by Emily Larkin
Jeremy strolled in several minutes after him. “Ready to lose?” he asked cheerfully.
“I have no intention of losing,” Adam said, peeling out of his coat.
Jeremy grinned, showing his teeth. “Neither have I.”
Adam removed his boots. He cast a glance at Jeremy’s clothing. “You make a nice target in that waistcoat.”
Jeremy smoothed a hand over the crimson satin. “Beautiful, ain’t it?”
Adam snorted.
He tested the foils while Jeremy removed his coat and boots. Henry Angelo, grandson of the original Angelo, was their referee. “Ready, gentlemen?” he called. “En garde!”
The weight of the foil in his hand, the slide of his stockinged feet across the floorboards, Jeremy’s grin as they fought, were familiar; they’d fenced together since they were boys. Adam paid no attention to the spectators gathering around the edges of the high-ceilinged chamber. If he was to win, he needed all his concentration. For all his foppishness, Jeremy possessed a wiry strength and lightning-quick reflexes.
The chamber echoed with the soft pad of their feet, the clash of blades, their panting breaths. Parry and riposte and—
“Damn!” Adam said.
Jeremy merely grinned more broadly.
“First point to Revelstoke,” Henry Angelo said. “En garde!”
They started slowly, circling, parrying and riposting, testing each other. Adam knew Jeremy’s style, his strengths and weaknesses, as well as Jeremy knew his. Sometimes it was an advantage; sometimes a drawback.
He won the next two points, and Jeremy the one after that.
“Last point,” Jeremy said, flexing his foil. “Want to bet on it?”
Adam wiped sweat from his face. He thought of the three hundred and ninety-eight guineas he had yet to give away. “No.”
Jeremy’s eyebrows rose in exaggerated surprise. “Afraid you’ll lose?”
Adam ignored the teasing. He brought the point of his foil up.
“Have you heard about Gorrie?” Jeremy asked, moving into position again.
Adam shook his head.
“Tom paid him a visit last night.”
“What?” Adam half-lowered his foil. How in the blazes had Tom found out about Gorrie so quickly?
“En garde!” Henry Angelo called.
Adam brought the foil up again. He tried to focus his attention on the match, but his concentration was broken. Jeremy took the fifth point swiftly with a redoublement. “Tut tut,” he said, grinning broadly. “Someone wasn’t paying attention.”
Adam grunted.
“Well done, gentlemen,” Henry Angelo said.
Together they walked off the floor. “Tell me about Gorrie,” Adam said, as they shrugged into their coats.
“I thought that might catch your attention,” Jeremy said, straightening his cuffs.
Adam glanced at him swiftly.
Jeremy met his look with an innocence that could only be suspicious.
Adam narrowed his eyes. “You were trying to distract me.”
Jeremy looked deeply wounded. “Me?” he said. “Would I do such a thing?”
Adam snorted. He pulled on one of his boots.
Jeremy shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?” he said with a grin.
“You are an unprincipled rogue!”
“No,” Jeremy said. “That would be Gorrie. And our dear Tom has punished him for it.”
Adam picked up his second boot. “Do you know what was taken?”
“Quite a haul, or so I understand. Jewelry, and several hundred pounds in banknotes.”
“Banknotes?” Adam said, astonished. “He’s never done that before, has he?”
Jeremy shrugged. “Who knows?”
Adam paused, his second boot held in one hand. “Did you tell anyone about Gorrie yesterday?”
“Lord, yes!” Jeremy said cheerfully. “Dozens of people.”
“When?”
Jeremy shrugged again. “At the opera. At White’s afterward.”
Adam frowned at the boot he was holding. If Tom had found out about Gorrie yesterday evening . . . would he have burgled the man that very night?
Somehow he doubted it.
He pulled on his boot slowly.
* * *
ARABELLA TOOK THE carriage to Kensington Gardens that afternoon—and then a hackney to Rosemary Lane. She glanced at the sky as she and Polly hurried through the filthy streets of Whitechapel. The clouds were low and dark.
