by Emily Larkin
Lady Bicknell cast him a glance. He saw hatred in her eyes. “Yes.”
Adam looked at her for a moment, gently swinging his foot. “Tell me . . . how did you come to be in possession of Grace’s love letter?”
“I don’t have to tell you—”
Adam stopped swinging his foot. “Lady Bicknell, you’re not in a position to argue with me.”
Lady Bicknell flushed. “I was in Birmingham,” she said, her voice sullen. “In November last year. My abigail made Mr. Plunkett’s acquaintance after he’d been turned off. He confided his story in her, and . . . she told me.”
“Knowing you’d make use of it, no doubt.” His voice was contemptuous.
Lady Bicknell said nothing.
“How much did you pay for the letter?”
“Twenty guineas.”
“And George Dysart’s death? Was it your maid who discovered the truth of that?”
“Yes,” Lady Bicknell said again, not looking at him. “I thought there might be more to the story than had been broadcast. I sent her to . . . to make the acquaintance of Mr. Dysart’s valet, and from him she learned which brothel he’d been visiting that night.”
“An enterprising woman, this abigail of yours,” Adam said. “Alas, I fear you’ll have to do without her from now on.”
Lady Bicknell glanced at him swiftly.
“Your maid takes the next ship to America,” Adam said, holding her eyes. “Is that clear?”
“But—”
“Is that clear?” he repeated in a hard voice.
Lady Bicknell lowered her gaze. “Yes.”
“Good.” Adam stood and walked across to the writing desk beneath the window. A quick search revealed a quill, ink, and paper. He brought them back to the table. “Your word that you’ll do as you have promised, Lady Bicknell. In black and white, so there can be no mistaking it.”
“But surely—”
“Lady Bicknell, given your history, do you think I’m inclined to trust you?”
She was silent as he uncapped the inkpot and handed her the quill.
Adam sat again. “I, Pamela Vera Bicknell, of Donwick Hall, Colne, Lancashire . . .” he dictated.
Lady Bicknell glanced at him swiftly.
Adam smiled at her, baring his teeth. “I had my man of business investigate you, Lady Bicknell. You’d be surprised how much I know about you and your affairs. Donwick Hall needs a new roof, or so I’m told . . .”
Lady Bicknell pressed her lips together. She began to write. I, Pamela Vera Bicknell, of Donwick Hall, Colne, Lancashire—
“Do hereby admit that, in November 1817, I purchased from Mr. Reginald Plunkett . . .”
The quill scratched across the paper.
“. . . a letter written to him by Miss Grace St. Just, and that I subsequently used this letter to obtain a pearl bracelet and pearl earrings from her.”
Lady Bicknell finished one sheet of paper. She put it aside and drew a second sheet towards herself. Her glance was malevolent.
Adam smiled and gently swung his foot. “Further, I directed my maid—please write her name, Lady Bicknell—to seek information concerning the death of George Dysart in May 1818, and, by threatening to reveal the particulars of Mr. Dysart’s death, I extorted five thousand pounds from his widow.” He waited until she’d caught up. “And a final line, at the bottom of the page: I do freely admit these things.”
Lady Bicknell hesitated, and then dipped her quill in the inkpot. She wrote stiffly: I do freely admit these things.
“Another sheet of paper, Lady Bicknell.”
She didn’t look at him this time, just pulled another page towards her. Her posture, her whole manner, was eloquent of rage.
“I pledge my secrecy on the aforementioned matters, and give my word not to engage in any further blackmail activities.” Adam watched over his steepled fingers as she wrote. “Further, I pledge to return to Lancashire tomorrow and to not set foot outside that county for the rest of my life.”
Lady Bicknell dipped her quill again, almost knocking over the inkpot, so violent was the movement. “Lancashire!” The word burst from her. “Why can’t I—”
Because you saw Tom’s face. “It is a condition of our agreement,” Adam said coldly. “Be thankful Lancashire is a moderately large county.”
Her lips pinched together. She wrote, digging the quill into the page, almost tearing the paper.
“In exchange, charges will not be laid against me and my reputation shall remain intact. And now you may sign it, Lady Bicknell. And date it today, May thirtieth.”
She did.
Adam read the confession while the ink dried. Lady Bicknell had made no attempt to disguise her handwriting; it matched both the letter and the blackmail drafts. “Excellent,” he said.
Lady Bicknell made no comment.
Adam gathered the pages. “I’ll have my man of business check that your maid leaves for America.” He stood and looked down at Lady Bicknell. “Remember,” he said softly. “I have the power to ruin you.”
Lady Bicknell made no reply. Her eyes shone with hatred.
“Good day, madam. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.” At the door he paused and looked back at her, smiling. “Enjoy your journey to Lancashire.”
* * *
ADAM ST. JUST arrived half an hour after Helen Dysart had departed. Arabella’s chest tightened painfully as he walked across the room towards her. I was a fool to think I could stop loving him.
He stood looking down at her, at her stockinged foot propped on the cushion. “How are you?”
Arabella blinked back tears. “I’m fine,” she said stoutly.
St. Just frowned. “Your ankle looks swollen. Can you walk?”
