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The Unmasking of a Lady
Emily May


Drawing Room Lady… It’s common knowledge that Lady Arabella Knightley spent her early years in London’s gutters. But what the Ton doesn’t know is that while she dances prettily by day, by night she helps the poor – stealing jewels from those who court her for her money but disdain her for her past… Ballroom Thief!Bored by polite society, Adam St Just determines to expose the thief. Upon discovering it’s Arabella, he should be appalled. Instead, captivated by her beauty, his proposal is simple: He’ll unbutton Lady Arabella…or unmask her!







Arabella’s thoughts were in turmoil. Adam St Just was the last man—absolutely the last—she’d ever thought would offer for her.

She twisted the towel in her hands. What do I do?

His offer was astonishingly flattering. One of the great prizes on the Marriage Mart, a man who’d had caps past counting set at him…And he chooses me? Why?

He’d said that he admired her, that he respected her, that he had affection for her. She knew what he meant by that last word: affection. St Just didn’t leer at her like Lord Dalrymple did, but she recognised the warmth in his eyes. He wanted her, as a man wants a woman.



Arabella shuddered.



Her instinctive response to St Just’s offer had been no—it still was. Because if she married him she’d have to share his bed.




The Unmasking of A Lady

Emily May











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




About the Author


EMILY MAY grew up in a house full of books—her mother worked as a proof-reader and librarian, and her father is a well-known New Zealand novelist. Emily has studied a wide number of subjects, including Geology and Geophysics, Canine Behaviour and Ancient Greek. Her varied career includes stints as a field assistant in Antarctica and a waitress on the Isle of Skye. Most recently she has worked in the wine industry in Marlborough, New Zealand.

Emily loves to travel, and has lived in Sweden, backpacked in Europe, and travelled overland in the Middle East, China and North Africa. She enjoys climbing hills, yoga workouts, watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and reading. She is especially fond of Georgette Heyer’s Regency and Georgian novels.

Emily writes Regency romances as Emily May, and dark, romantic fantasy novels as Emily Gee (www.emilygee.com).


A previous novel by this author:

THE EARL’S DILEMMA


This book is for Margareta and Maurice, for their very generous hospitality.

I can’t thank you enough!




Acknowledgements


This book started its life while I was travelling in Canada. I’d like to thank the various public libraries in and around Victoria on Vancouver Island (in particular the Esquimalt branch) where I figured out the plot. And thanks to the public library in Prince Rupert (a town where the bald eagles are as plentiful as sparrows), where the second chapter was written. But the biggest thanks go to the owners of the backpackers’ hostel on Denman Island, on whose veranda the first chapter was written. I wish I could have written the whole book there!




Chapter One


The thief stood in front of Lady Bicknell’s dressing table and looked with disapproval at the objects strewn across it: glass vials of perfume, discarded handkerchiefs, a clutter of pots and jars of cosmetics—rouge, maquillage—many gaping open, their contents drying, two silver-backed hairbrushes with strands of hair caught among the bristles, a messy pile of earrings, the faceted jewels glinting dully in the candlelight.

The thief stirred the earrings with a fingertip. Gaudy. Tasteless. In need of cleaning.

The dressing table, the mess, offended the thief’s tidy soul. She pursed her lips and examined the earrings again, more slowly. The diamonds were paste, the sapphires nothing more than coloured glass, the rubies…She picked up a ruby earring and looked at it closely. Real, but such a garish, vulgar setting. The thief grimaced and put the earring back, more neatly than its owner had done. There was nothing on the dressing table that interested her.

She turned to the mahogany dresser. It stood in the corner, crouching on bowed legs like a large toad. Three wide drawers and at the top, three small ones, side by side, beneath a frowning mirror. The thief quietly opened the drawers and let her fingers sift through the contents, stirring the woman’s scent from the garments: perspiration, perfume.

The topmost drawer on the left, filled with a tangle of silk stockings and garters, wasn’t as deep as the others.

For a moment the thief stood motionless, listening for footsteps in the corridor, listening to the breeze stir the curtains at the open window, then she pulled the drawer out and laid it on the floor.

Behind the drawer of stockings was another drawer, small and discreet, and inside that…

The thief grinned as she lifted out the bracelet. Pearls gleamed in the candlelight, exquisite, expensive.

The drawer contained—besides the bracelet—a matching pair of pearl earrings and four letters. The thief took the earrings and replaced the letters. She was easing the drawer back into its slot when a name caught her eye. St Just.

St Just. The name brought with it memory of a handsome face and grey eyes, memory of humiliation—and a surge of hatred.

She hesitated for a second, and then reached for the letters.

The first one was brief and to the point. Here, as requested, is my pearl bracelet. In exchange, I must ask for the return of my letter. It was signed Grace St Just.

The thief frowned and unfolded the second letter. It was written in the same girlish hand as the first. The date made her pause—November 6th, 1817. The day Princess Charlotte had died, although the letter writer wouldn’t have known that at the time.

Dearest Reginald, the letter started. The thief skimmed over a passionate declaration of love and slowed to read the final paragraph. I miss you unbearably. Every minute seems like an hour, every day a year. The thought of being parted from you is unendurable. If it must be elopement, then so be it. A tearstain marked the ink. Your loving Grace.

The thief picked up the third letter. It was a draft, some words crossed out, others scribbled in the margins.

My dear Miss St Just, I have a letter of yours you wrote to a Mr Reginald Plunkett of Birmingham has come into my possession. If you want it back. In exchange for its return. I should like to return this letter to you. In exchange I want ask nothing more than your pearl bracelet. You may leave it the bracelet for me in the Dutch garden in the Kensington Palace Gardens. Place it Hide it in the urn at the northeastern corner of the pond.

The thief thinned her lips. She stopped reading and picked up the final letter. Another draft.

Dear Miss St Just, thank you for the bracelet. I find, however, that I want require the necklace the earrings as well. You may leave them in the same place. Do not worry about the your letter; I have it it is safe in my keeping.

The thief slowly refolded the piece of paper. Blackmail. There was a sour taste in her mouth. She looked down at the bracelet and earrings, at the love letter, and bit her lower lip. What to do?

St Just. Memory flooded through her: the smothered laughter of the ton, the sniggers and the sideways glances, the gleeful whispers.

The thief tightened her lips. Resentment burned in her breast and heated her cheeks. Adam St Just could rot in hell for all she cared, but Grace St Just…Grace St Just didn’t deserve this.

Her decision made, the thief gathered the contents of the hidden drawer—letters and jewels—and tucked them into the pouch she wore around her waist, hidden beneath shirt and trousers. Swiftly she replaced both drawers. Crossing the room, she plucked the ruby earrings from the objects littering Lady Bicknell’s dressing table. The rubies went into the pouch, nestling alongside the pearls. The thief propped an elegant square of card among the remaining earrings. The message inscribed on it was brief: Should payment be made for a spiteful tongue? Tom thinks so. There was no signature; a drawing of a lean alley cat adorned the bottom of the note.

The thief gave a satisfied nod. Justice done. She glanced at the mirror. In the candlelight her eyes were black. Her face was soot-smudged and unrecognisable. For a moment she stared at herself, unsettled, then she lifted a finger to touch the faint cleft in her chin. That, at least, was recognisable, whether she wore silk dresses or boys’ clothing in rough, dark fabric.

The thief turned away from her image in the mirror. She trod quietly towards the open window.

Adam St Just found his half-sister in the morning room, reading a letter. Her hair gleamed like spun gold in the sunlight. ‘Grace?’

His sister gave a convulsive start and clutched the letter to her breast. A bundle of items on her lap slid to the floor. Something landed with a light thud. Adam saw the glimmer of pearls.

‘Is that your bracelet? I thought you’d lost—’ He focused on her face. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ Grace hastily wiped her cheek. ‘Just something in my eye.’ She bent and hurriedly gathered several pieces of paper and the bracelet.

A pearl earring lay stranded on the carpet. Adam nudged it with the toe of his boot. ‘And this?’ He picked up the earring and held it out.

Grace flushed. She took the earring.

Adam frowned at her. ‘Grace, what is it?’

‘Nothing.’ Her smile was bright, but her eyes slid away from his.

Adam sat down on the sofa alongside her. ‘Grace…’ he said, and then stopped, at a loss to know how to proceed. The physical distance between them—a few inches of rose-pink damask—might as well have been a chasm. The twelve years that separated them, the difference in their genders, seemed insurmountable barriers. He felt a familiar sense of helplessness, a familiar knowledge that he was failing in his guardianship of her.

He looked at his sister’s downcast eyes, the curve of her cheek, the slender fingers clutching the pearl earring. I love you, Grace. He cleared his throat and tried to say the words aloud. ‘Grace, I hope you know that I…care about you and that I want you to be happy.’

It was apparently the wrong thing to say. Grace began to cry.

Adam hesitated for a moment, dismayed, and then put his arm around her. To his relief, Grace didn’t pull away. She turned towards him, burying her face in his shoulder.

It hurt to hear her cry. Adam swallowed and tightened his grip on her. She’d grown thinner since their arrival in London, paler, quieter. I should take her home. To hell with the Season.

The storm of tears lessened. Adam stroked his sister’s hair. ‘What is it, Grace?’

‘I didn’t want to disappoint you again,’ she sobbed.

‘You’ve never disappointed me.’

Grace shook her head against his shoulder. ‘Last year…’ She didn’t need to say more; they both knew to what she was referring.

‘I was angry—but not with you.’ He’d been more than angry: he’d been furious. Furious at Reginald Plunkett, furious at the school for hiring the man, but mostly furious at himself for not visiting Grace more often, for not realising how lonely she was, how vulnerable to the smiles and compliments of her music teacher.

The anger stirred again, tightening in his chest as if a fist was clenched there. I should have horsewhipped him. I should have broken every bone in his body.

Adam dug in his pocket for a handkerchief. Grace had come perilously close to ruin. Even now, six months later, he woke in a cold sweat from dreams—nightmares—in which he’d delayed his journey by one day, and arrived in Bath to find her gone. ‘Here,’ he said, handing her the handkerchief.

Grace dried her cheeks.

Adam smiled at her. ‘Now, tell me what’s wrong.’

Grace looked down at her lap, at the papers and the pearls. She extracted a sheet of paper and handed it to him.

My dear Miss St Just, I have a letter of yours you wrote to a Mr Reginald Plunkett of Birmingham has come into my possession. If you want it back. In exchange for its return. I should like to return this letter to you. In exchange I want ask nothing more than your pearl bracelet.

‘What!’ He stared at his sister. ‘Someone’s blackmailing you?’

Grace bit her lip.

Adam’s fingers tightened on the sheet of paper. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Her gaze fell.

Because you were afraid I’d be angry at you, disappointed in you. Adam swallowed. He looked back at the blackmail letter without seeing it. He rubbed his face with one hand. ‘Grace…’

‘Here.’ She handed him another piece of paper. The writing was the same as the first, the intent as ugly.

‘You did what this person asked? You gave them your pearls?’ His rage made the sunlight seem as sharp-edged as a knife. The room swung around him for a moment, vivid with anger. He focused on a chair. The rose-pink damask had become the deep crimson of blood, the gilded wood was as bright as flames. How dared anyone do this to her? The sheet of paper crumpled in his fist. I’ll kill them—

‘Yes.’ Grace gathered the bracelet and the earrings within the curve of her palm.

Adam blinked. His anger fell away, replaced by confusion. ‘Then why—?’

‘Tom returned them to me.’

‘Tom?’

He blinked again at the elegant piece of paper she handed him, at the brief message, at the signature and the cat drawn in black ink at the bottom of the page. His interest sharpened. That Tom.

I believe these belong to you, Tom had written. I found them in Lady Bicknell’s possession.

‘And the letter to Reginald Plunkett?’

Grace touched a folded piece of paper in her lap.

Adam read the note again. Tom. ‘The devil,’ he said, under his breath. He fastened his gaze on his sister. ‘Was there anything else? Anything that might identify him?’

Grace shook her head.

Adam touched the ink-drawn cat with a fingertip. It stared back at him, sitting with its tail curled across its paws, unblinking, calm.

He lifted his eyes to the signature, and above that to the message. ‘Lady Bicknell,’ he said aloud, and the rage came back.

‘Apparently,’ Grace said.

The blackmail letters were clearly drafts. ‘You have the ones she sent you?’

Grace shook her head. ‘I burned them.’

Adam re-read Lady Bicknell’s letters, letting his eyes rest on each and every word, scored out or not. ‘She’ll pay for this,’ he said grimly. ‘By God, if she thinks she can—!’ He recollected himself, glanced at his sister’s face and forced himself to sit back on the sofa, to form his mouth into a smile. ‘Forget this, Grace. It’s over.’

‘Yes,’ said Grace, but her expression was familiar: pale, miserable. She’d worn it four years ago when her mother died, and she’d worn it last November when she’d learned the truth about Reginald Plunkett.

