by Emily Larkin
Adam walked quietly past Aunt Seraphina. On the other side of the oak tree a second rug had been spread, overlooking the meadow. The girls knelt on it, their heads bent together. They had removed their bonnets. Their curls mingled—golden and nut-brown and dark sable—as they looked at something Miss Knightley held. He heard a squeal of laughter, a delighted giggle.
“Do another one!” Grace begged.
“Oh, yes!” cried Hetty Wootton. “Do! Please!”
“Another what?” Adam asked.
Three heads turned towards him.
For a moment he couldn’t breathe. He’d never seen anything more beautiful, more perfect, than the laughing curve of Arabella Knightley’s lips, the dimple in her cheek, the mischief brimming in her dark eyes.
Desire clenched in his chest. He wanted her more than he’d wanted any woman in his life.
Equally intense, and far more disturbing, was a tenderness that made his throat tighten. I want to make her look this happy. I want to make her smile, to make her laugh.
Miss Knightley’s expression sobered. The dimple vanished. She closed her sketchbook.
“Oh, do show him!” Grace begged. “Adam, you have to see this! Bella’s so clever!”
Adam cleared his throat. He tried to remember his purpose: to find Tom. He stepped onto the rug. “May I?” He held out his hand.
After a moment’s hesitation, Miss Knightley gave him her sketchbook.
It was almost full. Only a few pages at the end were still blank. Adam flicked to the last sketch: a cow in a paddock. He looked at it, perplexed. The paddock bore no resemblance to Richmond Park.
He blinked—and looked more closely at the cow. It was Aunt Seraphina. “Good God,” he said.
Grace clapped her hands and gave a choke of laughter.
Adam looked at Miss Knightley. “That’s incredible,” he said. “How did you do it?”
She shrugged lightly.
Adam examined the sketch again. The paddock, the wooden fence, the distant trees, had been drawn using the minimum of pencil strokes—and yet they were vividly real. He could almost see the leaves turning in the breeze, almost smell the grass. The cow had been sketched quickly—and yet in a few deft lines, she’d made it alive. It was about to breathe, about to blink its large eyes.
He studied it, frowning. How could the cow be a cow, and yet also a person?
It was the eyes, he decided. And something in the curve of cheek, in the mouth, in the way it held its head.
There was no meanness in the sketch. Mischief, yes—but no malice. The cow gazed at him, placid, benign, beautiful—and unmistakably Aunt Seraphina.
“Look at the other ones!” Grace urged.
Obediently, he turned the page—and found himself staring at a ballroom in which were a peacock, a cockerel, and a toad. He laughed involuntarily. “Revelstoke?” he said, glancing at Miss Knightley.
Her lips quirked slightly in a smile. He saw a glimmer of laughter in her eyes.
Adam examined the sketch. The peacock was unmistakably the Marquis of Revelstoke, just as the cow had been unmistakably Aunt Seraphina. It was a resplendent creature, its tail outspread in magnificent display, the crest sitting atop its head like an absurd little crown. He recognized Jeremy in the impish gleam in the peacock’s eye, in the sly amusement of its beak.
The peacock had been drawn with a kindly hand; the toad and the cockerel had not. The toad sat to one side of the page. It had Lady Bicknell’s broad, flat face, Lady Bicknell’s wide mouth. It was squat and . . . Adam searched for the word. Malevolent. The toad was squat and malevolent. Just like Lady Bicknell.
He glanced at Arabella Knightley. If nothing else told him she was in league with Tom, this caricature did. She knew Lady Bicknell was a blackmailer.
The cockerel wasn’t malevolent, but it was foolish and strutting and conceited, with a puffed-out chest and absurdly scrawny legs. Its plumage was gaudy and tasteless. Adam studied the sketch with pleasure. She’d captured Sir Arnold Gorrie’s inflated ego, his crassness, perfectly. I would love Gorrie to see this.
He turned the page—and found himself staring at a stag atop a hill.
Adam glanced sharply at Miss Knightley. She was examining her fingernails.
He looked back at the stag. It was definitely him.
