She took another breath and eased herself over the windowsill and into the room, pushing past heavy velvet drapes. For a moment she crouched in darkness, and then her eyes adjusted to the gloom. A bedroom, furnished with bed and dresser, but unoccupied; no linens covered the mattress.
Arabella crossed the room. She opened the door and peered into the corridor. A lamp stood on a marble-topped table, casting light and shadows.
She stood listening for a long moment, and then slipped into the corridor. She opened three doors before she found what she was looking for: Mrs. Harpenden’s room.
Arabella stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind her. She stood with her back to the door, straining to hear past the rapid beating of her heart. Silence. A candle was lit in a holder on the bedside table, its flame flickering slightly in the breeze from her entry, but no maid moved in the dressing room.
Arabella locked the door. She hurried to the window and cautiously parted the curtains, released the latch, and opened the window slightly. Then she checked the dressing room, locking the door that opened into the corridor. That done, she turned and surveyed the bedchamber. Her heart beat loudly in her ears and she had the sensation that seconds were rushing past too fast to be counted.
Swiftly she crossed to the satinwood dresser. Unlike Lady Bicknell’s dresser, the items were neatly arranged: a hairbrush, a pot of Denmark Lotion and one of Olympian Dew, two vials of perfume—and a lacquered jewelry box.
Arabella glanced at the locked door. No sound came from the corridor.
The jewelry box opened smoothly. Earrings and brooches nestled in silk-lined compartments. Arabella lifted out the tray. Beneath it was a second tray, also lined with silk, holding bracelets and hair combs.
Arabella studied the contents of both trays. These were small things. Mrs. Harpenden’s necklaces and her tiara—if she owned one—were somewhere else. She glanced at the dressing room, tempted to search further, and then looked back at the open jewelry box. The smooth luster of pearls and the gleam of gold met her eyes. Don’t be greedy, she told herself. The longer she stayed, the greater the risk of being caught.
Two of the smaller compartments were empty, and a gap in the lower tray showed that something was missing. Arabella examined the jewelry that remained. It was all of good quality.
Her fingers trailed over pearls, over rubies, over diamonds. That one. She plucked the sapphire brooch from its silken nest, extracted the matching earrings and hair combs, and slid them into the pouch tied around her waist.
Swiftly she replaced the topmost tray and closed the jewelry box. She propped the card she’d made that afternoon on top. Should payment be made for starting malicious rumors? Tom thinks so. The cat she’d drawn at the bottom sat upright, staring down its nose with a haughty disapproval that reminded her of Adam St. Just.
The thought surprised her, almost made her laugh—and with the laughter came a prickling of nervousness. She was suddenly aware of the enormity of what she was doing: entering the Harpendens’ house, stealing jewelry. If she was caught, she’d be hanged—and Polly and Harry and Tess with her.
Arabella bit her lip. She hurried across to the door, leaned her ear against the wooden panels for a few seconds, then unlocked it and opened it cautiously.
Silence.
Arabella slipped out of the bedchamber. In less than a minute she was crouching on top of the brick wall, peering down into the shadowy mews.
“OUR NOTORIOUS THIEF has struck again.”
Adam looked up from his newspaper. “What?”
Jeremy, Marquis of Revelstoke, settled into the chair alongside him and examined his boots. He rubbed a speck of moisture from one gleaming toe and nodded at St. James’s Street, visible through the bow window. “Starting to rain.”
“What thief?”
Jeremy examined his hessians. “Smudged,” he said, and extracted a handkerchief from his pocket.
“What thief?” Adam said. “Tom?”
Jeremy wiped the smudge carefully. “The one and only.”
Excitement kindled inside him. “Where?” Adam hastily folded the newspaper and put it aside. “And when?”
Jeremy signaled to one of the waiters. “Claret.” Then he settled back in the chair and looked out the bow window. “Is that Mountford?” He raised his quizzing glass. “Man’s got a dashed odd way of tying his neckcloth, don’t you think?”
Adam ignored this gambit. “Tom,” he repeated. “When and where?”
Jeremy lowered the quizzing glass. “Last night. In Halfmoon Street.”
“Who?”
Jeremy shrugged. “Someone named Harpenden. Don’t know ’em myself.”
“Harpenden?” Adam turned the name over in his head, trying to place it.
“Mrs. Harpenden, to be precise.”
Adam frowned as he made the connection. Mrs. Harpenden had a daughter on the Marriage Mart.
I wonder . . .
Adam pushed to his feet and gave Jeremy a curt nod of farewell.
“Hey!” his friend protested. “Where are you off to?”
“Business.”
He’d intended to call on Mr. fforbes-Brown this afternoon, but instead he turned right when he came out of White’s. His offer for Miss fforbes-Brown’s hand could wait a day; this couldn’t.
Adam strode up St. James’s Street, oblivious to the rain. In a few minutes he was climbing the steps to his house in Berkeley Square. “Where’s my sister?” he asked the butler, Fiscus.
“Upstairs, sir. In the blue parlor.”
Adam took the stairs two at a time. “Grace,” he said as he pushed open the door. “Do you know a—” He halted. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize you had a guest.”
He bowed to Miss Wootton and made his escape—and spent the next hour in his study, going over the lists he’d made about Tom.
He lifted his head at a soft knock. Grace opened the door. “You wanted to speak with me?”
“Yes.” Adam hastily covered the lists. “Do you know a family by the name of Harpenden?”
“How odd.” Grace closed the door and came to stand beside his desk. “Bella asked me that a few days ago.”
His interest sharpened. “Did
