Adam grimaced. “How about something more cheerful?” He reached for another work by Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.
“I think she has that.”
“Sir Walter Scott?” Adam suggested. “The Lady of the Lake, perhaps?”
Grace bit her lip. “I think she has that, too.”
Adam looked at the volumes of poetry bound in calfskin of various shades and with gilt lettering on their spines. He had his own favorites, but he suspected Aunt Seraphina’s tastes were more romantic than his own. “It’s your gift,” he said. “I’ll let you decide.” And he beat a prudent retreat to the shelves where the novels were displayed.
Browsing brought him to four volumes bound with blue-gray boards. Northanger Abbey, the title on the spines read. Adam pulled the first book from the shelf and turned to the title page.
“I’ve heard that’s very entertaining,” a cool female voice said beside him.
Adam glanced sharply to his right. He saw dark eyes, elegant cheekbones, and a softly indented chin.
He looked swiftly away and thrust the volume back into place on the shelf. Memory of the dream was vivid in his mind: he could smell the fragrance of her skin, feel the silken strands of hair tangling around his fingers. To his horror he felt a stir of arousal.
“Bella! What are you doing here?”
“Buying a book,” Miss Knightley said, turning to greet Grace.
“Oh! May I see?”
Miss Knightley handed her the book she was holding.
“Orlando Furioso,” Grace read aloud. “By Ludovico Ariosto. You read Italian?” Her tone was slightly awed.
“My mother taught me,” Miss Knightley said, with a smile. “What are you buying?”
Grace proffered a single volume bound in tan calf. Adam read the spine. The Lay of the Last Minstrel. “Scott?”
Grace glanced at him and nodded.
“I’m sure Aunt Seraphina will enjoy it,” Adam said. He stepped away from Miss Knightley and cupped his hand under Grace’s elbow. “If you’ll excuse us, we must go.”
His haste seemed to amuse Miss Knightley. A smile lit her eyes. “Of course.”
But despite his best efforts, they ended up departing Hatchard’s at the same time as Miss Knightley and her maid. Grace paused on the flagway. “Shall I see you at the Mallorys’ tonight?”
“Yes,” Miss Knightley said. Her bonnet was trimmed with clusters of small pink silk flowers. Matching flowers were embroidered along the hem of her muslin walking dress. Beneath the scalloped flounces, Adam caught a glimpse of shapely ankles. He looked hurriedly away. Above the bustle of Piccadilly, the sky was a pale, clear blue.
“Excuse me.”
He glanced around and stepped aside for Sir Arnold Gorrie to exit Hatchard’s.
“St. Just,” the man said as he passed, with an inclination of his head.
Adam favored him with the slightest of nods.
Sir Arnold began to saunter along Piccadilly. It was obvious the man hadn’t been born to his title; he made the mistake, common among those bred in the middle classes, of confusing elegance with opulence. Adam’s lip curled in disdain. He turned back to Grace. “Shall we be going? We don’t wish to detain Miss—”
“Sir Arnold!”
Adam stopped in mid-sentence and watched as a young woman in a ragged, dirty dress hurried across the street and reached out to take Sir Arnold Gorrie’s arm. She was quite obviously pregnant.
Sir Arnold pushed the woman away from him. “Get away!” he said, raising his cane.
“But it’s yours,” the woman said, reaching towards him again.
The gesture was clearly imploring, not threatening, but Sir Arnold struck her hand away with his cane.
“Please, Sir Arnold . . .” The woman’s voice was high and desperate. “It’s yours. You know it’s yours!”
Sir Arnold raised his cane again.
“Gorrie!” Adam said sharply.
Sir Arnold glanced at him. His expression was livid. He lowered the cane, took a step towards the woman, and spoke in a low, fierce voice: “Stay away from me, you stupid slut!” And then he shoved her aside, so hard that she stumbled and fell into the gutter.
Behind him, Adam heard Grace gasp.
Sir Arnold hurried down Piccadilly without a backwards glance, almost scurrying. The woman stayed on her knees where she’d fallen, weeping.
Adam glanced at his sister. Her face was white with horror. “Stay here,” he said, and strode to the woman’s side. “Madam?” He crouched. “Allow me to assist you.”
The woman turned her face to him. “The baby’s his.” Her hands cradled her swollen belly. “He knows it is!”
He’d been mistaken: she wasn’t a woman, but a girl. No older than Grace, and most likely younger. Her face was thin and dirty, her eyes swollen from crying.
Adam held out his hand to her. After a moment’s hesitation, the girl put her hand in his. Her fingers were as thin and dirty as her face. They trembled slightly.
Adam helped her stand and step up onto the pavement again. “I’ll hail a hackney for you,” he said, giving her his handkerchief. “To take you home.”
“I don’t have nowhere to go,” the girl said, beginning to weep again. “Sir Arnold turned me off.”
“You were in his employ?” Adam felt a flash of rage. This, if anything, showed Gorrie’s ill-breeding. The man had bedded a servant—and then turned her into the streets to starve.
“Housemaid,” she said, sobbing into the handkerchief.
What should he do with her? For a fleeting instant he wished he could hurry down the street like Sir Arnold, turn the corner and ignore the girl’s distress. “Your family—?”
The girl’s face twisted. “They won’t ’ave me back. Not like this.”
His rage increased. How dare Gorrie—
Arabella Knightley was suddenly at his side. “See to your sister,” she said in an undertone. “She’s feeling faint.”
Adam glanced around. Grace was looking very pale. “But—”
“My maid knows somewhere you can stay,” Miss Knightley said, speaking to the girl. “We’ll take you there now.”
“I ’aven’t any money—”
“Don’t worry about that,” Miss Knightley said, with a reassuring smile. She laid her hand lightly on the girl’s arm. “Come now, my maid has a hackney waiting.”
“Where will you take her?” Adam asked, annoyed by her calm assumption of authority.
“A boarding
