Читать книгу The Unmasking of a Lady - Emily May - Страница 11

‘The subject of my marriage is none of your concern,’ Adam said, biting the words off with his teeth.

Arabella Knightley showed her ill breeding by ignoring him. ‘If bloodline is your sole criterion, then Miss Swindon would suit you perfectly. Her fortune is respectable and—like yourself—she claims a duke as her grandfather. Her manners are impeccable and her appearance pleasing.’

Adam wasn’t fooled by the artless, innocent manner. Miss Knightley was deliberately trying to annoy him.

‘What more could you want?’ she asked, looking up at him.

Adam felt his pulse give a kick and then speed up. Such dark eyes.

He looked away and cleared his throat.

‘However,’ Miss Knightley continued, ‘if you wish for a wife who’ll be a good mother, then you should direct your attention towards Miss Fforbes-Brown.’

His attention jerked back to her. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘What kind of mother do you want for your children, Mr St Just?’

The question was more than impertinent; it was insolent. Adam retreated into hauteur. ‘I must repeat myself, Miss Knightley: that is none of your concern!’

She ignored him again. ‘But then, that also depends on what kind of father you want to be, doesn’t it? Do you wish to see your children’s first steps and hear their first words—or are such things not important to you?’ There was censure in her eyes, in her voice. ‘Do you intend for your children to be brought up by a succession of nursemaids, Mr St Just, or—?’

‘No,’ Adam said, blurting out the word. ‘I don’t.’ I want what I didn’t have. I want my children to know their parents. I want them to know they’re loved.

Arabella Knightley regarded him for a long moment, as if doubting the truth of his words. ‘In that case, may I suggest you make Miss Fforbes-Brown your choice of bride? She’s very fond of children.’

Adam glanced around the ballroom. It was better than looking at Miss Knightley, at her eyes, at that indentation in her chin, at that soft mouth. His gaze came to rest on Miss Eustacia Swindon. She was tall and fair-haired, with aristocratic features and a proud manner—and high on his list of potential brides.

Sophia Fforbes-Brown was also on the dance floor. Adam observed her for several seconds. Miss Fforbes-Brown’s breeding was genteel, her fortune small, her manners undeniably warmer and more open than Miss Swindon’s. True, her figure was plumper than was fashionable, but she had a pretty, laughing face.

He concentrated on pondering Arabella Knightley’s suggestion—anything rather than let his attention stray to the slenderness and warmth of gloved fingers, to her—

Adam wrenched his mind back to her question. What kind of mother do you want for your children?

The answer was easy: Someone who’d delight in her children. Mentally he shifted Miss Swindon to the bottom of his list, and placed Miss Fforbes-Brown near the top.

The lilting strains of the waltz crept into his consciousness, and with that, a traitorous awareness of the pleasure of dancing with Miss Knightley. She was a superb dancer, light on her feet, following his lead with apparent effortlessness.

Adam glanced at her face. She was watching him.

God, she’s beautiful. The rich shine of her hair, the eyes as dark as midnight. He looked at her smooth, milk-white skin, the delicate indentation in her chin, the soft curve of her mouth—and desire clenched in his chest. I want her.

‘Mr St Just, why do you wish Grace to marry this year?’

So that someone else may have the responsibility of her—and perhaps not fail as miserably as I have.

‘Because…I thought it would be best for her.’

Miss Knightley’s eyebrows rose fractionally. ‘You thought?’

Adam opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Had he changed his mind?

‘May I suggest that you allow Grace to find her feet this Season, and not think of marriage?’

He tried to be offended by the impertinence of Miss Knightley’s suggestion, but all he could think of was how incredibly tempting her mouth was. Ripe, yet demure. If he bent his head and kissed her, what would she taste of?

To his relief he heard the orchestra play the final notes of the waltz. Adam hurriedly released her hand. He stepped back a pace and bowed. And then he escorted her from the dance floor as fast as could be considered polite.

After a supper of white soup and lobster patties in the company of her grandmother, Arabella returned to the ballroom. A cotillion was playing. She watched the dancers and sipped lemonade, wishing the drink wasn’t quite so sweet.

‘—Miss Wootton.’

‘Madness in the family?’

