Page 113 of Once an Angel
Bentley Chalmers whatever it takes to keep him in your employ. The two of you make rotten detectives."
With those words she marched away, disappearing into the brougham with a twitch of her sassy little bustle.
Justin muttered, "I'd like to put my foot—"
The coachman twisted on his bench, craning his neck.
Shaking his head in disgust, Justin threw himself into the carriage. As they drove into the night, the dark figure at the window of the house across the street lifted his glass in a mocking toast.
* * *
Emily's behavior in the next week was beyond reproach. Each expedition she made was chaperoned by the duchess or one of Justin's sisters. When her newfound popularity showed no sign of abating, even Cecille and her diminutive mama deigned to woo her affections. Justin heard not even a whisper of impropriety as she became the toast of London. He heard other things, though. How she had leaped out of a moving carriage to rescue a terrified puppy darting among the congested traffic of the Strand. How she had tossed the silk purse containing her entire allowance to a shivering beggar child on the street.
How she had shamed Cecille and her fast set out of going to Bedlam to poke fun at the lunatics.
Justin could find no fault with her. To complain would have been the worst sort of hypocrisy. She was the kind of daughter every father dreamed of having. But Justin wasn't a father. And he suspected the ways he dreamed of having her were not only immoral, but possibly illegal.
The whirl of activity left little time for him. At each soiree and ball her dance card was filled minutes
after arriving. At each luncheon and card party the seat next to hers was taken by some fawning young toff who hung on her every word as if it might be her last. Justin was relegated to the position of
watchful uncle even though he knew none of the eager young men were the threat to her virtue that
he was.
He tripped down the stairs late one afternoon, struggling to knot his tie for the opera that evening.
Penfeld had a way of disappearing whenever Emily was preparing for a night out, leaving Justin to struggle with the damnable scrap of silk alone.
Two strange young men were hovering in the foyer.
"Excuse me," he said, brushing past them.
"Your Grace, may I have a word with you?" The one with the flaming red hair trotted after him. Justin took the freckled hand he offered and he pumped eagerly. "Claiborne, sir. Richard Claiborne. My
friends call me Dick."
Justin looked him up and down from his yellow boots to his checkered jacket. "I dare say they do."
The other man rushed forward, clutching a stovepipe hat. His slicked-back hair reeked of bear's grease. "Henry Simpkins, Your Grace. At your humble service."
"Yes, well, that's very nice," Justin said vaguely. His tie curled like a serpent around his Adam's apple.
He tugged at it and started to walk away. "If the two of you are seeking employment, I suggest you
make an appointment with my offices."
Dick Claiborne flushed to the roots of his hair. "I wish to speak to you about a very private matter."
"Bite your tongue, Dick. That's not fair. I was here first!" Henry cried.
Claiborne whirled around and stabbed Henry's chest with his forefinger. "Sod off, Henry. I saw
her first."
A horrified suspicion grew in Justin's mind. Leaving the irate young gentlemen nose to nose, he lifted a lace curtain and peered out the window. Two more carriages had drawn up to block the drive. One of their occupants was hanging out his window, shouting insults at the man emerging from the other carriage. As Justin watched, the young swell thrust up his shirt-sleeves and launched himself past a stoic footman into the window of his taunter's brougham. The brougham rocked wildly. The driver grabbed the lamp
to keep his seat.
