Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(50)

Resisting the impulse to pinch at the growing headache between her eyebrows, Justine sighed. “I never make empty threats, sir.”

And with that, she lifted her pistol and pointed it straight at him.





CHAPTER Eight



Papa had always told Justine that guns had a remarkable capacity to focus the mind. She couldn’t say with any confidence that her actions had cleared the minds of the drunken louts before her, but she’d sharpened their attention. They gaped at her, slack-mouthed and stupefied, trying to make sense of what their bleary eyes told them.

All but one. The man who had so clearly retained his wits looked anything but shocked. In fact, he seemed even more interested in her than he had a few moments ago, and wore a strangely disconcerting expression of satisfaction.

“Now, there’s no need to get testy, my girl,” Mulborne finally said, releasing his grip on Patience’s arm. Patience scuttled in the opposite direction and ducked behind a leather club chair, keeping its substantial bulk between her and her attacker.

“I’m not feeling the least bit testy,” Justine replied. “I am merely dismayed by your lamentable lack of manners. If, however, you agree to depart immediately, I will not be forced to relay every sordid detail of this episode to Mr. Steele. And I promise, Lord Mulborne, that I will raise your concerns with him. I’m sure he will be able to address them to your satisfaction.”

Patience started to protest, but Phelps hissed her to silence.

Mulborne tried to fall back on his dignity, drawing himself up to his full height and tugging down his rumpled white waistcoat. Sadly, the effect was ruined by the burgundy-colored splotch that marred the garment.

“Well,” he said, looking down his long nose at her, “when you state it like that, I suppose we must comply. But you can be sure I will put about how poorly I have been treated in this establishment. Whores pulling pistols on gentlemen trying to reclaim what’s rightfully theirs? It’s simply disgraceful.”

“Hold on, old boy,” said the portly one, digging Mulborne in the ribs as he stared at Justine. “Thing is, I don’t think that one is a whore. I know I’ve seen her somewhere before, but I can’t quite puzzle it out yet.”

Justine tried not to flinch. Behind her, Phelps muttered an inarticulate curse.

“I’ve never seen any of you before in my life,” Justine said in freezing tones. “Now, will you please do us all a favor and take yourselves off. Immediately.”

Ignoring her request, the tall, sandy-haired man snapped his fingers, recognition firing in his eyes. “I’ve got it,” he exclaimed. “She’s Ned Brightmore’s daughter. Julia, was it? One of those J names. I know that at least.”

He beamed at her, as if presenting her with a delightful gift. Justine could practically hear her reputation crack and crumble to dust before her eyes.

“You mean Justine Brightmore, Viscount Curtis’ niece,” exclaimed the portly one. “But that can’t be right—the man’s the worst high stickler I ever met. He’d fall down in a fit if one of his relations turned into a barque of frailty.” He peered at her, then shook his head. “Haven’t seen the gel in a dog’s age, so I don’t know if I would remember her from Adam. But if she is Miss Brightmore, how the devil did she end up at The Golden Tie?”

A horrible paralysis gripped Justine. She couldn’t move or utter a word. In fact, she could barely draw a breath. If she didn’t get her lungs working soon, she’d be the one to fall on the floor in a dead faint.