by Emily Larkin
Adam turned and watched as she walked across the room. Her hair gleamed with a dark, rich luster. It was dressed in the French style, high on her head, leaving her nape bare. Her neck was pale, slender, elegant.
His fingers curled into the palm of his hand. I want her.
Adam turned abruptly away and gulped the rest of his punch. Then he went back to the refreshment room and refilled his glass.
* * *
IT WASN’T UNTIL Adam stepped into the cool, marble-paved entrance hall of his house on Berkeley Square that he thought to wonder about the facts Miss Knightley had included in her scurrilous little tale. How had she known Reginald Plunkett’s name? Or that he lived in Birmingham? How had she known when to set her tale?
He pondered these questions as he climbed the stairs. In the corridor outside their bedchambers, he bid his aunt goodnight and detained Grace with a light touch on her arm.
She looked at him enquiringly. “Yes?”
Adam waited until Aunt Seraphina had closed her bedroom door. “Grace, have you told anyone in London about Reginald Plunkett?”
Grace flinched. She shook her head. “No.”
“Not even Miss Knightley?”
Grace shook her head again, and then hesitated. “I told her a little bit about what happened.” Distress creased her forehead. “Why? Has she . . .” her voice trembled, “. . . been talking about me?”
Adam put his arm around Grace. “Not in a bad way,” he said, hugging her. “I overheard her telling someone that Reginald Plunkett suffered from delusions and that he thought himself married to a nanny goat.”
“A nanny goat?” Grace’s tension eased slightly. She uttered a choke of laughter. “Truly?”
“Truly,” Adam said. He grinned in memory of Miss Brook’s wide-eyed gullibility, her breathless questions—and the expression of extreme innocence on Arabella Knightley’s face.
A fluent liar, Miss Knightley.
“But why would Bella say such a thing—”
“As gossip, it’s much more interesting than an elopement that may or may not have taken place.”
Grace stiffened. “Yes,” she said in a subdued voice.
Adam hugged her again. “According to Miss Knightley, Reginald Plunkett lives in a goat pen behind his wife’s house in Birmingham. With the nanny goat.”
Grace gave a faint giggle.
“I merely wondered how Miss Knightley knew his name. Did you tell her?”
Grace shook her head against his shoulder. “No. I haven’t said his name to anyone since . . . since then.”
“Did you tell her where he lived? Or that it was in November that—”
Grace shook her head again. “I told Bella he was my music tutor, and that he was married. That’s all.” She inhaled a shaky breath. “When are people going to stop talking about me?”
She was close to tears; he heard it in her voice.
Adam hugged her more tightly. “I don’t know.”
Grace sniffed against the lapel of his coat. “I deserve it,” she said in a choked voice. “For being so stupid.”
“It wasn’t your fault. He chose you, Grace, because you were more wealthy than any of the other students.” She’d been the perfect victim for the man’s scheme: shy and lonely, and desperate for love. “Here.” He released her and gave her his handkerchief.
Grace wiped her eyes.
“If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I shouldn’t have sent you away.” Guilt was bitter on his tongue. “I thought you’d be happier in Bath. I didn’t realize you were so miserable there.”
Grace glanced up at him. “I was happy there, sometimes.”
“But you would have been happier at home.”
Her gaze dropped to the handkerchief, a silent yes.
Adam cleared his throat. He reached out and touched Grace’s cheek lightly. “Go to bed.”
Grace nodded and turned away. She hesitated, her hand on the door knob, then turned back and hugged him.
Adam held her tightly. For heaven’s sake, boy, he heard his father say. Try to behave as a St. Just! It’s vulgar to display emotion.
He pushed the old man’s words aside and pressed a kiss into Grace’s soft hair. “Sleep well,” he said, releasing her.
“Good night, Adam.” She smiled at him, opened the door, and slipped into her room.
Adam cleared his throat again, and then he walked down the corridor to his own room.
