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.
The vendor swung away from the cart to hand a sack to a gentleman in a tall beaver hat. Emily lunged, crooking her fingernails into claws to snag the tender skin of the apple.
The vendor would have been none the wiser if her shawl hadn’t caught on the handle of the cart. As she broke into a run, the cart tipped, spilling apples in a stream of scarlet into the dirty snow.
“Thief!” the vendor bellowed. “Come back ’ere, ya bloody brat! Constable!”
She didn’t dare look behind her. She could already hear running feet, confused shouts, and the all-too-familiar shrill of a constable’s whistle. The thin soles of her boots slapped the snow as she sped down the narrow sidewalk, shoving her way through the crowds. A gray-haired matron screamed and dropped an armful of packages. Three grimy urchins joined in the chase, dogging her heels until they became bored.
The whistle sounded again, closer this time. She plunged into the busy street, darting between a hansom cab and an omnibus, narrowly missing the flailing hooves of the startled horses. A driver’s jeering curse rang in her ears.
She rounded a corner into a narrow alley, then threw herself into a doorway and waited, her chest heaving as the slam of running feet passed and subsided. Without waiting to get her breath back, she sank to a crouch on the filthy stoop and dug her teeth into the crunchy apple. She knew she was behaving like a piglet, but she was beyond caring. Her empty stomach knotted around the food. The core dropped from her fingers. She hugged herself as a sharp cramp seized her.
It passed as quickly as it had come, leaving her shivering in its aftermath. The overhanging roofs above blocked even the meager winter sunlight. She pulled her threadbare shawl tight around her shoulders, fearing all the stolen apples in the world couldn’t fill the yawning void inside her.
She squared her chin, determined to rally her flagging spirits. What did she have to whine and moan about? It had finally stopped snowing and she was free at last after being crammed in a steamer cabin for the past month with five other women, most of whom had never discovered the pleasures of daily bathing. It had taken the last of the money from the sale of her father’s watch to book passage from Australia to England, but she was no longer reliant on the fickle charity of Amelia Winters. She was her own mistress now and London was hers.
She shoved herself to her feet and made her way toward the street, stepping gingerly over a snoring drunk clutching a gin bottle. Her robbery had already been forgotten, replaced by the fresh scandal of a skinny ragamuffin caught stealing a gentleman’s purse.
She wandered the streets, wondering how the city could have grown so much smaller and danker while she was away. Horse-drawn vehicles thronged the roadway, churning the snow into black slush. No one took any notice of her. She was just one of a sea of faces in this vast slum.
Before she realized it, she’d turned down a finer street with freshly salted cobblestones and broad sidewalks flanked by shops. Gas lamps flickered in shop windows, illuminating shining displays of goods nestled in fresh boughs of pine and holly. She paused at the window of a toy shop to watch a mechanical St. Nicholas beat a tiny green drum.
As she turned away, she came face-to-face with her own image tacked to a lamppost. A sigh caught in her throat. Was this one photograph to haunt her forever? She pulled down the notice, her hands trembling more in shock than cold. The sketch was a very good one, obviously done by a professional from her father’s old tintype. Her eyes widened at the staggering amount of the reward. She hadn’t a halfpenny to her name and she was worth more than any notorious criminal stalking the London alleys.
Two words seemed to leap out of the elaborate script—lost child.
She leaned her forehead against the cold lamppost, no longer able to fight the despair. More lost than Justin could ever know, she thought. Her hatred for him had sustained her for years. Now that it was gone, she felt nothing. Nothing at all but a desperate yearning for warmth. He had shed his sunlight across her soul, then slammed the door, leaving her cold and alone. Would he return to New Zealand, seeking the woman he had known only as Emily Scarlet? By taking the coward’s way out, she would never have to know if he didn’t.
“Move along, girlie. We don’t need your kind scaring the customers away.” A fat shopkeeper shooed at her with his apron.
Emily gave him such an evil look that he began to bellow for a constable. She broke into a run, feeling as if she might run forever and never get anywhere. She had no intention of trading one kind of cell for another, although the jail might be warmer than the park had been last night. Dusk was nearing and the temperature was plunging rapidly. Warm tears blurred her vision.
She never saw the soft, immovable object in her path until she slammed into it. She went sprawling. A torrent of packages rained down on her head.
She glared upward, rubbing her brow and preparing to unleash a string of curses on the hapless shopper.
“Gor blimey, if it ain’t Emily Claire Scarborough, as I live an’ breathe!”
“Tansy?” Emily whispered in awe. She clambered to her feet, shoving boxes off her lap.
Surely this statuesque creature could not be her Tansy. A feathered hat perched jauntily on her nest of ebony curls. A dress of yellow satin sculpted her ample curves in scandalous relief, then tapered to scalloped ruffles piled high over a bustle. But surely no one else could possess eyes as big and blue as Dresden saucers.