Adam reached for her hand. ‘How odd, that we must be grateful to a thief.’ He laughed, tried to make a joke of it.

Grace smiled dutifully.

Adam looked at her, noting the paleness of her cheeks, the faint shadows beneath the blue eyes. ‘Grace, would you like to go home?’ Away from the press of buildings and people and the sly whispers of gossip.

Her face lit up, as if the sun had come from behind a cloud. ‘Oh, yes!’

‘Then I’ll arrange it.’

‘Thank you!’ She pulled her hand free from his grasp and embraced him, swift and wholly unexpected.

Adam experienced a throat-tightening rush of emotion. He folded his sister briefly in his arms and then released her. How did we become so distant? He cleared his throat. ‘Have you any engagements today? Would you like to ride out to Richmond?’

‘Oh, yes! I should like that of all things!’ She rose, and the pearls tumbled from her lap on to the damask-covered sofa. A much-creased letter fluttered down alongside them. It was addressed to Reginald Plunkett in Grace’s handwriting.

The delight faded from his sister’s face, leaving it miserable once more.

Adam gestured to the letter. ‘Do you want to keep it?’

Grace shook her head.

‘Shall I burn it for you? Or would you prefer—?’

‘I don’t want to touch it!’ Her voice was low and fierce.

Adam nodded. He scooped up the pearls and placed them in Grace’s palm, curling her fingers around them, holding her hand, holding her gaze. ‘Forget about this, Grace. It’s over.’

Grace nodded, but the happiness that had briefly lit her face was gone.

Adam stood. He kissed her cheek. ‘Go and change,’ he said, releasing her hand.

When she’d gone, he picked up the pieces of paper: Grace’s love letter, Tom’s note, Lady Bicknell’s blackmail drafts. He allowed his rage to flare again. Lady Bicknell would pay for the distress she’d caused Grace. She’d pay deeply.

But some of the blame was his. The distance between them was his fault: he’d been his sister’s guardian, not her friend. She’d been too afraid of his disappointment, his anger, to ask for help.

Adam strode from the morning room. His shame was a physical thing; he felt it in his chest as if a knife blade was buried there.

He had failed Grace. Somehow, without realising it, he’d become to her what their father had been to him: disapproving and unapproachable.

But no more, he vowed silently as he entered his study. No more.

Adam grimly placed the letters in the top drawer of his desk. He put Tom’s note in last and let his gaze dwell on the signature. ‘I would like to know who you are,’ he said under his breath. And then he locked the drawer and put the key in his pocket.



Arabella Knightley, granddaughter of the fifth Earl of Westcote, paused alongside a potted palm and surveyed the ballroom. Lord and Lady Halliwell were launching their eldest daughter in style: hundreds of candles blazed in the chandeliers, a profusion of flowers scented the air, and yards of shimmering pink silk swathed the walls. An orchestra played on a dais and dancing couples filled the floor, performing the intricate steps of the quadrille. The débutantes were distinguishable by their self-consciousness as much as by their pale gowns.

Grace St Just wasn’t on the dance floor. Arabella looked at the ladies seated around the perimeter of the ballroom, scanning their faces as she sipped her lemonade. Her lip lifted slightly in contempt as she recognised Lady Bicknell.

The woman’s appearance—the tasteless, gaudy trinkets, the heavy application of cosmetics—was reminiscent of her dressing table. Her earrings…Arabella narrowed her eyes. Yes, Lady Bicknell was wearing the diamond earrings she herself had discarded as worthless.

If the woman’s appearance was in keeping with her dressing table, her figure brought to mind the mahogany dresser: broad and squat. Like a frog, Arabella thought, watching as Lady Bicknell’s wide, flat mouth opened and shut. She was disclaiming forcefully, her heavy face flushed with outrage. One of the ladies seated alongside her hid a smile behind her fan; the other, a dowager wearing a purple turban, listened with round-eyed interest.

Telling the tale of Tom’s thieving, Arabella thought, with another curl of her lip. The woman certainly wouldn’t mention the other items that had gone missing last night: the pearl bracelet and earrings, the blackmail letters.

Arabella dismissed Lady Bicknell from her thoughts. She continued her search of the ballroom, looking for Grace St Just.

She found her finally, seated alongside a St Just aunt. The girl wore a white satin gown sewn with seed pearls. More pearls gleamed at her earlobes and around her pale throat. She was astonishingly lovely, and yet she was sitting in a corner as if she didn’t want anyone to notice her.

Arabella was reminded, vividly, of her own first Season. It was no easy thing to make one’s début surrounded by whispers and conjecture and sidelong glances.

And I had advantages that Grace does not. She’d had the armour her childhood had given her—armour a girl as gently reared as Grace St Just couldn’t possibly have. And she’d had advice—advice it appeared no one had given Grace.

Arabella chewed on her lower lip. She glanced at the dance floor, trying to decide what to do. Her eyes fastened on one of the dancers, a tall man with a patrician cast to his features. Adam St Just, cousin to the Duke of Frew.

She eyed him with resentment. St Just’s manner was as aloof, as proud, as if it was he who held the dukedom, not his cousin. How could I have been such a fool as to believe he liked me? She should be grateful to St Just; he’d taught her never to trust a member of the ton—a valuable lesson. But it was impossible to be grateful while she still had memory of the beau monde’s gleeful delight in her humiliation.

Arabella watched him dance, hoping he’d misstep or trample on his partner’s toes. It was a futile hope; St Just had the natural grace of a sportsman. His partner, a young débutante, lacked that grace. The girl danced stiffly, her manner awkward and admiring.

Arabella’s lips tightened. No doubt St Just accepted the admiration as his due; for years he’d been one of the biggest prizes on the marriage market, courted for his wealth, his bloodline, his handsome face.

She looked again at Grace St Just. The girl bore little resemblance to her half-brother. Adam St Just’s arrogance was stamped on him—the way he carried himself, the tilt of his chin, the set of his mouth. Everything about him said I am better than you. Grace had none of that. She sat looking down at her hands, her shoulders slightly hunched as if she wished to hide.

I really should help her.

Arabella looked at St Just again. As she watched, he cast a swift, frowning glance in the direction of his sister.

He’s worried about her.

It was disconcerting to find herself in agreement with him.

Arabella swallowed the last of her lemonade, not tasting it, and handed her empty glass to a passing servant. No one snubbed her as she made her way through the crush of guests, her smiles were politely returned, and yet everyone in the ballroom—herself included—knew that she didn’t belong. The satin gown, the fan of pierced ivory, the jewelled combs in her hair, couldn’t disguise what she was: an outsider.

Music swirled around her, and beneath that was the rustle of silk and satin and gauze, the hum of voices. Her ears caught snippets of conversation. Much of tonight’s gossip seemed to be about Lady Bicknell. Opinion was divided: some sympathised with Lady Bicknell, others thought it served her right.

There was no doubt why Tom had paid her a visit last night.

‘That tongue of hers,’ stated a florid gentleman in a waistcoat that was too tight for him.

‘Most likely,’ his wife said, glancing up and meeting Arabella’s eyes. For a brief second the woman’s smile stiffened, then she inclined her head in a polite nod.

Six years ago that momentary hesitation would have hurt; now she no longer cared. Arabella smiled cheerfully back at the woman. Only four more weeks of this. Four more weeks of ball gowns and false smiles, of pretending to belong, and then she could turn her back on society. But first, I must help Grace St Just.

The girl looked up as Arabella approached. She was fairer than her half-brother, her hair golden instead of brown, her eyes a clear shade of blue. She was breathtakingly lovely—and quite clearly miserable.

‘Miss St Just.’ Arabella smiled and extended her hand. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Arabella Knightley.’

Grace St Just flushed faintly. She hesitated a moment, then held out her hand. Her brother has warned her about me.

Arabella sat, ignoring the St Just aunt who frowned at her, lips pursed in disapproval, from her position alongside Grace. ‘How are you finding your first Season?’

‘Oh,’ said Grace. She sent a darting glance in the direction of the dance floor. ‘It’s very…that is to say—’

‘I hated mine,’ Arabella said frankly. ‘Everyone staring and whispering behind their hands. It’s not pleasant to be gossiped about, is it?’

Grace St Just stopped searching the dance floor for her brother. She stared at Arabella. ‘No. It isn’t.’

‘Someone gave me some advice,’ Arabella said, ‘when I was in a similar position to you. If you don’t think it impertinent of me, I should like to pass it on.’

She had the girl’s full attention now. Those sky-blue eyes were focused on her face with an almost painful intensity. ‘Please,’ Grace St Just said. Even the aunt leaned slightly forwards in her chair.

‘It was given to me by Mr Brummell,’ Arabella said. ‘If he were still in England, I’m certain he’d impart it to you himself.’

‘The Beau?’ Grace breathed. ‘Truly?’

Arabella nodded. ‘He said…’ She paused for a moment, remembering. The Beau’s voice had been cool and suave, and oddly kind. ‘He said I must ignore it, and more than that, I must ignore it well.’

It was the only time Beau Brummell had spoken to her. But he had always nodded to her most politely after that, his manner one of faint approval.

‘And so I did as he suggested,’ Arabella said. ‘I gave the appearance of enjoying myself. I smiled at every opportunity, and when I couldn’t smile, I laughed.’ She smoothed a wrinkle in one of her long gloves, remembering. A slight smile tugged at her lips. ‘I believe some people found it very annoying.’

She looked up and held Grace St Just’s eyes. ‘So that’s my advice. However difficult it may seem, you must ignore what people are saying, the way they look at you. And you must ignore it well.’

‘Ignore it?’ Tears filled the girl’s eyes. ‘How can I?’

‘It isn’t easy,’ Arabella said firmly. ‘But it can be done.’

Grace shook her head. She hunted in her reticule for a handkerchief. ‘I would much rather go home.’ Her voice wobbled on the last word.

‘Certainly you may do that, but if I may be so bold, Miss St Just…the rumours are just rumours. Speculation and conjecture. If you shrug your shoulders, London will find a new target. But if you leave now, the rumours will be confirmed.’

Grace looked stricken. She sat with the handkerchief clutched in her hand and tears trembling on her eyelashes.

‘It doesn’t matter whether you committed whatever indiscretion London thinks you did,’ Arabella said matter-of-factly. ‘What matters is whether London believes it or not.’

Grace St Just bit her lip. She looked down at the handkerchief and twisted it between her fingers.

‘Be bold,’ Arabella said softly.

‘Bold?’ The girl’s laugh was shaky. ‘I’m not a bold person, Miss Knightley.’

‘I think you can be anything you want.’

Arabella’s voice was quiet, but it made the girl look up. For a moment they matched gazes, and then Grace St Just gave a little nod. She blew her nose and put the handkerchief away. ‘Tell me…how you did it, Miss Knightley, if you please?’

Arabella was conscious of a sense of relief. She sat back in her chair and glanced at the dance floor. Adam St Just was watching them. She could see his outrage, even though half a ballroom separated them.

It was tempting to smile at him and give a mocking little wave. Arabella did neither. She turned her attention back to Grace St Just.



Adam relinquished Miss Hornby to the care of her mother. He turned and grimly surveyed the far corner of the ballroom. His sister sat alongside Arabella Knightley, as she had for the past fifteen minutes.

They made a pleasing tableau, dark and fair, their heads bent together as they talked, Miss Knightley’s gown of deep rose-pink perfectly complementing his sister’s white satin.

Adam gritted his teeth. He strode around the ballroom, watching as Grace said something and Miss Knightley replied—and his aunt, Seraphina Mexted, sat placidly alongside, nodding and smiling and making no attempt to shoo Miss Knightley away.

Grace lifted her head and laughed.

Adam’s stride faltered. Arabella Knightley had made Grace laugh. In fact, now that he observed more closely, his sister’s face was bright with amusement.

She looks happy.

Arabella Knightley had accomplished, in fifteen minutes, what he had been trying—and failing—to do for months. How in Hades had she done it? And far more importantly, why?

Miss Knightley looked up as he approached. Her colouring showed her French blood—hair and eyes so dark they were almost black—but the soft dent in her chin, as if someone had laid a fingertip there at her birth, proclaimed her as coming from a long line of Knightleys.

His eyes catalogued her features—the elegant cheekbones, the dark eyes, the soft mouth—and his pulse gave a kick. It was one of the things that annoyed him about Arabella Knightley: that he was so strongly attracted to her. The second annoying thing was the stab of guilt—as familiar as the attraction—that always accompanied sight of her.

Adam bowed. ‘Miss Knightley, what a pleasure to see you here this evening.’

Her eyebrows rose. ‘Truly?’ Her voice was light and amused, disbelieving.

Adam clenched his jaw. This was the third thing that annoyed him about Miss Knightley: her manner.

Arabella Knightley turned to Grace and smiled. ‘I must go. My grandmother will be wanting supper soon.’

