Page 267 of Once an Angel
he had done on the island.
He pulled his napkin out of his lap and dabbed his lips. "You may take the brougham if you like. I'll tell the coachman to make it ready. If you wish to purchase anything, charge it to my name."
"Why, thank you . . . sir."
At her added note of respect he cast her an unreadable glance that might have been displeasure.
"Will you be going to the office today, dear?" the duchess inquired, her booming voice an octave lower than usual.
Justin flinched and touched his fingertips to his temple. "I might. There is a surfeit of accounting to be done."
She bit into a kipper with unmistakable relish. "Don't we have men hired for that?"
He shot her a dark glance. "Of course we do. But even the best of men require supervision."
As Harold launched into a soliloquy pronouncing steam engines instruments of the devil and predicting
a return to sailing ships by all right-thinking men, Emily murmured her excuses and slipped out.
When she returned to her room at midmorning, the fairies had visited again. A plum-colored cloak of luxuriant wool was fanned across her bed. Among its folds lay a mother-of-pearl calling-card case polished to a lustrous gleam. She touched her fingertips to the cool inlay, remembering Justin's words.
You made me proud.
She had made people many things since her father's death—ashamed, infuriated, embarrassed, frustrated, murderous—but she couldn't remember making anyone proud. She rubbed the prickly softness of the cloak against her cheek, knowing she could not have imagined the hint of bay rum that clung to it.
* * *
"What's she doing now, Penfeld?" Justin whispered.
Penfeld lowered his newspaper a fraction of an inch and peered over the top. "Ribbons, sir. She's
finished with the brooches and gone on to the ribbons."
Justin stole a glance around the edge of his own paper, squinting against the glare of the setting sun striking the frosted shop window. Emily stood at the counter inside, studying a display of ribbons proffered by a fawning shopgirl. She tapped her lips in indecision, then plucked up a burgundy ribbon
and held it against her dimpled cheek for Lily to admire. The gesture was so girlish and free of care that
it made his heart catch. He watched mesmerized as the velvet length trailed her skin. His fingers itched
to follow its path.
Without warning Emily dropped the ribbon and glanced at the window. Justin jerked up the paper, burying his nose in it.
Penfeld stamped his feet on the pavement and adjusted the collar of his greatcoat. "My toes are going numb again."
"Wiggle them," Justin snapped, daring another peep around the paper.
The clatter of a passing omnibus drowned out the warning tinkle of the shop bells. Emily and Lily were headed out the door, their arms loaded with packages. Justin grabbed Penfeld and hurled him around
the corner into the waiting carriage.
He slammed his walking stick into the roof of the carriage and yelled, "Follow that brougham!"
"Aye, sir." At the driver's urging the horses clip-clopped into motion and Justin settled back in the plush seat.
Penfeld hunkered down into the lap blankets until all but the reddened bulb of his nose disappeared.
"I'd be the last to suggest a flaw in your character, Your Grace," he said, his voice muffled, "but don't you think you're being a bit overzealous?"