“Tansy?” she repeated, her voice rising to a squeak.
“Oh, Em!”
All of her doubts flew away as Tansy threw her arms around her, enveloping her in a perfumed embrace. Time melted and suddenly they were just two frightened little girls clinging to each other in a lonely attic.
Emily drew back, st
ill clutching Tansy’s arms, loath to relinquish her familiar warmth. “What happened to you? Did you inherit a fortune? Rob a bank? Finally snare a rich gentleman for a husband?”
Tansy cocked her head, preening with guileless abandon. “Not yet, but I might very soon. I’m workin’ fer Mrs. Rose now.”
Emily frowned as the name struck a discordant note in her memory. “Mrs. Rose? She must pay you very well indeed. Are you her personal maid?”
“She don’t pay me at all. It’s ’er gentlemen callers that pays me.”
Emily felt her mouth fall open in shock. Tansy gently pushed her chin up with the tip of her finger. Her finger was now smooth without a hint of a callus.
Emily swallowed hard. “You’re working at a bordello?”
“That I am. Most of the gentlemen are very kind with gentle hands an’ open purses. They luvs me, they do. They all tell me so. I’m one o’ their favorites.”
“I don’t understand. What happened to Miss Winters?”
Tansy’s full lips tightened in a pout. “She tossed me out, she did, after yer guardian plucked er nerves. Ya should ’ave been there. ’E tore into the old ’ag right and proper.”
Emily’s throat tightened. “You saw him?”
“Lordy, did I! And ain’t ’e the prettiest fellow I ever did see!”
“Yes,” Emily admitted softly. “He is that.”
“Some of my gentlemen friends say es rough and dangerous like, but I knows better. Gave me money, ’e did. Told me if I ever needed ’elp to march straight to Grymwilde Mansion in Portland Square an’ ask for ’im. If I ’adn’t been set on provin’ I could stand on me own two feet, I might ’ave done it, too.”
For a dazed moment Emily’s pain was so intense she couldn’t see straight. She barely felt Tansy’s gentle touch on her arm.
“Where’ve ya been, girl? Why’d ya go and run off like that without tellin’ me?”
“I didn’t run off. Barney and Doreen carted me off on some mad scheme of Miss Winters’s.”
Tansy’s full lips tightened. “I knew them bloomin’ buggers was up to no good. I shoulda told that nice gentleman when ’e came lookin’ fer ya. ’E’d ’ave cooked both their skinny gooses.”
“No!” Besieged by sudden panic, Emily gripped her arm. “You must swear to me that if your paths should cross again, you won’t tell him you saw me. He mustn’t know I’m in London.”
“What is it, Em? Are ya in some sort of trouble? ’E’s a good man. I know ’e’d lend a ’elpin’ ’and if ya’d let ’im.”
Emily pressed her eyes shut, trying to banish the memory of Justin’s graceful tan hands against her skin. When she opened them, they burned like raw flames. “He can’t help me now. I’ve done something terrible. And if he finds out, he’ll despise me forever.”
“Come now, dearie. What could be that terrible?”
Falling in love with Justin. Making him fall in love with her while lying to him with every breath. Emily just shook her head, unable to choke a reply past the icy lump in her throat.
Tansy’s blue eyes were painfully earnest. “Why don’t ya come with me, then? Mrs. Rose’d be glad to ’ave ya and those fine gentlemen would gobble a pretty thing like you right up! You’d be able to earn yer own money right and proper with good honest work. You’d never ’ave to rely on anyone’s charity again.”
Emily almost shivered to hear her own thoughts echoed so clearly. For one shocking instant she was tempted. But the thought of a stranger’s hands touching her the way Justin’s had filled her with revulsion.
“I’m sorry, Tansy. I’m glad you’re happy, but I simply can’t.”
They faced each other, awkward again, strangers on a busy street. The passing shoppers stared curiously. Emily caught a glimpse of her reflection in a darkened shop window—a small figure in a shabby black dress, torn stockings, and ragged shawl. Her bare fingers poked out the ends of her gloves. How dare she accost a fine lady on the street?
Her worst fears were founded as Tansy thrust a hand in her purse and pulled out a shilling. “I ’aven’t any pound notes with me. Won’t ya let me buy ya a nice meat pie?”
Emily stared at the gleaming coin. The warm, yeasty aroma of a nearby bakery wafted to her nostrils. She couldn’t live on charity again. Not even Tansy’s.
She put her hands behind her back to ease the temptation. “Oh, no. I’m quite full, thank you. I just ate at a friend’s house, you see, and had a splendid helping of roast pheasant. And gravy. A whole tureen of gravy.” She started to walk backward. “Tarts, too. Those charming ones you douse in brandy and set aflame. I ate half a tray of those, then polished them off with a pitcher of cream. You know how I love cream.” She clasped her hands over her stomach. “Why, my little belly is so stuffed, I feel like a Christmas turkey!”
