“The museum?” Lady Westwick repeated, looking doubtfully at the rain-streaked windowpanes.
“Yes. To sketch some of the marbles.” Arabella stood quietly, waiting for her grandmother’s decision. In her ears she heard her mother’s voice: I want no tears, no tantrums, no sulking. You will always be obedient. You’ll be the perfect granddaughter, ma chère. Promise me.
Lady Westwick sighed. “If you must,” she said. She reached for the bellpull. “I’ll tell Clough to have the carriage brought round.”
Arabella ran lightly back up the stairs. “We can go!” she told Polly.
It was the work of a few minutes to don a pelisse of cherry-red sarcenet, tie the ribbons of a bonnet decorated with clusters of cherries beneath her chin, and pull on gloves.
She gathered her sketchbook and pencils and went downstairs with Polly.
The butler, Clough, opened the door. Outside, the carriage was drawing up at the foot of the steps. A footman, his face perfectly expressionless, stepped out into the drizzle. He raised an umbrella for her.
Arabella bit her lip. It was the same footman who’d been drenched yesterday. “Thank you,” she said, and trod down the steps under the shelter of the umbrella.
She was about to climb into the carriage when she heard her name. “Miss Knightley?”
Arabella turned her head. Adam St. Just stood on the pavement, under the shelter of his own umbrella. She blinked, taking in the rain-splashed top boots, the box coat with its numerous shoulder capes, and the beaver hat with its curved crown and slender brim. “Mr. St. Just?”
“I wondered if I might ask a question.”
Arabella blinked again. “Of course.” She turned towards the house. “Would you like to come inside?”
“No, thank you,” St. Just said. “My question won’t take a moment.”
Arabella shrugged. If he wanted to stand out in the rain, she didn’t care. Although the poor footman probably did. “Ask your question, Mr. St. Just.”
She had the impression that he hesitated slightly, that beneath the nonchalance he felt a little foolish. “Er . . . did you tell anyone about the incident we witnessed on Piccadilly? With Sir Arnold Gorrie?”
Arabella managed not to tense. She raised her eyebrows. “Still looking for Tom, Mr. St. Just?” she asked in a light, amused voice.
His jaw tightened. “Did you tell anyone?” he repeated.
Arabella pretended to ponder the question. She was aware of the footman standing stoically in the drizzle, holding the umbrella over her head. “No,” she said. “I spoke to no one about it.”
St. Just frowned. He glanced at Polly, standing beside Arabella on the pavement. “And your maid? Did she tell anyone?”
Arabella turned to Polly. “Highsmith? Did you tell anyone about Sir Arnold’s behavior on Piccadilly?”
“No, ma’am,” Polly said, in her expressionless servant’s voice.
It clearly wasn’t the answer Adam St. Just had wanted to hear; his frown deepened. “Thank you,” he said. “I apologize for delaying you.”
“Not at all,” Arabella said. “I wish you luck in your search.” Both her smile and her voice were slightly mocking.
She had the impression that St. Just gritted his teeth. He inclined his head stiffly and stepped back.
Arabella climbed into the carriage. Polly followed her. The door closed behind them and a few seconds later the carriage moved forward.
Arabella clutched her sketchbook on her lap. She looked at Polly.
Polly looked back at her, frowning. “Should we be worried?”
Arabella considered this question for a moment. “No. There’s no way he can find out.”
Polly nodded. She settled back comfortably on the seat.
Arabella chewed her lower lip. There was no way Adam St. Just could discover who Tom was, was there? She turned the question over in her mind, looking at it from various angles, and then shook her head.
No, her secret was safe.
ADAM WATCHED THE carriage turn out of Mount Street. He gripped the handle of the umbrella tightly and headed in the direction of White’s.
So Tom hadn’t found out about Gorrie on Tuesday; he’d found out on Wednesday afternoon—and he’d acted quickly. A spur-of-the-moment thief.
“Hell and damnation,” he said. It was going to be much harder to find Tom now. He’d have to trace him through the men Jeremy and Alvanley had told.
Adam grimaced, imagining the amusement his questions would cause. Arabella Knightley wasn’t going to be the only person laughing at him.
He splashed across the street, cursing beneath his breath. He’d been so certain Tom had found out from Grace or Miss Knightley or her maid. There’d been no other witnesses. Just the four of them, standing outside Hatchard’s, and Sir Arnold himself—
Adam halted abruptly.
The four of them, and Sir Arnold Gorrie—and Jenny, the housemaid.
A hundred yards ahead of him, a hackney was drawn up. Adam furled his umbrella and broke into a run. “Bayham Street in Camden Town,” he told the jarvey. “As fast as you can!”
CHAPTER TEN
ADAM FIDGETED ON the narrow seat while the hackney traversed London. What reason could Tom have had for taking banknotes from Sir Arnold Gorrie—other than to give the money to Jenny? The water drained from his umbrella, making a dark puddle on the floor.
Finally the hackney drew up in Bayham Street. Adam didn’t wait for the jarvey to open the door. He jumped down and thrust some coins at the man. “Wait here for me!”
The boarding house was a plain brick building with narrow windows. Adam hammered on the door and waited impatiently for the landlady to answer. What was the woman’s name? Pink? Penny? Pound?
It came to him as she opened the door. “Mrs. Peet,” he said, taking off his hat and making her a shallow bow. “We met earlier this week.”
Mrs. Peet remembered him. She curtsied and invited him in.
“I’d like to see Jenny,” Adam said, wiping his feet on the mat in the hallway. The interior of Mrs. Peet’s establishment was cozier than the exterior. The floor was polished and neatly stitched samplers hung on the walls.
“Oh,” Mrs. Peet said, a look of consternation crossing her plump
