Too late. Damn it! His fingers tightened on the brim of his hat. “Where did she go?” he demanded.
Mrs. Peet gave a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know where they went.”
“They?” Adam fastened eagerly on the word. “Did she leave with a man? What did he look like?”
“There was a man, sir. He was tall, as tall as you.”
He felt a surge of excitement. “A gentleman? What color was his hair?”
“Oh, no, sir.” Mrs. Peet shook her head. “He weren’t a gentleman. He was a commoner.”
Adam stared at her. “A commoner?”
Mrs. Peet nodded emphatically.
“A servant?” he asked, feeling slightly deflated. “In livery, perhaps?”
“No, sir,” Mrs. Peet said.
Adam frowned at her. “Did Jenny know him? What was his name?”
It took him nearly twenty minutes to pry the details from Mrs. Peet. Jenny had received two visitors, a man and a woman. Mrs. Peet wasn’t certain, but she thought their name might have been Smith. The man was large and fair-haired, the woman dark and pretty, but missing several teeth. She’d been as pregnant as Jenny.
“Pregnant?” Adam said, baffled. “Are you certain?”
Mrs. Peet was certain. She was also certain Jenny hadn’t known her visitors—and that she’d been overjoyed by the news they brought.
“So ’appy she was cryin’,” Mrs. Peet said. “Said she’d come into some money.”
Tom, Adam thought. Whoever the man and woman were, commoners or not, they were agents of the burglar.
“And then they left. All three of ’em.” Mrs. Peet lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t know where they went.”
“What time was this?”
“About eleven o’clock, sir.”
Adam thanked her and took his leave. For a moment he stood on the doorstep, staring at the buildings across the street. Three hours too late. His hands clenched. “God damn it,” he said aloud. And then he put his hat on and splashed over to the waiting hackney.
HE WAS STILL annoyed when he escorted his aunt and Grace to the Henworths’ musical evening. Three hours too late. The error had been his—and he’d been stupid to make it, stupid to forget about Jenny, utterly and incredibly stupid.
The star of the evening was an Italian tenor, a short, stout man with the voice of an angel—or so Adam’s companions declared. Adam was too annoyed with himself to enjoy the performance. Three hours, damn it.
Miss Knightley was also present. She sat alongside her grandmother, slightly in front of Adam and to his left. He could see her out of the corner of his eye: the dark hair, the elegant cheekbones. She appeared to be enjoying the music.
At the end of the performance, refreshments were served. Adam fetched orgeat for his sister and ratafia for Aunt Seraphina, and then went to find something stronger for himself.
The punch was quite potent. He stood for a moment, savoring the taste of rum and spices, looking around him. Was Tom one of the guests? His gaze flicked from face to face, and fastened on one: Miss Knightley, sipping from a goblet of lemonade, only a few yards distant.
His pulse gave its familiar, treacherous kick.
Adam’s mouth tightened. He looked at her for a moment, at the soft indentation in her chin, at the dark, expressive eyes. What was it about her that attracted him so?
Not her personality, that was certain.
Miss Knightley’s expression changed suddenly. She turned her head and stared at the two ladies standing in front of him.
“Miss St. Just . . .” he heard one of them say.
Adam turned his head abruptly, forgetting Miss Knightley.
“. . . ran away with her music tutor.” The young lady had an unfortunate resemblance to a pug dog. Miss Brook, he thought her name was.
Adam’s jaw hardened. He took a step forward.
“Oh, no. That was merely a rumor. The truth was much more interesting.” The voice was Miss Knightley’s.
Adam halted.
Both ladies turned their heads. “I beg your pardon?” Miss Brook said.
“The truth about Miss St. Just’s music tutor,” Arabella Knightley said. Her smile was open and friendly—and to Adam’s eyes, wholly suspicious.
Miss Brook and her companion didn’t seem to notice anything wrong with Miss Knightley’s smile. “Oh?” Miss Brook said.
Arabella Knightley stepped closer. “He went mad.”
“Mad?”
Miss Knightley nodded, her eyes innocently wide. “The music tutor. Apparently he’d been suffering from delusions for several months, but when the princess died, he went mad.”
“No!” Miss Brook said.
Miss Knightley nodded. “He believed he was married to a number of students, but it wasn’t until the princess died that his delusions became . . . persistent. Miss St. Just was the object of his attention at that time, which was very distressing for her. She asked to be removed from the school.”
“So she didn’t elope . . . ?”
“No. She left Bath to escape his advances.”
“Oh.” Miss Brook looked disappointed.
“The tutor was turned off, of course,” Miss Knightley continued. “Mr. Plunkett was his name. Reginald Plunkett. But when it came time for him to leave, no one could find him.” Her voice lowered. “You’ll never guess where he was found.”
“Where?” Miss Brook breathed.
Adam stepped closer to hear.
“At a farm down the lane from the school, in a goat pen. He swore the nanny goat was his married wife.”
“A nanny goat?” There was horrified delight in Miss Brook’s voice.
Arabella Knightley nodded solemnly. “The poor man was sent back to his wife in Birmingham, but he refused to be parted from the goat. I’ve heard . . .” She lowered her voice a fraction more. “I’ve heard that he lives in a goat pen behind his wife’s house.”
“Not . . . with the nanny goat?”
Miss Knightley nodded. Her expression of demure innocence was worthy of Jeremy.
Miss Brook shuddered. “How shocking!”
“Isn’t it just?” Miss Knightley said, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
Adam snorted, and turned away hurriedly. He gulped a mouthful of punch. When he turned back, Miss Brook and her companion were moving away, arm in arm, their heads bent closely together. “Nanny goat!” he heard one of them say in a low, excited voice.
Arabella Knightley was sipping her lemonade. The demure innocence was gone. He
