Gabriel's Promise (Gabriel's Inferno #4)(18)

“Yes, Mrs. Emerson. I’ve always been very impressed by your—ah—creativity.” He gave her a heated look. “But you fainted this morning.”

“That’s true.” She kissed him again. “But I’m eager to look after my handsome, sexy husband.”

Julia winked and exited the nursery.

Gabriel danced a little jig with the baby. “Your mother is very beautiful, Princess. And tonight, Daddy is getting lucky. Let’s get you cleaned up and put to bed.”

He placed the infant atop the changing table and retrieved a pair of surgical gloves that he kept in a box nearby. Rachel had mocked him mercilessly about them. But he would not be deterred.

He undid the lower snaps of the baby’s sleeper and slipped her legs free. Then he began to undo her diaper.

“Stercus,” he exclaimed.

The color of the stercus in question was not one with which he was familiar. It defied description, definition, and the laws of nature. In fact, the Professor hypothesized the waste to be the product of a changeling, since nothing so foul could ever have been emitted by such a sweet and angelic being.

He gazed longingly at the doorway, as if hoping a certain brown-eyed angel would come to his rescue.

She didn’t appear. And it was possible she was beginning certain sensual activities already. By herself.

There had been a time when he, Professor Gabriel O. Emerson, would have simply rewrapped the infant and returned her to her mother. For a fleeting instant, the Professor contemplated doing just that.

But Clare was his daughter. She was the fruit of his union with his beloved Beatrice and a miracle, besides. It would not be fitting to expect Julianne to do everything, including the removal of nuclear waste.

No, the Professor was now responsible for the little life that looked up at him innocently, absolutely unaware of the noxious emission she was now inflicting on her paternal parent. He would not fail her.

He held his breath and completed the various steps of removing the toxic substance, cleaning the baby thoroughly, covering her with some kind of ointment, and providing her with a new, pristine diaper.

Throughout the procedure the baby sought his face. He smiled and sang a little, wondering if his new foray into the music of Nat King Cole would be more to the princess’s liking. He sang the words to “L-O-V-E” quietly, after apologizing for his initial Latin profanity.

Gabriel deposited the waste in the diaper pail, resolving to eradicate it from the nursery and his household as soon as possible.

Waste did not belong in pails. Indeed, waste did not belong on his property or anywhere near civilized humanity. To think otherwise was simply barbarous, in his estimation. But he was conscious, all too conscious, of the beautiful creature who was waiting for him in bed in the next room.

In haste, he snapped off his surgical gloves and placed them in the pail, as well. Then, just as a precaution, he carefully cleaned his unsoiled hands not once, but twice, with antibacterial wipes.

With the air of a saint who’d just completed a lengthy task of self-mortification, Gabriel redressed the baby and swaddled her competently in a large piece of flannel. Then he cuddled her to his chest.

He sang the first verse of “Blackbird” by the Beatles, rubbing circles on her back.

“Much better now.” Gabriel kissed the baby’s head. “What do you think of Daddy’s new music? We’re improving, aren’t we?”

When the baby yawned indifferently, he kissed her and carried her into the master bedroom.





Chapter Thirteen


Two days later

Oh, my gosh!”

Gabriel’s ears pricked up.

“That’s fantastic.”

Gabriel paused his tooth brushing, eager to hear more of the sounds emanating from the bedroom.

“Oh, my goodness!”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes!”

The cries coming from Julianne’s lips signaled pleasure. But they puzzled Gabriel, since he was not the agent pleasuring her.

He leaned backward, peering through the doorway that led from the en-suite into the bedroom, eager to see what she was doing.

She was standing by the bed, scrolling on her cell phone.

Gabriel scowled, wondering who was eliciting such a reaction from his wife. He spat out the toothpaste, rinsed his toothbrush, and stalked toward her.

Julianne collided with him in the doorway, her dark eyes dancing. “You’ll never guess who emailed me.”

The Angelfucker, Gabriel thought, but did not say.

He plastered a restrained smile on his face. “Who?”

“Professor Wodehouse.”

“Don Wodehouse? Of Magdalen College?”

“Yes!” Julianne held her cell phone aloft and danced in a circle.

Thank God it isn’t the Angelfucker.

Gabriel took her hand. “Why did Wodehouse email you?”

“He’s hosting a workshop on Guido da Montefeltro and Ulysses. It’s by invitation only and he’s invited me.”

“That’s great. When is it?”

“Early April, between Hilary and Trinity term. He’s hosting it at Magdalen and it’s funded by a research grant he was awarded.”

Gabriel squeezed her. “Who else was invited?”

“Cecilia Marinelli and Katherine. But it looks like Professor Wodehouse is directing it.” Julia scanned the recipient list. “No Professor Pacciani. No Christa Peterson, either.”