Adam stepped back as she took leave of his sister and aunt. The rose-pink gown made her skin appear creamier and the dark ringlets more glossily black. A striking young woman, Miss Knightley, with her high cheekbones and dark eyes. And an extremely wealthy one, too. But no man of birth and breeding would choose to marry her—unless his need for a fortune outweighed everything else.

She turned to him. ‘Good evening, Mr St Just.’ Cool amusement still glimmered in her eyes.

Adam gritted his teeth and bowed again. His gaze followed her. Miss Knightley’s figure was slender and her height scarcely more than five foot—and yet she had presence. It was in her carriage, in the way she held her head. She was perfectly at home in the crowded ballroom, utterly confident, unconcerned by the glances she drew.

Adam turned to his aunt. ‘Aunt Seraphina, how could you allow—?’

‘I like her,’ Aunt Seraphina said placidly. ‘Seems a very intelligent girl.’

Adam blinked, slightly taken aback.

‘I like her too,’ Grace said. ‘Adam, may I invite her—?’

‘No. Being seen in her company will harm your reputation. Miss Knightley is not good ton.’

‘I know,’ said Grace. ‘She spent part of her childhood in the slums. Her mother was a…a…’ She groped for a euphemism, and then gave up. ‘But I like her. I want to be friends with her.’

Over my dead body.

‘Shall we leave?’ he said, changing the subject. ‘It’s almost midnight and we’ve a long journey tomorrow.’ To Sussex, where there’d be no Arabella Knightley.

He began to feel more cheerful.

‘I’ve decided to stay in London,’ Grace said.

Adam raised his eyebrows. ‘You have?’

‘Yes,’ Grace said. ‘This is my first Season, and I’m going to enjoy it!’




Chapter Two


Adam rode out the next morning under a grey sky. London’s roads were damp from a night’s rain. He passed through the gate into Hyde Park, inhaling the scents of wet grass and wet earth and the rich, fresh smell of horse manure. The Row was relatively empty. Adam urged Goliath into a canter. He liked mornings like this, when the ton stayed abed and he could almost pretend he was at home, exercising Goliath on the Downs, not surrounded by the sprawl and clamour of London.

His thoughts turned to Grace as he rode up and down the strip of tan. Last night she’d smiled, danced, even laughed. The Season, which had begun to look like a disaster, could be saved. He’d find a husband for Grace, a man of good birth and character, a man who’d take care of her.

Adam was conscious of a feeling of lightness, as if a weight that had been sitting on his shoulders had suddenly lifted. He began to whistle beneath his breath.

Another rider entered the Row. The black mare and the claret-red riding habit were familiar, as were the rider’s elegant seat and her jaunty, plumed hat.

Adam’s good mood evaporated abruptly. This was one of the irritations of London: that Arabella Knightley should choose to exercise her horse at the same time as him. He pretended not to see her, but it was impossible to maintain the pretence for long with the Row so thin of riders. The third time they passed he nodded stiffly. She returned the gesture. The amusement in her smile, the slightly mocking glint in her dark eyes, as if she was laughing at him, made his hands tighten on the reins. Goliath snorted and tossed his head.

Adam loosened his grip. ‘Tomorrow we’ll come earlier,’ he told the horse, and then he pushed all thought of Arabella Knightley out of his head, focusing instead on the far more interesting subject of Tom the burglar’s identity.

That subject occupied him as he trotted back through raindamp streets to Berkeley Square, as he gave Goliath to his groom and walked around from the mews, as he entered the cool entrance hall and handed hat, whip and gloves to the butler. ‘A pot of tea, Fiscus,’ he said, and walked down the hallway to his study.

Adam sat down at his desk with the letters spread before him and a teacup at his elbow. The blackmail notes were so foul, so ugly, that they seemed to taint the air he breathed, as if they gave off an odour of rankness and decay, of rot.

The notes gave no clue of the writer’s identity. The paper was plain, the handwriting ordinary. Anyone could have written them. Lady Bicknell, Tom claimed.

Adam pondered this. Lady Bicknell was a widow of longstanding who possessed a disagreeably sharp tongue. An unpleasant woman, certainly. But was she a blackmailer?

Tom said so. But Tom was a thief and therefore not to be trusted. I need proof. Something in Lady Bicknell’s hand, with her named signed in ink, for all to see. But how?

Adam sat for a long time, thinking, and then smiled. Yes, that will work very well. Reaching for the teacup, he took a mouthful, grimaced and swallowed the cold liquid. He pushed the cup away, pushed the blackmail notes aside and studied the piece of paper that really interested him: Tom’s note.

Who are you? he asked silently, staring at the black cat.

The cat stared back at him, giving nothing away. Its gaze was fixed, inanimate and yet almost insolent. A challenge.

‘I’m going to find out who you are,’ Adam said aloud.

He felt a spurt of cheerfulness. Proving that Lady Bicknell was a blackmailer, finding a husband for Grace, his own search for a bride—those were things he had to do. Discovering Tom’s identity was something altogether different. Not only would it take his mind off worrying about Grace, it would be fun.

Adam pulled a blank sheet of paper towards him and uncapped his inkpot.

Look for a thief? Such behaviour is hardly worthy of a St Just! The voice was his father’s, ringing in his ears, even though the old man had been dead these past three years. The cold disapproval was as loud, as clear, as if his father stood at his shoulder. You may not be the duke, but I expect you to behave as if you are!

Adam hissed between his teeth. He pushed any thought of his father aside, dipped his quill in ink and began to write.



Adam St Just’s town house was as elegantly appointed as Arabella had expected; no one could accuse St Just of lacking either money or taste. The parlour was decorated in blue and cream, the furniture was in the Grecian style, with clean lines and scrolled ends, and a pretty frieze of acanthus leaves ran around the room.

Grace St Just was every bit as beautiful as her surroundings. Her face was flower-like, open and innocent—and also fierce. The glint in her eyes, the set of her chin, were those of a woman prepared to fight.

‘Advice?’ Arabella said, echoing the girl’s question. ‘I can only tell you how I do it.’

‘Please.’ Grace sat forwards eagerly.

Arabella smiled wryly. ‘It sounds foolish, but…when I dress, I imagine I’m putting on armour.’

The girl blinked. ‘Armour?’

‘Yes.’ Arabella touched her gown. ‘You see muslin; I see armour.’

‘Oh.’

Arabella picked up her teacup. ‘And then I imagine that each disapproving stare, each sneer, each whispered remark, is a tiny arrow.’ She sipped her tea. ‘The arrows fly at me, but they can’t hurt me.’ The delicate porcelain cup made a noise as she replaced it in its saucer. Clink. Like an arrow striking armour. ‘It makes me want to laugh when I imagine the arrows lying helpless on the ground at my feet.’ She grinned at the girl. ‘And my amusement annoys my detractors—which amuses me even more.’

‘Oh,’ said Grace again. Her expression was uncertain.

Arabella eyed her for a moment. ‘If the image is too martial for you, perhaps you’d like to try something else? Oilskin repelling drops of water, or…or…have you ever seen how water rolls off a duck’s back?’

‘Yes.’ Grace’s face brightened. ‘Water off a duck’s back! I’ll do that.’

Arabella returned the girl’s smile. She picked up a macaroon and bit into it. The flavours of sugar and coconut mingled on her tongue.

Grace St Just busied herself pouring another cup of tea. ‘I can’t thank you enough, Miss Knightley. I’m very much in your debt—’

‘Bella,’ she said. ‘Please call me Bella.’

The girl’s smile was shy. ‘Then you must call me Grace.’

Arabella took another bite of macaroon. She chewed slowly, imagining St Just’s reaction when he discovered that his sister was on first-name terms with her. Laughter rose in her throat.

Grace’s smile faded as she sipped her tea. Her expression became pensive.

Arabella dismissed Adam St Just from her thoughts. ‘You’ve had an unfortunate introduction into society, but there’s some usefulness to be had from it.’

‘Usefulness?’ Grace put down her teacup.

‘It’s given you the opportunity to see people for who they are. It’s shown you what’s beneath the surface.’

Grace looked as if she’d rather not know.

‘You’d prefer the shallow, empty flattery of those who admire your name and your fortune?’ Arabella asked softly.

The girl flushed and shook her head.

‘Then you may look upon this experience as fortunate.’

Grace looked down at her lap. She pleated a fold of sprigged muslin between her fingers. ‘Three girls who were at school with me are making their débuts this Season.’ She bit her lip and glanced up. ‘It must be one of them who…’ Tears shone in her eyes. ‘I thought they were my friends.’

Arabella handed her a handkerchief. She watched in quiet sympathy as Grace wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

The girl folded the square of linen. ‘He was my music master.’

‘Grace, you don’t need to tell me anything. It’s no concern of mine—or anyone else’s—what did or didn’t happen.’

‘Nothing happened,’ Grace said bitterly. ‘Although I almost…I almost—’

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Arabella said softly.

Grace didn’t seem to hear. ‘I thought I loved him,’ she said. ‘I was going to run away with him. And then my brother came.’ Her fingers twisted on the handkerchief, wringing it. ‘And it turned out that…that he…that my music master was married.’

Arabella refilled Grace’s teacup and handed it to her. ‘A valuable experience,’ she said, and smiled at the girl’s look of shock. ‘You’ve gained insight into the male character, have you not? You won’t fall for blandishments and flattery again.’

Grace shook her head, still looking taken aback.

‘I was courted by a fortune hunter during my first Season,’ Arabella told her. ‘Although I didn’t realise it until afterwards. It was a useful lesson.’

‘Oh?’ Grace’s eyes sharpened with interest.

‘His name was George Dysart. He was very handsome!’ Arabella smiled wryly, remembering. ‘He seemed so desperately in love with me that for a time I fancied myself in love with him.’ He’d made her feel precious. He’d told her that her background didn’t matter to him; her fortune and her family were unimportant—it was her he loved.

She had believed him, had even begun to reconsider her decision not to marry—

‘What happened?’ Grace asked.

Arabella was silent as memory returned: George embracing her, trying to kiss her, and her instinctive recoil. ‘I was…too slow, and so he turned his attention elsewhere. Another heiress.’

Grace’s eyebrows rose. ‘She married him?’

‘Yes. Poor Helen.’

‘You’re friends with her?’

Arabella smiled at the girl’s startled expression. ‘You think I should resent her?’ She shook her head. ‘No. We’ve become close friends. Helen’s had a dreadful marriage. I pity her sincerely.’ She pulled a face. ‘To think I fancied myself in love with George!’

Grace looked down at her hands. It took no particular insight to know what she was thinking about.

Arabella picked up her cup again. ‘That’s why I say your experience was useful. It’s taught you to see men more clearly. When you come to choose a husband, it will stand you in good stead.’

‘Adam’s going to choose my husband for me.’

Arabella’s eyebrows arched. ‘Is he?’ she said drily. ‘And you’ll have no say in the matter?’

‘Oh, well…’ Grace flushed. ‘If I dislike him, then Adam won’t…’

‘When is this happy event to take place?’

‘This Season,’ the girl said. ‘Only…it will be more difficult now that…the rumours—’

‘Hmm.’ Arabella settled back in her chair. ‘How old are you?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘Seventeen.’ All her dislike of Adam St Just rushed back in force. Grace was still a child, and he wanted to marry her off. ‘If your brother wishes for a marriage this Season, let it be his own!’ she said tartly.

Grace nodded. ‘Yes, that’s what he intends.’

Arabella blinked in surprise. ‘Your brother’s looking for a bride?’

‘He says it’s time. He’s nearly thirty.’

Arabella bit her upper lip to stop it curling in a sneer. What St Just thought timely for his sister was very different from what he thought timely for himself. ‘I wish him luck,’ she said with polite mendacity.

‘Oh, Adam’s not worried.’

‘I’m sure he’s not,’ Arabella said drily. St Just was one of the most eligible bachelors in England. He might not have a title, but he had everything else a fastidious bride required: excellent lineage, substantial wealth, good looks.

She reached for another macaroon, and found herself wishing that St Just would suffer a rebuff in his suit.



Adam laid down his quill and read through the list.



Well-heeled

Educated

Those he’d inferred from Tom’s note—the quality of the paper, the elegance of the handwriting, the lack of spelling mistakes.



An artist

Well, everyone knew that. The black cat, drawn in various poses, was as famous as the thief’s name.



Moral

An odd attribute for a thief, but one that went without saying—Tom always chose victims who’d harmed others.



Young

A guess, this. But Tom must be youthful to accomplish such feats as scaling walls and climbing in windows.



A member of the ton.

This was the most startling of his inferences, based not on who Tom’s victims were, but how they were chosen. Would a servant have witnessed all the acts that had roused Tom’s ire? His instinct said no.

Adam pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards him and started a new list. Lady Bicknell, May 1818. The first of this Season’s victims, presumably punished for the malicious remarks that had reduced poor Mrs Findley to tears at the Parnells’ ball.

