Page 278 of Once an Angel
"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 fren2ied 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