Arabella ignored the question. “Please, Adam, sit down. There are some things I must say to you.”
He transferred his gaze from her ankle to her face. “Very well.” He took the same chair Helen had vacated. His posture was nonchalant, but she thought he wasn’t as relaxed as he pretended to be; his expression was watchful, rather than open. “What are these things?”
Arabella swallowed. She twisted her hands together in her lap. “Firstly,” she said. “I wish to apologize for what I said to you yesterday in the park. You were right. I shouldn’t have gone to Lady Bicknell’s. It was very foolish of me, and . . . and very arrogant.” She took a deep breath. “And secondly, I’d like to thank you for your help last night. Without it, I would have been caught—”
“I nearly killed you,” St. Just said.
Arabella shook her head. “No. You saved me, and . . . and you helped me afterwards.” Her throat constricted at the memory of St. Just carrying her. “I’m in your debt.”
“Debt?” His forehead creased. “Nonsense!”
Arabella bit her lip. “Adam . . . why haven’t you said that you told me so?”
St. Just’s frown vanished. He smiled suddenly. “If you want me to, I will. But I’ve always found it a particularly unhelpful thing to hear.”
The warmth in his gray eyes, the wryness in his voice, made her throat constrict even further. I’ve been such a fool. Arabella gripped her hands together.
“Was that what you wished to say to me?”
She nodded, unable to speak.
“Good,” St. Just said. “Because there are a number of things I would like to say. Like you, I’d like to start with an apology.”
“Apology? For what?”
“For forbidding you to go to Lady Bicknell’s. As you pointed out, you are neither my dog nor my child.” Color rose in his cheeks. “I’m trying very hard not to be my father, but sometimes I find myself behaving exactly as he did. It . . . er, it’s something my wife will have to help me with.”
Arabella lowered her gaze. She stared at her clenched hands. Tears swam in her eyes. Don’t cry, she told herself fiercely.
“Arabella?” His voice was hesitant. “If . . . if I asked you again, would you consider marrying me?”
She bowed her head. A tear slid down her cheek. She brushed it away.
“If you don’t wish to, I perfectly understand,” St. Just said quietly. “But I’d like to assure you that my feelings for you are unchanged.”
Arabella closed her eyes tightly. “Adam, I can’t marry you. Lady Bicknell saw my face. Soon everyone will know I’m Tom.” And although she tried very hard not to, she began to cry.
“Bella . . .” St. Just moved. His arms came around her suddenly. “It’s not as bad as you think.”
“It is,” she sobbed against his shoulder. “She said Tom is a small man with a . . . a cleft chin and black eyes. And she saw I was limping—”
“No one will recognize you from that description,” St. Just said firmly.
“Helen did. And Lady Bicknell will, too, as soon as she sees me. So . . . so you see . . . I can’t marry you.”
St. Just relaxed his grip on her slightly. He handed her a handkerchief. “Here.”
Arabella blew her nose.
“Lady Bicknell isn’t going to see you,” St. Just said. “She’s leaving town tomorrow, never to return.”
Arabella wiped her face. “How can you be certain of that?”
“Because I have her word on it.” St. Just reached into his pocket, pulled out a sheaf of papers, and extracted three pages. He gave them to her.
The handwriting was familiar: Lady Bicknell’s. Arabella read with growing wonder. The confession was more than masterly; it was brilliant. When she’d finished, she stared at him in admiration. “Adam . . .”
He smiled at her. “You don’t need to worry about Lady Bicknell recognizing you.”
She moistened her lips. “No, but . . . people will wonder when they see I’m limping. There’ll be rumors— Oh!” She clutched his arm. “I have an idea! What if London sees me sprain my ankle?”
“If you can contrive it, I’m sure it will serve.” St. Just took hold of her hand. “Does this mean you’ll marry me?”
Arabella nodded.
St. Just’s fingers tightened around her hand. His smile was slightly crooked. “Is there room for me on that chaise longue?”
Arabella blushed. “Yes.”
St. Just picked her up and sat down again with her in his lap, taking care not to knock her injured ankle. Arabella rested her cheek against his shoulder, drinking in his warmth, his solid strength, inhaling the clean, male scent of him. I almost threw this away.
St. Just stroked her hair. “I apologize for yesterday.”
“It was my fault,” Arabella said. “I wanted to end our engagement.”
His hand stilled. “May I ask why?”
“Because I was afraid,” she said in a small voice. “I wanted to stop loving you.” Fresh tears filled her eyes.
“Do you love me?” he asked softly.
“Yes.”
His hand curved around her head, a protective gesture. “I love you, too.” He let out a breath. “I’ve never said that before. To anyone.”
Arabella closed her eyes. A tear slid down her cheek. Joy this time, not grief.
“What were you afraid of?” St. Just asked.
“Everything,” she whispered. “It’s frightening to love someone.”
His arm tightened around her. “Perhaps. But it’s also the most marvelous thing in the world.”
Arabella turned the words over in her mind. Yes, St. Just was right. It was the most marvelous thing in the world.
She lay in his arms, listening to his heart beating, feeling safe. There was deep joy inside her.