He rolled the quill between his fingers. Who had drawn Tom’s attentions last year?

Ah, yes. Lord Randall, who’d fallen off his horse in Hyde Park and, in a fury of embarrassment, whipped the poor beast until he drew blood.

Adam grimaced in memory. Without doubt, Randall had deserved Tom’s visit.

He dipped the quill in ink and wrote Lord Randall, 1817, and then beneath that, a third name and date: The Honourable Miss Smidley, 1817.

Miss Smidley had stumbled upon exiting the Chapel Royal, tripping the prettiest of last year’s débutantes and breaking the girl’s ankle. No one who’d seen the look of triumph on Miss Smidley’s face would ever think it an accident.

Adam re-read what he’d written. The Parnells’ ball. Hyde Park. The Chapel Royal. Too many different places for one servant to be.

Tom was a member of the ton.

It was an astonishing conclusion. It was…

Adam tried to identify the sensation he was feeling. Exhilaration. It was exhilarating to think that Tom was a member of the ton, someone he’d spoken to, perhaps played cards with. He felt a hunter’s flare of excitement. I’ll find out who you are.

He heard his father’s voice again: I expect better behaviour of you than this. You’re a St Just!

Adam pushed memory of his father irritably aside. He dipped the quill in ink. What else did he know about the thief?

1813, Tom appears, he wrote, the quill scratching lightly across the paper. The thief had been active every year since, apart from…1816, Tom absent. Why? Had Tom undertaken the Grand Tour?

Adam laid the quill down. He’d find the answer to that question when he discovered the thief’s identity.

He read his notes one more time before folding them with Tom’s message—the cat still challenging him with its stare—and placing them in his desk drawer. He stood and stretched, aware that he was hungry.

Aunt Seraphina was in the morning room, her head bent over her needlework.

‘Where’s Grace?

‘In the parlour, with a visitor.’

Adam whistled lightly under his breath as he walked along the corridor. The door to the blue parlour was ajar. He heard the sound of female voices and his mood brightened still further. This was what he’d wanted for Grace: friends, gaiety. Her Season had had shaky start, to be sure, but things were looking up now and—

Grace and her friend turned their heads at his entrance. Adam froze. His face stiffened in shock.

Arabella Knightley put down her teacup. She appeared to be suppressing a smile.

Adam shut the door with a snap and advanced into the room. ‘Miss Knightley. What a…pleasant surprise.’

Her eyebrows arched in amusement. She knew his opinion of her—all London knew that.

Marry Arabella Knightley? Certainly, if one wishes to live with the smell of the gutter.

The words seemed to hang between them in the air, words he’d uttered six years ago. Words the ton had taken up with glee.

Adam felt a swift rush of shame. He bowed stiffly.

‘Would you care to join us, Mr St Just?’ Miss Knightley’s voice was smooth and amused.

Do you think I’ll leave my sister alone with you? Adam chose a lyre-backed chair at a distance from her and sat. His eyes lighted on a silver platter of macaroons. His stomach almost rumbled.

‘Bella and I have been talking about…oh, so many things!’

Bella? Adam jerked his attention from the macaroons. His sister was calling Miss Knightley, Bella?

Not for long, he promised grimly. This was one friendship he was going to terminate.

He glanced at Miss Knightley. She was watching him. Her face was composed into an expression of politeness, but there was something in those dark eyes that made him uncomfortable.

Adam looked away, at her teacup and saucer, at her plate, and tried to identify what it was he’d glimpsed. Not amusement or laughter this time. Something darker, something—

Loathing.

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair and stared at her plate. Crumbs lay on it, golden and delicious. His mouth began to water.

‘We’ve been discussing the subject of marriage. Grace says you’re going to choose a husband for her.’

His gaze jerked up. ‘Yes,’ he said, a short, clipped word with a silent message: And it’s none of your business.

Arabella Knightley smiled. She turned her attention to Grace. ‘I’m certain your brother will choose a man of impeccable breeding and handsome fortune—but there are more important things to a husband than that.’

Adam narrowed his eyes. He opened his mouth.

‘Do you want a husband who’s kind?’ Miss Knightley asked. ‘A man who prefers to laugh, or frown? An impatient man? A proud man?’

Grace’s brow creased thoughtfully. ‘Oh.’

‘I shall take into account the man’s character,’ Adam said stiffly. The note of censure in his voice was clearer this time.

Again, Miss Knightley didn’t hear it. ‘Of course you will,’ she said affably. ‘But are the characteristics you’re looking for the same ones that Grace wants?’ Her expression was friendly, but there was a disconcerting gleam in her dark eyes, something…adversarial.

She’s baiting me, Adam realised.

Miss Knightley turned to Grace again. ‘It’s you who’ll have to live with this man, not your brother, so you must be certain he’s someone who’ll make you happy.’

‘But…how shall I know?’

‘By observation over a period of time. Which is another reason why I suggest you not be in a hurry to marry.’

Adam frowned. ‘Miss Knightley—’

‘You’re not on the shelf,’ Arabella Knightley said to Grace, ignoring him. ‘Far from it! Don’t allow yourself to be rushed into something you must live with for ever.’

‘Miss Knightley,’ Adam said curtly, ‘the subject of my sister’s marriage is none—’

‘You have your own marriage to consider.’ Arabella Knightley turned her smile to him. ‘Don’t you, Mr St Just?’

Adam blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said, retreating into hauteur, looking down his nose at her.

Miss Knightley’s smile sharpened. ‘Grace tells me you’re looking for a bride. Do choose wisely, Mr St Just. Think how tragic it would be if you married someone who made your life miserable.’

Adam looked at her in dislike.

‘Adam…?’ Grace said uncertainly. ‘You won’t—’

‘Of course not,’ he said.

Miss Knightley abandoned her needling of him. ‘Enough of marriage!’ she said to Grace. Her smile became more natural. ‘Shall we talk about books? Which do you prefer? The Mysteries of Udolpho or The Italian?’

‘Oh, Udolpho!’ Grace said. ‘And you?’

Adam glowered at Miss Knightley. She looked the perfect lady, dressed in white muslin, dark ringlets clustered about her shapely head, but there was a vixen buried beneath that enchanting exterior.

His eyes lingered on her face, taking unwilling note of her features: the creamy skin, the soft mouth, the tantalising indentation in her chin. He was aware of a traitorous flare of attraction—

Adam wrenched his gaze away. He frowned down at the table. The golden crumbs on Miss Knightley’s plate caught his eye again.

‘Are you hungry, Mr St Just? Would you like a macaroon?’

‘Yes, do have some, Adam.’ Grace held the silver platter out to him. ‘They’re delicious.’

His stomach threatened to rumble. Adam reached out and took two. Chewing, he listened as Miss Knightley and Grace discussed Mrs Radcliffe’s novels. He ate six macaroons, wincing each time his sister uttered the name Bella, before Miss Knightley rose. ‘So soon?’ he said insincerely, brushing crumbs from his fingertips. ‘You must come again. It’s been a pleasure.’

The glint in Arabella Knightley’s eyes, the faint edge to her smile, told him she knew he was lying.

Adam bowed over her hand, and then turned to watch her leave the room. His eyes lingered in unwilling appreciation on her figure. Miss Knightley’s ankles, glimpsed beneath the flounced hem of her gown, were very fine.

He cleared his throat and turned to Grace. ‘I thought I made it quite clear last night that I don’t want you associating with Miss Knightley.’

Grace glanced at him. ‘You did.’

‘Then what was she doing here—?’

‘I like her,’ Grace said. ‘And so does Aunt Seraphina.’

Adam inhaled slowly. ‘Grace, I utterly forbid you to have anything to do—’

‘You sound exactly like Father.’

His head jerked slightly back. He blinked, offended. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘If I want to be friends with Bella, I will!’

Bella. Adam gritted his teeth at the sound of the name on his sister’s tongue. He inhaled another slow breath and tried to speak calmly. ‘Grace, you’re being unreasonable. I really must insist. Miss Knightley is not someone you should associate with.’

‘Her birth is noble.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘She’s not base-born. Is she?’

‘No, but—’

‘So what has she done?’

‘Her mother—’

‘What has Bella done that deserves censure?’

Adam looked at his sister in silence. ‘Nothing,’ he said after a long moment. He sighed, and sat down beside her. ‘Grace, I’d prefer not to go into the details—’

‘I wish you would!’

Adam looked at his sister. Her eyes were wide and interested.

He shifted uneasily on the sofa. Not for the first time he realised how ill equipped he was for the role of guardian. How much should he tell a girl of Grace’s age? ‘Ask your Aunt Seraphina,’ he said cravenly.

‘I have,’ Grace said. ‘She was very vague.’

Adam made a show of looking at his watch. ‘Is that the time? I really must be going.’

The expression on Grace’s face, the sceptical lift of her eyebrows, was wholly adult.

Adam ignored it. He rose and started for the door.

‘Then I shall ask Bella,’ Grace said to his back.

Adam halted. He turned around and stared at her.

Grace clasped her hands in her lap and stared back at him. Her whole attitude was one of hopefulness.

Better I tell her than Miss Knightley does. Who knew the sordid details Arabella Knightley would include in her recital?

Adam walked back to the sofa and sat. He straightened his cuffs and flicked a piece of lint off his sleeve, wondering what exactly to say. Keep it brief. He cleared his throat and spoke. ‘Miss Knightley’s father was the second son of the Earl of Westcote. Her mother was the daughter of a French comte. They met in France before the Terror and married without the permission of either of their families.’ He glanced at Grace. ‘She was a Catholic, you understand.’

Grace nodded, wide-eyed. ‘They were disowned?’

‘He was; Westcote was notoriously bad-tempered. As for her…’ Adam shrugged. ‘The Terror was starting. I understand her family were among the first victims.’

‘Oh.’

‘Knightley brought his wife to England and they lived in Kent for a number of years—in reduced circumstances, I believe, but quite respectably—and then he died.’

‘How old was Bella?’

‘Five, or so.’ Adam shrugged again. ‘Knightley left his widow no income, so she approached Westcote, asking for help. The earl refused to let her set foot inside his house. He said he’d take the child, but not her.’

‘And she chose—’

‘She chose to keep her daughter.’

Grace moistened her lips. ‘What happened then?’

Adam looked at the silver platter and the last macaroon, stranded amid a sea of crumbs. ‘Mrs Knightley went to live with a friend of her husband’s, a nobleman. After a time, she became his mistress. By all accounts she was a very beautiful woman.’

‘And Bella?’

‘Was with her.’

Grace was silent for a moment. ‘But that’s not so bad, is it?’ she ventured. ‘Quite a number of married ladies have…have affaires and are still received everywhere.’

He glanced at her. Where had she learned that? ‘True, but Mrs Knightley had more than one protector over a number of years, and then, when her beauty failed her, she descended into London’s slums—taking her daughter with her.’

Grace plucked at a thread on the arm of the sofa. ‘Was Mrs Knightley a…a fallen woman in the slums?’

‘Yes,’ Adam said.

Grace bit her lip. She pulled the piece of thread free and wound it around her fingertip. ‘How long was Bella there?’ she asked, not looking at him.

‘Until her mother died. Three or four years, I think. She was twelve when Westcote took her in.’

‘Twelve?’ Grace said, glancing at him.

Adam nodded, remembering the twelve-year-old Grace had been: shy, eager, innocent.

‘How horrible for Bella,’ his sister said, her expression sober.

Adam shrugged. ‘Westcote educated her, made her heir to his fortune when his sons died without issue, launched her into society—’

‘No,’ Grace said. ‘I meant, how horrible for Bella to lose both her parents.’ She bit her lip and then smiled crookedly at him. ‘She was younger than I was when Mother died—and she didn’t have a brother.’

Adam had no memory of his own mother’s death—he’d been in swaddling clothes—but he had vivid recollection of Grace’s mother dying.

He looked at his sister, remembering the lost, dazed expression in her eyes, the bleakness in her face, her silent grief as she’d clung to him—and remembering, too, the surge of love he’d felt for her, the fierce need to protect her.

He cleared his throat. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Miss Knightley didn’t have a brother.’

Grace was silent for a moment. ‘I want to be friends with her.’

Adam rubbed his brow. ‘Grace,’ he said. ‘Miss Knightley isn’t good ton.’ He hesitated, reluctant to tell her. ‘In London she’s known as—’

‘Miss Smell O’Gutters. Yes, I know.’

Adam winced. Shame heated his face. Miss Smell O’Gutters. A name that could be laid at his door. No wonder she hates me.

‘I don’t care about that—or about any of it! Any more than Bella cares about what happened between me and Reginald.’

Adam stared at her helplessly. ‘Grace—’ One of his father’s favourite sayings pushed into his mouth: For heaven’s sake, try to behave as a St Just! He bit it back.

