She gathered her outrage. “How dare you!” she said, wrenching her wrist from his grasp. She pushed back her chair and stood. The scrape of the chair legs on the marble flagstones was harsh, but the dowagers in the far corner were deep in conversation and didn’t notice. “I find your insinuations and your behavior grossly impertinent!”
St. Just flushed. He stood and put out a hand to detain her. “Miss Knightley—”
“For your knowledge, I am not in league with Tom.” Arabella brushed past his outstretched hand and ran across the conservatory and up the marble steps to the ballroom.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MISS KNIGHTLEY’S WORDS still rang in Adam’s ears several hours later, as he unbuttoned his shirt. How dare you!
He pulled the shirt over his head and held it for a moment, balled in his hand. I find your insinuations and your behavior grossly impertinent! As an accusation, it had stung. It still did. Arabella Knightley was correct: his behavior hadn’t been that of a gentleman.
Adam flexed his fingers around the balled linen, remembering the slenderness of her wrist. Yes, grossly impertinent. I owe her an apology.
“Dirty, sir?” his valet, Perkins, asked, plucking the shirt from his hand.
Adam watched the man bustle into the dressing room, but it wasn’t Perkins he saw. His memory replayed the scene in the conservatory and halted at her scornful utterance: Mr. St. Just, you’ve read far too many novels!
Her outrage, her avowal of innocence, had been perfect. Too perfect. The great Mrs. Siddons herself couldn’t have done better.
Adam shook his head in rueful admiration and turned towards the bed. How do I get her to admit the truth?
Because despite her vehement denial, her appearance of innocence, he knew he was correct: Arabella Knightley was in league with Tom.
MISS KNIGHTLEY WRENCHED her wrist free from his grasp. She turned and ran from him, across the conservatory and up the marble steps to the ballroom.
Adam ran after her.
The masquerade had finished. The ballroom was empty and dark, lit only by moonlight coming in through the tall windows. It stretched into the distance, vast and shadowed. At the far end he saw the fluttering hem of a domino. The slam of a door came faintly to his ears.
Adam ran. He reached the door, opened it, and plunged through—not into a carpeted corridor, but into St. James’s Square. He stumbled slightly on the cobblestones and swung around, looking for Miss Knightley.
She stood beneath a gas lamp.
For a long moment they stared at each other. He saw the rise and fall of her chest, saw the soft lips part—and then Miss Knightley uttered a laugh, a challenge. She spun on her heel and vanished into the darkness, her domino flaring behind her.
Adam charged after her.
The speed with which Miss Knightley ran was startling. She was as swift as a deer, swifter. Piccadilly, Berkeley Square, Mount Street—they flashed past so rapidly it was dizzying. Adam ran faster than he’d ever run in his life—until it felt as if his heart would burst—and yet still Miss Knightley drew ahead of him. At the gate into Hyde Park she paused for a moment, looking back over her shoulder. A gas lamp illuminated her face—the softly cleft chin, the scornful curl of her lip—and then she was gone.
Adam burst into Hyde Park. He slowed to a halt, his lungs burning, and swung around, searching for her. The park stretched in all directions, vast, utterly empty. Miss Knightley? he called. Where are you?
A soft, mocking laugh was his answer.
Adam spun around again. Miss Knightley stood behind him.
He stared at her, panting.
Somewhere, he’d lost his mask and domino. Arabella Knightley still wore hers. She wasn’t out of breath. Indeed, she seemed to find his breathlessness amusing.
He took a step towards her.
Arabella Knightley didn’t move. She was completely unafraid of him. Beneath the mask her eyes were darkly luminous. The hood had fallen back from her face. Hair curled about her cheeks, as black as midnight.
You want the truth, Mr. St. Just? The softly indented chin rose, challenging him.
Yes, he said.
Her lips parted, they shaped themselves to form a word—
ADAM JERKED AWAKE. His heart was pounding as loudly as if he’d run halfway across Mayfair. He knew, with absolute certainty, what Arabella Knightley had been about to say. He heard her voice as loudly, as clearly, as if she stood beside the bed. I’m Tom.
He shoved back the covers and sat up, dragging air into his lungs. Gradually his racing pulse slowed. His certainty didn’t fade; like his heartbeat, it steadied.
Arabella Knightley was Tom.
“Of course she’s not.” His voice was loud in the dark.
Adam pushed out of bed, disgusted with himself, and strode to the window. He shoved the curtains back and stared down at Berkeley Square. He’d run past here in his dream.
It was the dream that made him think she was Tom, her agility and strength, the swiftness with which she’d run, the mask hiding her face. She’d been elusive and mysterious—as elusive and mysterious as Tom.
Adam shook his head. Arabella Knightley was no more a burglar than Grace was. She was a female, for crying out loud. A delicately built female.
But not delicately reared. She’d lived among prostitutes and thieves as a child.
Adam leaned his forehead against the glass. If a female was capable of being Tom, it was Arabella Knightley. Her diminutive stature and air of delicacy were deceptive. In the conservatory her wrist had been slender but strong; she’d broken free of his grip with ease. And in Richmond Park she’d run like a deer, light-footed and swift, chasing after the scattered pieces of paper.
He stared across Berkeley Square until dawn crept over the rooftops. With daylight his certainty should evaporate, as the dream had evaporated.
It didn’t.
Arabella Knightley was Tom.
Adam closed the curtains and went back to bed.
HOW COULD HE get Miss Knightley to admit she was
