mr. Steele to advantage.

Phelps opened a six-paneled door, painted in the same rich brown as the floor moldings, and stepped back to let them enter. Justine paused on the threshold, blinking at the vibrant colors that shimmered in the glow of giltwood wall lights on either side of the fireplace, a cut-glass chandelier, and matched sets of crystal and Wedgwood candlesticks scattered about the room. There was even a pair of Coalport Lustres on an occasional table by the window, for good measure.