Page 79 of Once an Angel
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Somewhere a child was laughing.
Justin sat bolt upright in bed. His heart pounded in his throat, deafening him for a long moment before
the shift of the coals on the fire penetrated his panicked haze. The blankets bound his legs in tangled cords, as twisted as the dreams that haunted his waking hours, and made sleep a nightly torment.
There was something he should know. Something hovering at the edge of his nightmares, taunting him.
He threw back the heavy drapes of the bed and struggled out of the feather tick. Like everything else
in this house, the bed was a monstrosity. Every inch of the dark mahogany had been carved with the serpentine vines and pronged leaves of miniature Venus's-flytraps. He dreaded climbing into it each
night for fear the mattress would swallow him without a trace.
A thread of light shone beneath Penfeld's adjoining door. The valet never slept without his lamp lit. Justin pulled a dressing gown over his nakedness, wishing light were enough to keep his own demons at bay.
He marched down the long, curving staircase, raking his hair out of his eyes. No one would dare trouble him. The servants had grown accustomed to him prowling the house at all hours. They gave him wide berth, frightened of the gaunt shadows beneath his eyes. He was beginning to feel as mad as they must think him.
He was the Duke of Winthrop now. He could buy a dozen gold mines. He could travel to Vienna and study music, as he had always longed to do. He could rent an opera house to feature nothing but his own symphonies night after night. But all he craved was the warmth of sunlight on his face and the music of Emily's laughter.
His shin slammed into a wooden pedestal in the dark and he bit off an oath. There wasn't an inch of
grace or simplicity to be found in this cramped house. He grabbed the teetering vase atop the pedestal
and threw it. It shattered against the far wall with a satisfying crash. Somewhere in the house a door closed as a curious servant beat a wise retreat.
The moon-drenched drawing room beckoned him. He slid onto the piano bench and sat in brooding silence. The snow lay in a serene blanket beyond the tall windows. Midnight bells chimed in the distance, and he realized with a shock that it was Christmas Eve.
Christmas Eve. The night when hope had first entered the world. But not for him. Not while David's
child was out there somewhere, shivering in the dark. To him, the echo of the bells sounded the death knell of his dreams.
He lifted his gaze to meet the impassive blue eyes of Claire Scarborough's doll. She reigned on the piano with the aplomb of a ragged little queen. No one had dared to do so much as dust her since Justin had placed her there. He glared at her now, almost hating her for the secrets she withheld. What would she say if she could speak? Would she curse him, reproach him for his terrible cowardice?
He crooked his fingers over the keys and began to play. He chose not his own music, but the melancholy strains of Beethoven's "Fur Elise". Instead of losing himself in the music as he'd hoped, the notes flailed him like exquisite barbs.
What a fool he had been! He had let go of Emily to chase a phantom. Now he had neither.
He felt as if he were moldering in this mausoleum. He hungered to feel the powdery sand between his toes, to hear Trini's sonorous laughter and the welcoming song of the Maori shimmering on the balmy air. His hands flew over the keys, stroking, caressing the smooth ivory as he longed to caress the heated satin of Emily's skin. But how could he face her, knowing he had abandoned David's child to the merciless streets of London? Emily deserved more in life than a desolate man crippled by guilt.
His hands faltered. His fingers were stiff and callused, his left hand still inflexible from lack of practice. He struck the wrong note, then slammed his fist down on the keys in a burst of despair.
The discordant notes jarred the air. Justin dropped his face into his hands. Emily's features were already growing misty in his memory, blurring like a hazy watercolor into another face, a face he knew as well
as his own.
A polite cough broke the silence. Justin's head flew up. A dark shape was silhouetted against the moonlight, and for one crazy moment he thought it was David's ghost.
Bentley Chalmers's clipped tones rang out. "They've found her, sir."
Justin blinked, fighting to clear the fog of confusion from his brain. His thoughts were so rife with Emily that for a weary moment he didn't know who the man was talking about—Emily or Claire?
Chalmers turned his bowler in his hands. "They've found the girl, sir. She's alive."
"Alive?" he whispered.
The piano keys blurred before his grateful eyes, and a chiming carol broke free in his head as if all the bells of London had started to ring at once.
