Teresa Medeiros

by Once an Angel

  “Where is your mistress?” he asked hoarsely. “I must speak with her.”

  “She’s gone. Gone like all the rest.” Doreen’s voice was as flat as a wraith’s. She tried to close the door, but Justin jammed his foot in it. She stared up at his face, then her eyes came to life in a blaze of spirit. “Ye’re the one, ain’t ya? Ye’re the golden-eyed devil wot drove ’em all away!”

  Ignoring the protesting rasp of his throat, Justin deepened his voice, hoping he might break her with the sheer force of his will. “I must see your mistress. It’s imperative. Where might I find her?”

  “She’s gone to an ’ome fer other broken-down old women. She didn’t even fight ’em when they come to take ’er away. Ya took all the fight out of ’er with yer bloody rumors and insinuations. Ain’t a decent family in London would ’ave trusted their brat to er care after ya poisoned their minds against ’er.” Her pinched nose reddened. “Miss Amelia always took care ’o me, even to the end. Left me this fine ’ouse, she did.”

  Justin knew the house had seen the end of its finer days. It would be nothing but a crumbling albatross around its owner’s neck. He raked a hand through his hair, torn between pity and frustration. “Perhaps you can help me. Have you seen Emily Scarborough?”

  Doreen’s face twisted. Justin was tempted to recoil from its pure malevolence. “Emily Scarborough!” she spat out. “She’s the one wot started all this. I always knew she’d be the death of us all. The only place I ’opes to see the little bitch is burnin’ in ell!”

  She tried to slam the door in his face. Justin caught her shoulders and pulled her out, pinning her against the iron railing of the stoop. Her nightdress whipped in the wind. “You’re the one who threw her off the boat, aren’t you? Yes, I see you are. She told me all about it. So unless you want me to fetch the police and bring you up on charges of attempted murder, I suggest you answer my questions.”

  Doreen’s freckles stood out in sharp relief against her pallor. Justin could smell the fetid odor of sleep and fear on her breath. Exhaustion was making him reckless. He gave her a hard shake, eliciting a sullen whimper.

  “I ain’t seen the wench. Not since the day we give ’er to you.”

  Even though he had expected it, the disappointment was grueling. His mind raced. Who in London would Emily turn to? “What of the other girl? The maid you called Tansy? Do you know what’s become of her?”

  Doreen licked her thin lips with lascivious malice. “That I do. She’s gone on to her natural callin’. Servicin’ the young swells for some highfalutin madam.”

  “What house?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Justin’s spirits plunged further. Could his own rejection have caused Emily to rush headlong into the arms of another man? His grip loosened.

  Doreen took advantage of his divided attention to twist away and dart back into the house. The door slammed, and he heard the sharp crack of the bolt being rammed home.

  Certain she was lying, he lifted his fist, determined to break the door down if he had to. His hand slowly fell. He would be of no good to Emily if he ended up in jail for murder.

  Turning his collar up against the cold, he started down the street, his steps driven by desperate purpose.

  “Well, wot do ya think of it? It does ya real fine, don’t it?”

  Emily ran a tentative finger beneath her eye, smearing the thick kohl. “I look like one of those American raccoons.”

  Sighing, Tansy spit on a handkerchief and dabbed at her cheek. Emily squirmed away, but Tansy grabbed a fat ringlet and held her still. “There now. Keep yer ands away from yer face or we’ll ’ave to do it all again.”

  Emily gazed dourly at herself in the mirror. “I hate ruffles.” She cast Tansy’s reflection a pleading look. “Couldn’t I be something more exotic? A Nubian princess? Or perhaps a harem girl?”

  “Ye’re a trifle light fer a Nubian, and Peggy’s been promised the ’arem costume this week.” Tansy gave her cheek a fond tweak. “Stop frettin’. Mrs. Rose says a ruffled little schoolgirl is every gent’s dream.”

  Every gent but one, Emily thought grimly. She swallowed hard. “Who am I to argue with Mrs. Rose?”

  Who was she, indeed? Last night the buxom mistress of the establishment had welcomed her in from the storm as if she were a long lost daughter. She had dried her tears, tucked her into Tansy’s bed, smothered her under a thick quilt, and coddled her with a devotion that made even Penfeld seem the soul of cold neglect.

