Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(4)

Still, some enterprising or desperate woman might try to pin the charge on him, hoping to squeeze him for money. Griffin’s reputation when it came to matters of a sexual nature was exaggerated. He was more discriminating than anyone gave him credit for, unlike Prinny and some of his other royal uncles who couldn’t seem to resist an attractive bit of tail to save their lives. Griffin also made a point of never sleeping with a woman whilst in his cups. He’d learned early on that losing control of oneself only led to trouble. On the few occasions when he did indulge in drink, he generally did it in private, or with the few people he trusted to have his back.

He pushed through the baize door and into the entrance hall. A moment later he practically skidded to a halt, with Tom almost ramming him in the back.

There was a baby, all right. It was wrapped in a white blanket, resting in a commodious straw basket, which someone had plopped into the middle of the tiled hall. Griffin couldn’t actually see the infant from where he stood, but he could hear its woeful crying. Its thin wail climbed up into a higher register, rapidly transforming into a lusty, keening lament that bounced off the plastered walls to make everyone wince.

“Nothin’ wrong with that set of lungs,” Tom observed in a sour voice.

Griffin resisted the impulse to jam his fingers in his ears as he inspected the other stranger. A small boy of not more than ten years of age, clearly a street urchin, stood by the basket, shifting uncomfortably as he rolled his ratty cap between nervous fingers. Hovering behind the boy with a pained look on his narrow features was Phelps, Griffin’s manservant and factotum.

“What the hell is going on?” Griffin asked in a voice loud enough to be heard over the wailing. “Phelps, why in God’s name would you let these brats into the house?”

“Couldn’t really stop the boy, Mr. Griffin,” Phelps said with a helpless shrug. “He slipped right under my arm before I could say nary a word.”

Griffin turned to the urchin. Despite his scruffy appearance, intelligence gleamed in the lad’s eyes, along with a wary curiosity. Nor could he fail to note the way the child’s gaze jumped from point to point, obviously taking in the highly polished wall sconces and the brass hardware on the doors.

“Don’t even think about it,” Griffin said in a dry voice.

The boy’s eyes widened in an imitation of innocence. “Got no idea what you’re talking about, guv.”

“I’m fairly sure you do. Now, tell me who you are and why you brought this child into my establishment.”

Just then, the baby’s cry kicked up to a deafening level. Tom actually did stuff his fingers in his ears.

“Hellfire and damnation, Phelps,” Griffin exclaimed. “Pick the child up and keep it quiet. I can barely think with that racket going on.”

Phelps, a wiry, capable man who once owned a rough and tumble pub in Covent Garden, backed away, putting up his hands as if warding off an attack. “Sorry, sir. I’m afraid I’ll drop it. Never did go in much for babies.”

“Phelps, you raised a daughter, remember? She works in this very house. Surely you held her on more than one occasion,” Griffin replied, exasperated.

“Aye, and I loves her like my life, but I didn’t much enjoy holding her, neither. Not when she squalled like that.”

“Pro’ly just needs its nappy changed,” observed the boy with the trenchant wisdom of one who had younger siblings.

Griffin turned to Tom, who backed right up to the baize door looking even more panicked than Phelps.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Griffin muttered.