* * *
AFTER HIS MORNING ride in Hyde Park, Adam went in search of his aunt. He found her in the morning room.
“Aunt Seraphina?”
“Yes, dear?” His aunt looked up from her embroidery.
Her placid smile made him think involuntarily of a Jersey cow. Adam pushed the comparison out of his mind, closed the door, and advanced into the room. “Aunt, I wondered if you’d spoken of Mr. Plunkett to anyone in London.”
His aunt looked at him in gentle surprise. “Spoken of him? Why on earth should I do such a thing?”
Adam shrugged. “Have you?”
“Of course not,” Aunt Seraphina said, putting down her embroidery.
“Not even to Miss Knightley?”
His aunt looked perplexed. “No. Why?”
Adam smiled at her. “No reason.” He bowed and let himself out of the morning room.
He went down the stairs two at a time, whistling under his breath. In his study he pulled out the bundle of papers Grace had received from Tom. He read the first blackmail letter again.
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.
He gave a satisfied grunt, placed the piece of paper aside, and reached for Grace’s love letter. The date was at the top. November 6th , 1817. The day Princess Charlotte had died.
Adam laid both letters on his desk, side by side. They had come from Tom—and they contained information Miss Knightley had known.
The conclusion was obvious: Arabella Knightley was in league with the burglar, Tom.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE GIFFORDS’ BALLROOM was a forest of greenery. Potted palms sprouted in the corners, ferns uncurled delicate fronds, and ivy spilled from various torchères and jardinières. Arabella looked around as she entered. A contredanse was in progress, the dancers advancing across the floor in time with the music.
“How delightful,” her grandmother said, glancing around. “So verdant.”
“Yes, Grandmother.” Arabella suppressed a sigh. Two and a half more weeks of this.
With her grandmother happily ensconced in the card room, a glass of champagne at her elbow and a pile of guineas in front of her, Arabella was free—in her grandmother’s words—to enjoy herself. I’d rather be at home. She glanced back at her grandmother. Lady Westwick was avidly examining her first hand of cards.
Arabella suppressed another sigh. She touched her fingertips lightly to her bodice—spider-gauze embroidered with tiny rosebuds over a gown of rose-colored satin. Armor, she told herself.
She squared her shoulders and stepped into the ballroom, a smile on her face.
“Miss Knightley,” a voice said to her right.
Arabella turned. The smooth baritone belonged to Adam St. Just.
There was nothing in his polite bow to give her cause for alarm, and yet there was an intentness in his gaze, an edge to his smile, that made her skin prickle with unease.
“I wonder if I might request a dance?”
Arabella stiffened. Not the waltz.
“The next quadrille, perhaps?”
She relaxed. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. St. Just.”
* * *
HALF AN HOUR later, Arabella took her place alongside him. “That was a marvelous tale you told last night,” St. Just said, as the head couple began to dance the first figure. “About the nanny goat.”
Arabella glanced at him.
“I don’t recall if I thanked you.”
“There’s no need to thank me, Mr. St
. Just.”
“No,” he said, with a smile that turned up only one side of his mouth. “You didn’t do it for me, did you? You did it for Grace.”
Arabella looked at him uncertainly. Was that bitterness she heard in his voice, bitterness that she saw in that crooked smile? Of course not. Why would he want me to like him?
They accomplished their first figure, le pantalon, with ease. Arabella discovered that she was enjoying herself. Adam St. Just was as skillful a dancer as his friend the Marquis of Revelstoke. There was no fear of him forgetting his place in the figure. He made the quadrille—a dance that had been the downfall of many an unwary gentleman or lady—look easy.
While they waited for their turn at the second figure, he spoke to her again. “I wonder, Miss Knightley, how you came to know the name of Grace’s music tutor?”
He asked the question so affably, with such cordiality, that for a moment she didn’t realize how dangerous it was—and then his words registered.
