Teresa Medeiros - Once An Angel

customer caught her by the back of her dress and lifted her high.

"There now, little one, quit squirming. You mustn't be such a wicked gel. Wicked gels end up in jail,

you know."

He lowered her, but before she could flee, a uniformed constable caught her arm and wrenched it behind her back. The tart slipped from her fingers and plopped into the dirty snow. A heartbroken wail escaped her.

Caught in an implacable tangle of arms and legs, she fought wildly. Her foot connected with the shin of one of the constables with a satisfying thud. The other one howled as her teeth sank into his wrist. The shawl slid from her hair.

"Stand back, lad!" one of them shouted. "We don't need no crowds. She's a rabid wench."

A hand caught in her curls and tugged her head straight back, stilling her struggles. Tears of pain stung

her eyes.

"Aye, a rabid wench she is. But don't worry, gents. I'll muzzle her right and proper."

As Emily stared up into black, beady eyes glistening with lust and greed, she moaned in utter dread.

He jerked her hard against him and grinned at the gaping constables. "Mr. Barney Dobbins, mates, at

yer service."

* * *

Somewhere a child was laughing.

Justin sat bolt upright in bed. His heart pounded in his throat, deafening him for a long moment before

the shift of the coals on the fire penetrated his panicked haze. The blankets bound his legs in tangled cords, as twisted as the dreams that haunted his waking hours, and made sleep a nightly torment.

There was something he should know. Something hovering at the edge of his nightmares, taunting him.

He threw back the heavy drapes of the bed and struggled out of the feather tick. Like everything else

in this house, the bed was a monstrosity. Every inch of the dark mahogany had been carved with the serpentine vines and pronged leaves of miniature Venus's-flytraps. He dreaded climbing into it each

night for fear the mattress would swallow him without a trace.

A thread of light shone beneath Penfeld's adjoining door. The valet never slept without his lamp lit. Justin pulled a dressing gown over his nakedness, wishing light were enough to keep his own demons at bay.

He marched down the long, curving staircase, raking his hair out of his eyes. No one would dare trouble him. The servants had grown accustomed to him prowling the house at all hours. They gave him wide berth, frightened of the gaunt shadows beneath his eyes. He was beginning to feel as mad as they must think him.

He was the Duke of Winthrop now. He could buy a dozen gold mines. He could travel to Vienna and study music, as he had always longed to do. He could rent an opera house to feature nothing but his own symphonies night after night. But all he craved was the warmth of sunlight on his face and the music of Emily's laughter.

His shin slammed into a wooden pedestal in the dark and he bit off an oath. There wasn't an inch of

grace or simplicity to be found in this cramped house. He grabbed the teetering vase atop the pedestal

and threw it. It shattered against the far wall with a satisfying crash. Somewhere in the house a door closed as a curious servant beat a wise retreat.

The moon-drenched drawing room beckoned him. He slid onto the piano bench and sat in brooding silence. The snow lay in a serene blanket beyond the tall windows. Midnight bells chimed in the distance, and he realized with a shock that it was Christmas Eve.

Christmas Eve. The night when hope had first entered the world. But not for him. Not while David's

child was out there somewhere, shivering in the dark. To him, the echo of the bells sounded the death knell of his dreams.

He lifted his gaze to meet the impassive blue eyes of Claire Scarborough's doll. She reigned on the piano with the aplomb of a ragged little queen. No one had dared to do so much as dust her since Justin had placed her there. He glared at her now, almost hating her for the secrets she withheld. What would she say if she could speak? Would she curse him, reproach him for his terrible cowardice?

He crooked his fingers over the keys and began to play. He chose not his own music, but the melancholy strains of Beethoven's "Fur Elise". Instead of losing himself in the music as he'd hoped, the notes flailed him like exquisite barbs.

What a fool he had been! He had let go of Emily to chase a phantom. Now he had neither.

He felt as if he were moldering in this mausoleum. He hungered to feel the powdery sand between his toes, to hear Trini's sonorous laughter and the welcoming song of the Maori shimmering on the balmy air. His hands flew over the keys, stroking, caressing the smooth ivory as he longed to caress the heated satin of Emily's skin. But how could he face her, knowing he had abandoned David's child to the merciless streets of London? Emily deserved more in life than a desolate man crippled by guilt.

His hands faltered. His fingers were stiff and callused, his left hand still inflexible from lack of practice. He struck the wrong note, then slammed his fist down on the keys in a burst of despair.

The discordant notes jarred the air. Justin dropped his face into his hands. Emily's features were already growing misty in his memory, blurring like a hazy watercolor into another face, a face he knew as well

as his own.

A polite cough broke the silence. Justin's head flew up. A dark shape was silhouetted against the moonlight, and for one crazy moment he thought it was David's ghost.

Bentley Chalmers's clipped tones rang out. "They've found her, sir."

Justin blinked, fighting to clear the fog of confusion from his brain. His thoughts were so rife with Emily that for a weary moment he didn't know who the man was talking about-Emily or Claire?

Chalmers turned his bowler in his hands. "They've found the girl, sir. She's alive."