St. Just touched her chin, stroking the indentation. He tilted her jaw with a fingertip. His gray eyes smiled at her. “I love you, Arabella Knightley,” he said, and then he kissed her.
AFTERWARDS
ON THE AFTERNOON of June 1st, 1818, Miss Arabella Knightley was observed in Hyde Park, mounted on a black mare. To the consternation of some and amusement of others, the mare shied at an approaching curricle and unseated her. When Miss Knightley scrambled to her feet, she was seen to be limping.
Damsels watched in envy as the driver of the curricle, Mr. Adam St. Just, one of London’s most eligible bachelors, lifted Miss Knightley into his carriage and drove her home.
Three days later, Miss Knightley and her grandmother, Lady Westwick, relict of the fifth Earl of Westwick, visited Mr. St. Just at his home in Sussex. It was noted by astute observers that this was the ladies’ second sojourn at Roseneath Priory. Thus, the announcement of the engagement of Miss Knightley and Mr. St. Just came as no surprise.
The wedding followed shortly after. The guests included the Marquis of Revelstoke and Mr. and Mrs. Harry Higgs of Whitechapel, London.
Mr. Higgs gave the bride away.
The wedding breakfast was enlivened by an unusual centerpiece: a small stream, complete with lily pads and goldfish, ran down the middle of the table. When the bride saw it, she laughed.
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CHAPTER ONE
HIS LORDSHIP SWIFTLY divested me of my gown, placing hot kisses on the skin he bared. “You are a goddess,” he breathed, as he untrussed my bosom . . .
Matilda Chapple glanced at the window. Outside the overcast sky was darkening towards dusk. If she hurried, she could mail this installment of Chérie’s Confessions before night fell.
Seizing me in his arms, he carried me to the bed, she wrote hastily. He pushed aside the froth of my petticoats with impatience. In less than a minute he had made his entrance and slaked his lust upon my . . .
Mattie halted, the quill held above the page, and squinted at her draft. What was that word? Feverish? Fevered? Fervent?
. . . upon my fevered body.
Mattie continued swiftly copying. Finally, she finished: We lay sated in the sunlight. For my part, I was as pleased by his lordship’s manly vigor as he was so evidently pleased by my feminine charms. I foresaw many pleasant months ahead as his mistress.
And on that note, dear readers, I shall end this latest confession from my pen.
Chérie.
Mattie laid down the quill. She glanced at the window again, hastily blotted the pages, and folded them. She sealed the letter with a wafer and wrote the address of her publisher clearly. Then she folded another letter around it and sealed that, too, writing the address of her friend Anne on it: Mrs. Thos. Brocklesby, Lombard Street, London.
Done.
Mattie bundled up the draft and hid it with the others in the concealed cupboard in the wainscoting. She crammed a bonnet on her head, threw a thick shawl around her shoulders, and grabbed the letter.
There was still an hour of daylight left, but deep shadows gathered in the corridors of Creed Hall. The stairs creaked as she hurried down them. The entrance hall was cave-like, dark and chilly and musty.
“Matilda!”
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Mattie swung around, clutching the letter to her breast.
Her uncle stood in the doorway to his study, leaning heavily on a cane. “Where are you going?”
Mattie raised the letter, showing it to him. “A letter to a friend, Uncle Arthur. I’m taking it down to the village.”
Her uncle frowned, his face pleating into sour, disapproving folds. “I sent Durce with the mail an hour ago.”
“Yes, Uncle. I hadn’t quite finished—”
“Durce can take it tomorrow.”
“I should like to send it today, Uncle. If I may.”
Uncle Arthur’s eyebrows pinched together in a scowl. The wispy feathers of white hair ringing his domed skull, the beak-like nose, made him look like a gaunt, bad-tempered bird of prey. “Mr. Kane will be arriving soon.”
“I’ll only be twenty minutes. I promise.” Mattie bowed her head and held her breath. Please, please, please . . .
Her uncle sniffed. “Very well. But don’t be late for our guest. We owe him every courtesy.”
“No, Uncle.” Mattie dipped him a curtsy. “Thank you.”
Outside, the sky was heavy with rain clouds. The air was dank and bracingly cold, scented with the smell of decaying vegetation. Mattie took a deep breath, filling her lungs, feeling her spirits lift, conscious of a delicious sense of freedom. She walked briskly down the long drive, skirting puddles and mud. On either side, trees stretched leafless branches towards the sky. Once she was out of sight of the Hall’s windows, Mattie lengthened her stride into a run. She spread her arms wide, catching the wintry breeze with her shawl. It felt as if she was galloping, as if she was flying, as if she was free.
At the lane, she slowed to a walk and turned right. The village of Soddy Morton was visible in the hollow a mile away.
Mattie crossed the crumbling stone bridge. The brook rushed and churned below, brown and swollen, its banks cloaked in winter-dead weeds. She blew out a breath. It hung fog-like in front of her. Icy mud splashed her half boots and the hem of her gown, but a feeling of joy warmed her. She didn’t see the bleak landscape—the bare fields, the bare trees, the heavy, gray sky. Instead, her imagination showed her a cheerful boarding house with a cozy kitchen and a view of the sea through the windows.