The stag was a handsome creature, magnificently built. It stood on top of the hill, holding its head proudly and looking haughtily down its nose.
Adam stared at the stag. It gazed back at him, certain of its superiority.
He knew exactly what Miss Knightley thought of him.
Arrogant.
Adam felt himself flush. He hurriedly turned the page.
This sketch was of a familiar view. Here was the oak tree, the rug spread on the ground, the picnic basket.
On the rug sat a fluffy white kitten. He recognized it instantly: Grace. It was quite the most beautiful kitten he’d ever seen. Such wide, innocent eyes, such sweetness in its face.
Perched on the handle of the picnic basket was a plump, cheerful robin. Its head was cocked to one side. He saw bright intelligence and curiosity in its eyes. Hetty Wootton.
He turned the page again. Here was the same view, but drawn without caricature. Two girls sat on the rug, their heads bent over their sketchbooks. The scene was drawn with a deft, unerring hand. Miss Knightley had used the barest of detail, and yet he could see the grass heads nodding in the breeze, the pattern on the rug, the crisp ruffles of lace trimming the dresses.
On the next page—
Adam held his breath for a moment, and then touched the sketch lightly. It was a portrait of Grace. She was glancing at him, a smile in her eyes, and she was so real, so alive, that he almost expected the curls to stir against her cheek, almost expected her to inhale.
He looked at Miss Knightley. She was regarding him, her face expressionless, almost wary.
“This sketch of Grace . . . It’s beautiful.” He tried to find the words to express his admiration. “You’re an extraordinarily gifted artist, Miss Knightley.”
She colored faintly and looked down at the rug.
“Isn’t she?” Grace exclaimed, and alongside her Hetty Wootton nodded, her eyes as bright as the robin’s had been.
Adam flicked through the rest of the sketchbook. He saw the marbles at the British Museum and botanical studies from Kensington Gardens, labeled and dated. He examined the writing closely. Had Tom looped his letters so neatly?
The book was a medley of sketches: gardens, museums, street scenes. There were no more caricatures, but several studies of animals. One page was devoted to a mongrel dog. He saw it sleeping, scratching, sniffing a lamp post, and finally trotting off down a street.
On another page was a lean adolescent cat. Adam examined that page with particular interest, studying the cat as it slept, sat, and played in various poses. He looked at its tail, its paws, its whiskers. How did she create such a life-like creature with so few strokes of the pencil?
Adam touched the cat lightly. It was so real he almost expected to feel fur beneath his fingertip, not paper. He glanced at Arabella Knightley and knew, without any doubt, that it was she who’d drawn the cat at the bottom of Tom’s note.
He felt a profound admiration of her skill—and a fierce envy of the unknown Tom. I wish I was him.
Adam cleared his throat. He turned back through the pages until he came to the portrait of Grace. Its beauty almost took his breath away.
“May I have this drawing of Grace, Miss Knightley?”
She blinked, and then said, “Of course.”
“And may I have the one of me as a kitten?” Grace asked eagerly.
“Certainly.”
Miss Knightley labeled both sketches in a neat hand and cut the pages from the book with a small pair of scissors from her reticule.
“Thank you,” Adam said, taking the portrait. Grace St. Just in Richmond Park, Miss Knightley had written at the bottom of the page. May 16th, 1818. By Arabella Knightley.
“This is better than anything Sir Thomas Lawrence could do,” he said, meaning it. It was so alive.
The praise seemed to embarrass Miss Knightley. She glanced away, blushing faintly.
“Bella’s father was an artist,” Grace said, as proudly as if she’d announced he’d been the King of England. “Show him the locket, Bella.”
Miss Knightley hesitated, and then raised her hands to her throat. From beneath her muslin fichu, she pulled a small locket on a golden chain. She unfastened the chain and handed it to him.
The locket was warm from her skin. Adam held it in his palm for a moment, aware of an almost erotic sense of connection with her. He gave himself a mental shake and examined the locket more closely.
