Adam wrestled with that question for several hours, sitting in his study with the pieces of paper—of evidence—spread across his desk. He began a list of reasons why she couldn’t be Tom, and stared at the blank page until the ink dried on his quill.
Finally he threw the quill down with a muttered oath. The only way to make Arabella Knightley admit the truth was to speak with her.
She wasn’t going to come to him; therefore he must go to her.
THAT WAS EASIER said than done, Adam discovered half an hour later. He presented his card to Lady Westwick’s butler and waited in the entrance hall while the man trod up the staircase. A minute later the butler returned, to inform him that “Miss Knightley is not at home to callers, sir.”
Adam gritted his teeth and retreated. He surveyed Lady Westwick’s house from across the street, frowning as he examined the doorway through which he had been so politely ejected, with its pilasters and ornate entablature. Miss Knightley’s London home was a handsome edifice, built in the classical style and crowned with decorative cornice moldings. It hadn’t passed to the sixth Earl of Westwick; he’d received only the title and the ancestral seat in Somerset. This house, and one in Hertfordshire, had gone to the fifth earl’s widow, along with a comfortable jointure; the Westwick fortune had gone to Arabella Knightley.
No, Adam corrected himself. The fortune would go to Miss Knightley on her twenty-fifth birthday. In just over two weeks’ time she would become an extremely wealthy young lady.
A town carriage clattered over the cobblestones from the mews. The crest on the door panel, within its widow’s lozenge, was easily recognizable.
Adam stepped behind a gas lamp and watched as the door to Lady Westwick’s house opened. Miss Knightley and her maid walked down the steps and climbed into the carriage. A liveried footman closed the door and sprang up on the box beside the coachman.
Adam glanced around. One block down the street was a hackney. He hurried towards it.
“Follow that carriage!” he told the jarvey, pointing at the disappearing coach, and he wrenched open the door and scrambled inside.
The hackney started forward with a lurch.
KENSINGTON GARDENS WERE smaller and more formal than Richmond, but Arabella felt her tension ease as soon as she stepped down from the carriage. She looked at the green-brown expanse of The Long Water and the willows with their trailing leaves, and inhaled deeply. Never mind the smudge of coalsmoke across the sky or the clatter of a hackney drawing up behind them; this was what she needed: greenery, water, peace and quiet.
“Where to?” Polly asked.
“The Dutch Garden,” Arabella said, opening her parasol.
The path was dappled with sunlight and shade. The spell of the gardens settled over her, a spell made of small, ordinary things: a blackbird turning over fallen leaves in its search for worms, the scattering of yellow dandelions across the scythed grass, the song of a thrush above her head. Arabella inhaled deeply again. She refused to think about last night, about Adam St. Just’s accusation—
“Miss Knightley?”
She swung around, gripping the handle of the parasol tightly. She was conscious of Polly stepping closer to her. “Mr. St. Just.” She lifted her chin. “What are you doing here?”
St. Just bowed, a courtly movement. “I would like to apologize for my behavior last night.”
Arabella blinked. “You would?”
“It was—as you rightly pointed out—grossly impertinent of me.”
“Oh.” Her grip on the parasol eased slightly.
“And I apologize for suggesting you’re in league with Tom. I’ve thought the matter through—and I believe I was in error.” St. Just stepped closer. He was smiling faintly as he looked at her. It wasn’t the hunter’s smile he’d worn last night, but something quite different. Something warmer, something almost . . . appreciative?
Arabella didn’t return the smile. She eyed him warily.
“I don’t believe you’re in league with Tom, Miss Knightley. I believe you are Tom.”
Her shock was utter. Every muscle in her face seemed to stiffen. For too long she stared at him, while her heartbeat thumped in her ears, then she uttered a laugh that even to her own ears sounded false. “Me? Tom? You are absurd, Mr. St. Just!”
He shook his head. “I don’t believe so, Miss Knightley.”
Arabella tried to pretend outrage, but it was fear that gripped her. “What a preposterous accusation! Every feeling must be offended!”
St. Just nodded, as if in approval. “I’ve no intention of revealing your activities, Miss Knightley.”
The warmth in his gray eyes, the warmth in that slight smile, shook her even more off balance. “What activities!” she snapped. “Mr. St. Just, you’re being so . . . so absurd I must believe you’re in your cups!”
At that, he grinned. “Well done, Miss Knightley,” he said, and made her another bow. Then his expression became serious. “I know I’m correct,” he said. “There’s no point denying it.” He held her eyes. “Your face tells me, Miss Knightley. As does your maid’s.”
Arabella glanced at Polly. Polly was pale beneath the freckles, her expression stiff and wary, afraid. Yes, if I look like that, he can indeed be certain. She bit her lip.
St. Just extended his arm to her. “Shall we walk together, Miss Knightley?”
Arabella reluctantly placed her hand on his sleeve.
“I have no intention of exposing you,” St. Just said, as they began to walk in the direction of the Round Pond.
Arabella risked a glance at him.
St. Just was looking at her. “Your secret is safe with me. I give you my word of honor.” His voice was quiet, sincere, with an undertone that sounded like—but couldn’t possibly be—admiration.
Arabella swallowed. “Thank you,” she managed to say.
They strolled for several minutes in silence. Her pleasure in the gardens was gone. She felt like a mechanical doll, an automaton, her legs moving stiffly.
At the junction of two paths, St. Just paused. “I’d like to thank you for the service you did my sister. We’re in your debt.”
Arabella glanced at him—and couldn’t look away. The expression in his eyes was
