“Good evening, Mr. St. Just.”
He bowed. “You’re not dancing the waltz.”
“Neither are you.”
Adam St. Just looked her for a moment. There was something vaguely unsettling about his smile. “Are you engaged for the next dance, Miss Knightley?”
“No.”
“Then may I have the pleasure?”
“Certainly.”
St. Just’s smile widened. “Have you seen the conservatory? It’s quite delightful.” He extended his arm to her. “Shall we?”
Arabella stood, reluctantly. There really was something rather disconcerting about Adam St. Just’s smile. She placed her hand lightly on his sleeve.
Their pace was slow, strolling. Music and conversations eddied around them. She heard snatches of gossip, of laughter, the swirl of satin dominos and the rustle of petticoats and flounces as the dancers swung past. St. Just led her to the back of the ballroom and down a short flight of stairs to a conservatory. Two dowagers sat comfortably in one corner, their heads bent together as they gossiped, but otherwise it was empty except for statuary and ferns and a table of refreshments.
“Would you like something to drink?”
Arabella shook her head. Up the stairs in the ballroom, the waltz came to its end. “Our dance will be starting shortly.”
“I thought we could sit it out.”
Arabella glanced at him sharply. “Sit it out?”
He inclined his head in a nod. “If you’re agreeable.”
She considered it a moment.
St. Just watched her silently. Unlike Lord Emsley, he didn’t appear to have taken her aside to make an improper advance. There was nothing suggestive in his voice, nothing flirtatious in his manner. Even so, she felt a prickle of alarm.
She glanced at the gossiping dowagers. St. Just would hardly play one of Lord Emsley’s tricks with such an audience. She tried to imagine him leering at her, sneaking an arm around her waist, attempting to snatch a kiss.
It was an impossible scenario to imagine. Adam St. Just looked down his nose at people; he didn’t grope them.
“Very well,” she said.
His smile seemed to sharpen.
The prickle of alarm strengthened. Have I made a mistake? But it was too late to draw back. St. Just was leading her to a grouping of gilded chairs at some distance from the dowagers. “Please,” he said, indicating a chair.
Arabella sat. She clasped her hands in her lap. “You wish to speak with me?”
“Yes.” St. Just sat so that he was facing her. He crossed his legs casually and stretched one arm along the back of the chair next to him.
Arabella eyed him. There was nothing intimidating about his posture. “What about?” But even as she asked the question, she realized the answer: he wanted her to draw another portrait of Grace.
She relaxed.
“About Tom,” St. Just said. “You know who he is, don’t you?”
His voice was so affable that for a moment Arabella didn’t realize what he’d said. And then the import of his words sank in. She tensed. “I beg your pardon?”
In the ballroom a contredanse was starting. The music drifted down to them. Adam St. Just swung his toe in time to it. “You know who Tom is,” he said again, softly. “Don’t you, Miss Knightley?” His eyes glittered behind the black mask. His smile was that of a hunter.
Arabella took refuge in affront. “How dare you suggest such a thing!” She made as if to rise.
St. Just abandoned his nonchalant pose. One moment he was lounging in the chair, swinging one foot, the next his hand was at her wrist, a firm, strong grip that held her in her place. The speed with which he moved made the breath catch in her throat. For a moment she sat frozen. Her heart seemed to stop beating. She stared into his eyes.
“You know who he is.” St. Just spoke in a whisper, soft, audible to only the two of them.
Arabella swallowed. She twisted her wrist in his grasp. “You’re being perfectly ridiculous, Mr. St. Just.”
He loosened his grip, but didn’t release her. “You choose the victims,” he said softly. “You write the notes. You draw the cat. Don’t you, Miss Knightley?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about!”
Adam St. Just shook his head. “You forget, I’ve seen your sketchbook. And I have a specimen of your handwriting.”
“You have a very fanciful imagination!” she said tartly, twisting her wrist again.
He didn’t release her. “You witnessed the incident on Piccadilly with Sir Arnold Gorrie, and by your own admission you heard Mrs. Harpenden start the rumor about Hetty Wootton. You were present when Lady Bicknell reduced poor Mrs. Findley to tears.” His voice was low and matter-of-fact.
“So?” Arabella said, haughtily. “Any number of people were present.”
“You were in the Park last year, when Lord Randall beat his horse,” St. Just continued. “I remember the expression on your face. And you were at the Chapel Royal when Miss Smidley pushed Miss Wrexham down the steps.”
“Do you think so?” she said with haughty scorn. “That was a year ago, Mr. St. Just. I doubt you can recall who attended that particular service!”
“You were there,” he said quietly. “I remember you went to aid Miss Wrexham.”
Arabella swallowed. Her pulse was beating fast. She stared at him through narrow eyes, feigning anger. “And because of that, you deduce I know Tom? Mr. St. Just, you’ve read far too many novels!”
He grinned. “Nice try, Miss Knightley.”
The note of approval made her flush. She was abruptly as angry as she pretended to be.
“Tom paid no visits during the Season of 1816,” St. Just said. “The year you were in mourning for your grandfather and didn’t come to London. A coincidence, Miss Knightley?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
His grip on her wrist tightened slightly. He leaned forward. His eyes glittered fiercely behind the black mask. “I know you’re in league with Tom, Miss Knightley. I assure you I have no desire to expose either of you—but I do want to know who Tom is.”
Arabella looked at him contemptuously. St. Just credited her with choosing Tom’s victims and writing his notes—but he thought her incapable of
