Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(30)

“Of course I do, Uncle Dominic,” she said with a warm smile. “You must know that I will do everything I can to help.”

“Would that you could help find this unfortunate baby’s parents so he could be returned to them posthaste,” Steele interjected in a long-suffering tone.

“I don’t know why you should complain, since Justine and Rose have largely relieved you of any inconvenience in this matter,” Dominic responded tartly.

Steele flicked his penetrating gaze to Justine. “One might think so, but then one would be wrong.”

She frowned. Could no one in this house speak in a straightforward fashion, in terms she could understand? There had been moments since arriving in Steele’s household when she imagined she’d been cast adrift in a foreign land, without knowing a word of the language.

“Then you’ll be happy to hear I have some news on that front,” Dominic said.

Steele’s elegant sprawl remained unchanged, but Justine had the uncanny sense he’d suddenly come alert. That was another thing she found so disconcerting—a heightened awareness of him whenever he was near. It was as if every nerve in her body pealed like a bell in response to him.

“I am all eagerness to hear this news,” he drawled.

Instead of responding, Dominic fished something out of his waistcoat pocket and handed it to Justine. It was a black velvet pouch, the kind used to carry jewelry. When she tilted her head in inquiry, her godparent nodded at her to open it.

Justine tipped a heavy gold signet ring into her palm. “Goodness,” she breathed, holding it up to the light. “Is this the ring that was tucked in Stephen’s basket?”

“It is,” Dominic replied. “What do you make of it?”

She peered at it from various angles. “It looks very old. Several centuries, I would guess.”

“Fourteenth, or possibly fifteenth century,” Steele said in a quiet voice, leaning forward to look at the ring.

Justine blinked. What would a man like him know about antique jewelry?

“Yes, I would say that’s correct,” Dominic said. “What else can you make out, Justine?”

She squinted at the engraved motto circling the crest. “My Latin is rusty . . . something about a wolf and not irritating, I think.”

“Irritate not the wolf,” Steele said.

She couldn’t help gaping at him. “You read Latin?”

His upper lip curled in a disdainful sneer. “I’m not a complete ignoramus, Miss Brightmore.”

Justine winced, annoyed that she’d allowed herself to be surprised into rudeness. “Forgive me, sir,” she said quietly. “I meant to suggest nothing of the kind.”

When he continued to inspect her with the same sardonic expression, her annoyance turned outward. “It’s simply that one doesn’t expect someone in your particular line of work to be a Latin scholar,” she said. “It hardly seems a useful skill amongst the muslin company.”

When his eyes widened a fraction, Justine wanted to kick herself. Why did she allow him to provoke her into such uncharacteristic behavior? She was acting as badly as he was, and he would surely bite her nose off for it.

But to her surprise, his eyes lightened with reluctant amusement. “Touché, Miss Brightmore. I suppose I walked right into that.”

“You certainly did,” replied Dominic as he retrieved the ring.

“It’s that bloody lace cap,” Steele complained. “You don’t expect cutting remarks from someone who tricks herself up like a dim-witted spinster.”