by Emily Larkin
Arabella grimaced. She refolded the paper and hurriedly stuffed both it and the package into the pouch beneath her shirt. She placed the clock back on the mantelpiece and reached up to balance Tom’s message on top. Among the foulest of God’s creatures is the blackmailer. The black cat sat underneath, his gaze contemptuous.
Behind her, the door opened. “—shoes pinch my toes,” a peevish voice said.
Arabella swung around.
Lady Bicknell stood in the doorway, massive in a gown of lilac satin with deep flounces. On her head was a cornette of tulle and lace.
Time seemed to halt as they stared at each other. Arabella’s heart stopped beating, the clock stopped ticking. Everything froze—
Lady Bicknell uttered a shriek.
Arabella dropped Tom’s note. She ran for the window, shoved aside the curtains, and thrust her leg over the sill.
“Thief!” screamed Lady Bicknell. “Thief!”
Arabella scrambled out the window. She hung for a moment, gripping the sill, her feet desperately scrabbling for a toe hold. There were none. Just jump!
A hand clamped around her wrist. “Got you!” Lady Bicknell cried.
Arabella pushed away from the wall of the house, trying to fall, to jump—
Lady Bicknell grunted and hung on, her fingers digging in. “Thief!” she screamed.
Time seemed to halt again. Arabella hung suspended. It felt as if her arm was being wrenched from its socket, her hand torn from her wrist. She saw the triumph in Lady Bicknell’s eyes, saw the rouge on her cheeks, heard her panted breaths—
The window shattered with a crack of glass.
Lady Bicknell recoiled, shrieking.
Arabella landed on the stone window canopy, tumbled off it, and fell to the pavement, landing hard, knocking the breath from her lungs.
She lay for a moment, stunned, listening to Lady Bicknell’s screams through the broken window two floors up. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe—
Get up! Run!
She lurched to her feet. A sharp pain stabbed up her right ankle. She began to run unsteadily, limping, too dazed to see where she was going.
A figure loomed alongside. Hands grabbed her.
Arabella wrenched free, staggering, falling to one knee.
“It’s me,” a male voice said, and then someone picked her up as if she was a sack of potatoes and began to run.
* * *
FOR SEVERAL MINUTES everything was hectic, confused, a blur edged with terror—and then the world steadied and came into focus again. She understood what was happening: she was slung over Adam St. Just’s shoulder; Polly ran alongside them.
St. Just lowered her to the ground in an alleyway and crouched over her. “Bella . . .” He was panting. “Are you all right?”
Arabella pushed up to sit. She was shaking, uncontrollable shudders that seemed to come from deep inside her. “I’m fine.”
St. Just obviously didn’t believe her. He ran his hands over her face, her skull. “You’re not cut? The glass—”
“I’m fine,” she said again, and almost burst into tears.
“Is nothing broken? You fell so far—”
Arabella sat shaking, fighting tears, while St. Just felt his way down each arm—shoulder, elbow, wrist—and then each leg. He worked in silence, the touch of his hands firm yet careful. Why didn’t he yell at her? Tell her she’d been stupid, foolish, arrogant? That it served her right?
She flinched when he reached her right ankle.
“Painful?” St. Just examined the joint carefully, then released her foot and sat back on his heels. “I don’t think it’s broken.”
Arabella struggled to her feet, ignoring the stab of pain. She took a limping step.
“Your ankle—”
“It’s just a sprain,” she said, trying not to cry.
St. Just swung her into his arms.
“This way,” Polly said.
Their route took them via back alleys and mews. St. Just carried her like a child, cradled close. Arabella squeezed her eyes shut against tears. The shaking inside her refused to stop.
In the mews behind her grandmother’s house, in a dark pool of shadow, St. Just lowered her to the ground again. “You’ll take care of her?” he said to Polly.
“Yes.”
“Send for a physician if—”
“I will,” Polly said.
St. Just turned to her. “I’ll visit you tomorrow. After I’ve seen Lady Bicknell. I’ll bring back Helen Dysart’s money. I promise.”
