My Lady Thief

by Emily Larkin

  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 realize 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 dryly. “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 rumors—”

  “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 dryly. St. Just was one of the most eligible bachelors in England. He might not have a title, but he had everything else that 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 Hon. 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 reread 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 behavior of you than this. You’re a St. Just!

  Adam pushed the 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 parlor, with a visitor.”

  Adam whistled lightly under his breath as he walked along the corridor. The door to the blue parlor 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 a 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 seven 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 realized.

  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 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 forever.”

  “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 tantalizing 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 that 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 baseborn. 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 realized 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 skeptical 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 Westwick. 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; Westwick 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 Westwick, asking for help. The earl refused to let her set foot inside his house. He said he’d take the child, but not her.”