Arabella glanced sideways, identifying the speakers: Mrs Harpenden and Lady Clouston, their heads bent close together. Miss Harpenden, a diffident young woman in her second Season, hovered alongside her mother.

‘I have it on good authority,’ Mrs Harpenden said in a carrying whisper. ‘They say the girl is showing signs of it already.’

‘Mother,’ Miss Harpenden said hesitantly, ‘you can’t be certain—’

‘Of course they’ll deny it. Who wouldn’t!’ Mrs Harpenden nodded sagely. ‘But it must be said, they’re in a rush to marry her off.’

‘Mother—’

‘Someone should warn the poor girl’s suitors,’ Mrs Harpenden said, her expression pious.

‘But, Mother—’ Miss Harpenden said, a note of desperation in her voice. ‘You don’t know that—’

‘Hush,’ her mother rebuked her. ‘I’m talking to Lady Clouston.’

Miss Harpenden bit her lip and was obediently silent.

Arabella bit her lip too. She turned her attention to the dance floor, searching for Miss Wootton. She found her in a set near the orchestra, a pretty, vivacious girl with brown curls and rosy cheeks.

Arabella sipped her lemonade and watched Miss Wootton dance. Beside her, Mrs Harpenden’s voice sank to a low whisper, audible but unintelligible.

The cotillion came to its conclusion, the dancers made their bows to each other and the dance floor emptied. Mrs Harpenden and Lady Clouston bid each other farewell. Mrs Harpenden’s smile was smug as she watched Lady Clouston push her way through the throng of guests. ‘Come along,’ she said, turning to her daughter. ‘We must find you a partner for the next dance.’ She set off across the ballroom.

Miss Harpenden followed, her expression miserable.

Arabella stayed where she was. She looked again for Miss Wootton.

The girl stood on the far side of the ballroom. She was undeniably the most sought-after of this Season’s débutantes, a young woman in happy possession of wealth, beauty, and a good bloodline. Young men clustered about her like bees around a honey pot.

It was the kind of popularity Grace would be enjoying if rumours weren’t circulating about her.

Arabella waited until the next dance began, then made her way around the perimeter of the ballroom.

‘That’s Miss Knightley,’ she heard a young debutante whisper as she approached. ‘Have you heard what they call her? Miss Smell O’Gutters.’

The girl was hastily shushed by her companion.

Arabella’s step didn’t falter. In her imagination the words scrabbled to find purchase on her satin gown, failed and slid harmlessly to the floor.

She smiled cordially at the girl, who turned deep pink.

Grace St Just was seated alongside her aunt, Mrs Seraphina Mexted. Her smile was bright and fixed. Mrs Mexted caught Arabella’s enquiring glance and said, ‘Heard someone whispering about her.’

‘Never a pleasant experience.’ Arabella sat next to Grace. ‘Who was it?’

‘Miss Brook,’ Grace said.

‘Oh, yes. I know who she is. Looks like a pug dog.’

The aunt snorted, and turned the sound into a cough.

‘A pug dog?’ Grace said, her brow creasing.

‘Yes. Poor girl, she has a very unfortunate nose.’

Grace turned her attention to the dance floor. After a moment she said, ‘Oh, so she does.’ Her expression became more cheerful.

Arabella smoothed the dark blue folds of her gown over her lap. ‘Your aunt may disagree with me, but I believe that if a person says something about you, and they’re not someone you hold in respect, then you should feel free to ignore their opinion.’

Mrs Mexted thought for a moment, and then nodded.

Grace looked doubtful. ‘Are you saying I shouldn’t respect Miss Brook because of her nose?’

Arabella couldn’t help laughing. ‘No,’ she said. ‘This has nothing to do with Miss Brook’s nose. What I’m saying is that if someone behaves in a manner that makes it impossible for you to respect them—such as gossiping, or passing on slander—then you should give no weight to their opinion of you.’ She paused for a few seconds, holding Grace’s gaze. ‘So my question is, do you respect Miss Brook’s opinion?’

‘But I don’t know her,’ Grace protested.

‘Precisely. You don’t know each other—and yet she’s talking about you.’

Grace flushed. She looked down at her lap and began to pleat folds of satin between her fingers.

‘Do you hold Miss Brook in respect?’ Arabella asked quietly.

‘Not any more.’

‘Then her opinion of you shouldn’t matter.’