Arabella blinked back tears. “I found the money,” she said in a small voice.
St. Just looked at her for a moment, his face hidden in shadow. He said nothing.
Arabella twisted her hands together. “Adam . . .” Her voice wobbled. “She saw my face.”
“Then it’s just as well you’re covered in soot,” he said quietly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And then he vanished into the darkness.
* * *
ADAM WALKED RAPIDLY in the direction of Berkeley Square. After two blocks he stopped and leaned against a shadowy wall. He squeezed his eyes shut. Dear God, I almost killed her.
He stood for several minutes, trying to calm his breathing, but memory of that moment kept replaying in his head: the window shattering, Arabella falling—
It had been instinct to throw the stone—and it had been an incredibly stupid thing to do. Arabella could have broken her neck. She could have died.
She didn’t, he told himself. She didn’t break her neck. She’s all right. He knew that, and yet his hands were trembling and he had a tight, sick knot of horror in his belly.
Adam inhaled a shuddering breath. He opened his eyes and pushed away from the wall, heading for his house and a very stiff drink.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE NEXT MORNING Arabella’s left arm was almost too stiff to move. Her wrist was ringed with bruises where Lady Bicknell’s fingers had dug in. She couldn’t put any weight on her ankle; it was swollen to twice its normal size.
“Should I send for the physician?” Polly asked anxiously.
Arabella shook her head. “I need my writing materials. Can you please get them?”
Sitting up in bed with a tray on her knees, she wrote Tom’s last message, drew the black cat for the last time. Then she wrapped the message, Lady Bicknell’s drafted blackmail note, and the banknotes in brown paper and tied the package with string. “Can you take this around to Helen Dysart, please? Don’t let anyone recognize you.”
Polly departed, wearing a veiled hat.
Left alone, Arabella hugged her knees. The shaking had stopped, but the urge to cry was still strong. Why hadn’t St. Just yelled at her? Why hadn’t he said I told you so?
Tears welled in her eyes.
St. Just had been right about last night’s burglary; she should never have attempted it. It had been the height of arrogance, the height of stupidity.
Arabella blinked back tears. The world was bleak this morning. Her bedroom, with its pretty cream-and-rose wallpaper, the chintz curtains, the rose-embroidered coverlet, was drab and colorless. Even the sunlight streaming in the windows seemed tinged with gray.
The panic of agreeing to marry Adam St. Just was nothing compared to today’s despair.
She’d thrown St. Just’s offer of marriage back in his face. Why hadn’t she realized how precious his love was until it was too late?
A tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.
* * *
IN THE EARLY afternoon, when St. Just might be expected to call, Arabella made her way slowly downstairs, leaning on Polly’s arm for support, and sat on the chaise longue in the parlor with her foot propped up on a cushion. She made light of her ankle—Just a slight sprain, she told her grandmother with a laugh. I slipped getting out of bed—and hid the bruises on her wrist with a long-sleeved dress.
Lady Westwick was inclined to fuss over her.
“I’m fine, Grandmother,” Arabell
a said, smiling widely. She picked up the latest issue of Ackermann’s Repository. “I’ll just sit quietly and read.”
Lady Westwick departed to make her social calls. Arabella had done no more than restlessly flick through the fashion plates when the butler announced the arrival of a visitor.
“Mrs. Dysart? Yes, I’m at home to her.”
She put aside the magazine and smoothed her gown over her legs. I must not betray myself.
The door opened again. The butler bowed Helen Dysart into the parlor.
Arabella held out her hand. “Forgive me for not standing,” she said with a smile. “I’ve been foolish enough to turn my ankle.”
Helen came quickly across the room and clasped her hand. “What happened?”
Arabella pulled a rueful face. “I slipped climbing out of bed this morning. Very clumsy of me.”
Helen didn’t release her hand. She stood, looking down at her.
“Do have a seat,” Arabella said, unsettled by that intent gaze. “I’m glad you’ve come. I was afraid I’d offended you yesterday.”