Arabella turned her head sharply. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Reginald Plunkett,” St. Just said, his gaze intent on her face. “How did you know his name?”
Because it was in the blackmail letter.
Arabella was aware of a tiny spike of panic in her chest. He suspects something. She grabbed the first lie she thought of: “Grace told me.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Grace?”
“Yes.”
St. Just smiled at her. “Grace assures me that she hasn’t mentioned Plunkett’s name to anyone in London.”
“Oh,” Arabella said.
There was something disturbing in St. Just’s eyes, in his smile. He reminded her of someone—
Not someone: something. Adam St. Just reminded her of a cat stalking its prey—the way his eyes were focused on her face, the sharp-edged smile. “So I wonder, Miss Knightley . . . how did you discover his name?”
Arabella stared at him. Her mind was utterly blank. She could think of no credible lie, no convincing explanation.
“Miss Knightley?”
Arabella swallowed.
“Our turn, I believe,” St. Just said. He held out his hand to her.
For a moment she had no idea what figure they were to dance, no idea what step to take. His fingers closed around hers. Panic flared inside her—and then her pulse steadied. This was the second figure, l’été.
Arabella danced with what she hoped was an outward appearance of calm. Inwardly, she castigated herself. She was a fool to have been overset by St. Just’s words, a fool to panic. The answer to his question was easy.
“If it wasn’t Grace who told me,” she said, once they’d completed the figure and were standing side by side again, “then I must have heard it from someone else.” She shrugged lightly. “There’s been so much gossip lately. One quite forgets where one first hears things.”
St. Just’s expression told her clearly that he didn’t believe her. “I thought you disliked gossip, Miss Knightley.”
“I do. But one can’t help overhearing things.” She opened her eyes at him, wide and innocent.
His own eyes narrowed. “How did you know Mr. Plunkett came from Birmingham?”
Arabella shrugged again. “Gossip,” she said airily.
His jaw tightened. “And the date? How did you know when it happened?”
“The week Princess Charlotte died? I remember someone mentioning that. It stuck in my mind. Such a memorable week!” Arabella creased her brow thoughtfully and tapped a finger against her cheek. “Now, who was it . . . ?” she mused. “Mrs. Harpenden, perhaps?”
St. Just’s look was disgusted, and wholly disbelieving.
Arabella smiled widely. She turned her attention to the other dancers, pretending to watch them. St. Just suspected a connection with Tom—that was obvious—but he knew nothing. And he never will.
She bit her lip, imagining his astonishment if he were to learn the truth. A female thief? Preposterous!
Arabella decided to take the offensive while she danced the third figure, la poule. When they were standing quietly again, she turned to St. Just. “Miss Wootton is in good looks this evening, don’t you agree? Such an attractive young lady. And such a lovely fortune. Have you had the opportunity to press your suit yet?”
St. Just looked at her blandly. “Sharpening your claws, Miss Knightley?”
His prescience was unsettling. Her smile faltered slightly.
“On the subject of marriage, I’ve had the opportunity to consider your suggestion,” he said in a genial tone. “Of a stream running down the center of the table at my wedding breakfast. I believe you’re correct; nothing could be more elegant, more tasteful.”
Arabella stared at him.
He returned her gaze with perfect blandness.
Was Adam St. Just teasing her?
Arabella was so disconcerted that she almost missed the cue for the fourth figure, la pastourelle.
* * *
AFTER A LIVELY finale, Adam escorted Miss Knightley to where his aunt and Mrs. Wootton stood. Exhilaration hummed in his veins. Miss Knightley knew something about Tom. He’d seen it in her face—the sharp glance, the brief freezing of her smile—just as he’d felt her faint hesitation when he’d led her into the second figure. She’d been off balance and alarmed.
He fetched lemonade for Miss Knightley and champagne for himself, returning to find Grace and Hetty had joined them. Adam listened idly to the girls’ chatter, his eyes on Miss Knightley. She paid him absolutely no attention, seemingly immersed in conversation with his aunt, but he thought there was tension in the way she stood, stiffness to her shoulders.
