by Emily Larkin
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 Hetty 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 seven 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.
“Hetty 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 rumors 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 Halfmoon Street. Number 23.”
“Number 23, Halfmoon 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 to 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?”
“Hatchard’s,” 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 Halfmoon 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.
Arabella glanced back at Polly and gave a little wave.
Polly nodded and moved into the shadows, vanishing from sight.
Arabella took a deep breath. Her senses felt heightened—sight, smell, touch, hearing—as if the world had suddenly come into clearer focus: the sharp outline of the rooftops against the night sky, the acrid smell of coalsmoke, the clatter of a hackney in Halfmoon Street, the grittiness of the bricks beneath her fingers.
She took another breath and eased herself over the windowsill and into the room, pushing past heavy velvet drapes. For a moment she crouched in darkness, and then her eyes adjusted to the gloom. A bedroom, furnished with bed and dresser, but unoccupied; no linens covered the mattress.
Arabella crossed the room. She opened the door and peered into the corridor. A lamp stood on a marble-topped table, casting light and shadows.
She stood listening for a long moment, and then slipped into the corridor. She opened three doors before she found what she was looking for: Mrs. Harpenden’s room.
Arabella stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind her. She stood with her back to the door, straining to hear past the rapid beating of her heart. Silence. A candle was lit in a holder on the bedside table, its flame flickering slightly in the breeze from her entry, but no maid moved in the dressing room.
Arabella locked the door. She hurried to the window and cautiously parted the curtains, released the latch, and opened the window slightly. Then she checked the dressing room, locking the door that opened into the corridor. That done, she turned and surveyed the bedchamber. Her heart beat loudly in her ears and she had the sensation that seconds were rushing past too fast to be counted.
Swiftly she crossed to the satinwood dresser. Unlike Lady
Bicknell’s dresser, the items were neatly arranged: a hairbrush, a pot of Denmark Lotion and one of Olympian Dew, two vials of perfume—and a lacquered jewelry box.
Arabella glanced at the locked door. No sound came from the corridor.
The jewelry box opened smoothly. Earrings and brooches nestled in silk-lined compartments. Arabella lifted out the tray. Beneath it was a second tray, also lined with silk, holding bracelets and hair combs.
Arabella studied the contents of both trays. These were small things. Mrs. Harpenden’s necklaces and her tiara—if she owned one—were somewhere else. She glanced at the dressing room, tempted to search further, and then looked back at the open jewelry box. The smooth luster of pearls and the gleam of gold met her eyes. Don’t be greedy, she told herself. The longer she stayed, the greater the risk of being caught.
Two of the smaller compartments were empty, and a gap in the lower tray showed that something was missing. Arabella examined the jewelry that remained. It was all of good quality.
Her fingers trailed over pearls, over rubies, over diamonds. That one. She plucked the sapphire brooch from its silken nest, extracted the matching earrings and hair combs, and slid them into the pouch tied around her waist.
Swiftly she replaced the topmost tray and closed the jewelry box. She propped the card she’d made that afternoon on top. Should payment be made for starting malicious rumors? Tom thinks so. The cat she’d drawn at the bottom sat upright, staring down its nose with a haughty disapproval that reminded her of Adam St. Just.
The thought surprised her, almost made her laugh—and with the laughter came a prickling of nervousness. She was suddenly aware of the enormity of what she was doing: entering the Harpendens’ house, stealing jewelry. If she was caught, she’d be hanged—and Polly and Harry and Tess with her.
Arabella bit her lip. She hurried across to the door, leaned her ear against the wooden panels for a few seconds, then unlocked it and opened it cautiously.
Silence.
Arabella slipped out of the bedchamber. In less than a minute she was crouching on top of the brick wall, peering down into the shadowy mews.
* * *
“OUR NOTORIOUS THIEF has struck again.”
Adam looked up from his newspaper. “What?”
Jeremy, Marquis of Revelstoke, settled into the chair alongside him and examined his boots. He rubbed a speck of moisture from one gleaming toe and nodded at St. James’s Street, visible through the bow window. “Starting to rain.”
“What thief?”
Jeremy examined his hessians. “Smudged,” he said, and extracted a handkerchief from his pocket.
“What thief?” Adam said. “Tom?”
Jeremy wiped the smudge carefully. “The one and only.”
Excitement kindled inside him. “Where?” Adam hastily folded the newspaper and put it aside. “And when?”
Jeremy signaled to one of the waiters. “Claret.” Then he settled back in the chair and looked out the bow window. “Is that Mountford?” He raised his quizzing glass. “Man’s got a dashed odd way of tying his neckcloth, don’t you think?”
Adam ignored this gambit. “Tom,” he repeated. “When and where?”
Jeremy lowered the quizzing glass. “Last night. In Halfmoon Street.”
“Who?”
Jeremy shrugged. “Someone named Harpenden. Don’t know ’em myself.”
“Harpenden?” Adam turned the name over in his head, trying to place it.
“Mrs. Harpenden, to be precise.”
Adam frowned as he made the connection. Mrs. Harpenden had a daughter on the Marriage Mart.
I wonder . . .
Adam pushed to his feet and gave Jeremy a curt nod of farewell.
“Hey!” his friend protested. “Where are you off to?”
“Business.”
He’d intended to call on Mr. fforbes-Brown this afternoon, but instead he turned right when he came out of White’s. His offer for Miss fforbes-Brown’s hand could wait a day; this couldn’t.