His sister stood, brushing crumbs from her lap. ‘Thank you for telling me about Bella.’ She bent and kissed his cheek. ‘I must go. Aunt Seraphina is taking me shopping.’ A smile, a swirl of sprigged muslin and golden ringlets, and she was gone.

Adam sat for a moment, staring at the empty doorway. He lifted a hand to his cheek and lightly rubbed where Grace had kissed him. What had happened to the sister he knew? The tractable, biddable girl? The girl who looked to him for guidance and acquiesced obediently to his wishes?

She’s growing up. She has a mind of her own.

It was a thought that filled him with foreboding. The world was suddenly a dangerous place, full of traps for innocent and headstrong young girls.

I need to find her a husband. Fast.

He muttered a curse beneath his breath. And then he ate the last of the macaroons.




Chapter Three


That afternoon Arabella took her maid, Polly, her sketchbook and pencils, and the stolen ruby earrings, to Kensington Gardens. ‘Come back in three hours,’ she told the coachman.

She strolled with Polly for ten minutes and then exited the gardens. The carriage, with the Westcote coat of arms glinting within its widow’s lozenge, was nowhere in sight.

Polly hailed a hackney coach. ‘Rosemary Lane,’ she told the jarvey as they climbed inside.

Rosemary Lane was only a few miles from Kensington Gardens, but the slums of Whitechapel were as far from the grand squares of Mayfair as heaven was from hell. Arabella climbed down from the hackney and stepped over an open gutter, while Polly negotiated with the reluctant jarvey to return for them in an hour.

Their destination was just off Rosemary Lane, a narrow old-clothes shop with cracked and boarded-over windows. Hinges squealed as Arabella pushed the door open, a bell jangled harshly overhead, and the smell of musty, unwashed clothes invaded her nose. The scents of stale sweat, old perfume, spilled alcohol and tallow candles mingled sickeningly together. For a moment she had to pause, quelling the nausea that pushed up her throat.

The shop was dimly lit, full of mounds of used clothing. Coats hung from door mantels and hooks in the ceiling, their cuffs shiny with wear. Racks crowded the room: worn shirts and faded flannel waistcoats, stained trousers, frayed dresses and yellowing petticoats. Scuffed shoes and boots with cracked soles lay in piles on the floor.

Polly bustled in behind her and shut the door with another squeal of the hinges. ‘Sally,’ she called out. ‘It’s us.’

They changed in a small, cramped backroom, unbuttoning each other’s gowns and swiftly unlacing the short stays. Arabella hung her clothes—French muslin gown, linen chemise, cambric petticoat—carefully on hooks, and then stripped off her silk stockings and laid them over the back of a chair. The only item she didn’t remove was the pocket containing Lady Bicknell’s earrings, tied around her waist.

Having undressed, they dressed hurriedly again, in the clothes of the poor. Arabella pulled on a coarse chemise, a discoloured blue dress that was too large for her, rough woollen stockings, a battered pair of men’s lace-up boots, and a stained apron. She wrapped a ragged shawl around her head and shoulders. ‘Ready?’

Polly rolled up sleeves that were too long for her and reached for her own shawl. ‘Yes.’

They left the old-clothes shop through the back door, stepping into a dark, malodorous alley. Arabella linked her arm with Polly’s and set off briskly in the direction of Berner Street.

The scuttling rats, the stinking piles of refuse, the rivulets of foul water running down the middle of the streets, were familiar. They didn’t frighten her, but they brought back memories of the three years she’d lived in Whitechapel. The deeper they penetrated the warren of small, dark streets, the stronger the memories became. These were the sounds she remembered from her childhood: drunken shouts, the slurred singing of an inebriated woman, crying children, the yelp of a kicked dog.

‘Nice to be back,’ Polly said, tightening her grip on Arabella’s arm. ‘Ain’t it?’ She no longer spoke like a lady’s maid; her accent was pure Cockney.

Arabella glanced at her. Polly’s jaw was grimly clenched.

She felt a stab of shame. What had happened to Polly in these filthy streets was far worse than anything she’d experienced. She halted. ‘Polly, if you want to return to the shop—’

‘And let you walk by yourself?’ Polly snorted. ‘Not likely! And besides—’ she took a step, tugging Arabella with her ‘—I want to see me brother.’

Arabella bit her lip and allowed Polly to pull her along. No one paid them any attention, two women in ragged, shapeless clothes. She scanned the street, taking care not to catch anyone’s eyes. Her gaze slid over men’s faces, unshaven and defeated, over the sunken cheeks and despairing eyes of women. You can’t help them all, she repeated in her head. Not all of them.

But she could help some of them, and it was the children her eyes lingered on: grubby and half-naked, some running and shouting and playing with each other, others sitting listlessly on filthy doorsteps. I can help some of them. And her fingers strayed to her waist and the hidden rubies.

In Berner Street, with its soot-stained brick buildings crammed closely together, she glanced again at Polly. The grimness was gone from her maid’s face. Polly’s step quickened as they approached the third house from the corner and her knock on the battered door was loud and cheerful. ‘Harry?’ she called, pushing open the door. ‘It’s me, Polly.’

Arabella followed her into a narrow hallway and shut the door. She blinked, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness, hearing a shout of ‘Pol!’ and the clatter of boots on a wooden floor.

Arabella grinned as a burly, broken-nosed man swept Polly up in a rib-cracking embrace and kissed her soundly on each cheek. More than fifteen years had passed since she’d made Harry’s acquaintance in a rat-infested alley off Dorset Street, but the boy he’d been was still stamped on his face. He had the same crooked nose and broad grin, the same shrewd eyes beneath a shock of unruly hair.

‘Bella’s here, too,’ Polly said, and it was Arabella’s turn for a hug that left her breathless.

‘I’m glad you’re ‘ere,’ Harry said. ‘I picked up a new girl t’day. You can meet ‘er, if you like.’

‘Please,’ Arabella said, and her fingers strayed to the hidden pocket again.

Harry shepherded them into the parlour, a small and sparsely furnished room, and stuck his head out into the hallway. ‘Tess!’ he bellowed. ‘Our Pol and Bella are ‘ere! They’d like to meet Aggie!’

Arabella sat on a lumpy sofa with frayed upholstery and splitting seams. Compared to her grandmother’s parlour in Mayfair the room was a hovel; compared to where Polly and Harry had grown up—a cramped room in the most dilapidated of Whitechapel’s rookeries—it was a palace. ‘I have some earrings,’ she told Harry. ‘Rubies.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I picked up two more girls last week, and I ‘ave me eye on another.’

The rush of gratitude was so strong that Arabella’s throat tightened and for a moment she couldn’t speak. She looked away from his broad, plain face and busied herself extracting the earrings from the hidden pocket, fumbling her fingers through the narrow slits in her gown and petticoat. ‘Here.’ She held them out to him.

In these surroundings the earrings didn’t look so garish. Harry held one up and examined it. ‘Needs cleanin’,’ he said. ‘But they’ll fetch a good price—’

He slid the earrings into a pocket as the door opened.

A young woman stood in the doorway, her belly rounded in pregnancy. Her smile showed two missing teeth, but her face was pretty and dimpled. Holding her hand was a scrawny, waif-like girl.

The girl’s gaze flicked from Harry’s face to Polly’s, and then to Arabella’s. For a long moment they stared at each other. Arabella saw a pale, too-thin face and wide, wary eyes beneath a crooked fringe of fair hair. She smiled at the girl. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Aggie.’ She held out her hand. ‘Come and sit here beside me.’

Aggie hesitated, and then released Tess’s hand and crossed the room. Her dress was filthy, her bare feet almost black with dirt, but her face was clean.

‘Did Tess make you wash your face?’ Arabella asked, as the girl sat beside her on the sofa.

Aggie nodded. ‘And me ‘ands.’

Arabella looked down at the girl’s hands. Her nails were ragged and dirty, but the skin was clean. Dark bruises ringed Aggie’s left wrist. ‘How did you get those bruises?’

‘Me ma,’ the girl said.

Arabella glanced at Harry.

‘Trying to sell ‘er for a bottle o’ gin,’ he said with a grimace. ‘Weren’t she, Aggie?’

The girl nodded.

‘But Aggie ran away. And I found ‘er.’ Harry grinned at the girl, who smiled shyly back.

‘It was very clever of you to run away,’ Arabella said. ‘Very brave.’

Aggie bit her lip and nodded. She looked down at her lap and twisted a fold of dirty fabric between her fingers.

‘How old are you, Aggie?’

‘I dunno, miss.’

Somewhere between ten and twelve, Arabella guessed. Dirty and half-starved, but with eyes that were bright with intelligence. ‘Have Harry and Tess told you what’s going to happen to you now?’

The girl’s head lifted. Her thin face split into a grin. ‘I’m gonna go t’ school!’

Arabella laughed. ‘You want to go to school?’

The girl nodded.

‘Did Harry tell you about the school, Aggie?’

‘Missus did.’ The girl’s gaze flicked to Harry’s wife, Tess. ‘She says it’s in the country.’

‘A place called Swanley,’ Arabella said, smiling. ‘Not far from London.’

‘She says it’s for girls like me.’

‘It is.’ Girls like Polly and Tess had been, girls like Aggie was now: with lives of poverty and prostitution ahead of them.

‘I’ll learn ‘ow to read an’ write, and t’ speak proper,’ Aggie said. ‘And I’ll ‘ave me own bed!’

‘Yes, you will.’ Aggie would have her own bed, new clothes, and three good meals a day. She’d have encouragement and kindness—and most importantly, she’d have a future.

Arabella glanced at Harry, standing with an arm around Tess. ‘We must be going.’ She stood and held out her hand to Aggie. After a moment’s hesitation the girl placed her own hand it in.

‘I’m glad to have met you, Aggie. I hope you’ll be very happy at school.’

Aggie nodded shyly.

Arabella released the girl’s hand and turned to embrace Tess. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

Tess blushed and shook her head.

Harry accompanied them into the dark hallway. He hugged his sister again and opened the front door.

Arabella paused on the doorstep. ‘You said you’d seen another girl?’

Harry nodded. ‘In Thrawl Street.’ His gaze flicked briefly to his sister. ‘She’s older ‘n Aggie. Been on the game a few months.’

Polly’s mouth tightened. She looked away.

‘I’ll talk to ‘er tomorrow,’ Harry said. ‘See if she wants t’ leave Whitechapel.’

Arabella nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘No,’ Harry said, his eyes on his sister. ‘Thank you.’ He glanced back at Arabella. ‘Want me t’ walk with you?’

She shook her head. ‘We’ll be fine.’ She knew these streets as well as she knew the streets of Belgravia and Mayfair.

Harry nodded farewell and closed the door.

Arabella pulled the shawl forwards over her face. She linked her arm with Polly. ‘Back to Rosemary Lane.’ And then Kensington Gardens. And then the Fothergills’ ball.

The incongruity of it made her dizzy for a moment: she stood in Whitechapel, in a street that was little more than an open sewer, and yet in a few hours’ time she’d be in a ballroom, wearing a dress of midnight-blue satin and with pearls in her hair. There’d be music and the scents of mingled perfumes, the shimmer of rich fabrics and the gleam of jewels. Crystal drops would dangle from the chandeliers, glittering as brightly as diamonds.

Arabella blinked and shook her head, dispelling the momentary dizziness. She stepped forwards firmly in the direction of Rosemary Lane.

Adam sipped from his champagne glass and scanned the ballroom again. A quadrille was playing. Grace was in one of the sets, a brave smile on her face.

Miss Knightley’s advice on that score had been unerring, but her other advice—

His fingers tightened on the stem of the glass. Damned impertinence, is what it is.

He scanned the ballroom again, searching for dark curls.

A familiar face caught his attention. The lady had dark hair and pale skin, but there the resemblance to Miss Knightley ended. Lady Vane’s height was above average, her figure ample, her manner gracefully languid.

Adam relaxed his grip on the champagne glass. His mood lightened. He swallowed another mouthful of champagne and set off towards his former mistress.

‘Darling!’ Mary Vane’s smile was both delighted and sleepy at the same time. She held out her hand to him.

Adam bowed over her gloved fingers, inhaling the faint, familiar fragrance of her perfume. ‘I have a favour I’d like to ask of you.’

‘A favour?’ Mary waved her fan in a leisurely, graceful movement. ‘For you, anything.’

Adam lowered his voice. ‘I’d like you to write to Lady Bicknell, inviting her to your next charity function.’

‘Lady Bicknell?’ Mary wrinkled her nose. ‘Why on earth would I want to do that? If the woman has any interest in soldiers’ widows, I’ve yet to hear of it!’

Adam hesitated, then bent his head and spoke into her ear. ‘I believe she’s been dabbling in a little blackmail. I need to see a specimen of her handwriting.’

‘Blackmail!’ Mary stepped back a pace. The sleepiness was gone from her eyes. ‘Is everything all right, Adam?’

