Teresa Medeiros (38 page)

A choked laugh escaped him. He raked a desperate hand through his hair. “Was I so harsh on you?”

“Monstrous,” she whispered. “I shall take care to misbehave with far greater regularity.”

“I don’t believe my poor heart could stand it.”

It wasn’t his heart stiffening in protest as he reached down with shaking hands and drew his cloak over her. He didn’t trust himself to smooth her stockings, tighten her lacy garters, or draw her skirt down to cover the pliant sprawl of her thighs. He didn’t even trust himself to look at her.

He sank back into his seat and whipped back the window curtain to stare into the wintry night. A row of elegant shops glided past. A frail finger of moonlight pierced the snow clouds.

Emily sat up, hugging his cloak around her. Her topknot of curls drooped over her brow. She blew them out of her eyes. “Perhaps Tansy was remiss in the more sordid aspects of my education, but I was under the impression that there was more.” Her shy gaze flicked to his lap, then back to his face. “Much more.”

Justin realized then that the walls he might build between them with propriety or excuses were flimsy structures, easily torn by his selfish passions. If he stayed, he would be forced to erect the one barrier he could never scale—Emily’s hatred. And he would rather never see her again than to see her look at him with loathing for the terrible act he had once committed in a moment of desperation.

He knew of no other way to say the words than harshly and cleanly. “It was a mistake to stay here. I should have returned to New Zealand as soon as I found you.”

A tremulous cry of joy broke from her lips. “We were very happy there, weren’t we? I know we can be happy again. I can’t wait to see Trini’s face when he sees we’ve come back together. And Dani—”

“I’m going back alone.”

The carriage slowed as they reached the congested traffic of Oxford Street. Justin heard the driver spit out a foul oath as he vied with a crowded omnibus for a space in the narrow lanes.

“Why?” she whispered.

“The natives need me.” The words sounded hollow, even to him.

She knelt on the floor between his legs. The cloak slid from her shoulders, baring their alabaster smoothness. Her imploring gaze searched his face. “But what do you need, Justin?”

Driven to desperation by her nearness, he cupped her buttocks in his hands and pulled her up against him, molding her ruthlessly to his arousal. “This,” he said hoarsely. “This is what I need.”

She refused to be daunted by his crudity. A sad, sweet smile touched her lips. “For a handful of coins you can find that in the arms of any stranger.” She gently drew her fingers along his cheek. “What of tenderness, Justin? What of love?”

A groan caught in his throat. Her passion and courage stunned him. As badly as he wanted her, he couldn’t allow her to give him what he would never be worthy of.

He gently fastened the cloak beneath her trembling chin. “You once said it better than I ever could.
I have no right
.”

“No right to what, Justin? No right to happiness?”

He turned back to the window, despising the cold man he saw reflected in the thick glass.

Emily sat back in her seat, her eyes sparkling dangerously. “So you’re going back to New Zealand. And I’m to stay at Grymwilde and live off your charity.”

“It’s not charity. I owe you.”

“For what? For killing my father?”

His gut spasmed as if she’d plunged a red-hot knife into it. He stared at her.

“I know you blame yourself,” she said. “It
was
you and your smooth friend Nicky who talked him into investing my mother’s inheritance in your little venture. But Daddy was always a bit of a dreamer. He was convinced his rainbow was right around the next corner. If it hadn’t been
gold, it would have been African diamonds or Indian rubber seeds. It’s not your fault he went and got his fool self killed.”

Justin closed his eyes, regretting that she could never give him the one thing he truly needed—absolution.

Sarcasm ripened in her voice. “I have a bright future ahead of me, don’t I? Moldering in that house with Lily, Millie, and Edith. Marrying some insipid boob named Horatio or Humphrey who wears a tasseled nightcap to bed.”

He forced his voice into a low and passionless tone. “Shall I paint another portrait of your future for you? Shall I take you home right now and bed you? Of course, you’d have to be up by dawn to pack your things because it wouldn’t do to have my mistress lodged in the same house with reputable women like my mother and sisters.” He steeled himself as she blanched. “Is that what you want? To live as I have? As an outcast? Shall I ruin you tonight for any other man?”

“You already have,” she cried. She bowed her head, struggling for composure. Tears trembled on her silky lashes, betraying the terrible cost of her whispered words. “You don’t have to make me your mistress. You could make me your wife.”

Justin knew she would choke on that tender plea if she knew the truth. His silence damned them both. Watching the darkness cloud her eyes was like watching his own dreams wither in a poisonous blast of gunpowder.

“Damn your charity to hell, Justin Connor. I won’t be left behind again. If anyone leaves this time, it’ll be me.”

Before he realized what she was going to do, she threw his cloak in his face and lunged for the door handle. He shoved away the enveloping folds, but it was too late. A blast of icy air struck his face. Emily spilled from the moving carriage in a pool of rose, then took off, running, darting between the hansom cabs and carriages with the feline grace of a street urchin.

Justin jumped from the carriage after her, hearing behind
him a startled “Whoa!” from his driver. He lunged in front of a public coach, fighting to keep Emily in his sight among the churning chaos. The theaters and opera houses were just letting out, and lacquered carriages were pouring onto the thoroughfare in a steady stream.

