Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(49)

Justine heard a commotion out in the hall, and then Phelps appeared by her side, carrying a . . . rolling pin. Ignoring her startled glance, he scowled at the aristocratic intruders. “Here, now, what’s occurring? You gentlemen best take yourselves off before Mr. Steele and Mr. Deacon get back, else you’ll find yourselves at the wrong end of their fists.”


That set off another round of loud insults and aggrieved claims that Patience had stolen Lord Mulborne’s purse. When Justine heard the man’s name, her stomach thudded to the floor. She didn’t recall meeting Lord Mulborne, but she’d danced once or twice with his younger brother, Reggie. As for one of the other men, the portly one, she had a sinking feeling that she had met him at one point or another.

While Phelps argued with Lord Mulborne and his portly friend, Justine anxiously scanned the features of the other two men. One of them, a tall, thin man with sandy hair who was wearing a bright scarlet waistcoat, also looked vaguely familiar. Fortunately, he seemed too inebriated to fully take in what was happening around him, although he now seemed more interested in staring at her than at Patience.

As for the fourth member of the group, he struck her as . . . different. He was a handsome man with a smooth, olive complexion and wavy black hair, and he was as expensively garbed as the other three society bucks. But, unlike his friends, this man was neat as a dandy. His coat was without a wrinkle, his satin breeches showed not one speck of dirt, and his cravat looked as fresh as if he’d tied it only moments ago. Even his evening cloak, thrown carelessly back over his shoulders, looked pristine. And, as was evident by the clear-eyed, calculating way his gaze skipped around the room, analyzing everything in its path, the man was most decidedly not drunk. In fact, he looked as sober and rational as a judge, which led Justine to wonder what he was doing in the company of three jug-bitten louts.

At that very moment, his restless gaze fastened on her. They stared at each other, and then the oddest thing happened. A rather chilling smile lifted the edges of his full lips, and his dark eyes seemed to blaze with satisfaction. Not put out by the way she was glaring at him, he gave her a friendly nod, as if to say, “Ah, yes. I’ve been wondering where you’ve been hiding yourself.”

The prickling feeling that boded no good rushed back at her with twice the strength. Something was very wrong with the little scene playing out in front of her, and she was convinced there was more to it than Lord Mulborne’s missing purse.

Justine raised a hand and chopped it down in the air. “That’s quite enough,” she announced loud enough to be heard over all the competing voices. Every instinct she possessed was urging her to end this scene now and eject the men from the house so she could check on Rose and the baby.

At her intervention, the clamor ceased. She’d once again captured the attention of everyone in the room and she intended to use it.

“Lord Mulborne,” she said in a frosty voice, “you and your friends will leave this house immediately. If you do not, you will indeed be sorry. When Mr. Steele returns, you may apply to him directly with your concerns. But right now you will leave.”

Mulborne blinked at her, looking quite like an owl but not nearly as intelligent. Then the ugly sneer returned to his wet mouth. “Why should I take orders from another of Steele’s doxies? Do you really think your pathetic servants with their . . . rolling pins . . .” He and his drunken friends paused to let out hearty guffaws. “Do you think you will get rid of us so easily? I think not.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Stop making empty threats and run along before I turn my attention to you.”