In the little house on Berner Street, she handed her haul over to Harry and Tess: the money for Jenny, and Sir Arnold’s contribution to the school for girls.
The four of them discussed Jenny. “I want her out of London as soon as possible,” Arabella said. “In case Gorrie decides to look for his money.”
“It’s a lot o’ blunt,” Harry said, grinning as he fanned the bills out. “I’m sure ’e’d like it back.”
Arabella watched as he tapped the bills against his palm and laid them neatly on the scarred wooden table. “I’d send Polly but someone’s looking for Tom. I don’t want any connection between Jenny’s disappearance and me.”
Harry looked up sharply. “What d’ you mean, lookin’ for Tom?”
Arabella shrugged. “Someone wants to find out who Tom is. He’s been asking questions.”
“Does he suspect you?” Tess asked.
Arabella laughed. “No. He’s looking for a man. But . . .” her amusement faded, “he’s worked out Tom’s a member of the ton.”
“Should we be worried?” Harry asked, turning a tiepin over in his fingers. The emerald glinted dully in the unlit room.
“No.” Arabella shook her head. “But we need to be careful. Which is another reason why I’d like Jenny out of London as soon as possible.”
“I’ll get ’er tomorrow mornin’,” Harry said. “Take ’er out to Swanley, settle ’er in at the school.”
“I’ll come too,” Tess said, with a glance at her husband. “It’ll be less frightening for her.” Her hand rested briefly on her own rounded belly.
“Thank you.” Arabella cast a glance at the window and stood. “We’d better leave. It’s going to rain soon.”
* * *
INSTEAD OF ACCOMPANYING Jeremy to White’s, Adam went home. He found his sister in the blue parlor, going through the latest issue of La Belle Assemblée with Hetty Wootton. The girls’ heads were bent close together, fair and dark. “. . . puffings of reverse satin,” he heard Grace say.
Adam backed quietly out of the room. He went to his study, poured himself a glass of brandy, and sat at his desk, a clean sheet of paper in front of him. He dipped his quill in ink and began to write.
Grace
Miss Knightley
Miss Knightley’s maid
Myself
The four of them had witnessed the incident outside Hatchard’s on Tuesday afternoon. On Wednesday afternoon, he’d told Jeremy and Alvanley about it. That evening, Tom had paid Sir Arnold Gorrie a visit.
Adam rolled the quill between his fingers. He didn’t think Tom had heard about Gorrie from either Jeremy or Alvanley. The timing was too tight.
Somehow Tom had found out from one of the other witnesses.
Which one?
Adam was aware of excitement building inside him. He was getting close to discovering Tom’s identity.
He swallowed a large mouthful of brandy, then pulled another sheet of paper towards him. He began to list the men he’d seen at Almack’s last night. Each name was someone Tom couldn’t be.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, Adam went back to the parlor. Hetty Wootton was gone. Grace was curled up on the sofa, absorbed in La Belle Assemblée.
“Grace?”
She looked up and smiled.
“I’d like to ask you something.”
Grace closed the magazine, marking her place with one finger. Her expression was expectant.
Adam walked across to the sofa and sat down alongside her. “Did you tell anyone about
what happened on Piccadilly? With Sir Arnold Gorrie?”
“That poor girl.” Grace’s smile faded. “No, I didn’t.”
“No one at all?”
Grace shook her head. “Only Aunt Seraphina.”
“Aunt Seraphina?” Adam nodded and stood. “Thank you.”
* * *
AUNT SERAPHINA WAS in the morning room, dozing on the chaise longue with a cashmere shawl draped over her.
“Oh!” she said, groping for her lace cap, which had slipped over one ear. “Adam, you startled me.”
“I apologize.” He waited while she composed herself and then asked his question: “I understand Grace told you what happened with Sir Arnold Gorrie and the young housemaid.”
“Such a dreadful thing for her to have witnessed! What was the man thinking of, behaving like that on a public street?” Aunt Seraphina felt around her, turning back the cashmere shawl. “Have you seen a book of poems?”