It was a simple oval, unembellished by curlicues, fashioned of gold and with the smooth, glowing patina of long use. He opened it carefully with his thumbnail. The locket held two portraits inside. On the left was a smiling young lady, with the same dark hair and eyes as Miss Knightley. The portrait was astonishingly detailed. He saw rosy lips and pearl-white teeth and a faint blush tinting the lady’s cheeks.
On the right, was the portrait of a young man. He had curling brown hair and a handsome, good-humored face. He was clearly a Knightley: pressed into his chin was the same indentation Arabella Knightley had.
“Your father painted these?” He glanced at her.
Miss Knightley nodded.
Adam studied the portraits again. Arabella Knightley’s parents had been a handsome couple. And happy, too, he thought, closing the locket. He turned it over. On the back was an inscription. Arabella Eloise de Martigny Knightley, born June 5th 1793. “Your birthday is next month.”
“Yes.”
Adam handed back the locket and chain. Their fingers brushed briefly. “I can see where you get your talent from, Miss Knightley. Your father was extremely gifted.”
“He supported us by painting.” Her eyes challenged him.
Adam studied her face. Did she expect him to look down on her father for needing to work for a living?
He didn’t feel disdain; he felt sadness—and a surge of anger towards the late Earl of Westwick. The man had had a son, a daughter-in-law, a granddaughter, and he’d thrown them away for the sake of what? Pride? “Your grandfather was a fool.”
The comment appeared to startle Miss Knightley. She blinked. Her fingers closed tightly around the locket. “Yes. He was.”
While Arabella Knightley fastened the chain about her throat, Grace and Hetty Wootton showed him their sketches. They were perfectly competent—and alongside Miss Knightley’s, quite lifeless.
“I thought you had business in town all day,” Grace said, sorting through her sketches. Unlike Miss Knightley, she’d drawn on unbound sheets of paper. Their edges fluttered in the breeze.
“It took less time than I expected.” He studied the portrait of Grace. She smiled up at him, youthful, happy, alive. “Is there room for this in your portfolio? I don’t want to crease it.”
“Of course.” She laid the portrait on top of her sketches.
A gust of wind flipped back the edge of the rug, sent the leaves in the oak tree above them spinning madly—and took the sketches from the open portfolio. The sheets of paper scattered.
“Oh!” Grace cried, starting to her feet.
Adam caught a glimpse of Miss Knightley’s portrait—the smile in Grace’s eyes, the soft ringlets lying against her cheek—before the page spun out across the meadow.
He abandoned his hat and set off in pursuit. The portrait danced lightly ahead of him, turning cartwheels, leading him halfway down the hill before coming to rest against a tuft of grass.
Adam picked it up reverently. He turned and looked back up the hillside.
The rug was empty. Grace and Miss Wootton and Miss Knightley were chasing pieces of paper across the sloping meadow.
He paused, catching his breath. Arabella Knightley had easily outstripped the others. She was as light-footed and as fleet as a boy.
Adam climbed back up the hill, holding the portrait carefully by the corners, listening to the shrieks and giggles Grace and Hetty Wootton made as they pounced on the scattered pieces of paper.
Back at the rug, Grace gathered the sketches together. A number of them were dog-eared and grass-stained. “The kitten and the robin,” she said, a note of worry in her voice. “I don’t see it.”
“I have it,” Arabella Knightley said, last to arrive back.
Adam glanced at her face—alight with laughter, flushed with exertion—and looked hastily away. He was aware of a surge of heat inside him that had nothing to do with climbing the hill.
Grace laid the sketches in the leather-bound portfolio again, closed it, and tied the ribbons tightly.
* * *
BACK AT HIS town house in Berkeley Square, Adam laid the evidence on his desk: the note from Tom, and Arabella Knightley’s sketch of Grace.
I believe these belong to you, Tom had written. I found them in Lady Bicknell’s possession. And then he’d drawn a black cat at the bottom.
Adam examined the cat. It had been drawn with an unerring hand. Miss Knightley’s work, surely?
He turned his attention to the writing. The only word in common between Tom’s note and Miss Knightley’s label on the portrait was in. He grimaced. Not helpful.
But wasn’t the y the same? And the neat curves and loops of the ell in Bicknell and the ell in Arabella?
