Adam cleared his throat again, and then he walked down the corridor to his own room.
AFTER HIS MORNING ride in Hyde Park, Adam went in search of his aunt. He found her in the morning room.
“Aunt Seraphina?”
“Yes, dear?” His aunt looked up from her embroidery.
Her placid smile made him think involuntarily of a Jersey cow. Adam pushed the comparison out of his mind, closed the door, and advanced into the room. “Aunt, I wondered if you’d spoken of Mr. Plunkett to anyone in London.”
His aunt looked at him in gentle surprise. “Spoken of him? Why on earth should I do such a thing?”
Adam shrugged. “Have you?”
“Of course not,” Aunt Seraphina said, putting down her embroidery.
“Not even to Miss Knightley?”
His aunt looked perplexed. “No. Why?”
Adam smiled at her. “No reason.” He bowed and let himself out of the morning room.
He went down the stairs two at a time, whistling under his breath. In his study he pulled out the bundle of papers Grace had received from Tom. He read the first blackmail letter again.
My dear Miss St. Just, I have a letter of yours you wrote to a Mr. Reginald Plunkett of Birmingham has come into my possession.
He gave a satisfied grunt, placed the piece of paper aside, and reached for Grace’s love letter. The date was at the top. November 6th , 1817. The day Princess Charlotte had died.
Adam laid both letters on his desk, side by side. They had come from Tom—and they contained information Miss Knightley had known.
The conclusion was obvious: Arabella Knightley was in league with the burglar, Tom.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE GIFFORDS’ BALLROOM was a forest of greenery. Potted palms sprouted in the corners, ferns uncurled delicate fronds, and ivy spilled from various torchères and jardinières. Arabella looked around as she entered. A contredanse was in progress, the dancers advancing across the floor in time with the music.
“How delightful,” her grandmother said, glancing around. “So verdant.”
“Yes, Grandmother.” Arabella suppressed a sigh. Two and a half more weeks of this.
With her grandmother happily ensconced in the card room, a glass of champagne at her elbow and a pile of guineas in front of her, Arabella was free—in her grandmother’s words—to enjoy herself. I’d rather be at home. She glanced back at her grandmother. Lady Westwick was avidly examining her first hand of cards.
Arabella suppressed another sigh. She touched her fingertips lightly to her bodice—spider-gauze embroidered with tiny rosebuds over a gown of rose-colored satin. Armor, she told herself.
She squared her shoulders and stepped into the ballroom, a smile on her face.
“Miss Knightley,” a voice said to her right.
Arabella turned. The smooth baritone belonged to Adam St. Just.
There was nothing in his polite bow to give her cause for alarm, and yet there was an intentness in his gaze, an edge to his smile, that made her skin prickle with unease.
“I wonder if I might request a dance?”
Arabella stiffened. Not the waltz.
“The next quadrille, perhaps?”
She relaxed. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. St. Just.”
HALF AN HOUR later, Arabella took her place alongside him. “That was a marvelous tale you told last night,” St. Just said, as the head couple began to dance the first figure. “About the nanny goat.”
Arabella glanced at him.
“I don’t recall if I thanked you.”
“There’s no need to thank me, Mr. St. Just.”
“No,” he said, with a smile that turned up only one side of his mouth. “You didn’t do it for me, did you? You did it for Grace.”
Arabella looked at him uncertainly. Was that bitterness she heard in his voice, bitterness that she saw in that crooked smile? Of course not. Why would he want me to like him?
They accomplished their first figure, le pantalon, with ease. Arabella discovered that she was enjoying herself. Adam St. Just was as skillful a dancer as his friend the Marquis of Revelstoke. There was no fear of him forgetting his place in the figure. He made the quadrille—a dance that had been the downfall of many an unwary gentleman or lady—look easy.
While they waited for their turn at the second figure, he spoke to her again. “I wonder, Miss Knightley, how you came to know the name of Grace’s music tutor?”
He asked the question so affably, with such cordiality, that for a moment she didn’t realize how dangerous it was—and then his words registered.
Arabella turned her head sharply. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Reginald Plunkett,” St. Just said, his gaze intent on her face. “How did you know his name?”
Because it was in the blackmail letter.
Arabella was aware of a tiny spike of panic in her chest. He suspects something. She grabbed the first lie she thought of: “Grace told me.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Grace?”
“Yes.”
St. Just smiled at her. “Grace assures me that she hasn’t mentioned Plunkett’s name to anyone in London.”
“Oh,” Arabella said.
There was something disturbing in St. Just’s eyes, in his smile. He reminded her of someone—
Not someone: something. Adam St. Just reminded her of a cat stalking its prey—the way his eyes were focused on her face, the sharp-edged smile. “So I wonder, Miss Knightley . . . how did you discover his name?”
Arabella stared at him. Her mind was utterly blank. She could think of no credible lie, no convincing explanation.
“Miss Knightley?”
Arabella swallowed.
“Our turn, I believe,” St. Just said. He held out his hand to her.
For a moment she had no idea what figure they were to dance, no idea what step to take. His fingers closed around hers. Panic flared inside her—and then her pulse steadied. This was the second figure, l’été.
Arabella danced with what she hoped was an outward appearance of calm. Inwardly, she castigated herself. She was a fool to have been overset by St. Just’s words, a fool to panic. The answer to his question was easy.
“If it wasn’t Grace who told me,” she said, once they’d completed the figure and were standing side by side again, “then I must have heard it from someone else.” She shrugged lightly. “There’s been so much gossip lately. One quite
