Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(34)

Cradling the baby, she carefully went down the stairs, holding on to the banister. She followed the hallway toward the back of the house, pushed through the baize door, and descended a set of shallow steps to the kitchen. When she stepped inside, her slippers whispering on the flagstone floor, she wasn’t surprised to see Phelps checking the door to the yard behind the house, making sure it was bolted. As far as she could tell, he seemed to exist on only a few hours of sleep, and was always close by and ready to respond whenever needed.

Phelps glanced over his shoulder, his eyes going wide for a moment as he took in her state of undress. Then he looked at the baby in her arms and shook his head. “Little mite at it again, eh? Is it the colic?”

“No, thank goodness, but he is fussy and Rose needs her sleep. I thought I’d come down to the kitchen since it’s warmer for the baby, and make myself a cup of tea.”

Phelps pointed to one of the rush-bottomed chairs around the large kitchen table. “You sit yourself down, miss, and I’ll make it for you before I heads off to bed.”

Justine winced. “I hate to keep you from your rest, Phelps. You must be exhausted after such a long day.”

The wiry little man scoffed as he retrieved the kettle from the hob. “Not me, miss. You know what they say—I’ll sleep when I’m on the other side of the dirt.”

That did seem to be his prevailing philosophy, and he seemed to have a boundless supply of energy. She’d come to learn that Phelps functioned in a number of roles, including butler, valet, and general factotum.

There were other servants, of course. Mr. Phelps’ wife was cook and Tom Deacon, a rough and ready but intelligent man, was Steele’s business manager. There was also Clara Lewis, the Phelps’ daughter, and her husband, Joshua. Clara served as maid and Joshua was both groom and stableman.

Given Steele’s wealth, he could certainly afford more staff, but Justine had learned that he valued loyalty and privacy above all else. His staff had been with him for years, and they were slavishly devoted to him. Although not anything like the servants Justine was used to—they all spoke as if they’d been plucked from the stews around Covent Garden—they managed his house with quiet efficiency. And, thankfully, they had accepted Justine into the establishment with nary a shrug. They didn’t seem to care that she was a well-bred spinster living in rather scandalous conditions. As far as they were concerned, their master had approved her presence and that was all that mattered.

In this house, Steele’s word was gospel.

Justine settled into the chair, trying not to jolt little Stephen. His eyelids were starting to droop, but any noise or quick movement would startle him awake.

As Phelps bustled into the scullery to fetch water, Justine allowed herself to relax into the warmth of the cozy room. She sat at a long pine table, scrubbed and sanded to a high state of cleanliness, across from the fireplace and the cast-iron range. Two large dressers held pots, crockery, and dishes, one of them beneath a high window looking out to the yard that during the day let in a fair amount of light. The altogether tidy and straightforward kitchen appealed to Justine’s domestic soul. She supposed that revealed a sad lack of imagination on her part, but she truly preferred it to most of the other rooms in the house, despite their luxury and sybaritic comfort.

Of course, she could appreciate luxury as much as the next person, but she’d always preferred a simpler approach to life. But simple and uncomplicated would certainly not describe either Griffin Steele or his business dealings and way of life.

Phelps returned from the scullery to place the kettle on the hob before he stoked up the coals in the grate. He prepared the teapot and placed it on the table in front of her, along with a sturdy mug from a shelf, the sugar bowl, and a small pitcher of milk.