It lay on the floor beneath the chaise longue. Adam bent and picked it up. “Did you tell anyone, Aunt?”
“About what?”
“About Sir Arnold and the housemaid,” he said patiently. One of the pages was creased. He smoothed it and closed the book. Byron’s The Corsair, he saw, glancing at the spine.
Aunt Seraphina looked affronted. “Of course not! Such appalling behavior. And the girl was pregnant. It’s not the sort of thing one talks about with one’s friends.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said meekly, handing her the book.
Adam went back to his study and poured himself another glass of brandy. He stood at the window, warming the glass in his hand. Outside, it was beginning to rain. Fat drops struck the windowpanes.
He sipped the brandy meditatively, listening to the rain hitting the window, watching the pavement darken with water. If Tom had heard about Gorrie on Tuesday, it hadn’t been from Grace or himself. Which left Arabella Knightley and her maid.
If he was right about the timing. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps Tom had acted on the spur of the moment?
If Miss Knightley was at the Foxes’ ball tonight, he’d ask her. But not during a waltz.
Adam shook his head and took another sip of brandy. The taste lingered on his tongue, smoky. Outside, the rain began to fall more heavily.
Miss Knightley’s apology this morning had been as bizarre as it was unexpected. Sharpening her claws on him? Because the waltz brought out the worst in her?
What a very odd young lady she was.
Adam raised the glass and sipped again. He held the brandy in his mouth for a moment, savoring the flavor.
Presumably she’d been sharpening her claws when she’d extolled Miss Wootton’s fortune. And when she’d encouraged him to have a stream flowing down the center of the table at his wedding breakfast.
Adam chuckled in memory of her artless, enthusiastic vulgarity—and almost choked on the brandy in his mouth. He swallowed, coughing.
Yes, sharpening her claws was an accurate description of what Miss Knightley had done.
“Minx,” he said, under his breath. He turned away from the window. A very strange young woman, Miss Arabella Knightley. An enigma. As irritating as she was beautiful.
For a moment he saw her in his mind’s eye: the elegant bones of her face, the dark, expressive eyes, the soft mouth.
Desire clenched in his belly.
Adam took a hurried gulp of brandy. He strode across to his desk, opened the drawer that held his business correspondence, and pushed Miss Knightley firmly from his mind. But she crept back into his thoughts as he read the latest letter from his steward. The blackness of the ink reminded him of her eyes, the paper brought the pale creaminess of her complexion to mind, and the looping tails of each f and g and y made him think of dark ringlets nestling against smooth skin.
Adam squeezed his eyes shut. Get out of my head, he told Arabella Knightley.
* * *
IT WAS RAINING heavily by the time they reached her grandmother’s house in Belgravia. Arabella climbed the marble staircase with Polly one step behind, playing the role of servant. She was conscious of a sense of relief. By this time tomorrow, Jenny would be safe at the school in Swanley—and neither Sir Arnold Gorrie nor Adam St. Just would be able to find her.
She pulled off her gloves. The kid leather was slightly damp.
“Arabella.”
She turned. “Yes, Grandmother?”
Lady Westwick stood in the doorway of her parlor. A lace cap covered her white hair. She wore a lilac gown with vertical pleating on the bodice. The late earl’s painted eye stared out from the brooch on her bosom.
“I see you got wet,” her grandmother said, faint disapproval in her voice.
“Yes,” Arabella said, conscious of the distance between them, the congeniality they both feigned. She wants me in her house as little as I want to be here.
“I thought you’d like to know . . . your friend Helen Dysart—her husband has died.”
“What?” Arabella exclaimed. “George Dysart? When?”
“Last night, if the gossips are to be believed.”
“Oh, poor Helen!” Arabella turned and began to head downstairs again.
Her grandmother’s voice stopped her: “Where are you going?”
“To see Helen,” Arabella said, looking back at her.
“It’s nearly five o’clock.”
