Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(47)

“Good God,” she muttered. “Is there no one in this blasted house who can help?”

“Cook went out to do the shopping, miss,” Maggie said, a little out of breath from all the rushing about. “It was just me in the kitchen when those men came banging on the door.”

“Well, that’s certainly convenient,” Justine said, frustration coloring her reply.

Maggie spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “It’s a whorehouse, miss. Nothing happens at this time of day.”

“Apparently. Now where is—”


A loud thump sounded overhead, followed by a shrill, female voice.

“They’re upstairs, miss,” Maggie said, anticipating her. “I’ll show you the way.”

The girl brushed past her and hurried to the front of the house. As Justine followed, she got a fleeting impression of rich opulence even more extravagant than in the house next door. The scents of perfume and tobacco hung in the air, but were neither oppressive nor vulgar.

Maggie led her to a set of stairs at the front of the house. “Upstairs, miss. They was in the drawing room when I left.”

As they went up, the voices got louder, and now Justine could hear masculine tones—outraged ones. Before she reached the top, she could see a room just to the right, its double doors flung open. A muscular young man in neat servant’s garb stood in the doorway, his shoulders hunched forward, looking ready to launch himself into the room. In a cluster farther down the hall, the young women who worked at The Golden Tie huddled in various states of undress, robes or shawls thrown over plain shifts. Some looked terrified while others simply looked furious.

Justine glanced over her shoulder at Maggie. “Tell the girls to keep back. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”

The maid nodded and clattered down the hall where she immediately engaged in high-pitched chatter with the other women.

The servant, probably Thomas, jerked around at the noise, his features stark with a mixture of anger and dismay. He sported a swollen cheek and a purpling left eye.

“Oh, no,” he groaned. “Where’s Phelps or Mr. Steele? We’re in a right pickle, here.”

“Thomas, is it? Phelps will be up in a minute,” Justine said in a firm voice. “Now, please step aside.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, miss. Those gentlemen are in a right foul mood, they are. Mr. Steele would have my head if anything happened.”

“Do they have one of the girls in that room?” she asked.

“Aye, poor Patience. And every time I try to get in there, two of those bastards come at me.”

Justine blew out an exasperated breath. “One would think that Mr. Steele could properly arm his servants for this sort of incident.”

Thomas turned fully around to face her, blocking the doorway with his formidable bulk. “Mr. Steele don’t like guns. He says that in the wrong hands they cause all kinds of trouble.”

Justine showed him her pistol. “I assure you, this particular gun is in the right hands. Now, move.”

Thomas gaped at her in almost comical surprise. “But, miss—”

Hearing raised voices in the room, including one of a clearly frightened woman, kicked Justine into action.

“For heaven’s sake, get out of the way,” she snapped, shoving past the footman.

As Justine swiftly assessed the scene before her, her heart gave a heavy thump. It was as bad as Maggie had described.

The large room was luxuriously appointed, with plush velvet divans and leather club chairs arranged in small, intimate groupings. A space in the middle of the room, covered by a thick cream and gold carpet but with no furniture, appeared almost as a stage. Everything about the drawing room indicated a place where customers could relax and drink—an enormous sideboard loaded with crystal decanters stood against a wall—while they met the girls and made their selections for the evening. The very thought made Justine’s gorge rise, but she forced it out of her mind and concentrated on the mess in front of her.