by Emily Larkin
“And mine with it!” There was an edge of hysteria in Helen’s voice. “Of all the things George did, this is . . . this is—” She swallowed convulsively. “I have to keep it secret.”
Arabella touched her friend’s arm lightly. “Helen—”
“I know you want to help,” Helen said in a trembling voice. “But please . . . let me deal with this.”
Arabella looked at her for a long moment, then withdrew her hand and stepped back.
“Thank you,” Helen said. She hurried back towards the sunken garden and the pond.
Arabella watched until she was gone, then she turned to Polly. “Lady Bicknell needs another lesson,” she said grimly.
* * *
“I’LL GO TO Lady Bicknell’s tonight,” Arabella said as they walked back to the Long Water. “Before she has a chance to spend the money.”
Polly nodded. “Do you think she’ll use the same hiding place?”
“Probably not. I wouldn’t, if—” Her attention was caught by a man walking towards them. His height, his easy, athletic stride, the austere elegance of his clothing, told her who it was before she saw his face. Her heart began to beat more loudly.
“Handsome, isn’t he?” Polly said, her tone ingenuous.
“Shh!”
Polly grinned and fell back a pace, becoming a demure lady’s maid.
St. Just lifted his hat and bowed. “Good afternoon. I hoped I might meet you here.”
“You did?” When he looked at her like that, with such warmth in his eyes, it caused something in her chest to ache.
“I called in at your grandmother’s house,” St. Just said, offering her his arm. “She said you were here.”
Arabella laid her hand on his sleeve. Delight and panic mingled inside her. I’ve agreed to marry this man.
The panic surged and she knew, with sudden and absolute certainty, that marrying Adam St. Just was a mistake—but then she glanced up at his face and the certainty fled and the panic twisted into joy. She saw the smile on his mouth, the warmth in his eyes, and knew that she loved him.
What am I to do?
“Would you like to drive out to the school with me tomorrow?” St. Just asked.
“Oh!” Her eyes widened. “Oh, yes.” She’d imagined it so many times: the neat rows of beds in the dormitory, the schoolroom with its desks and bookshelves, the long tables and benches in the dining room, the tall oak tree in the front and the vegetable garden out the back—
And then she remembered.
She clutched his arm urgently. “Oh, Adam, you’ll never guess—! Lady Bicknell is blackmailing someone else.”
“What?” The smile vanished. His face was suddenly stern.
Arabella told him what she’d witnessed in the Dutch garden. “Something must be done!”
“Something will be done.” St. Just’s voice was hard. His expression made her shiver. “I’ve proof that Lady Bicknell was Grace’s blackmailer.”
Arabella opened her mouth to ask what, but St. Just forestalled her question. “A letter in her own hand,” he said. “Signed by her. To go with the drafts you sent me.” He smiled; there was no warmth in it. “I’ll pay Lady Bicknell a visit this week and inform her that her career as a blackmailer is over.”
“That would be perfect.” said Arabella, relieved. “And tonight I’ll go as Tom and get Helen’s money—”
“No,” St. Just said.
“But . . . we have to get back Helen’s money!”
“I’ll get it when I confront Lady Bicknell.”
Arabella shook her head. “It needs to be done tonight. What if Lady Bicknell spends it or . . . or says she has spent it? Helen will never get it back!”
“I’ll get the money back,” St. Just repeated. “Don’t worry.” He laid his hand on hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“Can’t you go today?” she pleaded.
“No,” St. Just said. “It’s almost four o’clock, and I’m promised to dinner before the Yarmouths’ ball. Tomorrow is soon enough.” He smiled at her. “Don’t worry, Lady Bicknell won’t blackmail any more people.”
“We need to get Helen’s money back tonight,” Arabella said, pulling her hand free. “It may not be there tomorrow!”
“Bella . . .” There was a note of warning in St. Just’s voice. “You promised you’d cease to be Tom.”
“I know. But Helen’s my friend. I have to try! Don’t you see?”