Adam strode up St. James’s Street, oblivious to the rain. In a few minutes he was climbing the steps to his house in Berkeley Square. “Where’s my sister?” he asked the butler, Fiscus.
“Upstairs, sir. In the blue parlor.”
Adam took the stairs two at a time. “Grace,” he said as he pushed open the door. “Do you know a—” He halted. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize you had a guest.”
He bowed to Miss Wootton and made his escape—and spent the next hour in his study, going over the lists he’d made about Tom.
He lifted his head at a soft knock. Grace opened the door. “You wanted to speak with me?”
“Yes.” Adam hastily covered the lists. “Do you know a family by the name of Harpenden?”
“How odd.” Grace closed the door and came to stand beside his desk. “Bella asked me that a few days ago.”
His interest sharpened. “Did she?”
Grace nodded.
“And . . . ?” he prompted.
“I know Charlotte Harpenden,” Grace said. “But she’s not in London. She hasn’t come out yet.”
“Was she at school with you in Bath?”
Grace nodded.
Adam was conscious of a surge of excitement. The person who’d started the rumors about Miss Wootton—and perhaps about Grace—was quite possibly Mrs. Harpenden.
“Why?” Grace asked.
“Oh . . .” Adam said. “I’m just curious. It’s not important.”
Grace accepted this with a nod.
When she was gone, Adam walked over to the sideboard. He poured himself a glass of brandy and sipped thoughtfully.
How much would Charlotte Harpenden have known about Grace’s planned elopement with Mr. Plunkett?
As much as any of the pupils at Miss Widdecombe’s Select Seminary for Girls: that Mr. Plunkett had been dismissed from his position and Grace removed from the school—two events that may or may not have been connected. Enough to speculate about, enough to conjecture on.
Speculation and conjecture—the foundations from which gossip and rumors were born.
Adam grimaced. I should have left Grace at the school. That was easy to see in hindsight. At the time . . . Grace had been so distressed he’d thought it best to take her home.
Adam walked back to his desk. He uncovered the lists, dipped his quill in ink, and wrote: Mrs. Harpenden, May 1818. For starting rumors.
He read what he’d written and frowned. How had Tom known Mrs. Harpenden was the culprit?
The same way as Arabella Knightley had known: by overhearing the woman.
Adam rolled the quill between his fingers. Who else, other than Miss Knightley, had heard Mrs. Harpenden start the rumor about Miss Wootton?
* * *
ADAM ESCORTED HIS aunt and his sister to the theater that evening. At Grace’s request, an invitation had been extended to Hetty Wootton and her parents. As host, Adam’s attention was on his guests; it wasn’t until the curtain rose that he was at leisure to scan the boxes.
His gaze flicked from face to face—and then paused. Miss fforbes-Brown was attending the performance, along with her parents and . . .
Adam’s eyes narrowed. He leaned slightly forward in his seat.
Miss fforbes-Brown was attending the performance along with her parents and Sir Humphrey Holbrook.
Adam sat back, conscious of a feeling of extreme disquiet. I should have called on her father today.
In the first interval talk turned to Tom’s latest theft. “Why did he choose Mrs. Harpenden?” Hetty Wootton asked, wide-eyed. “What can she have done?”
“It’s unlikely she’ll tell anyone,” her father said dryly.
“No,” Hetty said. “But one can’t help but wonder. I’d like to know what she did!”
“I’d like to know who he is,” Mr. Wootton said.
So should I, Adam thought.
When the curtain lifted for the second act, he turned his attention to the audience. It took h
im several minutes to find Miss Knightley. She wore a dress of deep, rich red with a square neckline. Her hair was dressed in a coronet of braids. She looked . . . he searched for a word, rejected severe, and settled on regal. Quite a feat for a girl who’d lived in the slums.
He wished he could interview her tonight. Impatience ate at him. He had to stop himself from fidgeting while the play progressed through several acts towards its end. He watched Miss Knightley surreptitiously, anticipating the questions he’d ask. She rarely spoke to her grandmother. Her demeanor, when she did, was courteous and respectful, but not warm.
Adam turned this over in his mind while the play reached its climax. The fifth Earl of Westwick had been a proud man, very high in the instep. What had he thought of Arabella? The granddaughter he could hardly have wanted—and yet, his only direct descendant.
An awkward relationship at best, Adam decided, glancing at Miss Knightley again. And yet, awkward or not, the earl had bequeathed his wealth to her. The title and estates had gone to a distant cousin—a cousin the late earl had stigmatized as an ill-bred buffoon.
The audience broke into applause. Belatedly Adam started clapping.
“Wasn’t that marvelous!” Grace said.
“Er, yes,” he said.
Miss Knightley and her grandmother left before the farce. Adam watched as they gathered their wraps and reticules.
Lady Westwick was a bird-like woman, her stature as diminutive as Miss Knightley’s, her posture erect. She wasn’t the dowager countess; none of her sons had lived to be Earl of Westwick. The youngest had died in the Peninsular War, the eldest on the hunting field, and her middle son—Miss Knightley’s father—had succumbed to a fever.
Adam grimaced. Three sons dead. A terrible thing for a mother to bear.
He turned his attention to the stage, frowning at the antics of the actors and trying to imagine what it had been like for Arabella Knightley—arriving as an orphan at Westwick Hall, being clothed, fed, educated, launched into Society. Would she have loved her grandparents—or resented them? Seen them as her saviors—or laid the death of her mother at their feet?