  Tansy smoothed circles of rouge on her cheeks. When a door slammed in the next room, Emily started, shooting a streak of pink up to her temples. A female giggle was followed by a throaty grunt and then by a rhythmic creaking that made the far wall shudder. Their gazes met in the mirror.

  “Oh, no,” Tansy groaned. “There ye go again. I keep puttin’ pink in yer cheeks and it just keeps drainin’ away.”

  She rested her hands lightly on Emily’s shoulders. “Are ya sure this is what ya want, Em? It ain’t too late to turn back.”

  Was it what she wanted? To be finally free? To pay her rent and board to Mrs. Rose out of her own pocket and not be dependent on someone else’s charity? To never be beholden to any man—especially not Justin Connor? Even Penfeld had done what he had to do to win his independence from a life he no longer found tolerable. Surely she could find within her that much courage. Tansy was wrong. It had been too late to turn back from the first moment she had laid eyes on her guardian.

  From the next room came a guttural groan, then silence. The wall stopped rocking. Emily pressed her eyes shut. When she opened them, they had darkened to bitter sable. “I’m ready.”

  A fist slammed into the closed door. Emily jumped so high, she almost fell off the stool.

  “Gor blimey, keep yer bloomin’ drawers on,” Tansy called out, pulling a ceramic chamber pot from a cupboard.

  As she swung open the door, a disgruntled male voice rang out. “ ’ell, Tansy, not again. Why can’t ya use the water closet like everybody else? Or are ya flat on yer back in bed too much?”

  The open door blocked Emily’s view, but she would have known that raspy voice anywhere. She lifted the skirts of the dressing table, searching for a place to hide.

  Tansy cocked back the pot. “Empty it or wear it, Barney.”

  A wiry arm shot out to relieve her of her burden. “Damned uppity whore,” he muttered. “Costs me a week’s wages to get what I used to get fer free in the linen closet at Foxworth’s.”

  Taunting him with a smile that would have melted an ice sculpture, Tansy lifted her shapely leg and rubbed it along the door facing. “But ya still pay, don’t ya?”

  Her provocative action sent the door swinging open, and Emily found herself staring into Barney Dobbins’s greedy little pig eyes.

  His mouth dropped open. The chamber pot tilted dangerously. “Hey! Wot’s she doin’ ere?”

  Tansy gave his bony chest a shove. “Don’t worry about it. It’d cost more than you’ve got.”

  He wiped his moist lips with the back of his hand. Emily shuddered. “Don’t count on it,” he said. “I’ll start savin’ me pennies now. I’ve wanted a taste o’ that fer a long, long time.”

  Tansy slammed the door in his leering face.

  Emily clapped a hand over her mouth. The enormity of what she was about to do rolled over her in dull waves of panic. But it was too late. Tansy was already powdering her nose, guiding her out the door, shoving something into her hand.

  Dazed, she looked down to discover she was holding a sugared pink lollipop. “What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked, baffled.

  Tansy gave her a gentle push toward the stairs. “Why lick it, of course!”

  When Justin returned to Grymwilde late that night, all the lamps except for those in the parlor had been extinguished. He turned instinctively toward the gentle glow, knowing his family’s comfort was better than none.

  None of them dared to speak as he threw himself into an upholstered chair an
d rubbed his bristled jaw.

  His mother’s needle flicked calmly through the flowered fire screen she was embroidering. “Unless you acquired some peculiar tastes in cologne in New Zealand, son, I would venture to say you smell like a house of ill repute.”

  “As would you if you’d visited every brothel in London in the past twelve hours.”

  “My goodness,” she said dryly. “Such stamina.”

  Lily and Millicent blushed like twin roses. Edith buried her nose deeper in her novel.

  Justin shot her a dark look. “Perhaps we should discuss this in private.”

  The duchess only smiled benignly. “Your sisters are married, aren’t they? If they don’t wish to hear what I have to say, they can join their husbands in their respective beds.” She laid her embroidery across her knees and looked at Justin squarely. “I’m more interested in why you think your ward might have taken up such an unsavory occupation. Did she perhaps have a little nudge in that direction?”

  Justin was shocked by his mother’s frankness. All the spirit and fire she had banked for years flickered in her gray eyes. They must have been startlingly pretty in their day, he realized, like misty bits of smoked glass. His guilty soul could not bear their scrutiny.

