Table of Contents
Title Page
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Dear Reader
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
AFTERWARDS
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Thank You
The Spinster's Secret
The Earl's Dilemma
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
MY LADY THIEF
Emily Larkin
Get the first book in my new Regency romance series for free when you join my Readers’ Group.
Details can be found at the end of this book.
Dear Reader
My Lady Thief was originally published under another title and penname. If you’ve read The Unmasking of a Lady by Emily May, then you’ve read this book already and I suggest you put it back on the (digital) shelf and choose something else to read. (Unless you really like the new cover, in which case feel free to buy it!)
If you haven’t previously read this book, I hope you enjoy it. It’s one of my all-time favorites and I’m delighted to be able to issue this new edition.
Best wishes,
Emily Larkin
CHAPTER ONE
THE THIEF STOOD in front of Lady Bicknell’s dressing table and looked with disapproval at the objects strewn across it: glass vials of perfume, discarded handkerchiefs, a clutter of pots and jars of cosmetics—rouge, maquillage; many gaping open, their contents drying—two silver-backed hair brushes with strands of hair caught among the bristles, a messy pile of earrings, the faceted jewels glinting dully in the candlelight.
The thief stirred the earrings with a fingertip. Gaudy. Tasteless. In need of cleaning.
The dressing table, the mess, offended the thief’s tidy soul. She pursed her lips and examined the earrings again, more slowly. The diamonds were paste, the sapphires nothing more than colored glass, the rubies . . . She picked up a ruby earring and looked at it closely. Real, but such a garish, vulgar setting. The thief grimaced and put the earring back, more neatly than its owner had done. There was nothing on the dressing table that interested her.
She turned to the mahogany dresser. It stood in the corner, crouching on bowed legs like a large toad. Three wide drawers and at the top, three small ones, side by side, beneath a frowning mirror. The thief quietly opened the drawers and let her fingers sift through the contents, stirring the woman’s scent from the garments: perspiration, perfume.
The topmost drawer on the left, filled with a tangle of silk stockings and garters, wasn’t as deep as the others.
For a moment the thief stood motionless, listening for footsteps in the corridor, listening to the breeze stir the curtains at the open window, then she pulled the drawer out and laid it on the floor.
Behind the drawer of stockings was another drawer, small and discreet, and inside that . . .
The thief grinned as she lifted out the bracelet. Pearls gleamed in the candlelight, exquisite, expensive.
The drawer contained—besides the bracelet—a matching pair of pearl earrings and four letters. The thief took the earrings and replaced the letters. She was easing the drawer back into its slot when a name caught her eye. St. Just.
St. Just. The name brought with it memory of a handsome face and gray eyes, memory of humiliation—and a surge of hatred.
She hesitated for a second, and then reached for the letters.
The first one was brief and to the point. Here, as requested, is my pearl bracelet. In exchange, I must ask for the return of my letter. It was signed Grace St. Just.
The thief frowned and unfolded the second letter. It was written in the same girlish hand as the first. The date made her pause—November 6th, 1817. The day Princess Charlotte had died, although the letter writer wouldn’t have known that at the time.
Dearest Reginald, the letter started. The thief skimmed over a passionate declaration of love and slowed to read the final paragraph. I miss you unbearably. Every minute seems like an hour, every day a year. The thought of being parted from you is unendurable. If it must be elopement, then so be it. A tearstain marked the ink. Your loving Grace.
The thief picked up the third letter. It was a draft, some words crossed out, others scribbled in the margins.
My dear Miss St. Just, I have a letter of yours you wrote to a Mr. Reginald Plunkett of Birmingham has come into my possession. If you want it back. In exchange for its return. I should like to return this letter to you. In exchange I want ask nothing more than your pearl bracelet. You may leave it the bracelet for me in the Dutch garden in the Kensington Palace Gardens. Place it Hide it in the urn at the northeastern corner of the pond.
The thief thinned her lips. She stopped reading and picked up the final letter. Another draft.
Dear Miss St. Just, thank you for the bracelet. I find, however, that I want require the necklace the earrings as well. You may leave them in the same place. Do not worry about the your letter; I have it it is safe in my keeping.
The thief slowly refolded the paper. Blackmail. There was a sour taste in her mouth. She looked down at the bracelet and earrings, at the love letter, and bit her lower lip. What to do?
St. Just.
Memory flooded through her: the smothered laughter of the ton, the sniggers and the sideways glances, the gleeful whispers.
The thief tightened her lips. Resentment burned in her breast and heated her cheeks. Adam St. Just could rot in hell for all she cared, but Grace St. Just . . . Grace St. Just didn’t deserve this.
Her decision made, the thief gathered the contents of the hidden drawer—letters and jewels—and tucked them into the pouch she wore around her waist, hidden beneath shirt and trousers. Swiftly she replaced both drawers. Crossing the room, she plucked the ruby earrings from the objects littering Lady Bicknell’s dressing table. The rubies went into the pouch, nestling alongside the pearls. The thief propped an elegant square of card among the remaining earrings. The message inscribed on it was brief: Should payment be made for a spiteful tongue? Tom thinks
