Page 153 of Once an Angel
Someone was shaking him. Groaning, Justin batted the persistent hands away and rolled to his side. His fingers struck something cool. He pried his bleary eyes open to discover it was the taloned foot of the settee. He vaguely remembered collapsing in the study in the wild hope of silencing the torment in his head long enough to let him sleep. But it was stupor, not sleep, that had finally claimed him.
David's face had danced through his restless slumber. In his dreams he had reached for him, but David had vanished, just like Emily.
"Sir, please! You don't understand. You have to get up!"
The genteel hands lost their patience. They fastened on Justin's lapels and jerked him up, shaking him
like a rag doll. The round moon of Penfeld's face finally penetrated the shrouded gloom of the library. The valet looked dangerously near tears and that fact, more than any other, stirred Justin to consciousness.
"Penfeld? My God, what is it, man? What's wrong?"
The valet's plump lip quivered. "She's gone, sir. For good this time, I fear."
* * *
Emily stood on the deck of the steamer and watched the coast of England melt into the dawn mist.
Every rhythmic chug of the engine's pistons, every wave riding against the iron hull, carried her farther away from Justin. She pulled up her hood, drawing it like a cool veil over her seething emotions. As Nicky rested his hands on her shoulders, her gloved hands clenched on the rail.
"It's only a matter of time now, cara mia. Once we find that land grant he tampered with, we'll have
the evidence we need. We can take it to the authorities and, with your testimony, have him put away for life. He'll never harm either of us again." He gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze. Emily shuddered. "Don't be afraid, love. I'll take care of you now. Once we've put this ugly business of the past behind us, we can discuss our future. But first we must bring your father's murderer to justice."
Emily faced him. "Yes, Nicky," she said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "That's really all I
ever wanted. Justice."
* * *
As her bedroom door flew open, Olivia Connor, the Duchess of Winthrop, rolled over and sat up in her modest tent bed.
"Opening the door instead of going through it? How dreadfully conventional. You disappoint me, son."
Justin strode across the room and flung himself to his knees beside the bed. He wrung her hands in his desperate grasp. "Please, Mother. I need your help."
Her rag-wrapped curls bobbed knowingly. "It's the girl, isn't it?"
"Isn't it always?" His beseeching eyes searched her face. "Father's fastest ship. I have to know. What is it? Is it a steamer? A sailing ship? Think hard, Mother. Emily's very life may depend on it."
She absently twirled a ringlet around her finger. A slow smile dawned on her face. "I should have thought of that sooner." She beamed up at him. "Why, the fastest ship would be theOlivia, of course!"
* * *
Sailors scurried like ants over the polished deck of the graceful clipper known as theOlivia. They scrambled up and down ramps, staggering beneath the crates and barrels of supplies for the long journey ahead. They shimmied up the towering masts to secure the sails, all the while casting their new master some very uneasy looks. Even the most grizzled and salt-beaten of them was aware that London gossip reputed him to be a madman. Should they bid a tearful farewell to their mistresses and wives? Was he about to send them all on a dark voyage of destruction?
They found it even more perplexing that their young captain stood straddle-legged on the deck,
bellowing instructions as if he'd been born to command.
Justin was well aware of their trepidation, but there was damn little he could do about it now. He was determined to have the ship outfitted and asail by nightfall if it took every sailor in London to do it. The sea had brought him Emily, and he was more than willing to harness the sea to keep her.
As he stalked to the prow of the ship, the cool moist air filled his lungs. A blanket of fog had hung over the harbor all day. The slender spars rose like ghostly fingers into the darkening sky. The massive bosom of the clipper's figurehead jutted over the water.
Justin reached up and ran his fingers over her carved cheek. "Wish me luck, Duchess," he whispered. "I'm going to need it."
"Sir?"
Justin swung around to see a figure emerging from the fog. A carpeted satchel swung from his hand. A heavy woolen pea coat had replaced his frock coat, and a parrot-green bandanna hung at a jaunty angle around his neck. But even those things did not shock Justin as much as the dangerous-looking rifle slung across his back.