The longer he stared at the words—pencil and black ink—the more he was convinced. The handwriting was Miss Knightley’s, just as the cat was.
Adam pushed back his chair. He poured himself a glass of brandy and walked over to the window. What next? he asked himself as he swirled the brandy in the glass, warming it.
The answer was easy: the next time he saw Arabella Knightley he’d confront her with his evidence.
And then what? Dare he hope that Miss Knightley would confide in him? That she’d reveal Tom’s identity?
He strongly doubted it.
And just who was Tom?
Adam sipped the brandy slowly, staring out the window, not seeing anything. He’d thought Tom a gentleman; he knew now he was wrong. Miss Knightley had few friends among the ton. Tom had to be the large man who’d collected Jenny from the boarding house. A commoner, the landlady had said. Someone Miss Knightley had known as a child. A friend. Someone she trusted.
He felt a strong surge of envy. The brandy tasted suddenly bitter in his mouth.
Adam turned away from the window and went back to his desk. He stood, staring down at the portrait of Grace, at the black cat.
Such a gifted artist.
He touched Tom’s note, brushing the cat with a light fingertip. The next time he saw Miss Knightley, he’d have the truth from her.
* * *
THAT EVENING, ADAM escorted his sister and aunt to the Riddifords’ masked ball. Grace, wearing a domino of palest blue, was almost beside herself with excitement; this was her first masquerade. She quivered on the seat beside him in the carriage, her hands in their long white kid gloves clasped tightly together. “I’m so glad Hetty’s coming,” she said, as the carriage turned into St. James’s Square. “And Bella.”
“Miss Knightley?” Adam said, his interest sharpening. “She’ll be here?”
Grace nodded, and peered out the window as the carriage slowed. She clutched his arm. “We’ve arrived!”
The Riddifords’ ballroom was at the back of their house on St. James’s Square, along with a conservatory. Adam entered the ballroom with almost as much eagerness as Grace. He surveyed the assembled guests, looking for dark hair and a softly cleft chin. Where are you, Miss Knightley?
“Can you see Hetty?” Grace asked. “Or Bella?”
“No.”
He danced the cotillion and the quadrille without seeing Miss Knightley. The fact that everyone was wearing dominos and loo masks was extremely unhelpful. Frustration built inside him as he scanned the ballroom. A considerable nu
mber of ladies were as diminutive as Arabella Knightley, but none had her poise and her slender figure, her graceful way of dancing.
Two country dances later, he still couldn’t see her. Some of the ladies had pushed their hoods back to reveal dark ringlets, but they were all too short, too tall, too buxom, too thin.
Adam stood out the waltz, resolutely ignoring those ladies whose hands were unclaimed. He strolled around the ballroom, sipping a glass of champagne, looking for dark eyes hidden behind a loo mask, for a chin with the faintest of indentations.
Adjoining the ballroom was the conservatory. Adam trod down the short flight of marble stairs, but he found only greenery and more refreshments laid out on a table. Two dowagers were sipping punch from crystal glasses, and a young lady in a domino of jonquil yellow was conducting a mild flirtation with a gentleman dressed in green.
Back in the ballroom, Adam frowned across the dance floor. Where the devil was she?
A thought occurred to him. He headed for the door, pushing through the throng of masked guests. “The card room?” he asked a liveried footman, and was directed to an adjoining salon.
There, seated at one of the tables, was Lady Westwick. The hood of her lilac satin domino was pushed back and she’d dispensed with her loo mask. Her white hair gleamed, as did the pile of guineas in front of her.
Adam turned back to the ballroom. Anticipation hummed beneath his skin. If Lady Westwick was here, then so was her granddaughter.
* * *
“MISS KNIGHTLEY?”
Arabella glanced up. The gentleman standing in front of her wore a black domino. A mask hid his upper face. His hair was brown streaked with gold, his eyes behind the mask were gray, and his jaw was what could be described as chiseled. But even without those features, the man’s height, the fine shape of his legs in the black satin breeches and white silk stockings, would have told her who he was.
“Good evening, Mr. St. Just.”
He bowed. “You’re not dancing the waltz.”