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 seven 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.
“Hetty 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 rumors 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 Halfmoon Street. Number 23.”
“Number 23, Halfmoon 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 to 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?”
“Hatchard’s,” 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.
CHAPTER FIVE
POLLY HAD BEEN correct: it was easy to gain entry to the rented house on Halfmoon Street. A heave—and a push from Polly—had her on top of the brick wall, and in a few seconds she was crouching beneath one of the windows. It was the work of less than a minute to break one of the diamond-shaped panes, extract the glass from the leading, slip her hand inside, and open the window.
Arabella glanced back at Polly and gave a little wave.
Polly nodded and moved into the shadows, vanishing from sight.
Arabella took a deep breath. Her senses felt heightened—sight, smell, touch, hearing—as if the world had suddenly come into clearer focus: the sharp outline of the rooftops
