He lifted his gaze to meet the impassive blue eyes of Claire Scarborough's doll. She reigned on the piano with the aplomb of a ragged little queen. No one had dared to do so much as dust her since Justin had placed her there. He glared at her now, almost hating her for the secrets she withheld. What would she say if she could speak? Would she curse him, reproach him for his terrible cowardice?
He crooked his fingers over the keys and began to play. He chose not his own music, but the melancholy strains of Beethoven's "Fur Elise". Instead of losing himself in the music as he'd hoped, the notes flailed him like exquisite barbs.
What a fool he had been! He had let go of Emily to chase a phantom. Now he had neither.
He felt as if he were moldering in this mausoleum. He hungered to feel the powdery sand between his toes, to hear Trini's sonorous laughter and the welcoming song of the Maori shimmering on the balmy air. His hands flew over the keys, stroking, caressing the smooth ivory as he longed to caress the heated satin of Emily's skin. But how could he face her, knowing he had abandoned David's child to the merciless streets of London? Emily deserved more in life than a desolate man crippled by guilt.
His hands faltered. His fingers were stiff and callused, his left hand still inflexible from lack of practice. He struck the wrong note, then slammed his fist down on the keys in a burst of despair.
The discordant notes jarred the air. Justin dropped his face into his hands. Emily's features were already growing misty in his memory, blurring like a hazy watercolor into another face, a face he knew as well
as his own.
A polite cough broke the silence. Justin's head flew up. A dark shape was silhouetted against the moonlight, and for one crazy moment he thought it was David's ghost.
Bentley Chalmers's clipped tones rang out. "They've found her, sir."
Justin blinked, fighting to clear the fog of confusion from his brain. His thoughts were so rife with Emily that for a weary moment he didn't know who the man was talking about-Emily or Claire?
Chalmers turned his bowler in his hands. "They've found the girl, sir. She's alive."
"Alive?" he whispered.
The piano keys blurred before his grateful eyes, and a chiming carol broke free in his head as if all the bells of London had started to ring at once.
Chapter 18
It seems only yesterday you were toddling
after me, tugging at my coattails with your
chubby little hands. . . .
"Criminy, Penfeld, I asked to be shaved, not beheaded." Justin bit back a yelp as the razor nicked his throat.
Penfeld dabbed at the welling dollop of blood with a towel, his hands shaking visibly. The water in the ceramic washbasin at his elbow was stained a pleasant shade of pink. "I am frightfully sorry, sir. I must confess I'm a bit nervous myself."
"You're nervous? What about me? I've never been a father before." He ducked beneath the approaching blade and bounded out of the chair to the mirror. Stroking the foreign smoothness of his chin, he cocked his head sideways, studying his profile. "Do I look like a suitable papa?"
Beaming proudly, Penfeld wiped the soap from the gleaming blade with a flourish. "The very model of paternal decorum."
Justin flicked a stray hair from the shoulder of his coat, then cast the ebony strands scattered around his chair a rueful glance. "I hope this is worth it. I feel naked."
"But you look splendid."
Justin jerked his coat straight, then reached to his chest for a watch that wasn't there. He remembered
the last time he had seen it, gleaming against the satin of Emily's skin. A smile touched his lips. If things went well today, he would retrieve it soon enough.
"What time is it, Penfeld?"
The valet checked his own watch. "Eleven-oh-two, sir, approximately three minutes since you last asked."
"Eleven-oh-two? Oh, dear God." He paced to the door, then stopped with his hand on the knob. "Is my tie crooked?"
It wasn't, but Penfeld dutifully straightened it. Justin marched to the door again, but faltered halfway there.
His massive bed was swimming in a frivolous sea of lace and velvet. Sweeping away a dainty chintz frock, he sank down on the edge of the mattress and hooked his heels beneath the tester to keep from being sucked into a whirlpool of tiny silk gloves and mink muffs.
"In a few minutes David's daughter is going to walk through that front door. The first thing I must do is tell her the truth about her father." He lifted his bleak gaze to Penfeld. "How will I find the courage?"
"Shall I tell her, sir?"
A rush of affection flooded Justin. Penfeld had been known to blanch with terror at the mere sight of a child. "No. But you are a treasure to offer."
Emboldened by Penfeld's devotion, he jumped to his feet. "One more thing."
"Yes, sir?"
Justin gave him his warmest smile. "Merry Christmas, Penfeld."
The valet snapped to attention. "And a merry Christmas to you, too, sir."
* * *
As Justin strode down the corridor, a cheery whistle rose unbidden to his lips.
"Good morning, Mary," he called out, startling a shocked maid into dropping her load. Little polished boots and kid slippers scattered across the plush carpet. As he tripped down the stairs, one of his brothers-in-law passed him, his long nose tucked into a newspaper. "And a good day to you, Harvey," Justin said.
"Harold," the man mumbled, turning the page.
Justin stopped, frowned, then bounced back up three steps and peered into the man's face. "Why, I'll
be damned, it is Harold, isn't it!"
As he hit the bottom step, he grinned to discover the first floor of the mansion in utter chaos. Servants scurried from room to room, polishing gas lamps, scrubbing the baseboards, and draping the banisters with fragrant garlands of cedar.
A toothless cook thrust a tray of steaming biscuits under his nose. "Thirty dozen, Yer Grace, just as
you asked for."
The delicious aroma filled his nostrils. "Mmmm. Superb, Gracie! Did you bake any with raisins?
Children like raisins, don't they?"
"Mine allus did, sir."
He tweaked her plump cheek. "Twelve dozen more, then. Loaded with raisins."
"Aye, my lord. Right away." She bobbed a curtsy and scampered back toward the kitchen.
A disgruntled butler caught his elbow. "I really must protest, my lord. Someone has left a pony in the library."
Justin didn't even slow. "Imagine that. Take him into the ballroom. He'll have more room to frolic."
He came to a dead halt at the door of the drawing room, his eyes misting with wonder. Within the meager space of a day, the room had been transformed into a Christmas miracle. A towering tree crowned the corner, tickling his nose with the pungent scent of spruce. Edith perched on a ladder, lighting the tiny candles nestled in its boughs while his younger sisters, Lily and Millicent, giggled and offered her suggestions.