Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(48)

A terrified woman stood backed up against the marble surround of the fireplace. Patience wore a flimsy wrapper over her short linen chemise, her black, silky hair tumbling in a fall over her shoulders. Before her loomed a man in formal but disheveled evening wear that suggested he’d not yet been to bed. He also appeared foxed, weaving slightly as he jabbed an accusing finger at Patience.

“You doxy,” he snarled. “I know you took my money last night after I shagged you. I’ll have it back if I have to wring your bloody neck.”

Despite the vulgarity and sloppiness of his speech, his accent indicated a man from the upper classes. A spike of fury had Justine clenching her fingers tight. She forced herself to loosen her gun hand, so as not to accidently fire the pistol. But, God, she hated men like this—the drunken cads of the aristocracy. She’d seen too many of them in her short time out in society. That was one of the many things she’d been glad to leave behind when she moved to the country.

“That’s it, Jerry! Give the little slut what-for,” cried one of his companions.

As Maggie had claimed, the brothel had been invaded by four men. One was the aforementioned Jerry, and the other three clustered several feet back, egging on their friend. Like him, they were garbed in expensive evening attire that proclaimed their wealth and status. Like him, they appeared top-heavy.

“I didn’t steal your damn money,” Patience exclaimed with a show of spirit. The poor girl was trembling hard enough to set the lace ribbons on her wrapper to fluttering, but she was clearly ready to stand up for herself. “Mr. Steele pays us good blunt. We’ve got no need to pinch from our customers. Besides, if we did, he’d throw us out faster than you can say jackrabbit.”

Jerry leaned in with an awful sneer on his puffy, red face. “You’re a damn liar, and I’ll prove it.”

“That’s it, Jer,” shouted one of the men, a beefy fellow who looked to be in his midtwenties. Justine had the uneasy feeling she should know him. “Maybe she’s got your blunt on her. Rip her damn clothes off and search her.”

When one of the other men called out a hearty approval of that plan, Jerry grabbed for Patience. She cried out and pressed her shoulders into the hard mantel, penned in with no escape.

“Gentlemen, you will cease this unruly behavior this instant,” Justine exclaimed, striding up behind the men. She kept the pistol hidden in the folds of her skirt—for now.

The men stumbled around to face her, peering at her with a mix of irritation and befuddlement. Justine met them look for look with the nastiest glare she could summon.

“You have no business forcing your way in here,” she said. “And shame on you for abusing this poor, defenseless girl.”

For a good ten seconds, a stunned silence reigned as the men took Justine’s measure. She did her best to preserve a calm exterior, although inside she was shaking. Not from fear of the men, necessarily, but more from her hatred of drama and confrontation.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” asked Jerry.

“Who I am is entirely beside the point.” Without turning, she sensed Thomas moving to stand behind her and her tense muscles relaxed a fraction. “You will leave this house immediately, because if Mr. Steele returns to find you threatening one of his girls, I assure you that the resulting scene will not be pleasant.”

While Justine had been talking, Patience had begun to slide sideways along the mantelpiece, moving with quiet stealth. Not quietly enough, though, since the loathsome Jerry jerked to attention and made a grab for her.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he snarled, snaking his hand inside the collar of her peignoir. “You come back here.”