Page 227 of Once an Angel
thy rest!
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
—William Shakespeare
Chapter 15
I would trade all the gold in New Zealand
to see your mama's smile one more time. . .
London
Amelia Winters flinched as the thunderous crash of a door and shouting masculine voices shattered the quiet of her domain. Her fingers tightened into claws on the win-dowsill. Outside, sleet skittered from
the pewter sky, coating the tiny garden within the walled courtyard in a shiny layer of ice. Amelia stared absently at the dormant rosebushes. They needed to be pruned. She'd been forced to let the gardener
go with a tidy sum after he'd threatened to summon the constable when the Scarborough girl had stabbed his son.
The door behind her creaked open. Timid feet shuffled on the worn carpet. "His Grace, the Duke of Winthrop, to see you, ma'am."
"Show him in."
"Aye, mum."
Amelia smiled bitterly. Doreen always slipped back into cockney in moments of travail. It was a habit Amelia had bred out of herself after she had clawed her own way out of a rookery crib to found this school.
Heavy footsteps shuddered the floorboards. They might have been the footsteps of her executioner. London had been abuzz with the young duke's return for over a week, and now she knew her brief reprieve was done.
The door slammed into the wall. Cold air from the foyer buffeted her. Amelia steeled her spine and swung around, somewhat relieved to finally come face-to-face with her most dreaded nightmare.
Her relief was short-lived. A man stood in the doorway, tall, gaunt, but undeniably striking. Drops of melted sleet beaded the cape of his greatcoat. He was scandalously hatless, and his eyes burned like
twin flames beneath a sweeping fall of dark hair. His clenched jaw was shaded not with a proper beard, but by the stubble of a savage. She had heard rumors that he'd been living with cannibals for the past seven years. He looked more than eager to devour her frail bones.
His sheer masculine presence dwarfed the shabby parlor. The room seemed suddenly full of people. Doreen hovered at the door, her homely face more pinched and pale than usual. Barney stood behind their callers, eyeing them with ill-disguised hostility. The slender stranger at the duke's elbow tipped his bowler to her, his face a bland, affable mask that did not fool Amelia for an instant.
The duke moved toward her, his greatcoat swirling around his boots. She realized that despite the silver threads at his temples and the sun-etched lines around his eyes, Justin Connor was younger than she had expected. Much younger. And far more dangerous. She clutched at the high collar of her blouse.
"I have come for my ward," he announced, giving her a bow so brief as to be an insult. A volatile muscle twitched in his cheek. "Your Miss Dobbins has tried to tell me that she is not in residence at this school."
A sharp cough failed to unravel the knot in Amelia's throat. She was terrified his knowing eyes would burn away the layers of her deceit, exposing the ugly truth for him to see. "I fear she is correct."
"Then I demand an explanation. My partner David Scarborough left his only child, Claire, in your care seven years ago. I have written record of it."
"As do I. But as my staff tried to tell you, she is no longer here."
Justin raked a hand through his hair, thankful for Bentley Chalmers's unruffled presence at his elbow. This woman's cryptic explanations were maddening him to distraction. He had wasted a week working
up the courage to come to this place. A week in which his old insomnia had returned with a vengeance.
A week of driving past the school in his luxurious carriage, wondering which of the lighted windows
might be Claire's. He had risked everything to come here. Even Emily.
A maid carrying a bucket of coal slipped into the parlor. Justin sighed, summoning his last ounce of self-control. "Then would you mind telling me where I might find Claire Scarborough?"
Was it a reflection of the fire, or did he see a flicker of malicious satisfaction in the old woman's eyes?
