Page 230 of Once an Angel
The headmistress's gray eyes bored into him. "I may have failed with the child, Your Grace, but your own care left much to be desired."
His jaw twitched. The clock on the mantel ticked in the utter silence. Then he dipped at the waist in a gallant bow. "I concede your point, madam. If I have the good fortune to find her, I intend to spend the rest of my life atoning for my neglect."
"Aye, that ya will. She'll see to it, I'll wager," Tansy muttered under her breath.
Chalmers cast her a curious look, but Justin hadn't heard her. The agent tipped his derby and gave his cane a jaunty toss. "A good afternoon to all of you," he wished them before following the duke's determined form into the winter afternoon.
* * *
Justin didn't think he would ever be warm again. The dawn sun shining through the carriage window
shed pale light but little else. His clasped hands were numb beneath their white gloves. The cold sank deep into his joints, chilling him to utter exhaustion. He tried to let his mind drift away, but each passing day made it harder to hear the chanted song of the sea, the taunting whisper of a balmy breeze against
his skin. His memories of Emily were his only warmth.
A month of searching had yielded nothing. Claire Scarborough had vanished into London's merciless
jaws without a trace.
Neatly trimmed lawns and iron gates drifted past the carriage. Portland Square was a world away from the slums he had haunted through the long night. He had spent it as he had a dozen others—combing the narrow streets, shoving his way through taverns and gin mills, growling questions at anyone who would listen. Even the motliest of scoundrels gave him wide berth. Perhaps there was something to be said for the reliable web of society gossip. News of the wild-eyed duke had filtered down even to their ranks.
He sighed, almost wishing for Chalmers's dapper form to steady him. But he had sent his chief agent with an efficient army of detectives to search the orphanages and cottages in the countryside around London.
The carriage turned a corner and clip-clopped down a cobblestone drive. Justin's spirits plunged further, as they did every time he saw his father's house. No, his house, he reminded himself ruefully. Grymwilde was a veritable Gothic nightmare of pitched roofs, gables, and bay windows. A crenellated tower perched like a clumsy growth on one side. The house's only symmetry had been achieved by planting two leering gargoyles on matching turrets at each end of the roof. Justin swore under his breath, cursing Mortimer Connor, the first Duke of Winthrop, who had been so enamored of his newly bought title that he had
built this vulgar monstrosity as a monument to his own bad taste.
Climbing down from the carriage, he commanded the droopy-eyed coachman to get some sleep. He slipped through the front door, thankful for the sleeping peace of the house.
His mother was more concerned with throwing a ball to introduce him to the eligible ladies of her acquaintance than with his vain search for his partner's child. His three sisters had all married vapid men who had promptly taken up residence at Grymwilde and had no discernible occupations other than wandering the house with the most current copy of the Times tucked under their arms. Justin was starved for privacy. He missed his simple hut and his native friends who had known when to speak and when to be silent.
Most of all he missed Emily. He missed her dimpled smile, the warmth of her golden skin beneath his palms, the intoxicating taste of her lips.
A hard ache curled deep inside of him. He peeled off his gloves and tossed them on a lacquered table, meeting his reflection in the mirrored panel above. He had avoided mirrors in the last few weeks, and
now he remembered why. His eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion, his hair wild as if raked too many times by desperate fingers. Against the incongruity of his finely cut evening clothes, he looked every inch the crazed savage half of society believed him to be.
He touched his cheek. His tan was fading as rapidly as his hopes. His seven years on the North Island were melting before his eyes like a forgotten dream, unbearably sweet in its poignancy. Only the daily letters he scribbled to Emily kept him sane. He posted them half mad with panic and frustration,
knowing it might take weeks, even months, for them to reach her.
Would she wait for him? he wondered. Or would the greedy sea take her back to punish him for being fool enough to leave her?
He shoved away from the table, too tired to do anything but stumble up the stairs and fall into the
dubious comfort of his cold, lonely bed.
Chapter 16
I hold dear to my heart the hope that someday,
in a better place than this, we will be reunited.
Emily's fingertips brushed something smooth and cold. She stretched out her hand. The object rolled
just out of her reach. She swore softly under her breath and craned her neck to peer over the edge of
the cart. An apple, fat, shiny, and red, taunted her from its perch, making her mouth water and her stomach snarl.