‘Perfectly,’ he said. ‘I just need to prove something.’

Mary chewed on her lower lip for a moment, surveying him, and then nodded. ‘Very well, I’ll write to her.’

‘Thank you.’ Adam took her hand again. ‘You’re an angel.’ He bowed and kissed her fingertips.

Mary uttered an unladylike snort. ‘Hardly.’

Adam grinned at her. Their affair was over—Mary no longer a widow, but once again a wife—but the fondness remained. ‘Would you care to dance?’

‘Far too fatiguing!’ Mary hid a yawn behind her fan.

Adam laughed and took his leave of her. He retreated to an embrasure, where he leaned against the wall and sipped champagne and thought about what precisely he would say to Arabella Knightley. How dared she have the effrontery to discuss marriage with Grace—

There she was.

He experienced a moment of déjà vu, brief and dizzying. He’d stood like this once before: leaning against a wall, a glass dangling from his fingers, and watched as a young lady with sable-dark hair and an elegant face and eyes that looked almost black entered a ballroom. He’d been six years younger, half-foxed—and he’d stared at her and thought I want her.

Adam straightened away from the wall. This time it wasn’t with appreciation that he watched Arabella Knightley across the ballroom. No one could deny she had style; it was in the way she moved, the way she held her head. Her beauty—the lustre of her hair, the darkness of her eyes, the pale glow of her skin—was merely fuel to his anger. He lifted his glass again, swallowed the last of the champagne, and set the glass down on a mahogany side table with a sharp clunk. He began to walk around the perimeter of the ballroom, pushing his way through the other guests.

He had a bone to pick with Miss Arabella Knightley.



Arabella escorted her grandmother to the card room. Playing cards—a pastime the fifth Earl of Westcote had thought unseemly for a lady—was his relict’s favourite activity in her widowhood.

‘Supper at midnight,’ Lady Westcote said, reaching for a pack of cards. Her hair gleamed like silver in the light falling from the chandeliers.

‘Yes, Grandmother.’

Arabella turned her back on the card room and its elderly inhabitants. On the threshold of the ballroom she paused, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. Armour, she told herself, touching a light fingertip to her gown. Then she took a deep breath and stepped into the ballroom again.

Someone spoke her name quietly, ‘Arabella.’

‘Helen!’ Arabella turned, smiling. ‘How lovely to see you. Are you well?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ Helen Dysart said.

As always, Arabella had to stop herself from hugging Helen. That silent misery could so well have been her own.

‘Ah, the lovely Miss Knightley,’ drawled a voice.

Arabella’s smile stiffened. ‘George.’

George Dysart pushed a glass of champagne into his wife’s hand, not caring that it slopped over her gloved fingers. He raised a second glass in Arabella’s direction, as if toasting her, and swallowed a large mouthful. His face was flushed and he swayed slightly as he stood. Nine-tenths drunk.

Little was left of the man who’d courted her six years ago. George’s hair still fell in golden waves over his brow, but the blue eyes were now bloodshot. His figure had lost its slenderness and his face—which she’d once thought angelic—was almost unrecognisable beneath a layer of fat. He looked precisely what he was: a man given to dissipation.

George raised his glass again, this time towards his wife. ‘Helen,’ he said. ‘Named after the most beautiful woman in the world.’ He hooted with laughter, making heads turn, ended on a hiccup, and swayed slightly. ‘Her parents made a mistake there, didn’t they? Should have called her Medu—’

‘George, would you mind getting me something to drink?’ Arabella said. ‘Lemonade, please.’

George Dysart shut his mouth. His hand clenched. Arabella saw Helen tense, as if expecting a blow.

George’s gaze lifted, catching on the faces still turned in their direction. He seemed to swallow his rage. ‘A drink? Certainly.’ He brushed past Arabella, buffeting her deliberately with his shoulder.

‘I apologise,’ Helen said quietly. ‘George has had a little too much to drink.’

‘Would you like to go home?’

Helen’s eyes followed her husband’s progress. She shook her head. ‘It’s best if I stay.’

Arabella reached out and touched the back of her friend’s hand lightly. ‘Helen, if I can help in any way…’

Helen shook her head again.

Arabella bit her lip, wishing she could pay George a visit as Tom. It wasn’t possible; everything George Dysart owned came from his wife. ‘Come riding with me tomorrow.’

‘Thank you.’ Helen’s smile reached her eyes. ‘That would be lovely.’

Arabella surveyed her. Helen wasn’t beautiful—her nose was too aquiline for that—but her face had character. There was quiet strength in her eyes, courage in the way she held her chin. George Dysart was a fool not to realise the value of his wife. The sooner he drinks himself into the grave, the better.

The quadrille came to its end. There was a surge of movement off the dance floor. ‘I’d best leave before George returns,’ Arabella said.

‘I apologise for my husband’s behaviour—’

‘Don’t,’ Arabella said, swiftly clasping her friend’s hand. She turned from Helen, halting as a man stepped into her path and bowed.

‘Miss Knightley.’

Arabella gritted her teeth and smiled. ‘Lord Dalrymple.’

During her first Season, her admirers—what few there’d been—had fallen into two categories: men who were prepared to ignore her mother’s reputation for the sake of the Westcote fortune, and men who courted her because of her mother’s reputation.

Lord Dalrymple fell into the latter category. She’d recognised it the first time they’d met, and she recognised it now: the look in his eyes, the slow, speculative smile, as if he were undressing her in his mind. She willed herself not to stiffen and said politely, ‘How do you do?’

‘Very well, Miss Knightley. Very well indeed.’ Lord Dalrymple was a large man with a fleshy face, greying ginger hair, and a receding hairline. ‘Are you engaged for the next dance?’

It was a familiar question, one she hated. Lord Dalrymple’s touch—always slightly too familiar, too lingering—made her skin crawl.

The musicians picked up their bows again. The first strains of music were audible above the hum of conversation.

A waltz. For a moment she felt sick. No contredanse, where the steps would part them from each other; instead, her hand in his for the entire dance, his arm around her.

Arabella touched her gown lightly. Armour. ‘Engaged?’

Lord Dalrymple’s smile widened. His teeth glinted, large and horse-like. ‘May I have this dance?’

‘Miss Knightley has promised the waltz to me.’

Arabella turned towards the smooth male voice—and found herself staring at Adam St Just.

‘You?’ Dalrymple said, his disbelief clearly audible.

‘Unless she wishes to change her mind.’ St Just’s voice was cool, almost bored. ‘It is a lady’s prerogative, after all.’

Dislike welled inside her. Arabella quashed it; she knew which was the lesser of two evils. ‘Yes,’ she lied, turning back to Lord Dalrymple with a smile. ‘I’ve already promised this dance to Mr St Just.’



It was the first time in six years that Arabella had walked on to a dance floor with Adam St Just. She was aware of heads turning and sidelong glances of astonishment. She was equally astonished. Why had St Just asked her to dance?

The answer came as she glanced at him. St Just’s jaw was tight, his mouth a thin line. He’s going to tell me off.

Arabella lifted her chin. Let him try!

They made their bows to each other. As always, the opening notes of the waltz filled her with dread. She took a deep breath and forced herself not to tense as St Just took her hand, as his arm came around her.

They began to dance. The feeling of being trapped was strong. A man is holding me. Panic rose sharply in her. All her instincts told her to break free. Arabella concentrated on breathing calmly, on keeping a slight smile on her face.

‘I would appreciate it, Miss Knightley, if you’d refrain from giving my sister advice about matters that are none of your concern.’ St Just spoke the words coldly.

Arabella met his eyes. There was nothing of the lover about him; on the contrary, his animosity was clearly visible.

Her panic began to fade. She raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh? Would you?’

St Just’s jaw clenched.

Arabella observed this—and began to feel quite cheerful. ‘I was only trying to help,’ she said, widening her eyes.

His grip tightened. ‘It is none of your business who my sister does—or doesn’t—marry.’

Arabella ignored this remark. ‘Why do you wish Grace to marry so young?’

‘That’s none of your business!’

‘Grace is little more than a child. She has no idea what she wants in a marriage—’

‘I shall decide what she wants!’ St Just snapped.

Arabella laughed, as much from amusement as to annoy him. The sense of being trapped had evaporated. For the first time in her life, she was finding pleasure in a waltz. Each sign of St Just’s irritation—the narrowing of his eyes and tightening of his jaw, the gritting of his teeth—was something to be noted and enjoyed.

‘You find that amusing?’

‘Yes. Grace is still learning who she is. Until she knows that, how can she—or you—have any idea what will suit her in a husband?’

‘A man of good breeding.’ He swung her into an abrupt turn. ‘A man of respectable fortune and—’

‘No,’ Arabella said. ‘I’m talking about a man’s character.’

St Just looked down his nose at her. ‘If you imagine that I’d allow Grace to marry a man of unsavoury character—’

‘You misunderstand me again, Mr St Just. I’m talking about those qualities that are more particular to a person. Qualities that have nothing to do with one’s bloodline or fortune, or even with one’s public character.’ Her smile was edged. ‘Let us take, as an example, your search for a wife.’

St Just stiffened. He almost missed a step. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said in a frigid tone.

‘Look around you, Mr St Just. This room is filled with young women of excellent birth and breeding. The question is, which one should you choose?’




Chapter Four


‘The subject of my marriage is none of your concern,’ Adam said, biting the words off with his teeth.

Arabella Knightley showed her ill breeding by ignoring him. ‘If bloodline is your sole criterion, then Miss Swindon would suit you perfectly. Her fortune is respectable and—like yourself—she claims a duke as her grandfather. Her manners are impeccable and her appearance pleasing.’

Adam wasn’t fooled by the artless, innocent manner. Miss Knightley was deliberately trying to annoy him.

‘What more could you want?’ she asked, looking up at him.

Adam felt his pulse give a kick and then speed up. Such dark eyes.

He looked away and cleared his throat.

‘However,’ Miss Knightley continued, ‘if you wish for a wife who’ll be a good mother, then you should direct your attention towards Miss Fforbes-Brown.’

His attention jerked back to her. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘What kind of mother do you want for your children, Mr St Just?’

The question was more than impertinent; it was insolent. Adam retreated into hauteur. ‘I must repeat myself, Miss Knightley: that is none of your concern!’

She ignored him again. ‘But then, that also depends on what kind of father you want to be, doesn’t it? Do you wish to see your children’s first steps and hear their first words—or are such things not important to you?’ There was censure in her eyes, in her voice. ‘Do you intend for your children to be brought up by a succession of nursemaids, Mr St Just, or—?’

‘No,’ Adam said, blurting out the word. ‘I don’t.’ I want what I didn’t have. I want my children to know their parents. I want them to know they’re loved.

Arabella Knightley regarded him for a long moment, as if doubting the truth of his words. ‘In that case, may I suggest you make Miss Fforbes-Brown your choice of bride? She’s very fond of children.’

Adam glanced around the ballroom. It was better than looking at Miss Knightley, at her eyes, at that indentation in her chin, at that soft mouth. His gaze came to rest on Miss Eustacia Swindon. She was tall and fair-haired, with aristocratic features and a proud manner—and high on his list of potential brides.

Sophia Fforbes-Brown was also on the dance floor. Adam observed her for several seconds. Miss Fforbes-Brown’s breeding was genteel, her fortune small, her manners undeniably warmer and more open than Miss Swindon’s. True, her figure was plumper than was fashionable, but she had a pretty, laughing face.

He concentrated on pondering Arabella Knightley’s suggestion—anything rather than let his attention stray to the slenderness and warmth of gloved fingers, to her—

Adam wrenched his mind back to her question. What kind of mother do you want for your children?

The answer was easy: Someone who’d delight in her children. Mentally he shifted Miss Swindon to the bottom of his list, and placed Miss Fforbes-Brown near the top.

The lilting strains of the waltz crept into his consciousness, and with that, a traitorous awareness of the pleasure of dancing with Miss Knightley. She was a superb dancer, light on her feet, following his lead with apparent effortlessness.

Adam glanced at her face. She was watching him.

God, she’s beautiful. The rich shine of her hair, the eyes as dark as midnight. He looked at her smooth, milk-white skin, the delicate indentation in her chin, the soft curve of her mouth—and desire clenched in his chest. I want her.

‘Mr St Just, why do you wish Grace to marry this year?’

So that someone else may have the responsibility of her—and perhaps not fail as miserably as I have.

‘Because…I thought it would be best for her.’

Miss Knightley’s eyebrows rose fractionally. ‘You thought?’

Adam opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Had he changed his mind?

‘May I suggest that you allow Grace to find her feet this Season, and not think of marriage?’

He tried to be offended by the impertinence of Miss Knightley’s suggestion, but all he could think of was how incredibly tempting her mouth was. Ripe, yet demure. If he bent his head and kissed her, what would she taste of?

