Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(99)

The baby was her responsibility now, but it was more than that. He’d come to recognize her, greeting her with sweet smiles and cooings whenever she walked into the room, always eager to come into her arms. The idea that something might have happened to him, and that she hadn’t been there to try to prevent it, made her chest ratchet tight.

Just as she was about to defy her husband’s orders and get down from the carriage, the door opened. Griffin stood there, holding out his hand to help her down. His features were arranged in a calm mask, but his dark gaze sparked with anger.

“What is it? Has someone been hurt?” she blurted out.

“No, everyone’s fine. I promise.” He waved her forward. “Come, Justine. You’ve been sitting in the cold long enough.”

She took his hand and let him guide her down to the pavement. She cast a glance up and down the street, but she saw only a small group of inebriated young men, loudly carousing as they stumbled their way in the direction of St. James. There was nothing unusual about that, especially at this time of night.


“Whatever is the matter?” she asked, peering past Griffin at Mr. Deacon standing in the doorway of the house, looking as harsh as a stone gargoyle. A gargoyle holding a pistol, that is.

“Inside first,” Griffin snapped out as he tugged her under the portico.

Justine cast him a startled look. She’d seen him when he was angry, she’d seen him at his most seductive, and she’d seen him adopt any number of negligent, sardonic poses. But she’d never seen him so obviously livid. His hand on her elbow gripped her almost to the point of pain as he shoved her into the hall, though she was certain he was unconscious of it. There was an urgency to his movements that signaled how clearly he wanted her safe indoors.

Only when the heavy oak door had slammed shut behind them did he loosen his hold on her arm. And in the light cast by the lamps in the hallway she could see how tight-lipped he was, the skin around his mouth white with anger.

“What has happened?” she asked again as she yanked off her cloak and thrust it at Phelps, who had silently appeared from behind Mr. Deacon’s bulky form.

“Armed men broke into the house,” Griffin replied as he shrugged out of his greatcoat.

Justine sucked in a shocked breath. “They dared to break into your house? They must have been mad!”

No one in London’s criminal underworld—no one in his right mind, at least—would dare to attack Griffin in so foolhardy a manner. There was much she didn’t know about her new husband’s history, but she knew that. How much of his reputation could be put down to rumor or truth was an open question. What was not at issue, however, was that Griffin protected his people, and that anyone who crossed him suffered swift retribution.

Justine glanced around the hall, finally taking in the disorder. The large pier glass by the door was cracked, as if someone had slammed into it, and the night porter’s chair was tipped sideways. The candlesticks on the narrow table against the wall had been knocked over, dripping wax along the polished mahogany surface to the floorboards.

“Who would do such a thing?” she asked in disbelief.

Griffin exchanged a hooded glance with Mr. Deacon. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I intend to find out.”

Justine’s instincts told her that he was withholding something from her. That same instinct counseled her to hold her fire, for the present.

“Where are Rose and the babies?” she asked.

“In the kitchen, Mrs. Steele,” Deacon answered.

Justine hurried down the hall and below stairs, practically running. Her heart thudding, she thrust open the door to the kitchen. When she saw Rose and Mrs. Phelps, each holding a baby, she sagged against the door frame with relief. “Is everyone all right?”