Grace bit her lip. After a moment she said, ‘That’s easier said than done.’

‘What is?’

Arabella glanced up. Adam St Just, looking his most supercilious, stood before them.

‘Ignoring people’s opinions,’ Grace said, accepting the glass of orgeat he handed her. ‘Bella says that’s what she does.’

‘Does she?’ There was censure in St Just’s voice. The glance he cast Arabella was chilly with disapproval. ‘Everyone’s opinion?’

‘Oh, no,’ Grace said, sipping from the glass. ‘Only those people one doesn’t respect.’

‘And who might they be?’ St Just asked, still frowning.

‘People who gossip and spread rumours,’ Grace said. ‘Or who say nasty things about people they don’t know.’

Adam St Just stopped frowning. He flushed faintly and raised a hand to straighten the folds of his neck cloth.

‘Do you agree?’ Grace asked.

‘Er…yes,’ he said.

Arabella’s lip curled slightly.

Grace nodded, and sipped her orgeat. Her expression was less miserable than it had been.

St Just glanced at the dance floor, where a contredanse was drawing towards its conclusion. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’m engaged for the next dance.’

Arabella watched him move off through the crowd. Despite his wealth, St Just eschewed such adornments as fobs and seals and quizzing glasses. In his dress, he was very like Beau Brummell had been—elegant and understated, each garment cut perfectly to fit him. His build was athletic; neither his shoulders nor his calves required padding.

An attractive man—until one noticed the way he had of looking down his nose at the world.

Arabella turned to Grace. ‘Do you know Miss Harpenden?’

‘Elizabeth Harpenden? Her sister Charlotte was at school with me in Bath.’

‘Charlotte isn’t in London?’

Grace shook her head. ‘She’s still in Bath. Her parents won’t let her come out until Elizabeth has married.’

Arabella tapped her fan against her knee and considered this information. ‘And Miss Wootton?’ she asked. ‘Do you know her?’

‘No. She’s from Yorkshire, I believe.’ Grace glanced to where Miss Wootton stood, attended by a number of admiring young gentlemen. ‘She looks like she’s enjoying herself.’ Her voice was wistful and slightly envious.

‘Yes.’ Arabella scanned the ballroom, looking for Elizabeth Harpenden. The girl was being escorted from the dance floor by a heavy-set young man with pretensions to dandyism.

Arabella felt a moment’s sympathy for Miss Harpenden. Her face was almost pretty, her figure almost graceful. In a smaller and more restricted setting she might have had a chance to shine; in London she was practically invisible.

Of course, if this Season’s beauties were discredited, Elizabeth Harpenden would be more visible.

Arabella tapped her fan against her knee and watched as Mrs Harpenden received her daughter. The woman’s manner was slightly bullying. A mother who scolds, rather than praises.

‘Are you engaged for the next d-d-dance, Miss St Just?’

Arabella looked up to see Viscount Mayroyd make his bow to Grace.

‘No,’ Grace said, blushing prettily. ‘I’m not.’

‘Then may I have the p-p-pleasure?’ The young man’s eyes were as blue as Grace’s. He had a very engaging smile.

Grace nodded. She gave her glass to her aunt and stood.

‘I like him,’ Mrs Mexted said, with a nod in the young viscount’s direction, once he was out of earshot.

‘So do I.’ Perhaps because of his stutter, young Mayroyd had a kind-heartedness that many of his peers lacked.

Arabella returned to her observation of Miss Wootton. The girl was clearly enjoying herself. But not for long, if Mrs Harpenden has her way.

Did the woman deserve a visit from Tom?

She tapped the fan against her knee and resolved to wait a day or so before deciding.

Adam woke reluctantly. He heard his valet, Perkins, draw back the curtains and closed his eyes more tightly, trying to burrow back into the dream, to recapture the pleasures of a soft mouth and fragrant skin, of dark ringlets gleaming in candlelight—

Dark ringlets?

Adam’s eyes snapped open. It was Mary, he told himself. But Mary had always been leisurely in bed; the woman in his dream had been eager and passionate—and as slender as Mary was voluptuous.

The last, sensual wisps of the dream vanished abruptly. Adam uttered a curse and pushed back his bedclothes.