“No,” St. Just said. “I don’t see. We’ll deal with Lady Bicknell tomorrow. Isn’t that soon enough?”
“I have to do it tonight,” Arabella said stubbornly. Part of her knew she was being irrational—but it was Helen’s money, and Helen was one of the very few friends she had. If Helen needed help, she would give it, regardless of the consequences. “Come, Polly, I see our carriage waiting.” She began walking towards the drive.
St. Just caught her elbow. “You gave me your word.”
“Well, now I’m taking it back!”
“Arabella,” St. Just said, his voice low and fierce. “If you’re caught you could hang.”
“I won’t be caught.” She wrenched her elbow free. “I know what I’m doing.”
St. Just caught her elbow again. This time his fingers were tighter. “Arabella, I forbid you to—”
Anger blossomed inside her. “Forbid?”
St. Just released her arm. His jaw clenched briefly. “You’re to be my wife,” he said stiffly. “And as your husband, I have the right to forbid—”
“I’m not your wife yet. Nor am I your dog or your child, to be told what to do!”
St. Just’s jaw clenched again. He looked down his nose at her. “If you behave like a child, then you may expect to be treated like one.”
Arabella felt a surge of relief, eclipsing her anger. Here was an escape from their betrothal. “If this is how you intend to treat your wife, Mr. St. Just, then allow me to inform you that I shall not marry you.”
Behind her she heard Polly gasp. St. Just’s face stiffened, as if she’d struck him. “Arabella,” he said. “Bella—”
“Our engagement is over.”
She saw his dismay. “Bella,” he said. “Please—”
“Good day, Mr. St. Just.” Arabella turned on her heel. She was trembling. “Come, Polly.”
The trembling grew stronger as she marched towards the waiting carriage. Once inside, she burst into tears.
Polly fussed over her, clucking with concern.
“It’s nothing,” Arabella said, between sobs. “I’m just relieved. I knew it was a mistake.”
* * *
AT DINNER, ARABELLA told her grandmother she was feeling unwell and not equal to the Yarmouths’ ball. It wasn’t a lie; her head ached and her hands still trembled slightly.
Lady Westwick expressed concern and declared that she’d stay home, but allowed herself to be persuaded not to, Mrs. Yarmouth being such a close friend of hers.
“Go straight to bed,” she said, pulling on her gloves in the entrance hall.
“Yes, Grandmother.”
“Would you like some laudanum? My maid—”
“I’ll be fine, Grandmother.”
Lady Westwick kissed her cheek fondly and hastened out the door in a rustle of silk and lace.
Arabella climbed the stairs slowly. “Ready, Polly?” she asked, as she entered her bedroom.
They changed from cambric gowns into coarse brown shirts and trousers. Arabella pulled a knitted woolen hat over her hair and made sure that not one curl escaped.
They’d done this many times before. Each time it had been a thrill; tonight it wasn’t. She felt dull and weary as she fastened the pouch around her waist, as she tucked Tom’s message inside.
“Here,” Polly said, handing her a piece of charcoal.
Arabella carefully blackened her face. When she was finished, a stranger stared back from the mirror. The cleft in her chin was the only thing she recognized of herself.
“Ready?” Polly asked.
“
Yes.”
* * *
ARABELLA PLACED HER foot in Polly’s cupped hands. “Now.”
A grunt, a scramble, and she was up on the small balcony with its wrought iron railing. She crouched for a moment, aware of a strong sense of déjà vu. She’d been in this exact spot only three weeks ago.
She looked down and waved.
Polly nodded. She stepped back into the shadows.
The déjà vu became stronger: the broken latch was still broken, the window opened with the same faint creak it had last time, the room had the same stale, musty smell. Arabella closed the window behind her. She blinked and let her eyes adjust to the dimness. The shapes of the furniture were the same: a desk, an armchair, two low bookcases. A clock ticked on the mantelpiece.
She walked across to the door and opened it quietly. This time she knew where she was going; there was no need to peer into darkened rooms. She went swiftly and silently up one flight of stairs and turned right.