“Offended me?” Helen released her hand. She chose a pretty giltwood chair, pulled it closer to the chaise longue, and sat, holding her reticule. She seemed to be in a state of suppressed excitement. “No, I’m not offended.” She stared at Arabella again.
That direct, searching gaze was disconcerting. Arabella shifted uncomfortably. “Would you like something to drink? Tea, perhaps?”
Helen shook her head. “Bella . . .” She leaned forward on the chair. “Mrs. Ingram paid me a visit, not half an hour ago. She said that Lady Bicknell almost captured the burglar Tom last night!”
Arabella feigned surprise. She opened her eyes wide. “Oh. How . . . exciting for her.”
“According to Mrs. Ingram, Tom is a small man with black eyes and a cleft chin.”
Arabella repressed the impulse to touch her chin. She clasped her hands in her lap. “Oh?” she said again.
“Yes,” Helen said, looking intently at her. “Apparently Tom was injured jumping from the window. Lady Bicknell said he was limping as he ran away.”
Arabella could think of nothing to say except “Oh,” again.
Helen clutched the reticule more tightly. Her eyes were very bright. “Bella . . . I know it was you!”
Arabella tried to laugh. The sound came out slightly unsteady. “Me? How absurd—”
“You match the description,” Helen said. “And look!” She opened the reticule, extracted a piece of paper, and held it out. “Tom sent me this, this morning.”
Arabella didn’t need to look at it; she knew the short message by heart. Mrs. Dysart, with my compliments, Tom. She pretended to read it anyway, to look at the signature, at the black cat.
“Only you knew I was being blackmailed,” Helen said quietly, putting the note back in her reticule.
Arabella moistened her lips. “A fluke,” she said. “Tom just happened to be at Lady Bicknell’s last night and he found—”
“It was you,” Helen said, with utter conviction in her voice. “Lady Bicknell described you perfectly. And you’ve hurt your leg.”
Arabella tried to laugh again. “Helen—”
“I came to thank you . . . and to warn you. Bella, you must be careful!”
Arabella looked away from that direct gaze. “Helen,” she said. “Indeed, you’re wrong . . .”
“I know I’m not.” Helen stood and bent swiftly, hugging Arabella. “Thank you so much.” Her grip tightened. “And for heaven’s sake, be careful! If you should be ruined because of me—”
“I won’t be,” Arabella said. She bit her lip. They were words she shouldn’t have uttered, an acknowledgement that she was Tom.
Helen released her and kissed her cheek. “Thank you,” she said once more. “And be careful!” She picked up her reticule and crossed the room. For a moment she paused at the door, looking back, dressed in the severe black of full mourning. She raised her hand, a gesture of thanks, of farewell, opened the door and was gone.
Arabella stayed where she was, sitting on the chaise longue, staring at the door. A small man with black eyes and a cleft chin. He was limping as he ran away. She touched her chin, fingered the indentation. The moment Lady Bicknell saw her, recognition would spark.
Arabella closed her eyes. There was no proof she was Tom, she would never dangle from a hangman’s rope—but once the rumors started . . .
I’m ruined.
A week ago she wouldn’t have cared; now she did. If she was ruined, then so too was her grandmother. And as for Adam St. Just—
A tear crept down her cheek.
If Adam St. Just should renew his offer, she would have to say no.
* * *
A GLAZIER WAS installing a new pane of glass in Lady Bicknell’s bedroom window. Adam traced the path of Arabella’s fall with his eyes—from the windowsill to the projecting stone canopy below, to the pavement—and felt again that stomach-twisting horror. She could easily have broken her neck.
He crossed the road, trod up the steps to Lady Bicknell’s door, and plied the knocker.
The butler escorted him to a drawing room decorated in an unattractive shade of green. Lady Bicknell was seated on a sofa, a squat, stout figure. Adam glanced at her gown. Someone really should tell her that so many flounces on one dress was unflattering. He made a shallow bow.
“Please be seated, Mr. St. Just.”
He chose a chair directly opposite her and sat.
