by Emily Larkin
She was aware of a lifting of her spirits. The last five years of Helen’s life had been miserable. But now she’s free.
As I shall be soon.
Arabella came to an abrupt decision. “Helen . . . When I come of age next month I’ll be leaving town.”
Helen’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?”
“I intend to buy a property in the country. Away from all of this.” She indicated London with a wave of her hand. “You’d be more than welcome to stay with me—for as long as you like.”
“Thank you,” Helen said. “What does your grandmother think of your plans?”
“She doesn’t know.” Arabella looked down at her cup. She turned it around in its saucer.
“But surely—”
Arabella looked up, meeting Helen’s eyes. “My grandmother will be glad to see the back of me,” she said, with a tight smile.
Helen’s brow creased. “Are you certain—?”
“Yes,” Arabella said, flatly. She placed her cup and saucer on the table. “I intend to set up schools. For children from the slums. That’s not something my grandmother would approve of.”
“Schools?” Enthusiasm lit Helen’s face. She put her cup down and leaned forward. “Where? How many? May I help?”
Arabella blinked. “You want to help?”
“Very much! I’m extremely fond of children.”
“Even children from the slums?”
“A child is a child, regardless of its birth,” Helen said.
Arabella smiled warmly at her. “You may certainly help, if you wish.”
“Thank you.” Helen picked up her cup again, but didn’t drink from it. “My biggest sorrow is that George and I had no children.” Her smile was crooked. “I should have liked for . . . for something good to have come from my marriage.”
“But if you marry again—”
Helen shuddered. “I have no intention of remarrying. But I should very much like to help with your project.”
They talked for more than an hour, while the rain drummed down and the fire burned in the grate and the chocolate became cold in its pot. Finally Arabella stood. “I must be going. We have guests for dinner. My grandmother will be wondering what’s become of me.”
“I’m so glad you came,” Helen said. Despite the dull black of the bombazine gown, she looked happy. There was a flush of color in her cheeks and a smile in her eyes.
Arabella embraced her. “If I can help in any way, if you need anything—anything at all—please tell me.”
“Thank you,” Helen said, returning her embrace. “But everything will be fine.”
* * *
THE RAIN WAS still coming down heavily the next morning, but by early afternoon it was a mere drizzle. Arabella, restless from a morning spent indoors, decided to go to the British Museum. She went downstairs to ask her grandmother’s permission.
“The museum?” Lady Westwick repeated, looking doubtfully at the rain-streaked windowpanes.
“Yes. To sketch some of the marbles.” Arabella stood quietly, waiting for her grandmother’s decision. In her ears she heard her mother’s voice: I want no tears, no tantrums, no sulking. You will always be obedient. You’ll be the perfect granddaughter, ma chère. Promise me.
Lady Westwick sighed. “If you must,” she said. She reached for the bellpull. “I’ll tell Clough to have the carriage brought round.”
Arabella ran lightly back up the stairs. “We can go!” she told Polly.
It was the work of a few minutes to don a pelisse of cherry-red sarcenet, tie the ribbons of a bonnet decorated with clusters of cherries beneath her chin, and pull on gloves.
She gathered her sketchbook and pencils and went downstairs with Polly.
The butler, Clough, opened the door. Outside, the carriage was drawing up at the foot of the steps. A footman, his face perfectly expressionless, stepped out into the drizzle. He raised an umbrella for her.
Arabella bit her lip. It was the same footman who’d been drenched yesterday. “Thank you,” she said, and trod down the steps under the shelter of the umbrella.
She was about to climb into the carriage when she heard her name. “Miss Knightley?”
Arabella turned her head. Adam St. Just stood on the pavement, under the shelter of his own umbrella. She blinked, taking in the rain-splashed top boots, the box coat with its numerous shoulder capes, and the beaver hat with its curved crown and slender brim. “Mr. St. Just?”
“I wondered if I might ask a question.”
Arabella blinked again. “Of course.” She turned towards the house. “Would you like to come inside?”