A ride in the park on Goliath, under a sky heavy with clouds, did little to improve his mood. An hour spent sparring in Jackson’s Saloon was much more successful. Adam walked around to St James’s Street whistling under his breath and took the steps up to White’s two at a time.

The ground-floor parlour was pleasantly empty. Lord Alvanley sat at the bow window, where Brummell had liked to sit. He looked up from a newspaper. ‘Afternoon, St Just.’

‘Alvanley.’ Adam strolled across to the bow window. ‘What’s new?’

His lordship folded the newspaper and put it aside. ‘Have you heard about the Wootton chit?’

Adam shook his head. He sat and reached for the newspaper. ‘A bottle of claret,’ he said to the waiter.

‘Madness in the family,’ Alvanley declared, stretching out his legs.

Adam glanced at him. ‘What? The Wootton heiress?’

His lordship nodded. ‘It’s the latest on dit.’

Adam grunted, and removed Miss Wootton from his list of possible brides.

Another newcomer entered the room, his step jaunty. ‘Afternoon, Alvanley,’ he said cheerfully. ‘St Just.’

Adam looked around. Jeremy Allen, Marquis of Revel-stoke, trod towards the bow window, resplendent in a dark blue coat with extravagantly long tails, cream-coloured pantaloons and gold-tasselled hessians. The folds of his neckcloth were so intricate, the points of his collar so high, that he had no hope of turning his head. The most arresting aspect of his appearance was his waistcoat, an exotic garment featuring dazzling golden suns against a celestial blue background.

‘Good God,’ Alvanley said, involuntarily.

Adam uttered a laugh. He put the newspaper down and shaded his eyes with one hand. ‘Go away, Jeremy. You’re blinding me.’

His friend grinned and paid no attention to the request. He took the third chair in the alcove and sat, crossing his legs. His boots were polished to a mirror-like gleam. The scent of Steek’s lavender water wafted gently from him. His hair was curled in the cherubim style, beneath which his eyes gleamed with mischief.

Alvanley lifted his quizzing glass and examined the glittering suns on Jeremy’s waistcoat. ‘Is that gold thread?’

‘Of course,’ Jeremy said. He produced a snuff box in sky-blue enamel that matched his waistcoat and opened it with the elegant flick of a fingertip. ‘Snuff?’

‘Have you heard about the Wootton chit?’ Lord Alvanley asked, taking a pinch.

‘Mad as a hatter,’ Jeremy said. ‘About to be committed to Bedlam.’

Adam raised his eyebrows. ‘Surely you jest!’

‘Me?’ Jeremy said, grinning, swinging one leg. ‘When do I jest?’

Adam, acquainted with Jeremy since their first day at Eton, chose to ignore that question. He picked up the newspaper again.

‘Your name’s in the betting book,’ Jeremy said in an extremely innocent voice.

Adam didn’t look up from the newspaper. ‘No, it’s not.’

‘Actually, it is,’ Lord Alvanley said.

Adam glanced up sharply. Alvanley was grinning widely. Alongside him, Jeremy sat examining his nails, an expression of demure innocence on his face.

Adam was familiar with that expression. He eyed his friend with misgiving. After a moment he pushed up out of his chair and went in search of the betting book. Jeremy trailed after him.

‘The devil,’ Adam said, as he read the latest entry. Adam St Just, to marry Miss Knightley before the end of the year, 500 guineas.

‘Well?’ Jeremy said, sly humour in his voice. ‘Am I right?’

‘What you are,’ Adam said, closing the book with more violence than was necessary, ‘is a cod’s head!’

‘I say,’ Jeremy protested, half-laughing, following Adam as he strode back to the bow window. ‘That’s not very nice.’

‘If you think I’m going to marry Miss Knightley, then you are a cod’s head!’ Adam said severely. His claret had arrived. He poured himself a glass and swallowed half of it in one gulp.

‘You danced with her last night,’ Jeremy said, sitting.

‘If I married every woman I danced with, I’d be a bigamist a hundred times over!’ Adam said, refilling his glass. ‘You may as well pay Charlton that money now, for you’ve lost it!’

Jeremy swung one leg and smiled, his expression as cherubic as his curls. ‘I believe I’ll wait,’ he said.

Adam, aware of Alvanley sitting, grinning, alongside them, retreated into a dignified silence. He reached for the newspaper again and opened it with a crackle of pages.