"Alive?" he whispered.

The piano keys blurred before his grateful eyes, and a chiming carol broke free in his head as if all the bells of London had started to ring at once.

"Criminy, Penfeld, I asked to be shaved, not beheaded." Justin bit back a yelp as the razor nicked his throat.

Penfeld dabbed at the welling dollop of blood with a towel, his hands shaking visibly. The water in the ceramic washbasin at his elbow was stained a pleasant shade of pink. "I am frightfully sorry, sir. I must confess I'm a bit nervous myself."

"You're nervous? What about me? I've never been a father before." He ducked beneath the approaching blade and bounded out of the chair to the mirror. Stroking the foreign smoothness of his chin, he cocked his head sideways, studying his profile. "Do I look like a suitable papa?"

Beaming proudly, Penfeld wiped the soap from the gleaming blade with a flourish. "The very model of paternal decorum."

Justin flicked a stray hair from the shoulder of his coat, then cast the ebony strands scattered around his chair a rueful glance. "I hope this is worth it. I feel naked."

"But you look splendid."

Justin jerked his coat straight, then reached to his chest for a watch that wasn't there. He remembered

the last time he had seen it, gleaming against the satin of Emily's skin. A smile touched his lips. If things went well today, he would retrieve it soon enough.

"What time is it, Penfeld?"

The valet checked his own watch. "Eleven-oh-two, sir, approximately three minutes since you last asked."

"Eleven-oh-two? Oh, dear God." He paced to the door, then stopped with his hand on the knob. "Is my tie crooked?"

It wasn't, but Penfeld dutifully straightened it. Justin marched to the door again, but faltered halfway there.

His massive bed was swimming in a frivolous sea of lace and velvet. Sweeping away a dainty chintz frock, he sank down on the edge of the mattress and hooked his heels beneath the tester to keep from being sucked into a whirlpool of tiny silk gloves and mink muffs.

"In a few minutes David's daughter is going to walk through that front door. The first thing I must do is tell her the truth about her father." He lifted his bleak gaze to Penfeld. "How will I find the courage?"

"Shall I tell her, sir?"

A rush of affection flooded Justin. Penfeld had been known to blanch with terror at the mere sight of a child. "No. But you are a treasure to offer."

Emboldened by Penfeld's devotion, he jumped to his feet. "One more thing."

"Yes, sir?"

Justin gave him his warmest smile. "Merry Christmas, Penfeld."

The valet snapped to attention. "And a merry Christmas to you, too, sir."

* * *

As Justin strode down the corridor, a cheery whistle rose unbidden to his lips.

"Good morning, Mary," he called out, startling a shocked maid into dropping her load. Little polished boots and kid slippers scattered across the plush carpet. As he tripped down the stairs, one of his brothers-in-law passed him, his long nose tucked into a newspaper. "And a good day to you, Harvey," Justin said.

"Harold," the man mumbled, turning the page.

Justin stopped, frowned, then bounced back up three steps and peered into the man's face. "Why, I'll

be damned, it is Harold, isn't it!"

As he hit the bottom step, he grinned to discover the first floor of the mansion in utter chaos. Servants scurried from room to room, polishing gas lamps, scrubbing the baseboards, and draping the banisters with fragrant garlands of cedar.

A toothless cook thrust a tray of steaming biscuits under his nose. "Thirty dozen, Yer Grace, just as

you asked for."

The delicious aroma filled his nostrils. "Mmmm. Superb, Gracie! Did you bake any with raisins?

Children like raisins, don't they?"

"Mine allus did, sir."

He tweaked her plump cheek. "Twelve dozen more, then. Loaded with raisins."

"Aye, my lord. Right away." She bobbed a curtsy and scampered back toward the kitchen.

A disgruntled butler caught his elbow. "I really must protest, my lord. Someone has left a pony in the library."

Justin didn't even slow. "Imagine that. Take him into the ballroom. He'll have more room to frolic."

He came to a dead halt at the door of the drawing room, his eyes misting with wonder. Within the meager space of a day, the room had been transformed into a Christmas miracle. A towering tree crowned the corner, tickling his nose with the pungent scent of spruce. Edith perched on a ladder, lighting the tiny candles nestled in its boughs while his younger sisters, Lily and Millicent, giggled and offered her suggestions.

"What did you do, brother?" Lily called out. "Buy out every toy store in London?"

"Only the ones that would open on Christmas Eve." The flash of his purse had opened more than one door, and there was hardly room to walk for all the toys. There were mechanical elephants and drum-beating bears, skipping ropes and miniature stoves, paints and charcoals, clockwork trains and

even a cluttered dollhouse with a tiny grand piano. Two mechanical birds twittered from a golden cage hanging off one of the gasoliers.

Justin had no idea what a girl of ten would enjoy, so he had bought one of everything-including sacks

of glass marbles and a handsome regiment of iron Napoleon soldiers. Propped against the sleek spokes

of a velocipede was a shiny sled of just the sort he had always wanted as a boy. His father had denied him, but he would deny David's daughter nothing. He had already robbed her of too much in her life.