To his relief he heard the orchestra play the final notes of the waltz. Adam hurriedly released her hand. He stepped back a pace and bowed. And then he escorted her from the dance floor as fast as could be considered polite.

After a supper of white soup and lobster patties in the company of her grandmother, Arabella returned to the ballroom. A cotillion was playing. She watched the dancers and sipped lemonade, wishing the drink wasn’t quite so sweet.

‘—Miss Wootton.’

‘Madness in the family?’

Arabella glanced sideways, identifying the speakers: Mrs Harpenden and Lady Clouston, their heads bent close together. Miss Harpenden, a diffident young woman in her second Season, hovered alongside her mother.

‘I have it on good authority,’ Mrs Harpenden said in a carrying whisper. ‘They say the girl is showing signs of it already.’

‘Mother,’ Miss Harpenden said hesitantly, ‘you can’t be certain—’

‘Of course they’ll deny it. Who wouldn’t!’ Mrs Harpenden nodded sagely. ‘But it must be said, they’re in a rush to marry her off.’

‘Mother—’

‘Someone should warn the poor girl’s suitors,’ Mrs Harpenden said, her expression pious.

‘But, Mother—’ Miss Harpenden said, a note of desperation in her voice. ‘You don’t know that—’

‘Hush,’ her mother rebuked her. ‘I’m talking to Lady Clouston.’

Miss Harpenden bit her lip and was obediently silent.

Arabella bit her lip too. She turned her attention to the dance floor, searching for Miss Wootton. She found her in a set near the orchestra, a pretty, vivacious girl with brown curls and rosy cheeks.

Arabella sipped her lemonade and watched Miss Wootton dance. Beside her, Mrs Harpenden’s voice sank to a low whisper, audible but unintelligible.

The cotillion came to its conclusion, the dancers made their bows to each other and the dance floor emptied. Mrs Harpenden and Lady Clouston bid each other farewell. Mrs Harpenden’s smile was smug as she watched Lady Clouston push her way through the throng of guests. ‘Come along,’ she said, turning to her daughter. ‘We must find you a partner for the next dance.’ She set off across the ballroom.

Miss Harpenden followed, her expression miserable.

Arabella stayed where she was. She looked again for Miss Wootton.

The girl stood on the far side of the ballroom. She was undeniably the most sought-after of this Season’s débutantes, a young woman in happy possession of wealth, beauty, and a good bloodline. Young men clustered about her like bees around a honey pot.

It was the kind of popularity Grace would be enjoying if rumours weren’t circulating about her.

Arabella waited until the next dance began, then made her way around the perimeter of the ballroom.

‘That’s Miss Knightley,’ she heard a young debutante whisper as she approached. ‘Have you heard what they call her? Miss Smell O’Gutters.’

The girl was hastily shushed by her companion.

Arabella’s step didn’t falter. In her imagination the words scrabbled to find purchase on her satin gown, failed and slid harmlessly to the floor.

She smiled cordially at the girl, who turned deep pink.

Grace St Just was seated alongside her aunt, Mrs Seraphina Mexted. Her smile was bright and fixed. Mrs Mexted caught Arabella’s enquiring glance and said, ‘Heard someone whispering about her.’

‘Never a pleasant experience.’ Arabella sat next to Grace. ‘Who was it?’

‘Miss Brook,’ Grace said.

‘Oh, yes. I know who she is. Looks like a pug dog.’

The aunt snorted, and turned the sound into a cough.

‘A pug dog?’ Grace said, her brow creasing.

‘Yes. Poor girl, she has a very unfortunate nose.’

Grace turned her attention to the dance floor. After a moment she said, ‘Oh, so she does.’ Her expression became more cheerful.

Arabella smoothed the dark blue folds of her gown over her lap. ‘Your aunt may disagree with me, but I believe that if a person says something about you, and they’re not someone you hold in respect, then you should feel free to ignore their opinion.’

Mrs Mexted thought for a moment, and then nodded.

Grace looked doubtful. ‘Are you saying I shouldn’t respect Miss Brook because of her nose?’

Arabella couldn’t help laughing. ‘No,’ she said. ‘This has nothing to do with Miss Brook’s nose. What I’m saying is that if someone behaves in a manner that makes it impossible for you to respect them—such as gossiping, or passing on slander—then you should give no weight to their opinion of you.’ She paused for a few seconds, holding Grace’s gaze. ‘So my question is, do you respect Miss Brook’s opinion?’

‘But I don’t know her,’ Grace protested.

‘Precisely. You don’t know each other—and yet she’s talking about you.’

Grace flushed. She looked down at her lap and began to pleat folds of satin between her fingers.

‘Do you hold Miss Brook in respect?’ Arabella asked quietly.

‘Not any more.’

‘Then her opinion of you shouldn’t matter.’

Grace bit her lip. After a moment she said, ‘That’s easier said than done.’

‘What is?’

Arabella glanced up. Adam St Just, looking his most supercilious, stood before them.

‘Ignoring people’s opinions,’ Grace said, accepting the glass of orgeat he handed her. ‘Bella says that’s what she does.’

‘Does she?’ There was censure in St Just’s voice. The glance he cast Arabella was chilly with disapproval. ‘Everyone’s opinion?’

‘Oh, no,’ Grace said, sipping from the glass. ‘Only those people one doesn’t respect.’

‘And who might they be?’ St Just asked, still frowning.

‘People who gossip and spread rumours,’ Grace said. ‘Or who say nasty things about people they don’t know.’

Adam St Just stopped frowning. He flushed faintly and raised a hand to straighten the folds of his neck cloth.

‘Do you agree?’ Grace asked.

‘Er…yes,’ he said.

Arabella’s lip curled slightly.

Grace nodded, and sipped her orgeat. Her expression was less miserable than it had been.

St Just glanced at the dance floor, where a contredanse was drawing towards its conclusion. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’m engaged for the next dance.’

Arabella watched him move off through the crowd. Despite his wealth, St Just eschewed such adornments as fobs and seals and quizzing glasses. In his dress, he was very like Beau Brummell had been—elegant and understated, each garment cut perfectly to fit him. His build was athletic; neither his shoulders nor his calves required padding.

An attractive man—until one noticed the way he had of looking down his nose at the world.

Arabella turned to Grace. ‘Do you know Miss Harpenden?’

‘Elizabeth Harpenden? Her sister Charlotte was at school with me in Bath.’

‘Charlotte isn’t in London?’

Grace shook her head. ‘She’s still in Bath. Her parents won’t let her come out until Elizabeth has married.’

Arabella tapped her fan against her knee and considered this information. ‘And Miss Wootton?’ she asked. ‘Do you know her?’

‘No. She’s from Yorkshire, I believe.’ Grace glanced to where Miss Wootton stood, attended by a number of admiring young gentlemen. ‘She looks like she’s enjoying herself.’ Her voice was wistful and slightly envious.

‘Yes.’ Arabella scanned the ballroom, looking for Elizabeth Harpenden. The girl was being escorted from the dance floor by a heavy-set young man with pretensions to dandyism.

Arabella felt a moment’s sympathy for Miss Harpenden. Her face was almost pretty, her figure almost graceful. In a smaller and more restricted setting she might have had a chance to shine; in London she was practically invisible.

Of course, if this Season’s beauties were discredited, Elizabeth Harpenden would be more visible.

Arabella tapped her fan against her knee and watched as Mrs Harpenden received her daughter. The woman’s manner was slightly bullying. A mother who scolds, rather than praises.

‘Are you engaged for the next d-d-dance, Miss St Just?’

Arabella looked up to see Viscount Mayroyd make his bow to Grace.

‘No,’ Grace said, blushing prettily. ‘I’m not.’

‘Then may I have the p-p-pleasure?’ The young man’s eyes were as blue as Grace’s. He had a very engaging smile.

Grace nodded. She gave her glass to her aunt and stood.

‘I like him,’ Mrs Mexted said, with a nod in the young viscount’s direction, once he was out of earshot.

‘So do I.’ Perhaps because of his stutter, young Mayroyd had a kind-heartedness that many of his peers lacked.

Arabella returned to her observation of Miss Wootton. The girl was clearly enjoying herself. But not for long, if Mrs Harpenden has her way.

Did the woman deserve a visit from Tom?

She tapped the fan against her knee and resolved to wait a day or so before deciding.



Adam woke reluctantly. He heard his valet, Perkins, draw back the curtains and closed his eyes more tightly, trying to burrow back into the dream, to recapture the pleasures of a soft mouth and fragrant skin, of dark ringlets gleaming in candlelight—

Dark ringlets?

Adam’s eyes snapped open. It was Mary, he told himself. But Mary had always been leisurely in bed; the woman in his dream had been eager and passionate—and as slender as Mary was voluptuous.

The last, sensual wisps of the dream vanished abruptly. Adam uttered a curse and pushed back his bedclothes.



A ride in the park on Goliath, under a sky heavy with clouds, did little to improve his mood. An hour spent sparring in Jackson’s Saloon was much more successful. Adam walked around to St James’s Street whistling under his breath and took the steps up to White’s two at a time.

The ground-floor parlour was pleasantly empty. Lord Alvanley sat at the bow window, where Brummell had liked to sit. He looked up from a newspaper. ‘Afternoon, St Just.’

‘Alvanley.’ Adam strolled across to the bow window. ‘What’s new?’

His lordship folded the newspaper and put it aside. ‘Have you heard about the Wootton chit?’

Adam shook his head. He sat and reached for the newspaper. ‘A bottle of claret,’ he said to the waiter.

‘Madness in the family,’ Alvanley declared, stretching out his legs.

Adam glanced at him. ‘What? The Wootton heiress?’

His lordship nodded. ‘It’s the latest on dit.’

Adam grunted, and removed Miss Wootton from his list of possible brides.

Another newcomer entered the room, his step jaunty. ‘Afternoon, Alvanley,’ he said cheerfully. ‘St Just.’

Adam looked around. Jeremy Allen, Marquis of Revel-stoke, trod towards the bow window, resplendent in a dark blue coat with extravagantly long tails, cream-coloured pantaloons and gold-tasselled hessians. The folds of his neckcloth were so intricate, the points of his collar so high, that he had no hope of turning his head. The most arresting aspect of his appearance was his waistcoat, an exotic garment featuring dazzling golden suns against a celestial blue background.

‘Good God,’ Alvanley said, involuntarily.

Adam uttered a laugh. He put the newspaper down and shaded his eyes with one hand. ‘Go away, Jeremy. You’re blinding me.’

His friend grinned and paid no attention to the request. He took the third chair in the alcove and sat, crossing his legs. His boots were polished to a mirror-like gleam. The scent of Steek’s lavender water wafted gently from him. His hair was curled in the cherubim style, beneath which his eyes gleamed with mischief.

Alvanley lifted his quizzing glass and examined the glittering suns on Jeremy’s waistcoat. ‘Is that gold thread?’

‘Of course,’ Jeremy said. He produced a snuff box in sky-blue enamel that matched his waistcoat and opened it with the elegant flick of a fingertip. ‘Snuff?’

‘Have you heard about the Wootton chit?’ Lord Alvanley asked, taking a pinch.

‘Mad as a hatter,’ Jeremy said. ‘About to be committed to Bedlam.’

Adam raised his eyebrows. ‘Surely you jest!’

‘Me?’ Jeremy said, grinning, swinging one leg. ‘When do I jest?’

Adam, acquainted with Jeremy since their first day at Eton, chose to ignore that question. He picked up the newspaper again.

‘Your name’s in the betting book,’ Jeremy said in an extremely innocent voice.

Adam didn’t look up from the newspaper. ‘No, it’s not.’

‘Actually, it is,’ Lord Alvanley said.

Adam glanced up sharply. Alvanley was grinning widely. Alongside him, Jeremy sat examining his nails, an expression of demure innocence on his face.

Adam was familiar with that expression. He eyed his friend with misgiving. After a moment he pushed up out of his chair and went in search of the betting book. Jeremy trailed after him.

‘The devil,’ Adam said, as he read the latest entry. Adam St Just, to marry Miss Knightley before the end of the year, 500 guineas.

‘Well?’ Jeremy said, sly humour in his voice. ‘Am I right?’

‘What you are,’ Adam said, closing the book with more violence than was necessary, ‘is a cod’s head!’

‘I say,’ Jeremy protested, half-laughing, following Adam as he strode back to the bow window. ‘That’s not very nice.’

‘If you think I’m going to marry Miss Knightley, then you are a cod’s head!’ Adam said severely. His claret had arrived. He poured himself a glass and swallowed half of it in one gulp.

‘You danced with her last night,’ Jeremy said, sitting.

‘If I married every woman I danced with, I’d be a bigamist a hundred times over!’ Adam said, refilling his glass. ‘You may as well pay Charlton that money now, for you’ve lost it!’

Jeremy swung one leg and smiled, his expression as cherubic as his curls. ‘I believe I’ll wait,’ he said.

