Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(51)

“It is her,” Mulborne crowed. His eyes were bright with disdain and something else, something that made Justine’s skin crawl. “Now I remember her. She never finished her second Season. Never took, anyway. Too missish, and with that ridiculous red hair of hers.” An ugly leer parted his lips. “Although I’ve always wondered if the hair on her head matched the thatch over her cunny. I must say, I’d like to find out.”


“Here, now,” Phelps thundered. “You show some respect to the lady, or you’ll hear about it, you will.”

Justine closed her eyes, feeling sick to the depths of her soul. She’d been on the verge of denying everything, but Phelps had confirmed for everyone within hearing distance that she was exactly who they thought she was.

The sandy-haired man let out a low whistle. “Well, this is a pretty situation, ain’t it? Old Curtis’ niece working for Griffin Steele.”

Justine forced herself to speak. “For your information, I do not work at The Golden Tie.”

“Then what are you doing here, Miss Brightmore? Just visiting?” Mulborne taunted.

“I was next door,” she snapped. “And one of the—”

“Next door,” exclaimed the sandy-haired one. “At Griffin Steele’s house?”

The portly man, who had been staring at the floor as if trying to puzzle something out, glanced up and snapped his fingers. “Miss Brightmore dropped from sight when her father died. I’d bet my grandmother’s bonnet she took up with Steele somewhere along the line. He’s got a place out in the country—that’s likely where she’s been all this time.”

“By God, I bet you’re right, Phillips,” cried the sandy-haired man. “She must be Steele’s light o’ love!”

All three men roared with laughter, as if they’d just discovered the best joke in the world.

Justine had never thought it possible to be struck dumb with horror, thinking it only a cliché in gothic romances. But she realized now how apt the phrase truly was.

“Miss,” Phelps hissed in her ear. “We’ve got to get these blokes out of here before Mr. Griffin returns or there will be hell to pay.”

Justine clamped down on the panic twisting through her body. Whatever consequences stemmed from this incident, she’d deal with them later, after she’d routed the men from the house. Then she could go back to her room and fall apart.

“Quiet,” she said in a crisp voice. “Gentlemen, once again, I must ask you to leave. If you have any consideration or manners, you will do just that.” She flicked a glance at the elegantly garbed mystery man who hadn’t moved from his corner since Justine entered the room. “Sir, you seem to have some sense. Can you not persuade your friends to leave?”

He smiled that strange smile again and lifted his shoulders in an elegant shrug. “Your wish is my command, dear lady.”

Justine frowned, startled by the man’s accent. She couldn’t quite identify it, but thought it was Spanish, or possibly Italian.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Count Marzano,” Mulborne drawled. “I have no intention of leaving, not until I’ve finished my little chat with Miss Brightmore.” He ogled her, making his intentions clear.

Justine’s muscles trembled with fury, and her fingers clenched around the butt of the pistol. She realized she’d allowed the weapon to drop down to her side, barrel aimed at the floor. Slowly, she raised it, pointing it at Mulborne’s chest.

“Get. Out. Now,” she snarled.