  He rose and paced to the hearth. A rumpled, hollow-eyed stranger stared back at him from the chimney glass. “I didn’t touch her.” He dropped his head, despising the lie. “I didn’t compromise her,” he amended.

  “Perhaps you should have,” his mother pronounced. “Then she might not have run away.”

  Justin swung around, wide-eyed, but his mother had returned to her embroidery. In the awkward silence Lily began to sing under her breath, some ridiculous tune about bees flitting from bloom to bloom.

  Justin’s raw temper snapped. He turned on her. “Would you stop that infernal squawking!”

  Lily flinched. “So sorry. All of this talk of lewd pursuits put me in mind of Mrs. Rose’s garden in Mayfair.”

  Justin failed to see how lewd pursuits related to some matron’s garden in the fashionable district of Mayfair.

  His mother nodded sagely. “Quite an establishment. Caters only to the carriage set—the crème de la crème of society.”

  Realization slowly dawned on Justin. “There’s a bordello in Mayfair? How would you know of it?”

  His mother blinked up at him. “Why, your father frequented it. Only on Fridays, of course. Saturdays he saved for me.”

  A wild song of hope sang through Justin’s heart. He snatched up Lily and kissed her full on the mouth. “Thank you, you witless little darling. If I find her, I swear I’ll make Herbert secretary-general of Winthrops.” He dropped her back in her chair and dashed for the door.

  “That’s all very nice for Millicent,” Lily called after him. “But what about my Harvey?”

  Emily’s fingers bit into the slick wood of the banister as she crept downstairs behind Tansy. Mrs. Rose’s drawing room appeared far more crowded than it had last night. Masculine laughter mingled with the rich ripple of female conversation. A girl garbed in a canary-yellow ballet costume was twirling around the piano to the improbable strains of a Bach aria. Emily’s eyes watered from the thin haze of smoke that veiled the room. Cutting through the smoke was the sickly sweet aroma of too many perfumes. A kissing couple on their way up the stairs brushed past them.

  Two burly footmen flanked the front door, their battered, scarred visages looking incongruous beneath their powdered wigs. Tansy had assured her Mrs. Rose never dealt in “rough trade.” With those two bulldogs guarding her gate, Emily could see why.

  Emily froze as her gaze fell on a dark-eyed man leaning against the black marble mantel. She tugged the back of Tansy’s skirt, bringing her to an abrupt halt. “I know that man. I met him in the park. Who is he?”

  Tansy whispered. “ ’E’s fabulous rich, that one. Some say a millionaire.” Her pretty features took on a hard set, giving Emily a frightening glimpse of what she might look like after a few years of this life. “But I can tell ya from experience ’e’s got lots o’ clever uses fer them pretty silk ties ’e wears—none of ’em decent. Stay away from ’im. ’E’s more than ya can ’andle right now.”

  Emily suspected the grizzled old man dozing in Mrs. Rose’s lap was more than she could handle. Her spirits plummeted as Tansy gave her a comforting wink and slipped away, leaving her to fend for herself.

  She sank onto a settee in the shadow of the stairs and gave her lollipop a nervous lick. The virginal white of her skirt floated around her ankles in a diaphanous cloud so sheer she could see the shadow of her lace garters holding up her silk stockings. Flat white slippers adorned her feet. Dear Lord, what would her daddy say if he could see her now? Perhaps if she sat very still, no one would notice her.

  Her hopes died as a portly gentleman sauntered over. He peered at her through an antique quizzing glass, his gaze lingering at her ruffled bosom. “My, my, what a precious little gel you are,” he boomed out. “Would you like to sit on Uncle George’s lap?”

  Emily sucked noisily on her lollipop to keep from replying. She realized that was a mistake as his rapt gaze traced the shape of her lips cradling the hard, sugary candy. “Shy, are you? How delightful! Your uncle George loves shy little gels.” Tittering, he tried to shove his bulk onto the settee beside her. “Scoot over and make room, won’t you? I shouldn’t wish to spank you for being ill mannered.”

  “Sorry, Uncle, this seat is taken.” The voice was smooth and cold, like velvet ice. Emily looked up as the shadow of the dark-eyed stranger she had met in the park fell over them.