She knows who Tom is.
He needed proof, not supposition. He needed handwriting to match with Tom’s. He needed drawings—
His mind supplied him with a memory: Miss Knightley standing outside her grandmother’s house on Mount Street, about to step into a carriage. A footman held an umbrella over her head, and in her hands she carried—
A sketchbook.
I have to see that sketchbook.
Adam sipped his champagne thoughtfully, and then said, “Grace?”
His sister turned her head. “Yes?”
“If the weather’s fine tomorrow, would you like to take the barouche out to Richmond? Have a picnic and sketch the views.”
Grace’s face brightened. “What a marvelous idea! Hetty, would you like to come?”
Miss Wootton expressed great pleasure in the invitation.
“Bella?” Grace said, turning to Miss Knightley. “Will you come with us?”
Miss Knightley looked around. “Come where?”
“To Richmond tomorrow, to have a picnic and sketch the views.”
Arabella Knightley glanced sharply at him. “Will you be joining the expedition, Mr. St. Just?”
“No,” Adam said. “Unfortunately I have business in town.”
Grace looked disappointed; Miss Knightley looked relieved. “I should be delighted to come,” she said.
Adam sipped his champagne and hid a smile. His trap was baited.
* * *
THE EXPEDITION SET out from Berkeley Square early the next morning, under the aegis of Aunt Seraphina. The sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky; there was no need to raise the folding hood of the barouche. Adam watched them depart from the window of the upstairs parlor: the team of gray horses, the coachman and a footman sitting erect on the high driving seat, the ladies with their bonnets and parasols and sketchbooks.
He let his eyes rest on Miss Knightley as the barouche pulled out of the square. She wore a bonnet of chip straw, trimmed with flowers and twists of ribbon. The broad brim hid her face.
Adam turned away from the window, very satisfied with himself. Last night’s exhilaration still hummed inside him. Once he’d gone over matters with his man of business, he’d ride out to Richmond. And take a look at Arabella Knightley’s sketchbook.
He strolled downstairs. “Has Mr. Herbert arrived?” he asked the but
ler.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell him I’m ready to see him,” Adam said, and walked down the corridor to his study.
* * *
THE BUSINESS WITH Mr. Herbert—including an assignment that concerned Grace’s blackmailer, Lady Bicknell—took longer than Adam had anticipated. It was midafternoon by the time he rode through the gate into Richmond Park. King Henry’s Mound seemed the logical choice of picnic spot, but he found only a party of children and two harassed nursemaids in possession of the view.
Adam stood in the stirrups and looked around in frustration. He saw woodland and meadows and a herd of deer grazing on a hillside. Four riders cantered along one of the bridleways and a landau with a coat of arms on the door panel made its stately way towards the gate and London—but of the barouche and its party of ladies, there was no sign.
“Damn,” he said under his breath, conscious of how large Richmond Park was.
It took him more than half an hour to find them. It was the carriage he spotted first, half-hidden behind a copse of trees at the foot of a low, wooded hillside. Adam squinted. Was that his barouche? He cantered closer. Yes, it was his barouche, with the blue silk lining and the smart leather trim. And behind the carriage, beneath the shade of the trees, his grays leisurely cropped the grass.
He felt a surge of anticipation.
Adam handed Goliath to the care of the coachman and trod quietly up the slope. Birds sang in the canopy above him and a squirrel scolded from a high branch.
He paused at the top. The view wasn’t as expansive as the one from King Henry’s Mound, but it was charming: a grassy hillside, stands of trees.
To his right, beneath the shade of an oak tree, a rug was spread on the ground. Aunt Seraphina was its sole occupant. She lay dozing.
He heard the drowsy hum of bees, the soft whisper of long grass in the breeze, his aunt’s gentle snores—and girlish laughter.