“She’s my friend, Grandmother.” The only friend I have in the ton, other than Grace St. Just. “I’ll be back in time for dinner.”
Lady Westwick’s mouth pinched slightly. “Very well.” She stepped back into her parlor and closed the door.
Arabella hurried down the stairs, pulling on her gloves. “Call back the carriage, Clough. I need to go out again.”
* * *
A WREATH HUNG on the door at No. 34 Curzon Street. The black ribbons were dripping.
Arabella watched as the footman jumped down from the carriage. Water splashed beneath his feet. Poor man, she thought, as he plied the door knocker. He looked as wet and bedraggled as the wreath.
The door of No. 34 opened. She saw the footman say something and Helen’s butler reply. Rain drummed on the roof of the carriage, drowning their words.
The footman splashed back down the steps. The door to Helen’s house stayed open.
“She’ll receive me,” Arabella said, turning to Polly. “Quickly, the umbrella!”
They scrambled down from the carriage, hurried through the downpour, up the steps and inside. The door closed behind them, shutting out the rain.
* * *
HELEN WAS UPSTAIRS, seated beside a fire in her parlor. She rose as Arabella entered. “Bella,” she said. “Thank you for coming.” She wore a gown of black bombazine. Her face was pale and composed.
Arabella hurried across the room. She hugged Helen. “I came as soon as I heard. How are you?”
Helen gave a shaky laugh. She returned the embrace tightly, then stepped back. “I’m fine.”
“What happened?” Arabella asked. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Helen smiled faintly. “Thank you, but no. Everything is under control. Do sit, please.” She gestured to the sofa.
Arabella sat.
Helen stayed standing. She stirred the fire with a poker. After a moment she gave a sigh. “George died last night. He was at a . . . at a—” She bit her lip and met Arabella’s eyes. “A brothel. His heart gave out.”
Arabella stared at her.
Helen smiled, a twisted movement of her mouth. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
“Of course not!” Arabella exclaimed.
Helen sighed again. She laid down the poker and came to sit beside Arabella. “George’s lawyer has taken care of everything. He seems to think that the circumstances of . . . of George’s death can be kept quiet.”
Arabella reached out and took hold of Helen’s hand. She tried to imagine what her friend was feeling. Not grief, after the way her husband had treated her. Relief?
“Would you like to stay with us? You’d be more than welcome.”
“Thank you.” Helen returned the clasp of her hand. “But I’d rather be here. I know it sounds foolish, but . . . it’s nice to be alone.”
“It doesn’t sound foolish at all.”
Helen was silent for several seconds, staring at the fire. “I loved George so much at first. And then I . . . I grew to hate him.” She looked at Arabella. “I used to wish him dead. And now that he’s gone—” Tears filled her eyes. Shame was clearly visible on her face. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”
Arabella hugged her. “Anyone would be. It’s only natural.”
They drew apart as the door opened. Helen wiped her eyes while a housemaid placed a tray on the table beside the fireplace.
Where did the sympathies of the household staff lie? With their dead master, or their mistress? Their mistress, Arabella guessed, from the expression on the maid’s face as she glanced at Helen.
The maid curtsied and left the room.
“Tea, or hot chocolate?”
“Hot chocolate, please.”
What scenes had the staff in this house witnessed? George hadn’t limited his abuse of Helen to words; he’d struck her, too. The way Helen had flinched from his upraised hand at the Fothergills’ ball told her that.
Arabella accepted a cup of hot chocolate.
“Helen,” she said, hesitantly. “Forgive me for asking, but . . . will you be all right financially?”
Helen glanced at her. “Yes.”
“Are you certain? Because I come into my inheritance next month and I can give—”
“Thank you.” Helen put down the chocolate pot and smiled at Arabella. “That’s very kind of you, but quite unnecessary. A significant portion of my fortune still remains.”
Arabella nodded.
It was cozy in the parlor, with the rain hitting the windowpanes and the fire burning in the hearth. She sipped her chocolate and hoped that Polly had found a warm fire and a hot drink belowstairs.