Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(27)

Justine was folding up her unfinished letter, but at Rose’s words she shot her a quick glance. “Does he have a violent temper?” A horrible thought congealed inside her like a lump of ice. “He’s never hit you or any of the other girls, has he?” Though she had not thought it of him, why should she make that assumption? She knew nothing of the man.


Rose snorted as she eased down on the bed next to the baby. “Not him, love. The only time I’ve ever seen him take fists to anyone is when someone tried to hurt one of the girls. Mr. Griffin’s thrashed more than one cove for treating us badly. He’s not as big as the footmen at The Golden Tie, but he’s strong and quick as lightning. He’d rather kill a man than see any of us hurt,” she finished in a proud voice.

“Oh, that’s good,” Justine replied, not quite sure how she felt about that. It heartened her to hear that he cared so greatly about his employees, but she couldn’t feel comfortable with such violent tendencies.

“Mr. Griffin’s not the sort to fly off the handle. That’s not his style,” Rose said, clearly enjoying a little gossip.

“Then what did you mean by not getting on his bad side?” Justine asked as she smoothed down her skirts and checked to make sure her cap was straight.

“If he’s mad, he gets all cold like. He never yells, but his voice goes all hard and the look in his eyes . . .” Rose gave a dramatic shiver, as if she were reciting a thrilling ghost story. “Well, let’s just say it’s like to freeze a body right to her bones. And if you really gets him mad, then bad things can happen. Things you don’t want to hear about.”

Justine almost shivered, too. “What sort of things?” she whispered, unable to keep from asking.

Rose scrunched up her face in a comical grimace. Justine would have been tempted to laugh if the subject wasn’t so unsettling.

“Lord, miss. I don’t rightly know. Mr. Griffin takes care of his people, so I can’t say as I’ve ever seen anything particularly horrible. But I’ve heard rumors.” She solemnly tapped her nose.

Justine conducted a short debate with herself, trying to decide if she actually wanted details of those rumors.

Fortunately, Rose abruptly switched the topic. “Miss Justine, it’s beyond me why you wear those fusty old caps, and you with that beautiful hair. I’ll wager you’re not three and twenty, so there’s no cause to look like an old tabby.”

Justine fetched the wool shawl draped at the foot of her bed, wrapping it around her shoulders. “I’m almost twenty-five, Rose, and quite firmly in the spinster category. Besides, my hair isn’t beautiful. It’s red.”

She couldn’t keep distaste from creeping into her voice. Her hair, although thankfully a bit darker now, had been the bane of her youth, prompting merciless rounds of teasing from her cousins and even her brother. Aunt Elizabeth, the woman who had raised her and Matthew after Mamma’s death, had always insisted that Justine’s tresses reminded her of the Celtic princesses of old, and that she should consider them her crowning glory. Though Justine loved her dearly, her aunt had always been prone to flights of fancy, like imagining her niece as a descendant of ancient royalty.

“There’s many a man that has a fancy for hair like yours,” Rose said. “It makes them curious about other things, if you take my meaning.”

Justine didn’t, but that wasn’t surprising. She didn’t understand half the things Rose said, which showed how boring and sedate her life had been for the last few years.

Thank God.