  Uncle George drew himself to his full height, huffing and puffing in protest. With taunting grace the stranger reached out and struck a match off the brass button of George’s waistcoat. As he touched it to the tip of his cigarette, the dancing flame caressed the ruthless planes of his face.

  “Well, I never …” Obviously deciding a hasty re-treat might be in order, Uncle George trailed after a girl dressed as Queen Victoria, muttering something about his crown jewels.

  The stranger propped his foot on the settee. The impeccable cut of his trousers hugged his long, elegant leg. Cocking an eyebrow, he offered Emily the cigarette. Shaken by her narrow escape from the jovial George, she snatched it and took a deep drag.

  A paroxysm of coughing seized her. The man slapped her on the back. “Sorry. Turkish tobacco. Strong stuff. I should have warned you.” He pried the cigarette from her shaking fingers, brought it to his lips, and inhaled deeply.

  Emily blinked away the burning tears, still wheezing. “You seem destined to rescue me, sir.”

  A smile played around his thin lips as if he were savoring some small, private joke. “I do, don’t I?” His eyes flicked over her like hypnotic flames. “It seems you’ve become a bit more lost since our last encounter, cara mia.”

  Her faint shiver at his endearment was not lost on him. “I fear you are correct,” she agreed glumly.

  The woman at the piano lurched into a new tune. The man dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out on the Oriental carpet with his heel. “I despise Chopin. Why don’t we retire upstairs, where we can talk without the burden of his tiresome romanticism?”

  Emily eyed the silk folds of his tie nervously, remembering Tansy’s warning. She had no intention of being led to her ruin by this urbane stranger. She searched the crowd for Tansy, but found no glimpse of her. The brawny men at the door looked more menacing now. Were they planted there to protect Mrs. Rose’s blossoms, or to pluck them if they threatened to wilt before blooming? Her safest bet would be to escape without an obvious scuffle.

  Her hesitation cost her dearly. The man pulled her to her feet, his grip around her wrist as resolute as a silken snare. Perhaps she should just tell him the truth.

  She searched his face earnestly. “I can’t go upstairs with you, sir. I’m afraid I’ve made a dreadful mistake.”

  His eyes glowed with an unholy light. “So have I, my dear. But I intend to remedy it very s
hortly.”

  Twisting out of his grasp, Emily broke away and darted down the nearest dim hallway. Before she could go more than a few feet, Barney Dobbins stepped out of a shadowy doorway, blocking her only avenue of escape.

  He bared his yellowed teeth in a leer. “Ye’d best run back to yer fine fellow, Em. I ’eard ’e ’as a nasty temper if crossed.” He lowered his voice to a taunting whisper. “I know ye’re eager, but I can wait. I ain’t too proud to mop up the leftovers from them fine gents. My turn’ll come soon enough.”

  Trapped, Emily backed away, as near to swooning as she had ever been in her life. God only knew what lurid things they might do to her if she fainted.

  She backed into the stranger’s arms. His elegant fingers closed around her throat, pressing gently against her throbbing pulse.

  “Come with me, cara mia,” he commanded. “You won’t be sorry.”

  Emily was already sorry. She bowed her head, sorry she had shamed her father. Sorry Justin didn’t love her enough to marry her. Sorry she’d been such a fool as to believe selling her body wouldn’t cost her her soul.

  A sinister swirl of music, light, and laughter enveloped her as he drew her inexorably toward the stairs. Suddenly, the frenzied gaiety was marred by shouts and the sounds of struggle. Emily jerked her head up just in time to see one of the guards go flying into a walnut occasional table, splintering it. He sat up, eyes crossed and wig hanging askew over one ear, then slumped back over, out cold.

  Women screamed and several of the gentlemen tried to climb over each other in a rush for the back door, fearing a constable’s raid. She saw lascivious Uncle George crawling around on hands and knees, searching for his precious quizzing glass. It rolled under Emily’s foot, and she gave it an unkind stomp.

  Shouts rang out near the door. “Grab him!”

  “Careful, he might be an opium user.”

  “He’s quite mad! A bloody savage!”

  A cold rush of air behind her warned Emily her debonair captor had fled. She lifted her skirts and peered around wildly, planning to take advantage of the chaos to make her own escape.