Adam, aware of Alvanley sitting, grinning, alongside them, retreated into a dignified silence. He reached for the newspaper again and opened it with a crackle of pages.



That night, the ton arrived en masse at the Pinkhursts’ dress ball. The first person Adam saw, as he entered the ballroom, was Arabella Knightley in a dress of ivory-white tiffany silk shot through with gold thread and a golden fillet in her dark hair. God, she’s lovely, was his involuntary thought. He hastily averted his gaze.

The second person he saw was Jeremy Allen, magnificent in a long-tailed coat of peacock blue, a luxuriantly embroidered waistcoat, black satin knee breeches and silk stockings. Jewels glittered in the folds of Jeremy’s neckcloth and on each of his long fingers. His hair was brushed into the careful dishevelment of the Brutus.

Adam escorted Grace and his Aunt Seraphina to seats, and strolled across to greet his friend. ‘Jeremy,’ he said, ‘you look prettier than any of the ladies here.’

Jeremy was unoffended. He laughed. He raised his quizzing glass and observed Adam through it. ‘And you look very plain.’

Adam grinned.

‘I see that the delectable Miss Knightley is here,’ Jeremy said in a tone of sly innocence.

‘Dance with her yourself, if you like her that much.’ A servant in livery and a powdered wig proffered a tray. Adam took a glass of champagne.

Jeremy lowered the quizzing glass with a sigh. ‘It’s much more entertaining when you rise to the bait.’

Adam smiled and sipped the champagne.

‘I believe I shall,’ Jeremy declared.

‘Shall what?’

‘Ask her to dance. Excellent dancer, Miss Knightley.’ He wandered off in the direction of Arabella Knightley.

Adam thrust Miss Knightley out of his thoughts and concentrated on his task for the night: interviewing potential brides. He danced with each of the young ladies on his shortlist, asked a number of questions and listened carefully to the answers.

The hour advanced past midnight. The air was heavy with the scents of perfume, pomade and perspiration. Ladies with flushed cheeks waved their fans, starched collar points drooped in the heat, and even the candles in the chandeliers seemed to wilt.

Adam found an empty alcove and a glass of chilled champagne and mentally reviewed his list of brides. He removed Miss Swindon from it entirely, and placed Miss Fforbes-Brown at the top.

His gaze strayed to Miss Knightley. She looked very French as she waited for her turn in the quadrille, slender and dark-eyed, dark-haired.

He felt a stir of attraction and wrenched his gaze from her. He drained the champagne glass. When the quadrille was over, he headed purposefully for Miss Fforbes-Brown and solicited her hand for the next waltz. It was a most agreeable dance; there was none of the discomfort of waltzing with Arabella Knightley, the barbed comments, the frisson of desire. He was so pleased with Miss Fforbes-Brown’s plump prettiness, her common sense and cheerfulness, her enthusiasm for children, that he resolved to seek an interview with her father.

He relinquished Miss Fforbes-Brown to her next partner, a Sir Humphrey Holbrook, and retreated to the alcove again. Grace was sitting out the cotillion. Adam watched her from across the ballroom, conscious of a sharp pang of regret. Grace’s début should have been a triumph; instead it was close to being a disaster.

He glanced at Miss Wootton. Like Grace, she wasn’t dancing. No crowd of young men clustered around the heiress tonight, competing for her attention. She sat out the cotillion, wearing an expression of miserable bewilderment. Her mother, seated beside her, had a tight-lipped smile on her face.



Adam stood up for a quadrille next. He was waiting for his turn in the figure when he noticed that Sir Humphrey Holbrook was dancing with Miss Fforbes-Brown for a second time. This discovery so disconcerted him that he almost missed his cue for the glissade. He concentrated carefully on his steps and then watched the baronet escort Miss Fforbes-Brown from the dance floor. Had Sir Humphrey also realised that she’d be a good wife?

Adam frowned, and resolved to keep a closer eye on Humphrey Holbrook. He went in search of a glass of champagne and then strolled across to where his Aunt Seraphina sat. His footsteps faltered when he saw his aunt’s companion. The familiar sensations swept through him—shame and guilt, the stir of attraction—and he almost turned and headed in the opposite direction.

Craven, he chided himself, and stepped forwards. ‘Good evening, Miss Knightley.’ He bowed, and turned to his aunt. ‘Where’s Grace?’

‘Talking to Miss Wootton.’

Adam swung on his heel and looked across the ballroom. His sister sat alongside Miss Wootton. Grace was talking, her expression animated; Miss Wootton listened intently.

Adam turned to Miss Knightley. ‘Your doing?’

She shook her head. The golden ribbon threaded through her dark hair glinted in the candlelight. ‘Grace felt sorry for her. She’s a very kind-hearted girl.’

‘In this instance her kindness is misplaced. If Miss Wootton has some…instability, then I’d prefer that Grace didn’t become friends—’

‘Miss Wootton is no more unstable than you or I!’ Miss Knightley said tartly. ‘It’s a rumour set about to discredit her.’

Adam frowned. ‘Rumour? Are you certain?’

‘Yes.’ Her nod was emphatic. ‘I overheard it being started two nights ago.’

‘You did?’ Adam put up his brows. ‘By whom?’

‘By a mother with a daughter to marry off.’

Adam sipped his champagne thoughtfully, digesting this fact. ‘Does this mother have any connection with the seminary Grace attended in Bath?’

Miss Knightley glanced at him. Her eyes were almost black in the candlelight. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you think she’s responsible for the rumours about Grace?’

‘I think it likely.’ Arabella Knightley lifted her shoulders in an expressive, Gallic shrug. ‘But since I wasn’t present when those particular rumours started, I have no way of knowing.’

Adam’s fingers tightened on the stem of the glass. ‘Who is this woman?’

Miss Knightley’s eyebrows arched. ‘Mr St Just, surely you don’t expect me to tell you that?’

‘The devil I don’t—’

‘Adam,’ his aunt reproved.

Adam clenched his jaw and glared at Miss Knightley. She seemed unoffended by his language. A dimple appeared in her cheek, as if she was trying not to laugh, and her eyes were suspiciously bright.

‘You refuse to tell me?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘There’s absolutely no proof that this woman spread any rumours about Grace—’

‘But you think she did—’

‘Precisely, Mr St Just. I think; I don’t know. They’re two very different things.’

Adam gripped his glass tightly. ‘I should like to speak with this woman.’

‘I’m sure you would,’ Miss Knightley said. ‘But in all conscience, I can’t name her. Think how remiss it would be of me if you upbraided her for something she didn’t do!’

‘I shouldn’t upbraid her,’ he said with stiff dignity.

Her eyebrows rose again. Disbelief was eloquent on her face.

Adam flushed.

‘Mr St Just, if I were to pass on information that I don’t know to be true, I should be as worthy of blame as any scandalmonger.’

Aunt Seraphina nodded. ‘Miss Knightley is correct.’

He knew she was, but being told that didn’t improve his temper. Adam glared at his aunt.

She smiled placidly and patted the chair alongside her. ‘Do sit down, dear. It’s very fatiguing to have you towering over one.’

He swung his glare back to Miss Knightley. Laughter glimmered in her dark eyes. ‘Mr St Just, I fear you’re about to break that glass.’

Adam hurriedly unclenched his hand.

Miss Knightley looked past him. Her smile became warmer.

Adam turned his head. ‘Grace.’

Grace sat beside Aunt Seraphina in a soft flurry of satin and gauze. ‘I told Letty what Mr Brummell said to Bella. And she’s going to do it too!’

Aunt Seraphina gave an approving nod.

Grace smoothed her skirt and turned to Miss Knightley. ‘And I told her what you said, Bella, about it being useful experience, and how she has the opportunity to see people for who they truly are—and Letty perfectly understood what you meant!’ Her face was alight with enthusiasm. ‘We’ve decided that we’re going to do it together!’

Adam couldn’t help smiling at Grace’s animation. The knot of anger in his chest began to unravel. ‘Are you?’

Grace nodded. ‘Yes! And then I told her what you said, Bella, about…’ Her brow creased in concentration. ‘How one has to respect someone in order to care what their opinion of you is.’

Adam lost his smile. He glanced at Miss Knightley, remembering the words he’d spoken six years ago, feeling the familiar stab of guilt, of shame. I wish I’d never uttered them.

The façade Arabella Knightley presented to the world was one of resilience, insouciance, toughness, and yet, as his gaze rested on her, all he saw was the softness of her mouth, the smooth translucency of her skin, the delicacy of her bone structure—her femininity and her vulnerability.

‘And I told her, oh, everything you said!’

‘I had no idea my words were such pearls of wisdom,’ Miss Knightley said, her tone light and ironic.

Grace didn’t appear to hear the irony. She nodded. ‘Oh, yes, they are!’

To his astonishment, Adam found himself silently agreeing. Arabella Knightley was the last friend he’d choose for Grace—but her advice had been invaluable.

‘Letty and I have decided we’re going to be bosom friends!’ Grace announced.

Miss Knightley laughed. ‘Every girl needs a bosom friend,’ she said. ‘Please excuse me, I see my grandmother looking for me.’

Adam stepped back. He bowed silently and watched her leave. Her words echoed in his ears: Every girl needs a bosom friend. Miss Knightley had no bosom friend. She had no friends that he was aware of, other than Helen Dysart.

She must be very lonely.

‘Polly,’ Arabella said to her maid as she climbed out of bed the following morning. ‘I’m going to have a headache this afternoon.’

Polly looked up from laying out Arabella’s riding habit. She grinned. ‘How unfortunate.’

Warm water steamed in the porcelain bowl in the washstand. Arabella washed her face thoroughly. There was no way of knowing whether Mrs Harpenden’s tongue had spread the rumours about Grace St Just, but the woman was, without doubt, the instigator of Miss Wootton’s fall from grace. And as such, she deserves a visit from Tom.

She reached for a towel and turned to Polly.

Her maid’s expression was bright and expectant.

‘I shan’t be attending the Pentictons’ musicale tonight,’ Arabella said, drying her face. ‘Instead, I shall be at Half Moon Street. Number 23.’

‘Number 23, Half Moon Street,’ Polly repeated, with a nod. ‘I’ll check it out this afternoon.’

‘Thank you.’ Arabella laid the towel aside and began to dress. Long hours stretched until she could don Tom’s shirt and trousers, but already anticipation was beginning to build inside her. She felt it tingling in her fingertips, in her toes.

Arabella blew out a breath. The waiting would be hard today.



She rode out on Merrylegs and expended some of her restless energy cantering around the Row. To her disappointment, there was no sign of Adam St Just. The mood she was in, she would have enjoyed needling him.

The afternoon was spent in her bedchamber, pretending to have a headache. She lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling, thinking about her birthday. Twenty-five days remained until that date—twenty-five days of London and the ton, of living a narrow, pampered life. But on the twenty-sixth day her fortune became her own and she’d no longer be bound by the promise she’d made her mother. She’d never have to set foot in a ballroom again, never have to exchange polite greetings and smiles with people who despised her as much as she despised them. She’d be free to be herself—and to spend her inheritance as she saw fit.

Arabella hugged herself tightly. The sunbeams streaming in through the window matched her mood. She stared at the shafts of light, imagining the properties she’d purchase, the staff she’d hire, the children she’d rescue from the slums.

Her grandmother looked in on her once, and recommended that she draw the curtains and dab Hungary Water at her temples.

‘Where’s your maid?’

‘Hatchards,’ Arabella said. ‘Buying a book for me.’

Her grandmother sniffed, a disapproving sound. ‘A footman could have done that,’ she said, and departed to pay a call on one of her numerous friends.

Arabella didn’t close the curtains; instead she pulled out her drawing materials. She laid a tray across her lap, selected several pieces of card, and opened her inkpot.

She’d drawn four cats in different poses by the time Polly returned, carrying a parcel wrapped in paper and string.

Arabella laid down her quill. ‘Well?’

‘Looks fairly easy,’ Polly said, handing her the parcel. ‘From the mews, that is. Not from the front.’ She untied her bonnet and sat on the end of Arabella’s bed. ‘There’s this wall, see, and from the top you can reach the first row of windows.’

‘Good,’ said Arabella, setting the parcel to one side. ‘We’ll leave at ten.’

Polly nodded. She stood. ‘I’ll check Tom’s clothes.’

‘Thank you.’ Arabella returned to her work. She studied the four cats, hesitated for a moment, and then selected one. Writing carefully she inscribed a message to Mrs Harpenden. Then she capped the inkpot.

A glance at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece showed that it was nearly six o’clock.

Arabella grimaced. Four more hours to wait.




Chapter Five


Polly had been correct—it was easy to gain entry to the rented house on Half Moon Street. A heave—and a push from Polly—had her on top of the brick wall, and in a few seconds she was crouching beneath one of the windows. It was the work of less than a minute to break one of the diamond-shaped panes, extract the glass from the leading, slip her hand inside, and open the window.




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