Arabella laid her hand on the door to Lady Bicknell’s bedchamber. For a long moment she stood, listening for movement, then she turned the handle and pushed the door slightly open.
She listened, and heard only silence.
Arabella slipped inside and closed the door behind her. There was no key in the door; that, too, was the same as last time.
She didn’t like being unable to lock the door. It made the skin prickle between her shoulder blades. She hurried across to the window, opened it, and snatched a glance outside: a drop to a jutting stone window canopy, and then another drop to the pavement. Her escape route—if she should need it.
Arabella turned back to the room. It was overly warm and thick with the scent of perfume. A fire lay dying in the grate. She took the candle from the bedside table, lit it from the coals, and looked around. The room was no tidier than it had been last time.
She ignored the dressing table, with its litter of objects, and trod quickly across to the mahogany dresser. She pulled out the drawer of stockings, and then the hidden drawer behind that. It was empty.
Damn.
Arabella replaced the drawer. She drew in a deep breath and released it. She’d have to search the entire room.
* * *
ADAM STARED GRIMLY across the ballroom. Fury swirled inside him. He’d had a right to forbid Arabella. He’d been trying to protect her—and she’d reacted as if he was the worst kind of tyrant!
His fingers tightened around his glass. He gulped a mouthful of wine. She didn’t mean it, he told himself. She was angry. Once she calms down she’ll change her mind.
But beneath the fury was a tight coil of anxiety. What if she doesn’t?
“Not dancing tonight?”
“No,” Adam said, not turning his head. He swallowed another mouthful of wine and avoided looking at the faces on the dance floor, because if he saw Arabella, by God, he’d be hard-pressed not to stride across and shake her—
Jeremy stepped up alongside him. “Looking for the delightful Miss Knightley?”
Adam’s jaw clenched.
“Alas.” Jeremy sighed theatrically. “She’s not here.”
Not here? Adam’s rage, his sense of ill-usage, faltered slightly. He scanned the ballroom, frowning, looking for a slim figure, a head of dark hair.
“How was your week in the country?” Jeremy asked. His voice was light, sly, teasing. “One wonders . . . does one hear wedding bells?”
“What do you mean she’s not here?” Adam demanded.
“Who?”
Adam swung round to face him. “You know damned well who I mean. What do you mean she’s not here? Her grandmother is!” He’d seen that perfectly coiffed white hair and abruptly turned away, too consumed by rage to want to see Arabella.
Jeremy abandoned his teasing. “You’re in a filthy mood,” he remarked.
Adam scowled. “Damn it, Jeremy—”
“Lady Westwick arrived alone.”
Adam’s mouth was suddenly dry. Arabella isn’t here.
Dear God . . . she wouldn’t be such a fool as to burgle Lady Bicknell . . . would she?
He thrust the glass at Jeremy. “Here.”
“I say,” Jeremy protested. “Where are you going?”
But Adam was already striding away.
* * *
HE SET OUT for Lady Westwick’s house, almost running, but several blocks short of his destination he halted. He stared at a street sign, dimly visible in the light cast by a gas lamp. Charles Street. Where Lady Bicknell hired a house.
He turned down the street, walking briskly, counting off the numbers in his head. Lady Bicknell’s house was on the corner.
Clouds had covered the moon. The street was dark except for pools of light around each lamp post. Adam squinted up at Lady Bicknell’s house. Was one of the windows on the second floor open?
It was too dark for him to be certain.
He hurried down the alleyway to the mews. It was darker here, thick with shadows. He looked up at the house and saw nothing out of place.
Adam turned on his heel. “Polly?” he said in a low voice. “Are you here?” And then, more urgently. “Polly!”
One of the shadows broke free from a neighboring house: a figure dressed in men’s clothes, too tall to be Arabella.
Adam strode to her. “Is she inside?”
“Yes.”
“Dear God.” Adam closed his eyes. Then he opened them and reached for Polly, gripping her arm. “How long has she been in there?”