“No, thank you,” St. Just said. “My question won’t take a moment.”
Arabella shrugged. If he wanted to stand out in the rain, she didn’t care. Although the poor footman probably did. “Ask your question, Mr. St. Just.”
She had the impression that he hesitated slightly, that beneath the nonchalance he felt a little foolish. “Er . . . did you tell anyone about the incident we witnessed on Piccadilly? With Sir Arnold Gorrie?”
Arabella managed not to tense. She raised her eyebrows. “Still looking for Tom, Mr. St. Just?” she asked in a light, amused voice.
His jaw tightened. “Did you tell anyone?” he repeated.
Arabella pretended to ponder the question. She was aware of the footman standing stoically in the drizzle, holding the umbrella over her head. “No,” she said. “I spoke to no one about it.”
St. Just frowned. He glanced at Polly, standing beside Arabella on the pavement. “And your maid? Did she tell anyone?”
Arabella turned to Polly. “Highsmith? Did you tell anyone about Sir Arnold’s behavior on Piccadilly?”
“No, ma’am,” Polly said, in her expressionless servant’s voice.
It clearly wasn’t the answer Adam St. Just had wanted to hear; his frown deepened. “Thank you,” he said. “I apologize for delaying you.”
“Not at all,” Arabella said. “I wish you luck in your search.” Both her smile and her voice were slightly mocking.
She had the impression that St. Just gritted his teeth. He inclined his head stiffly and stepped back.
Arabella climbed into the carriage. Polly followed her. The door closed behind them and a few seconds later the carriage moved forward.
Arabella clutched her sketchbook on her lap. She looked at Polly.
Polly looked back at her, frowning. “Should we be worried?”
Arabella considered this question for a moment. “No. There’s no way he can find out.”
Polly nodded. She settled back comfortably on the seat.
Arabella chewed her lower lip. There was no way Adam St. Just could discover who Tom was, was there? She turned the question over in her mind, looking at it from various angles, and then shook her head.
No, her secret was safe.
* * *
ADAM WATCHED THE carriage turn out of Mount Street. He gripped the handle of the umbrella tightly and headed in the direction of White’s.
So Tom hadn’t found out about Gorrie on Tuesday; he’d found out on Wednesday afternoon—and he’d acted quickly. A spur-of-the-moment thief.
“Hell and damnation,” he said. It was going to be much harder to find Tom now. He’d have to trace him through the men Jeremy and Alvanley had told.
Adam grimaced, imagining the amusement his questions would cause. Arabella Knightley wasn’t going to be the only person laughing at him.
He splashed across the street, cursing beneath his breath. He’d been so certain Tom had found out from Grace or Miss Knightley or her maid. There’d been no other witnesses. Just the four of them, standing outside Hatchard’s, and Sir Arnold himself—
Adam halted abruptly.
The four of them, and Sir Arnold Gorrie—and Jenny, the housemaid.
A hundred yards ahead of him, a hackney was drawn up. Adam furled his umbrella and broke into a run. “Bayham Street in Camden Town,” he told the jarvey. “As fast as you can!”
ADAM FIDGETED ON the narrow seat while the hackney traversed London. What reason could Tom have had for taking banknotes from Sir Arnold Gorrie—other than to give the money to Jenny? The water drained from his umbrella, making a dark puddle on the floor.
Finally the hackney drew up in Bayham Street. Adam didn’t wait for the jarvey to open the door. He jumped down and thrust some coins at the man. “Wait here for me!”
The boarding house was a plain brick building with narrow windows. Adam hammered on the door and waited impatiently for the landlady to answer. What was the woman’s name? Pink? Penny? Pound?
It came to him as she opened the door. “Mrs. Peet,” he said, taking off his hat and making her a shallow bow. “We met earlier this week.”
Mrs. Peet remembered him. She curtsied and invited him in.