That night, the ton arrived en masse at the Pinkhursts’ dress ball. The first person Adam saw, as he entered the ballroom, was Arabella Knightley in a dress of ivory-white tiffany silk shot through with gold thread and a golden fillet in her dark hair. God, she’s lovely, was his involuntary thought. He hastily averted his gaze.

The second person he saw was Jeremy Allen, magnificent in a long-tailed coat of peacock blue, a luxuriantly embroidered waistcoat, black satin knee breeches and silk stockings. Jewels glittered in the folds of Jeremy’s neckcloth and on each of his long fingers. His hair was brushed into the careful dishevelment of the Brutus.

Adam escorted Grace and his Aunt Seraphina to seats, and strolled across to greet his friend. ‘Jeremy,’ he said, ‘you look prettier than any of the ladies here.’

Jeremy was unoffended. He laughed. He raised his quizzing glass and observed Adam through it. ‘And you look very plain.’

Adam grinned.

‘I see that the delectable Miss Knightley is here,’ Jeremy said in a tone of sly innocence.

‘Dance with her yourself, if you like her that much.’ A servant in livery and a powdered wig proffered a tray. Adam took a glass of champagne.

Jeremy lowered the quizzing glass with a sigh. ‘It’s much more entertaining when you rise to the bait.’

Adam smiled and sipped the champagne.

‘I believe I shall,’ Jeremy declared.

‘Shall what?’

‘Ask her to dance. Excellent dancer, Miss Knightley.’ He wandered off in the direction of Arabella Knightley.

Adam thrust Miss Knightley out of his thoughts and concentrated on his task for the night: interviewing potential brides. He danced with each of the young ladies on his shortlist, asked a number of questions and listened carefully to the answers.

The hour advanced past midnight. The air was heavy with the scents of perfume, pomade and perspiration. Ladies with flushed cheeks waved their fans, starched collar points drooped in the heat, and even the candles in the chandeliers seemed to wilt.

Adam found an empty alcove and a glass of chilled champagne and mentally reviewed his list of brides. He removed Miss Swindon from it entirely, and placed Miss Fforbes-Brown at the top.

His gaze strayed to Miss Knightley. She looked very French as she waited for her turn in the quadrille, slender and dark-eyed, dark-haired.

He felt a stir of attraction and wrenched his gaze from her. He drained the champagne glass. When the quadrille was over, he headed purposefully for Miss Fforbes-Brown and solicited her hand for the next waltz. It was a most agreeable dance; there was none of the discomfort of waltzing with Arabella Knightley, the barbed comments, the frisson of desire. He was so pleased with Miss Fforbes-Brown’s plump prettiness, her common sense and cheerfulness, her enthusiasm for children, that he resolved to seek an interview with her father.

He relinquished Miss Fforbes-Brown to her next partner, a Sir Humphrey Holbrook, and retreated to the alcove again. Grace was sitting out the cotillion. Adam watched her from across the ballroom, conscious of a sharp pang of regret. Grace’s début should have been a triumph; instead it was close to being a disaster.

He glanced at Miss Wootton. Like Grace, she wasn’t dancing. No crowd of young men clustered around the heiress tonight, competing for her attention. She sat out the cotillion, wearing an expression of miserable bewilderment. Her mother, seated beside her, had a tight-lipped smile on her face.

Adam stood up for a quadrille next. He was waiting for his turn in the figure when he noticed that Sir Humphrey Holbrook was dancing with Miss Fforbes-Brown for a second time. This discovery so disconcerted him that he almost missed his cue for the glissade. He concentrated carefully on his steps and then watched the baronet escort Miss Fforbes-Brown from the dance floor. Had Sir Humphrey also realised that she’d be a good wife?

Adam frowned, and resolved to keep a closer eye on Humphrey Holbrook. He went in search of a glass of champagne and then strolled across to where his Aunt Seraphina sat. His footsteps faltered when he saw his aunt’s companion. The familiar sensations swept through him—shame and guilt, the stir of attraction—and he almost turned and headed in the opposite direction.

Craven, he chided himself, and stepped forwards. ‘Good evening, Miss Knightley.’ He bowed, and turned to his aunt. ‘Where’s Grace?’

‘Talking to Miss Wootton.’

