Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(46)

“Rose, go with the children and lock the door. Don’t come out until either I or one of the servants comes for you.”

Rose started to protest, but Justine cut her off. “Just do it,” she snapped, extracting her pistol from beneath a shawl in the drawer.

Whatever protest Rose was about to raise died on her lips. She and Maggie froze in an almost comical tableau, staring at the weapon in Justine’s hands.

“Is that loaded?” Rose asked in a faint voice.

“Of course.” That was another thing Papa had taught Justine—to be ready for any problem that might crop up. When she was younger, she’d thought it ridiculous that her father had insisted she always have a weapon close at hand to protect herself, but over the years it had become a habit. For once, she was very glad the habit had stuck.

She grabbed Maggie by the elbow and steered her to the door. “Get in the room now, Rose,” she tossed back over her shoulder. “And don’t come out no matter what you hear.”

Understanding dawned on Rose’s face. “Don’t worry, miss,” she said in a grim voice. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to little Stephen.”

Justine heard the bedroom door slam and lock behind her. She let go of Maggie’s arm and rushed down the stairs, holding the pistol pointed at the floor in one hand and her skirts up with the other. When she came to the bottom, she headed for the back of the house where the corridor branched off either to the kitchen or to the brothel next door. She called for Phelps, although she suspected he was out. He surely would have responded to all the commotion if he’d been home.

The door to the kitchen flew open and Mrs. Phelps, a short, plump woman, stood in the doorway, an alarmed expression on her normally cheerful face. “Lord, Miss Justine, whatever is the matter? You gave me such a start!”

“There’s a problem next door,” Justine rapped back. “Is Phelps or Joshua about?”

“Joshua went out in the carriage with Mr. Steele, but Phelps just stepped out to the mews. Do you want me to fetch him?”

“Yes, hurry. Some men have forced their way in next door and are raising a commotion. I’m going over there with Maggie now.”

Mrs. Phelps slapped a dramatic hand to her ample bosom. She’d clearly been in the middle of baking because a little cloud of flour puffed up from her bodice. “Lord, miss, whatever are you thinking? You can’t go over there—what if someone were to see you? Think of the scandal!”

Justine ran straight into a mental wall. She hadn’t even considered that problem, which only showed how fuzzy-headed with fatigue she was.

“Let me fetch my husband,” Mrs. Phelps said in a determined voice. “You wait here.”

“There’s no time,” cried Maggie. “One of those awful men dragged poor Patience out of her bed and was shaking her up something fierce.”

Silently cursing, Justine knew what she had to do. “I’ll come right away. It’s unlikely that anyone will recognize me, especially four drunken louts. I haven’t been in London in over two years, and I never went about much as it was.”

Mrs. Phelps waved her apron in distress. “Mr. Steele will have my head, miss. Besides, what can you do to stop them?”

When Justine raised her pistol, the other woman’s jaw went slack. “Now stop wasting time and go fetch Phelps,” Justine ordered. She spun on her heel and strode along the narrow passage, little more than a long closet that ran between the two town houses. It opened up on the service floor of the brothel, right outside the kitchen. Justine pushed open the swing door but the room, as neat and well-ordered as the kitchen next door, was deserted.