Lady Bicknell smiled. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Adam looked at her broad face and felt a surge of loathing. Such a despicable hobby, blackmail. “This,” he said, and removed the bundle of papers from his pocket. He unfolded the topmost page and laid it on the low table between them. “This is the draft of a blackmail letter to my sister. Very ugly, I think you’ll agree. And here . . .” he placed the next piece of paper alongside the first, “. . . is another one.” He glanced at Lady Bicknell. “I received these in the mail, courtesy of a gentleman named Tom. I believe you’re acquainted with him?”
Lady Bicknell stared at the pieces of paper. She made no movement, no sound.
Adam smiled, enjoying her stupefied expression. He unfolded the third and final page and laid it alongside the other two. “I received this from Tom the week before last. A letter he’d intercepted to . . .” he squinted and pretended to read the writing. “Lady Mary Vane. Discussing a charity function. I think we’ll agree it’s in your hand, won’t we, Lady Bicknell? Your signature is at the bottom of the page.” He glanced at her again. Her expression was frozen.
“Compare these letters,” he invited her. “I think you’ll clearly see, as I have, that the writing on all three is the same. And here . . .” he tapped the letter to Mary Vane, “. . . is your signature, Lady Bicknell.”
Adam sat back in his chair. He crossed his legs and swung one foot, at ease. “I received another message from Tom this morning, informing me that you had the . . . er, ill-breeding to blackmail Mrs. Dysart. He was most unimpressed.”
Lady Bicknell transferred her stare from the pieces of paper to him.
Adam steepled his fingers and looked at her over the top of them. “Nothing to say?” he asked softly.
Lady Bicknell swallowed, an audible sound. “This is nonsense. Lies!”
Adam smiled and swung his foot. “Your signature speaks for itself, Lady Bicknell.”
“How dare you make such an accusation! You’re in league with this . . . this thief.”
“Regretfully, I’m not. I should like to be; I approve wholeheartedly of his tactics.” Adam stopped swinging his foot. “There are certain people in this world, Lady Bicknell, who deserve to be punished. You are one of them.”
Outrage flushed her broad face. “How dare—”
“No,” Adam said, his voice flat and hard. “The question is, how dare you? This—” he indicated the blackmail letters with his hand, “is utterly despicable! It’s the work of a person of
the meanest, basest character!”
The color deepened on Lady Bicknell’s face. Her eyes slid away from his.
Adam resteepled his hands. He began swinging his foot again. “You have a choice, Lady Bicknell. I suggest you listen carefully.” He waited until she looked at him. “Your first option is to leave London tomorrow. You will return to your home in Colne and never set foot outside Lancashire again. Ever.”
“But—”
“Your reputation will remain intact,” Adam said, overriding her protest. “However, if you choose the second option, it will not.” He held her gaze and said softly, “If you choose to remain in London, I will lay charges with a magistrate and tell the world that you’re a blackmailer . . . and I can guarantee that the beaumonde will turn their backs on you. You will be outcast, Lady Bicknell.”
Lady Bicknell said nothing. The flush had faded from her face. The broad cheeks were pallid.
“You may think that I daren’t expose you,” Adam said, in a conversational tone. “That I daren’t risk my sister’s reputation. But I know—and you doubtless do, too—that Grace didn’t run off with Reginald Plunkett. She’s guilty of writing a love letter, but not of eloping.” He shrugged lightly. “A young girl’s folly. In a year it will be forgotten. My sister is wealthy enough, and well-connected enough, that she’ll make a good match.”
Adam swung his foot and watched Lady Bicknell over his steepled fingers. “Your choice, Lady Bicknell? Will you leave, or stay?”
Lady Bicknell wet her lips. There was a sheen of perspiration on her face. “Leave,” she said, in a hoarse voice. “But—”
“No buts, Lady Bicknell,” Adam said, smiling. “You’ll leave London tomorrow. If you don’t, I shall ruin you so thoroughly that you won’t dare show your face in public ever again. If you set foot outside Lancashire, I shall ruin you. If any word about George Dysart’s death reaches the ears of the ton, if you attempt to blackmail Helen Dysart again, I shall ruin you. Is that clear?”