Adam swung on his heel and looked across the ballroom. His sister sat alongside Miss Wootton. Grace was talking, her expression animated; Miss Wootton listened intently.

Adam turned to Miss Knightley. ‘Your doing?’

She shook her head. The golden ribbon threaded through her dark hair glinted in the candlelight. ‘Grace felt sorry for her. She’s a very kind-hearted girl.’

‘In this instance her kindness is misplaced. If Miss Wootton has some…instability, then I’d prefer that Grace didn’t become friends—’

‘Miss Wootton is no more unstable than you or I!’ Miss Knightley said tartly. ‘It’s a rumour set about to discredit her.’

Adam frowned. ‘Rumour? Are you certain?’

‘Yes.’ Her nod was emphatic. ‘I overheard it being started two nights ago.’

‘You did?’ Adam put up his brows. ‘By whom?’

‘By a mother with a daughter to marry off.’

Adam sipped his champagne thoughtfully, digesting this fact. ‘Does this mother have any connection with the seminary Grace attended in Bath?’

Miss Knightley glanced at him. Her eyes were almost black in the candlelight. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you think she’s responsible for the rumours about Grace?’

‘I think it likely.’ Arabella Knightley lifted her shoulders in an expressive, Gallic shrug. ‘But since I wasn’t present when those particular rumours started, I have no way of knowing.’

Adam’s fingers tightened on the stem of the glass. ‘Who is this woman?’

Miss Knightley’s eyebrows arched. ‘Mr St Just, surely you don’t expect me to tell you that?’

‘The devil I don’t—’

‘Adam,’ his aunt reproved.

Adam clenched his jaw and glared at Miss Knightley. She seemed unoffended by his language. A dimple appeared in her cheek, as if she was trying not to laugh, and her eyes were suspiciously bright.

‘You refuse to tell me?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘There’s absolutely no proof that this woman spread any rumours about Grace—’

‘But you think she did—’

‘Precisely, Mr St Just. I think; I don’t know. They’re two very different things.’

Adam gripped his glass tightly. ‘I should like to speak with this woman.’

‘I’m sure you would,’ Miss Knightley said. ‘But in all conscience, I can’t name her. Think how remiss it would be of me if you upbraided her for something she didn’t do!’

‘I shouldn’t upbraid her,’ he said with stiff dignity.

Her eyebrows rose again. Disbelief was eloquent on her face.

Adam flushed.

‘Mr St Just, if I were to pass on information that I don’t know to be true, I should be as worthy of blame as any scandalmonger.’

Aunt Seraphina nodded. ‘Miss Knightley is correct.’

He knew she was, but being told that didn’t improve his temper. Adam glared at his aunt.

She smiled placidly and patted the chair alongside her. ‘Do sit down, dear. It’s very fatiguing to have you towering over one.’

He swung his glare back to Miss Knightley. Laughter glimmered in her dark eyes. ‘Mr St Just, I fear you’re about to break that glass.’

Adam hurriedly unclenched his hand.

Miss Knightley looked past him. Her smile became warmer.

Adam turned his head. ‘Grace.’

Grace sat beside Aunt Seraphina in a soft flurry of satin and gauze. ‘I told Letty what Mr Brummell said to Bella. And she’s going to do it too!’

Aunt Seraphina gave an approving nod.

Grace smoothed her skirt and turned to Miss Knightley. ‘And I told her what you said, Bella, about it being useful experience, and how she has the opportunity to see people for who they truly are—and Letty perfectly understood what you meant!’ Her face was alight with enthusiasm. ‘We’ve decided that we’re going to do it together!’

Adam couldn’t help smiling at Grace’s animation. The knot of anger in his chest began to unravel. ‘Are you?’

Grace nodded. ‘Yes! And then I told her what you said, Bella, about…’ Her brow creased in concentration. ‘How one has to respect someone in order to care what their opinion of you is.’

Adam lost his smile. He glanced at Miss Knightley, remembering the words he’d spoken six years ago, feeling the familiar stab of guilt, of shame. I wish I’d never uttered them.

The façade Arabella Knightley presented to the world was one of resilience, insouciance, toughness, and yet, as his gaze rested on her, all he saw was the softness of her mouth, the smooth translucency of her skin, the delicacy of her bone structure—her femininity and her vulnerability.