“I’d like to see Jenny,” Adam said, wiping his feet on the mat in the hallway. The interior of Mrs. Peet’s establishment was cozier than the exterior. The floor was polished and neatly stitched samplers hung on the walls.
“Oh,” Mrs. Peet said, a look of consternation crossing her plump face. “I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Jenny has gone. She left this morning.”
Too late. Damn it! His fingers tightened on the brim of his hat. “Where did she go?” he demanded.
Mrs. Peet gave a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know where they went.”
“They?” Adam fastened eagerly on the word. “Did she leave with a man? What did he look like?”
“There was a man, sir. He was tall, as tall as you.”
He felt a surge of excitement. “A gentleman? What color was his hair?”
“Oh, no, sir.” Mrs. Peet shook her head. “He weren’t a gentleman. He was a commoner.”
Adam stared at her. “A commoner?”
Mrs. Peet nodded emphatically.
“A servant?” he asked, feeling slightly deflated. “In livery, perhaps?”
“No, sir,” Mrs. Peet said.
Adam frowned at her. “Did Jenny know him? What was his name?”
It took him nearly twenty minutes to pry the details from Mrs. Peet. Jenny had received two visitors, a man and a woman. Mrs. Peet wasn’t certain, but she thought their name might have been Smith. The man was large and fair-haired, the woman dark and pretty, but missing several teeth. She’d been as pregnant as Jenny.
“Pregnant?” Adam said, baffled. “Are you certain?”
Mrs. Peet was certain. She was also certain Jenny hadn’t known her visitors—and that she’d been overjoyed by the news they brought.
“So ’appy she was cryin’,” Mrs. Peet said. “Said she’d come into some money.”
Tom, Adam thought. Whoever the man and woman were, commoners or not, they were agents of the burglar.
“And then they left. All three of ’em.” Mrs. Peet lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t know where they went.”
“What time was this?”
“About eleven o’clock, sir.”
Adam thanked her and took his leave. For a moment he stood on the doorstep, staring at the buildings across the street. Three hours too late. His hands clenched. “God damn it,” he said aloud. And then he put his hat on and splashed over to the waiting hackney.
* * *
HE WAS STILL annoyed when he escorted his aunt and Grace to the Henworths’ musical evening. Three hours too late. The error had been his—and he’d been stupid to make it, stupid to forget about Jenny, utterly and incredibly stupid.
The star of the evening was an Italian tenor, a short, stout man with the voice of an angel—or so Adam’s companions declared. Adam was too annoyed with himself to enjoy the performance. Three hours, damn it.
Miss Knightley was also present. She sat alongside her grandmother, slightly in front of Adam and to his left. He could see her out of the corner of his eye: the dark hair, the elegant cheekbones. She appeared to be enjoying the music.
At the end of the performance, refreshments were served. Adam fetched orgeat for his sister and ratafia for Aunt Seraphina, and then went to find something stronger for himself.
The punch was quite potent. He stood for a moment, savoring the taste of rum and spices, looking around him. Was Tom one of the guests? His gaze flicked from face to face, and fastened on one: Miss Knightley, sipping from a goblet of lemonade, only a few yards distant.
His pulse gave its familiar, treacherous kick.
Adam’s mouth tightened. He looked at her for a moment, at the soft indentation in her chin, at the dark, expressive eyes. What was it about her that attracted him so?
Not her personality, that was certain.
Miss Knightley’s expression changed suddenly. She turned her head and stared at the two ladies standing in front of him.
“Miss St. Just . . .” he heard one of them say.
Adam turned his head abruptly, forgetting Miss Knightley.
“. . . ran away with her music tutor.” The young lady had an unfortunate resemblance to a pug dog. Miss Brook, he thought her name was.
Adam’s jaw hardened. He took a step forward.
“Oh, no. That was merely a rumor. The truth was much more interesting.” The voice was Miss Knightley’s.
Adam halted.
Both ladies turned their heads. “I beg your pardon?” Miss Brook said.