Polly didn’t pull away. “More than an hour,” she said, in a troubled voice.
Adam’s heart seemed to stop beating. “You think . . . she’s been caught?”
Polly shook her head. “No. There’d have been a ruckus.”
Adam tried to breathe calmly. “Then why—”
“I think she can’t find the money.”
Adam swung around and stared at the house. A package of banknotes would be damnably easy to hide. There must be a thousand places it could be concealed—if it was even there. Lady Bicknell had been at the Yarmouths’ ball. He tried to remember if she’d been carrying a reticule, and if so, how large it had been. “How do we get Arabella out?”
“We don’t,” Polly said. “We wait.”
Adam shook his head. “I’ll go in and get her.” Urgency thrummed inside him. If Arabella was caught . . .
“How?”
“The same way she got in.”
Polly looked at him for a long moment, her face a pale oval in the dark, then shook her head. “You’ll get caught. It’s best to wait.”
“But—”
“Bella always makes sure she’s got two ways out. She’ll be all right.”
“She’s been in there over an hour!” Adam said fiercely.
“Then she’ll be out soon.”
Every muscle in his body vibrated with urgency. Dear God, if Arabella was caught . . .
Adam pulled out his pocket watch. Eleven o’clock. “Another half hour,” he said. “And then I’m going in.”
* * *
HE STOOD IN the shadows, staring up at the window Polly said was Lady Bicknell’s. The curtains were drawn. It was impossible to tell whether there was anyone inside, whether a candle was lit.
With each passing minute, more dread gathered inside him, twisting, churning. Adam glanced at his watch. The hands had crawled another three minutes.
A carriage turned into Charles Street with a clatter of iron wheels and hooves. Adam tensed. Please, don’t let it be—
The carriage drove past.
He found he’d been holding his breath. He blew it out and looked up at the window. Damn it, Bella. Get out of there!
He tried to imagine what she was doing, but his thoughts slid sideways, to Kensington Gardens, to her voice, the anger blazing in her eyes. I’m not your dog or your child, to be told what to do!
Adam shifted his weight uncomfortably. He looked away from the window. Arabella’s voice continued relentlessly in his head: If this is how you intend
to treat your wife, Mr. St. Just, then allow me to inform you that I shall not marry you.
Adam grimaced. He’d been as peremptory as his father, as dictatorial. I’d have been angry, too, if I were her.
His head jerked around as another carriage turned into Charles Street. The horses slowed to a walk. The carriage halted outside Lady Bicknell’s house.
* * *
ARABELLA SAT BACK on her heels. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She’d searched every inch of Lady Bicknell’s bedchamber and dressing room, examined every drawer, inspected every item of clothing, turned up the rugs, checked the mattress, looked behind the mirrors and underneath the chair seats. The banknotes weren’t slipped down the back of a painting or hidden inside a vase, they hadn’t been stitched into a cushion or stuffed down the toe of a shoe. If they were somewhere in the house, it wasn’t here.
She swore beneath her breath and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. She’d been here too long. Any moment now—
Arabella looked at the clock more intently. It was made of lacquered mahogany and gilt. It was large enough . . .
She pushed to her feet and hurried across the room.
The clock was surprisingly heavy. She took it down and unfastened the catch. The back sprang open.
Yes! Breath hissed triumphantly between her teeth.
The clock contained the package of banknotes, still wrapped in black cloth. Crammed in with it was a folded piece of paper. Arabella smoothed the creases and read swiftly.
Dear Mrs. Dysart,
It has come to my knowledge attention that your husband was at a Molly House brothel when he died met his untimely end. I wonder whether you knew Were you aware that his choice of prostitute companion that night was male? Further, were you aware did you know that he your husband was with a young boy?
I feel certain that you do will not wish to make have these details made known public. In exchange for my silence on this matter, I would like am willing to accept the sum of three five thousand pounds. You may place Leave the money in the Dutch garden at Kensington . . .