Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(17)

“Goodness,” she said in a faint voice.

When Dominic touched her on the shoulder, she slowly advanced into what was clearly a formal drawing room, but unlike any she had ever seen. Most of the furniture was in rich shades of yellow and red, as were the velvet draperies pulled back from the windows with heavy gold tassels. Several tables of varying sizes crowded the room, and an especially beautiful rosewood sofa table trimmed with inlaid brass held pride of place in the center of the room. Its top seemed to rest on the back of what she thought was a gryphon, with its dramatic clawed feet forming the base of the table.


Clearly, Mr. Steele had a flair for the dramatic as well as a rather arrogant sense of humor.

The other furniture consisted of daybeds and window seats, and a matched pair of needlework armchairs covered with red and pale purple carnations. The jumble of styles and bright colors, by any design logic Justine could think of, should have clashed and competed with each other. But everything worked in some odd fashion, giving the room warmth and light on a dreary winter’s morning. She’d always preferred a quieter, more elegant style, with pale, soothing colors, but something about the room struck her as . . . cozy, for lack of a better word. It was ridiculous, given the luxuriously decadent appointments in the room, but she couldn’t help thinking how lovely it would be to snuggle up with a book in front of the glowing coals in the cast-iron grate, surrounded by a wealth of comfort and heat.

With a touch on her elbow, Dominic steered her to a red velvet daybed that stood in front of the sofa table, silently urging her to sit. He took a seat across from her in one of the armchairs.

“Phelps,” he said pointedly, “would you inform Mr. Steele that we’ve arrived?”

The servant, who had been inspecting Justine with what appeared to be disapproval, snapped his gaze to Dominic. “Oh, sorry, Sir Dominic. Right away.”

“And have some tea brought up for Miss Brightmore.”

“Right you are, sir. Right away,” Phelps babbled, backing out the door.

“Gracious, what an odd man. He seems almost frightened of you,” Justine observed. “Are all the servants in Mr. Steele’s household so, ah, unusual?”

Dominic stretched his hands out to the warmth of the fire. “No, Phelps is in a category by himself. For some unaccountable reason, I seem to make him nervous. Griffin says it’s because he’s afraid I’m going to have him taken up by the law.”

Justine frowned. “Why would you do that?”

“I wouldn’t,” he replied. “But Phelps seems to take to heart my remarks that his master is little better than a crime lord. Griffin isn’t, although he hasn’t always walked on the right side of the law. At the moment, he’s ridding himself of his more unsavory businesses and investing his capital in respectable enterprises.”

Dominic hadn’t shared that pertinent piece of information until now. “I wonder what prompted him to make such a dramatic change.”

The gathering frown on his brow as he pondered his reply pricked Justine’s curiosity. She knew very little about his relationship with Mr. Steele, and had often wondered why her godparent would be friendly with a man of so disgraceful a reputation. When she’d asked him, he’d simply replied that he’d once been close to Mr. Steele’s mother, and still felt a sense of obligation to the son.

“That is a complicated question, my dear,” he finally replied. “I wonder if Griffin even knows the full answer to that.”

She was used to that sort of cryptic answer. After all, her father, Edward Brightmore, had until his death at the Battle of Salamanca been one of Dominic’s most trusted agents. Justine had managed her father’s accounts and even handled some of his more sensitive correspondence. Papa had trusted her completely, as had Dominic.