Page 63 of Once an Angel
English gentlemen as the basest of whores. Her first instinct was to shrink behind Justin, but she had
too often endured shame and condemnation from forbidding figures dressed in black.
Justin was not oblivious to the exchange. He stepped in front of her, his jaw hardening with the glacial dignity she had glimpsed before. "You didn't come all the way to New Zealand for a good cup of tea."
Mr. Goodstocking retreated from Justin's frosty stare even as Chalmers rose with a placating smile,
taking a thick leather packet from beside his plate. He refused to even acknowledge Emily, which was somehow more cutting than Goodstocking's leer.
"No," he admitted. "We didn't come for the tea. We came as agents acting on behalf of the Duchess
of Winthrop to seek a man calling himself Justin Connor."
Justin hesitated; Emily could hear her heart pounding in her ears.
"I am that man," he finally replied, his New Zealand brogue as flat as she had ever heard it.
Goodstocking's gaze traveled from the ragged knees of Justin's dungarees to his bare feet. He cleared his throat and exchanged a long look with his companion.
Chalmers handed Justin the leather packet, then swept off his neat bowler in a deferent bow that might have belonged to another century. "Your Grace."
Penfeld gasped. Emily took a step backward without realizing it.
Justin stared down at the packet in his hands. Chalmers's benign address had conveyed a wealth of meaning. His father was dead. He was now the Duke of Winthrop.
He ran his fingers over the pitted leather, desperate to feel something, anything at all. But all he felt was
a vast emptiness. David Scarborough had been more father to him in six months than his own father had been in a lifetime. His grief was not the sharp pain of loss, but an overwhelming sense of regret for the moments they might have shared, moments lost forever to them now.
Chalmers gestured. "Within that packet you will find several letters from your mother. She would like
you to return to London immediately to assist her in the matter of settling your father's estate. She
needs you."
Those three words tightened the noose around his neck. For a terrible moment the old choking pressure returned. He was now the owner of that crude vessel anchored offshore and a fleet of sailing ships and steamers strewn from the English Channel to the Bering Strait.
Not this time, he thought. Things were different now. He was no longer a helpless child or even a rash, rebellious young man. He was lord of the manor now. There was no one to stop him from returning to New Zealand and running his empire from the sunny coast of the North Island. He could hire men to
take care of the mundane details of the business while he used his wealth and influence as he chose. He slapped the packet against his palm, seeing it not as a warrant of execution, but as a golden ticket of opportunity for both him and Emily, his chance to make amends to his family and to David's daughter.
Chalmers droned on. "It would have taken us much longer to find you, but we had the good fortune to stumble upon a detective who had located you while employed by a Miss Amelia Winters."
Justin didn't even hear him. He was already dwelling on his first meeting with Claire Scarborough,
praying he would have the courage to look her in the eye and tell her the truth about her father's death. His jaw tightened with resolve. With Emily by his side he could do anything.
He turned, eager to share his plans with her.
Emily was gone.
Chapter 14
If your mother taught me nothing else, it was that
wealth cannot buy joy. . . .
Emily tossed the little blue journal on the stack of books and bound them together with a leather strip.