‘And I told her, oh, everything you said!’

‘I had no idea my words were such pearls of wisdom,’ Miss Knightley said, her tone light and ironic.

Grace didn’t appear to hear the irony. She nodded. ‘Oh, yes, they are!’

To his astonishment, Adam found himself silently agreeing. Arabella Knightley was the last friend he’d choose for Grace—but her advice had been invaluable.

‘Letty and I have decided we’re going to be bosom friends!’ Grace announced.

Miss Knightley laughed. ‘Every girl needs a bosom friend,’ she said. ‘Please excuse me, I see my grandmother looking for me.’

Adam stepped back. He bowed silently and watched her leave. Her words echoed in his ears: Every girl needs a bosom friend. Miss Knightley had no bosom friend. She had no friends that he was aware of, other than Helen Dysart.

She must be very lonely.

‘Polly,’ Arabella said to her maid as she climbed out of bed the following morning. ‘I’m going to have a headache this afternoon.’

Polly looked up from laying out Arabella’s riding habit. She grinned. ‘How unfortunate.’

Warm water steamed in the porcelain bowl in the washstand. Arabella washed her face thoroughly. There was no way of knowing whether Mrs Harpenden’s tongue had spread the rumours about Grace St Just, but the woman was, without doubt, the instigator of Miss Wootton’s fall from grace. And as such, she deserves a visit from Tom.

She reached for a towel and turned to Polly.

Her maid’s expression was bright and expectant.

‘I shan’t be attending the Pentictons’ musicale tonight,’ Arabella said, drying her face. ‘Instead, I shall be at Half Moon Street. Number 23.’

‘Number 23, Half Moon Street,’ Polly repeated, with a nod. ‘I’ll check it out this afternoon.’

‘Thank you.’ Arabella laid the towel aside and began to dress. Long hours stretched until she could don Tom’s shirt and trousers, but already anticipation was beginning to build inside her. She felt it tingling in her fingertips, in her toes.

Arabella blew out a breath. The waiting would be hard today.

She rode out on Merrylegs and expended some of her restless energy cantering around the Row. To her disappointment, there was no sign of Adam St Just. The mood she was in, she would have enjoyed needling him.

The afternoon was spent in her bedchamber, pretending to have a headache. She lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling, thinking about her birthday. Twenty-five days remained until that date—twenty-five days of London and the ton, of living a narrow, pampered life. But on the twenty-sixth day her fortune became her own and she’d no longer be bound by the promise she’d made her mother. She’d never have to set foot in a ballroom again, never have to exchange polite greetings and smiles with people who despised her as much as she despised them. She’d be free to be herself—and to spend her inheritance as she saw fit.

Arabella hugged herself tightly. The sunbeams streaming in through the window matched her mood. She stared at the shafts of light, imagining the properties she’d purchase, the staff she’d hire, the children she’d rescue from the slums.

Her grandmother looked in on her once, and recommended that she draw the curtains and dab Hungary Water at her temples.

‘Where’s your maid?’

‘Hatchards,’ Arabella said. ‘Buying a book for me.’

Her grandmother sniffed, a disapproving sound. ‘A footman could have done that,’ she said, and departed to pay a call on one of her numerous friends.

Arabella didn’t close the curtains; instead she pulled out her drawing materials. She laid a tray across her lap, selected several pieces of card, and opened her inkpot.

She’d drawn four cats in different poses by the time Polly returned, carrying a parcel wrapped in paper and string.

Arabella laid down her quill. ‘Well?’

‘Looks fairly easy,’ Polly said, handing her the parcel. ‘From the mews, that is. Not from the front.’ She untied her bonnet and sat on the end of Arabella’s bed. ‘There’s this wall, see, and from the top you can reach the first row of windows.’

‘Good,’ said Arabella, setting the parcel to one side. ‘We’ll leave at ten.’

Polly nodded. She stood. ‘I’ll check Tom’s clothes.’

‘Thank you.’ Arabella returned to her work. She studied the four cats, hesitated for a moment, and then selected one. Writing carefully she inscribed a message to Mrs Harpenden. Then she capped the inkpot.

A glance at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece showed that it was nearly six o’clock.

Arabella grimaced. Four more hours to wait.