St. Just’s expression told her clearly that he didn’t believe her. “I thought you disliked gossip, Miss Knightley.”
“I do. But one can’t help overhearing things.” She opened her eyes at him, wide and innocent.
His own eyes narrowed. “How did you know Mr. Plunkett came from Birmingham?”
Arabella shrugged again. “Gossip,” she said airily.
His jaw tightened. “And the date? How did you know when it happened?”
“The week Princess Charlotte died? I remember someone mentioning that. It stuck in my mind. Such a memorable week!” Arabella creased her brow thoughtfully and tapped a finger against her cheek. “Now, who was it . . . ?” she mused. “Mrs. Harpenden, perhaps?”
St. Just’s look was disgusted, and wholly disbelieving.
Arabella smiled widely. She turned her attention to the other dancers, pretending to watch them. St. Just suspected a connection with Tom—that was obvious—but he knew nothing. And he never will.
She bit her lip, imagining his astonishment if he were to learn the truth. A female thief? Preposterous!
Arabella decided to take the offensive while she danced the third figure, la poule. When they were standing quietly again, she turned to St. Just. “Miss Wootton is in good looks this evening, don’t you agree? Such an attractive young lady. And such a lovely fortune. Have you had the opportunity to press your suit yet?”
St. Just looked at her blandly. “Sharpening your claws, Miss Knightley?”
His prescience was unsettling. Her smile faltered slightly.
“On the subject of marriage, I’ve had the opportunity to consider your suggestion,” he said in a genial tone. “Of a stream running down the center of the table at my wedding breakfast. I believe you’re correct; nothing could be more elegant, more tasteful.”
Arabella stared at him.
He returned her gaze with perfect blandness.
Was Adam St. Just teasing her?
Arabella was so disconcerted that she almost missed the cue for the fourth figure, la pastourelle.
AFTER A LIVELY finale, Adam escorted Miss Knightley to where his aunt and Mrs. Wootton stood. Exhilaration hummed in his veins. Miss Knightley knew something about Tom. He’d seen it in her face—the sharp glance, the brief freezing of her smile—just as he’d felt her faint hesitation when he’d led her into the second figure. She’d been off balance and alarmed.
He fetched lemonade for Miss Knightley and champagne for himself, returning to find Grace and Hetty had joined them. Adam listened idly to the girls’ chatter, his eyes on Miss Knightley. She paid him absolutely no attention, seemingly immersed in conversation with his aunt, but he thought there was tension in the way she stood, stiffness to her shoulders.
She knows who Tom is.
He needed proof, not supposition. He needed handwriting to match with Tom’s. He needed drawings—
His mind supplied him with a memory: Miss Knightley standing outside her grandmother’s house on Mount Street, about to step into a carriage. A footman held an umbrella over her head, and in her hands she carried—
A sketchbook.
I have to see that sketchbook.
Adam sipped his champagne thoughtfully, and then said, “Grace?”
His sister turned her head. “Yes?”
“If the weather’s fine tomorrow, would you like to take the barouche out to Richmond? Have a picnic and sketch the views.”
Grace’s face brightened. “What a marvelous idea! Hetty, would you like to come?”
Miss Wootton expressed great pleasure in the invitation.
“Bella?” Grace said, turning to Miss Knightley. “Will you come with us?”
Miss Knightley looked around. “Come where?”
“To Richmond tomorrow, to have a picnic and sketch the views.”
Arabella Knightley glanced sharply at him. “Will you be joining the expedition, Mr. St. Just?”
“No,” Adam said. “Unfortunately I have business in town.”
Grace looked disappointed; Miss Knightley looked relieved. “I should be delighted to come,” she said.
Adam sipped his champagne and hid a smile. His trap was baited.
THE EXPEDITION SET out from Berkeley Square early the next morning, under the aegis of Aunt Seraphina. The sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky; there was no need to raise the folding hood of the barouche. Adam watched them depart from the window of the upstairs parlor: the team of gray horses, the coachman and a footman sitting erect on the high driving seat, the ladies with their bonnets and parasols and sketchbooks.
He let his eyes rest on Miss Knightley as the barouche pulled out of the square. She wore a bonnet of chip straw, trimmed with flowers and twists of ribbon. The broad brim hid her face.
Adam turned away from the window, very satisfied with himself. Last night’s exhilaration still hummed inside him. Once he’d gone over matters with his man of business, he’d ride out to Richmond. And take a look at Arabella Knightley’s sketchbook.
He strolled downstairs. “Has Mr. Herbert arrived?” he asked the butler.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell him I’m ready to see him,” Adam said, and walked down the corridor to his study.
THE BUSINESS WITH Mr. Herbert—including an assignment that concerned Grace’s blackmailer, Lady Bicknell—took longer than Adam had anticipated. It was midafternoon by the time he rode through the gate into Richmond Park. King Henry’s Mound seemed the logical choice of picnic spot, but he found only a party of children and two harassed nursemaids in possession of the view.
Adam stood in the stirrups and looked around in frustration. He saw woodland and meadows and a herd of deer grazing on a hillside. Four riders cantered along one of the bridleways and a landau with a coat of arms on the door panel made its stately way towards the gate and London—but of the barouche and its party of ladies, there was no sign.
“Damn,” he said under his breath, conscious of how large Richmond Park was.
It took him more than half an hour to find them. It was the carriage he spotted first, half-hidden behind a copse of trees at the foot of a low, wooded hillside. Adam squinted. Was that his barouche? He cantered closer. Yes, it was his barouche, with the blue silk lining and the smart leather trim. And behind the carriage, beneath the shade of the trees, his grays leisurely cropped the grass.
He felt a surge of anticipation.
Adam
