“Jenny,” the girl said, sniffing into the handkerchief. She yielded to the pressure of Miss Knightley’s hand and began to walk towards the waiting hackney cab.
“I shall take her there,” Adam said, firmly. “There’s no need for you to be involved, Miss Knightley.”
Arabella Knightley turned back to him. “I’m perfectly capable—”
“I doubt your grandmother would be pleased if you involve yourself in this,” he said, with a glance at the pregnant housemaid. The girl was climbing clumsily into the hackney, helped by Miss Knightley’s maid.
“And I’m certain that you would rather not be involved either,” she said tartly.
“Better me than you,” Adam said. “This is not something for a lady to be involved in.”
Miss Knightley’s expression became annoyed. She opened her mouth.
“No,” Adam said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “I must insist, Miss Knightley.”
She closed her mouth and observed him for a moment. “Very well.” Her voice told him she wasn’t pleased.
Adam ignored it. He glanced at his sister. “May I leave Grace in your care?”
“Of course.”
He walked across to where Grace stood. “Are you all right?”
“That poor girl!”
“Yes,” Adam said, wishing she hadn’t witnessed such an ugly scene. “Miss Knightley will see you safely home.” He glanced at Arabella Knightley. She stood with her maid, having a hurried, low-voiced conversation. “Take a hackney.”
“I’d rather walk,” Grace said.
Adam looked at her closely. Her face was still pale. “Are you certain you’re up to it?”
Grace nodded.
Miss Knightley joined them. “Jenny needs food.” She opened her reticule and took out some banknotes. “And perhaps she should see a doctor—”
Adam looked down his nose at her, offended she could even think he needed her money. “I’ll take care of it.”
“But—”
“I do not need your money, Miss Knightley,” he said stiffly.
Miss Knightley looked as if she’d like to argue. She exchanged a glance with her maid beneath the broad brim of her bonnet, and then nodded. “If you insist.”
“I do.” He looked at the maid. “Have you given the jarvey the address of the boarding establishment?”
“Yes, sir.” She looked a competent female, sturdy, with a plain face and a scattering of freckles across her nose.
“Good.” Adam nodded farewell to Miss Knightley and his sister, climbed into the hackney, and pulled the door closed behind him.
He settled back on the seat. Jenny watched him from the opposite corner. Her eyes were wary, her face smeared with tears. His handkerchief was clutched in one hand; with the other she cradled her belly. A livid mark on her thin arm showed where Gorrie had struck her.
Adam flexed his hands and wished he had the pleasure of beating Sir Arnold with his own cane. And then he turned his mind to the problem of what on earth to do with a pregnant, unwed housemaid.
WHEN ARABELLA ENTERED the Mallorys’ ballroom that evening, the first person she looked for was Sir Arnold Gorrie. He was strolling around the perimeter of the room. His appearance was as eye-catching as the Marquis of Revelstoke’s—the long-tailed coat in a shade of brown that was almost orange, the large golden buttons, the excess of jewelry adorning his person—but whereas the marquis always managed to look elegant, Sir Arnold was merely vulgar. He didn’t have Revelstoke’s careless charm, nor his height and elegant figure. Sir Arnold was a short, top-heavy man. His calves in their white stockings were clearly padded, and not even a corset could conceal the girth of his waist.
She took note of Sir Arnold’s jewelry: the showy rings, the tiepins nestling in the folds of his cravat, the glittering buckles on his shoes. A very generous man, Sir Arnold Gorrie, although he didn’t yet know it. Very generous indeed.
Arabella escorted her grandmother to the card room, saw her seated at a table with Mrs. Davenport, and returned to the ballroom. A contredanse was playing. Grace St. Just was on the dance floor, in the same set as her friend Hetty Wootton. Arabella watched for a moment. The smile on Grace’s face, her unselfconscious enjoyment in the dance, were perfect. No one would guess, looking at the girl, that the Season was more an ordeal for her than a delight.
Good girl. She gave a nod of approval.
Arabella walked around the dance floor, exchanging smiles and polite, insincere greetings with the other guests. Only three more weeks, she told herself. And then freedom.
She chose a seat alongside Grace’s aunt, Seraphina Mexted, whose smile of welcome seemed genuine. Grace joined them when the contredanse was over. She leaned close. “Bella,” she whispered. “Guess who’s here! Sir Arnold Gorrie.”
Arabella wrinkled her nose. “I saw.” The color of the man’s tailcoat—neither brown nor orange but a shade unattractively between the two—made him easy to spot. “He looks like a cockerel, don’t you think?”
“A cockerel?”
“Yes. Strutting around a hen yard with his chest puffed out.”
“Oh . . .” Grace said, and then, after a moment, “I see what you mean!”
“And have you noticed the way his hair stands up like a cockscomb?”
Grace bit her lip. “It’s not a good hairstyle for him.”
“His tailor should have talked him out of that coat,” Arabella grimaced. “A very cockerel shade of brown, don’t you think?”
Grace uttered a little crow of laughter, and immediately clapped her hand over her mouth. “Bella!”
Arabella grinned at her, unrepentant.
Grace lowered her hand. The laughter faded from her face. “What’s going to happen to that poor girl?”
Arabella looked across the ballroom at Gorrie. “Sir Arnold must be persuaded to support her.”
Grace looked doubtful. “Do you think that’s possible?”
“Yes.” Tom is very persuasive. She watched as Sir Arnold, in his perambulation of the ballroom, neared the refreshment room. How many of those sparkling jewels would Gorrie donate to Tom?
Adam St. Just exited the refreshment room, a glass of champagne held negligently in his hand. The two men came face to face.
Sir Arnold hesitated, and then inclined his head politely.
St. Just didn’t return the greeting. He stood and looked down his nose
