Page 260 of Once an Angel
But Justin's calm was imperturbable. When she began to sprinkle her speech with careless profanities,
he blithely retaliated by hiring a tutor, an art teacher, and a dancing master, all of whom resigned in hysterics within the week. When she shortened the legs of all of his trousers, he summoned a tailor and ordered new ones. When she stuffed the chimney in the study with her discarded petticoats, layering the room in coal dust and soot, he moved his work to the library until the room could be aired.
To both servants and family Justin was no longer caustic, but only distant. Music stopped flowing through the darkened rooms at night. The grand piano in the drawing room gathered a thin layer of dust. The servants attributed his brief burst of good cheer and subsequent mood change to a brain fever he had suffered during his exotic travels. No one knew what to attribute Miss Emily's behavior to, although Jimmie the stablemaster, a devout Roman Catholic, was the first to whisper of demon possession. He swore he had glanced up at her lighted window at night and seen objects flying about, spurred on by curses so uproarious, they made even his worldly ears burn.
The formal apology the duchess sent Cecille and her mama after the disastrous dinner party bought their stilted forgiveness but not their silence. Gossip spread through London that the Duke of Winthrop had a madwoman on his hands, a wild creature he'd do well to shuffle off to Bedlam before she harmed someone. People scrambled for invitations to the ball the duchess was throwing to introduce Emily to society, hoping to catch even a glimpse of the duke's eccentric ward.
It was a bitterly cold January morning when the door of the study burst open and Emily marched in on him and Penfeld, trailed by a shouting contingent of servants.
Justin barely glanced up from his ledger. "Good morning, Emily." His deep voice carried over the cacophony.
"Good morning, sir," she replied evenly.
Penfeld busied himself with straightening a perfectly aligned stack of papers. Emily stood stiffly, danger smoldering in her dark eyes as her domestic captors mobbed the desk.
"Sir, I must insist on a moment of your time—"
"—cannot be tolerated, Your Grace, not for another day—"
"Ye must take action, my lord, afor she burns the 'ouse down 'round our bloomin' heads!"
Justin lifted a hand in a plea for silence. "One at a time, please."
It was Gracie who stepped forward. The other servants subsided to murmurs in deference to her age
and years of loyal service to the Connors. "I'm not one to be stickin' me nose into family affairs, Yer Grace. I know the child has a good heart an' all, but . . ."
"Get on with it, Gracie. I'm listening."
The cook honked into her apron. "I left the pie on the windowsill only for a minute, sir, and now we've no rhubarb for lunch a'tall."
A horse-faced maid poked her long nose over Gracie's shoulder. "There won't be no need for the rhubarb, sir, for 'twas the curate who was to partake of it and the girl sent him packin' by tellin' him he could take his prayer book and put it—"
At a titter from one of the younger groomsmen, she cupped her hands around Justin's ear and whispered something that made his eyes widen with interest.
"Mmm. I didn't know that was possible."
Emily rolled her eyes and tapped her toe in obvious boredom.
The valet shared by Harold, Herbert, and Harvey shoved past her. "That's nothing, Your Grace, look what she did to the hat my master bought for the ball next week."
He thrust the top hat into Justin's hand. An odd squeaking and mewling rose from its silk confines.
When Justin lifted his head, he was smiling. "She had a litter of kittens in it?"
The valet sputtered. "Of course she didn't have a litter of kittens. She hid it in the stable, where the
mama cat would be sure to find it. Why, Master Harold will be livid!"
Justin's smile spread. "Master Harold, you say?" He handed the hat back. "Return it to the stable for
now. Perhaps when Master Harold finds a suitable position, he can buy a new one. As for now, you're
all dismissed."
"But, sir—"
"Your Grace, there's no time. With the ball next Friday!"