“The truth about Miss St. Just’s music tutor,” Arabella Knightley said. Her smile was open and friendly—and to Adam’s eyes, wholly suspicious.
Miss Brook and her companion didn’t seem to notice anything wrong with Miss Knightley’s smile. “Oh?” Miss Brook said.
Arabella Knightley stepped closer. “He went mad.”
“Mad?”
Miss Knightley nodded, her eyes innocently wide. “The music tutor. Apparently he’d been suffering from delusions for several months, but when the princess died, he went mad.”
“No!” Miss Brook said.
Miss Knightley nodded. “He believed he was married to a number of students, but it wasn’t until the princess died that his delusions became . . . persistent. Miss St. Just was the object of his attention at that time, which was very distressing for her. She asked to be removed from the school.”
“So she didn’t elope . . . ?”
“No. She left Bath to escape his advances.”
“Oh.” Miss Brook looked disappointed.
“The tutor was turned off, of course,” Miss Knightley continued. “Mr. Plunkett was his name. Reginald Plunkett. But when it came time for him to leave, no one could find him.” Her voice lowered. “You’ll never guess where he was found.”
“Where?” Miss Brook breathed.
Adam stepped closer to hear.
“At a farm down the lane from the school, in a goat pen. He swore the nanny goat was his married wife.”
“A nanny goat?” There was horrified delight in Miss Brook’s voice.
Arabella Knightley nodded solemnly. “The poor man was sent back to his wife in Birmingham, but he refused to be parted from the goat. I’ve heard . . .” She lowered her voice a fraction more. “I’ve heard that he lives in a goat pen behind his wife’s house.”
“Not . . . with the nanny goat?”
Miss Knightley nodded. Her expression of demure innocence was worthy of Jeremy.
Miss Brook shuddered. “How shocking!”
“Isn’t it just?” Miss Knightley said, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
Adam snorted, and turned away hurriedly. He gulped a mouthful of punch. When he turned back, Miss Brook and her companion were moving away, arm in arm, their heads bent closely together. “Nanny goat!” he heard one of them say in a low, excited voice.
Arabella Knightley was sipping her lemonade. The demure innocence was gone. He saw contempt in the curl of her upper lip as she watched the young ladies depart.
Adam waited until Miss Brook and her friend had moved out of earshot. Then he stepped up behind Miss Knightley. “Nanny goat?” he said qu
ietly in her ear.
Miss Knightley started violently. Lemonade slopped over the side of the goblet. “Mr. St. Just!”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You startled me,” Miss Knightley said, stating the obvious. Her glove was damp, and there was a small splash of lemonade on her gown.
“I apologize,” Adam said. He held out his hand for the goblet.
Miss Knightley gave it to him. It was sticky.
Adam watched as she pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at the spot on her gown. “Nanny goat?” he said again.
Miss Knightley glanced up. “How much did you hear?”
“All of it.” He almost laughed aloud at memory of Miss Brook’s face, the delicious horror in her voice. A nanny goat? “It was pure genius,” he said, grinning.
To his astonishment, Arabella Knightley grinned back at him. There was laughter in the dark eyes, mischief in the curve of her mouth.
God, she’s beautiful.
Desire clenched painfully in his chest. For a moment he couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but look at her.
Adam wrenched his gaze from her face. He cleared his throat and looked down at the lemonade. A slice of lemon floated in it.
“It made a more interesting tale than a student eloping with her music tutor.”
Desire vanished at her words. He glanced up sharply. “Grace did not elope with Mr. Plunkett.”
“Of course she didn’t.” Arabella Knightley folded her handkerchief and placed it back in her reticule. “But what have rumors to do with the truth? Very little!” She held out her hand for the goblet.
Adam gave it to her.
“I hope I’ve given the gossips something else to talk about.” Miss Knightley’s smile was cat-like, sharp and satisfied. She sipped the lemonade.
“I think you can be very certain you have,” Adam said dryly.
Miss Knightley’s gaze fastened on something past his shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. St. Just. My grandmother wants me.”