The jostling crowd was beginning to come between them. She caught a glimpse of Tansy perched like a bewildered canary among her scattered packages.
“Em, wait! Don’t go!” she cried.
Emily lifted her hand in a cheery wave. “I’m glad you’re happy in your new situation. Perhaps we can meet for tea soon.”
A cloaked man tipped his hat to Tansy, offering his assistance in retrieving her packages. Emily took advantage of her divided attention to slip into a merry throng of carolers and be swept away on a tide of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”
As she dodged around a corner, the carolers went on, their laughter ringing on the crisp air. An emptiness worse than hunger seized her heart. She had learned all she needed to know of Christmas as Justin read to a circle of rapt Maori in his resonant voice.
Grymwilde Mansion in Portland Square.
The lamplighters had come out to coax the gas lamps to flickering life above her head. Her feet moved of their own accord, although even exertion wasn’t enough to stave off the deepening chill. The bells of St. Paul’s began to chime. She wondered if Penfeld was curled up somewhere before a cozy fire, savoring their sweet refrain and sipping a cup of hot tea.
Grymwilde Mansion in Portland Square.
The cacophony of the city streets faded to a muted hush. She stood in the falling darkness at the neck of a broad street lined by wrought-iron fences and towering oaks. Their naked branches brushed stark fingers against the sky. Even the snow was clean here, laid in a milky blanket over rolling lawns and terra-cotta fountains. Emily felt like an intruder from another land.
Grymwilde Mansion in Portland Square.
Did she really think she could abide in the same city, walk the same streets without even trying to steal a glimpse of him? Did he sit sad and alone in a deserted house with only his regrets for company? Did he wander a cold, snowy garden, dreaming of her?
There was only one way to find out.
The sky began to spit snow. Sighing, Emily pulled her shawl up over her hair and hastened through the deepening dusk.
Chapter 17
Only the promise of a brighter tomorrow for the both of us could have dragged me away from you.…
Justin stood at the window and watched the fat snowflakes drift down to fur the lawn. Despite his longing for sunlight and sea, the snow still captivated him with its purity, its eternal promise of fresh hope.
“Justin, oh, Justin, my darling, where are you?”
He blew out a breath of frustration, fogging the cold windowpane. Even the heavy damask of the drapes wasn’t enough to deter his mother. She swept them aside, smothering him in the cloying fog of her perfume.
“There you are! I was beginning to think you were hiding under the bed as you used to do when you were little.”
“Fat lot of good that would have done me. You would have just sent the butler to drag me out by my heels.”
She slapped his arm with her fan. “Don’t be a bad boy. You promised to be civil to my guests, not spend the evening lurking behind the drapes. It was heartless of you to deny me my annual Christmas ball. The least you can do is grace my modest fête with your presence.”
Justin sigh
ed. The duchess’s idea of a modest fete was cramming a hundred guests into the octagonal drawing room. “I warned you I wouldn’t be good company, Mother. I have more pressing matters on my mind than playing Simile with a bevy of sotted swells.”
“I suppose you mean that infernal child. You must stop this ridiculous fretting. You’ve got the finest men in the business on it. They’ll find the little lad soon enough.”
“It’s a girl,” he explained for the hundredth time. “A girl.”
“Speaking of girls,” his mother said, rescuing a perfumed handkerchief from the bodice of her dress, “there’s that charming du Pardieu woman I told you about. You simply must meet her daughter. Quite a bewitching little creature. Fresh out of seminary.” She fluttered the hanky in the air like a flag of surrender, calling out, “Over here, dear.”
Justin jerked her arm down, cringing at her shrill titter. Now that she’d regained one rightful Winthrop heir, her primary mission in life seemed to be to ensure he produced another one. “I don’t want to meet the charming du Pardieu woman and I don’t want to meet her daughter. If Queen Victoria is here, I don’t want to meet her either. I wish to be left alone.”
The duchess’s iron-gray ringlets quivered in indignation. “Very well, then. Perhaps I’ll let them think you a savage.”
She sailed away, her formidable bosom jutting out like the prow of some mighty ship. The staring guests milled in her wake. Justin shook his head, understanding for the first time why his father, in his own besotted youth, had ordered a figurehead carved in her honor.
He turned away from the window, tugging irritably at his starched collar. Perhaps he should make more of an effort to be pleasant. He might want to bring Emily back here someday after they were wed, and he didn’t want her reputation besmirched by his.
He wandered through the crowd, managing a smile here, a friendly nod there. The diplomacy of his years with the Maori seemed to have deserted him. He felt stiff and awkward, beset by the painful shyness that had troubled him as a child.
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