Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(19)

Even as she struggled not to bristle, she couldn’t help noting that although his voice hinted at the roughness of a street brawler, he spoke in cultured tones. That first element didn’t surprise her, but the last did. It warned her to beware of making quick assumptions about him.

Before she could make any kind of appropriate response, Steele turned his disgust on Dominic. “Good God, what have you done? You’ve brought me a lady, one barely out of the schoolroom. Have you gone mad?”


“Hardly just out of the schoolroom,” Dominic replied, resuming his seat. “Justine is entirely capable of doing what is required here.” He nodded at her. “Is that not correct, my dear?”

She also sat, smoothing her gloved hands down over the skirts of her mustard-colored pelisse. “I must believe so, Uncle Dominic, or you would not have asked me.” She couldn’t refrain from giving Steele a challenging look. “And for your information, sir, I am four and twenty. Well past the age of the schoolroom, to be sure.”

He stared back at her, sucking in an audible hiss of air. “Dominic, you brought your own niece to do this?” He looked genuinely horrified, but then a puzzled frown marked his brow. “I didn’t even know you had a niece, or any surviving family, for that matter.”

Dominic watched Steele with calculating interest. He obviously had some deep plan, one that eluded her at the moment but which obviously involved Steele and possibly her, too. Dominic had told Justine that he hadn’t been able to find anyone else to care for the infant—at least not anyone he could trust. The few female agents that could take on this sort of task were all unavailable. Not that Justine was one of his agents—anything but. Still, Dominic knew he could trust her, and from what he’d told her about the situation, trust and discretion were of primary importance.

But her instincts, finely honed after years of living with her father, pricked themselves to alert. Dominic was up to something, and Justine needed to factor that into her dealings with both him and Steele.

“Justine is not my niece. She is my godchild,” Dominic replied. “Her father was Edward Brightmore.”

Steele’s dark gaze flickered back to her as he took the matching armchair next to Dominic’s. He subsided with a negligent but elegant sprawl of limbs as he continued to study her.

“Ned Brightmore? He died a few years ago at Salamanca, did he not?”

When Justine nodded, she thought she detected sympathy in his gaze.

“My condolences, Miss Brightmore. He seemed to be a good man. Certainly better than most of the men of his class who walk through my doors.”

“You knew my father?” she asked with an eagerness that surprised her. She usually avoided talking about Papa. It was still too raw a wound to probe.

“You’ll find that Griffin knows most everyone in London,” Dominic responded.

“Yes, and most of them have been more than willing to allow me to fleece them, for which I am profoundly grateful,” Steele said in an acidic tone.

Justine was trying to decide whether to be horrified or not at the idea that her father had sampled the dubious delights of Steele’s gaming clubs and brothels when the arrival of the tea tray spared her the choice. As far as she knew, Papa had never gambled. And if he had visited the brothel next door, she did not want to hear about it.

Phelps set the tray on the sofa table in front of Justine, so she took it upon herself to serve. The strangeness of the situation made her head spin, but since she would be living in the Steele household for at least a few weeks, she might as well make herself useful.