“Watch yer step, guv’nor! Comin’ through!” boomed a hearty voice. Warning given, the burly omnibus driver raised his whip and gave his straining team a brutal lick.

The horses lurched forward. The iron-shod hooves bore down on Justin. He leaped backward to avoid being crushed. As the vehicle thundered past, the conductor mockingly tipped his hat to the cursing drivers of a hansom cab and brougham struggling to calm their frenzied horses.

Justin’s gaze frantically searched the fray. Emily was nowhere to be seen. He swore. Emily was a bigger fool than he if she thought he was going to let her disappear from his life again. Icy flecks of snow cut his cheeks. Dodging hacks and carriages, he loped to the end of the street. Drawn by a smudge of pink against the cobblestones, he slowed and bent to examine it.

It was a single rose-colored slipper, crushed flat by the massive wheels of the omnibus.

Mrs. Rose’s parlor on a snowy winter night was a warm and congenial place to be. The satisfying of men was both her livelihood and her pleasure. Her parlor resembled less a bordello than a cheery home, for the crafty madam wisely realized the gentlemen who frequented her establishment came for both much more and much less than the easing of their physical needs.

They came to loosen their ties, pull off their heavy coats, and recline in overstuffed chairs. They came to prop their stockinged feet on ottomans and smoke the pipes and cigars their wives would allow them only in the most obscure corners of their own homes. Most of all, they came to
hear the pretty girls laugh at their jokes and make them feel young and handsome again.

The peaceful lull that had descended over the parlor this Friday night didn’t concern Mrs. Rose or any of her girls. They knew both the parlor and the bedrooms upstairs would fill to overflowing after the gentlemen of the theater crowd escorted their wives home for the night.

A haze of smoke hung over the room. A portly gentleman rested before the fire, reading the
Times
while Mrs. Rose massaged his toes. A swarthy man reclined on the settee, nursing a cognac and absently fondling the woman on his lap. A girl in a diaphanous robe sat alone at the piano, lazily picking out the notes of
Beautiful Dreamer
.

The front door flew open. A blast of icy wind and swirling snow rushed into the parlor.

“Shut the bloomin’ door. It’s bloody freezin’ out there,” yelled the girl at the piano.

When the door didn’t close, they all looked up to find a bedraggled creature standing on the stoop, barefoot and shivering in a thin silk evening gown. She wore no cloak or cape. Snow frosted her tangled hair.

“Good Lord, what happened to the poor child?” shouted the portly gentleman.

“Has she been attacked?” cried out the girl on the piano bench. To Mrs. Rose’s girls, no crime was more heinous than that of rape. Why would any man take from the unwilling what they so willingly provided?

“Somebody fetch a blanket,” Mrs. Rose commanded.

The dark-eyed man on the settee extracted his elegant fingers from beneath his companion’s skirt and pushed her off his lap. “Why, look what the cat dragged in!”

“What, darling?”

“Never mind. You just run along.” He softened his command by giving the whore’s rump a fond pinch.

He rose and started forward, pulling off his immaculate jacket, but before he could reach the trembling girl,
another woman came down the stairs, twined around a skinny stripling whose face was flushed with a sated glow.

As she unpeeled herself from her most recent customer, her round blue eyes widened. “Holy Christ, Em?” she breathed. “Is that you?”

“Oh, Tansy,” came the answering wail as the pathetic creature flung herself across the room into the whore’s arms.

The man melted back into the shadows. A sneer touched his lips as he watched the tender reunion. He shook a cigarette out of his gold case and lit it. He inhaled deeply, savoring the lazy furl of the smoke through his lungs. There was no need for careless haste to spoil his plans, he reminded himself. Dead men had all the time they needed.

Chapter 27
 

J
ustin stood on the deserted street, staring up at the stone edifice of the school. Why did his weary steps always lead him here? In the gray light of dawn the old building looked sad, its polished edges dulled by bleak neglect. Some things remained the same since his last visit—the paint peeling from the shutters, the rust caking the wrought-iron balusters. But other things had changed. The downstairs windows had been boarded shut, giving the house an abandoned air. The darkened squares of the upstairs windows surveyed him with drowsy indifference. Against his will his gaze flicked upward to the attic windows. They were all broken now, and as he watched, a pigeon hopped out and winged its way into the morning sky.

Justin climbed the stairs to the front door, his boots breaking the thin crust of snow. The snow had stopped near midnight, leaving London frosted in a brittle cloak swirled by icy gusts. Justin had long ago gone too numb to feel its bite.

He pulled his hands out of his pockets and pounded on the door. The sound reverberated with a hollow ring that only fueled his despair. Still, he didn’t stop.

“Jesus bloody Christ!” came the bellow from the connecting house. “Quit your banging, ya fool. Can’t a God-fearin’ man get a decent night’s rest?”

Justin ignored it. He pounded until his raw knuckles began to bleed. His arms fell limp at his sides. He turned his collar up and started to turn away.

The door slowly creaked open. A gaunt face appeared in the darkened crack. A chill shot down Justin’s spine. At first he thought it was Miss Winters beneath the dingy ruffles of the mobcap, but then he realized it was her young teacher, Doreen. The girl had aged twenty years since he had seen her last.

“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!”