Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(52)

The portly one, Phillips, finally began to look alarmed. “Um, perhaps we ought to shove off, Jerry. Miss Brightmore does appear to mean business.”

Mulborne laughed. “Ridiculous. She probably doesn’t even know how the damn thing works.” He bared his teeth in a ghastly smile. “You won’t shoot me, darling, will you?”

As Justine debated whether to shoot him in the arm or the leg, she caught a blur of motion out of the corner of her eye, but too late to prevent a long-fingered hand wrapping itself around her wrist, forcing her to point the pistol at the floor.

“She might not be able to shoot you, Mulborne,” Griffin Steele said in a voice as cold as death. A moment later, he’d deftly plucked the pistol from her hand. “But I will.”

Justine gaped at him, no doubt looking as stupid and surprised as every other person in the room. After a quick glance at her face, Griffin stepped in front of her, shielding her with his body. Irrationally, it made her anger spike.

“I’m perfectly capable of shooting a man,” she snapped.

“I’m ecstatic to hear that, my love,” he replied, not bothering to look back at her. “But I insist you allow me the pleasure of dealing with this tiresome situation.”

My love? Had everyone in this wretched house gone mad?

Before she could recover her wits enough to answer that question, Griffin had strolled across the plush carpet to confront Mulborne. The peer’s companions stumbled out of Griffin’s way, although the foreign gentleman remained where he was, barely moving but with an avidly curious expression on his face.

“Ah, Mulborne,” Griffin sighed as he stood toe to toe with the viscount. “I suppose I should have expected trouble from you after last night, but I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to darken my doorstep again. I clearly underestimated your tragic lack of brains.”

The viscount glowered at him. He topped Griffin by an inch or two and certainly outweighed him, but there was no doubt in Justine’s mind who was the most dangerous man in the room. Even she, who barely knew him, could tell that Griffin was quietly enraged. It radiated from his every pore, filling the room with a tension that made sweat prickle under her stays.

When Griffin turned his head to shoot a quick glance at the foreign gentleman, Justine caught her breath. Griffin’s handsome features were almost terrifyingly blank and calm, but his black gaze glittered with a cold fury she could only hope would never be directed her way. For the first time, she realized how he had attained his lethal reputation.

“Who is your friend, Mulborne?” Griffin asked. “I don’t recognize him.”

“Oh, that’s Count Marzano,” Phillips piped up anxiously. “He’s attached to the Papal Nuncio, or some such thing.”

The count bent an elegant head. “Mr. Steele? I am at your service.”

“I doubt that.” Griffin returned his attention to Mulborne. “I warned you last night never to come back here, did I not?”

“Your girl over there.” The viscount jerked his head at Patience, who by this time had inched behind Phelps. “She stole from me.”

“We put that canard to rest last night, my lord,” Griffin said. “My girls never fleece or cheat their customers. Now, I will ask you once more, with a courtesy you do not deserve, to leave the premises.”

For several fraught seconds, the two men eyeballed each other. As far as Justine could tell, Griffin’s anger was rapidly transforming into boredom. He went so far as to raise one eyebrow with polite incredulity, but there was no mistaking the deadly intent behind his words.