Adam loosened his grip. “Tomorrow we’ll come earlier,” he told the horse, and then he pushed all thought of Arabella Knightley out of his head, focusing instead on the far more interesting subject of Tom the burglar’s identity.
That subject occupied him as he trotted back through rain-damp streets to Berkeley Square, as he gave Goliath to his groom and walked around from the mews, as he entered the cool entrance hall and handed hat, whip, and gloves to the butler. “A pot of tea, Fiscus,” he said, and walked down the hallway to his study.
Adam sat down at his desk with the letters spread before him and a teacup at his elbow. The blackmail notes were so foul, so ugly, that they seemed to taint the air he breathed, as if they gave off an odor of rankness and decay, of rot.
The notes gave no clue of the writer’s identity. The paper was plain, the handwriting ordinary. Anyone could have written them. Lady Bicknell, Tom claimed.
Adam pondered this. Lady Bicknell was a widow of long standing who possessed a disagreeably sharp tongue. An unpleasant woman, certainly. But was she a blackmailer?
Tom said so. But Tom was a thief and therefore not to be trusted. I need proof. Something in Lady Bicknell’s hand, with her named signed in ink, for all to see. But how?
Adam sat for a long time, thinking, and then smiled. Yes, that will work very well. Reaching for the teacup, he took a mouthful, grimaced, and swallowed the cold liquid. He shoved the cup away, pushed the blackmail notes aside, and studied the piece of paper that really interested him: Tom’s note.
Who are you? he asked silently, staring at the black cat.
The cat stared back at him, giving nothing away. Its gaze was fixed, inanimate, and yet almost insolent. A challenge.
“I’m going to find out who you are,” Adam said aloud.
He felt a spurt of cheerfulness. Proving that Lady Bicknell was a blackmailer, finding a husband for Grace, his own search for a bride—those were things he had to do. Discovering Tom’s identity was something altogether different. Not only would it take his mind off worrying about Grace, it would be fun.
Adam pulled a blank sheet of paper towards him and uncapped his inkpot.
Look for a thief? Such behavior is hardly worthy of a St. Just! The voice was his father’s, ringing in his ears, even though the old man had been dead these past three years. The cold disapproval was as loud, as clear, as if his father stood at his shoulder. You may not be the duke, but I expect you to behave as if you are.
Adam hissed between his teeth. He pushed thought of his father aside, dipped his quill in ink, and began to write.
ADAM ST. JUST’S townhouse was as elegantly appointed as Arabella had expected; no one could accuse St. Just of lacking either money or taste. The parlor was decorated in blue and cream, the furniture was in the Grecian style, with clean lines and scrolled ends, and a pretty frieze of acanthus leaves ran around the room.
Grace St. Just was every bit as beautiful as her surroundings. Her face was flower-like, open and innocent—and also fierce. The glint in her eyes, the set of her chin, were those of a woman prepared to fight.
“Advice?” Arabella said, echoing the girl’s question. “I can only tell you how I do it.”
“Please.” Grace sat forward eagerly.
Arabella smiled wryly. “It sounds foolish, but . . . when I dress, I imagine I’m putting on armor.”
The girl blinked. “Armor?”
“Yes.” Arabella touched her gown. “You see muslin; I see armor.”
“Oh.”
Arabella picked up her teacup. “And then I imagine that each disapproving stare, each sneer, each whispered remark, is a tiny arrow.” She sipped her tea. “The arrows fly at me, but they can’t hurt me.” The delicate porcelain cup made a noise as she replaced it in its saucer. Clink. Like an arrow striking armor. “It makes me want to laugh when I imagine the arrows lying helpless on the ground at my feet.” She grinned at the girl. “And my amusement annoys my detractors—which amuses me even more.”
“Oh,” said Grace again. Her expression was uncertain.
Arabella eyed her for a moment. “If the image is too martial for you, perhaps you’d like to try something else? Oilskin repelling drops of water, or . . . or . . . have you ever seen how water rolls off a duck’s back?”
“Yes.” Grace’s face brightened. “Water off a duck’s back! I’ll do that.”
Arabella returned the girl’s smile. She picked up a macaroon and bit into it. The tastes of sugar and coconut mingled on her tongue.
Grace St. Just busied herself pouring another cup of tea. “I can’t thank you enough, Miss Knightley. I’m very much in your debt—”
“Bella,” she said. “Please call me Bella.”
The girl’s smile was shy. “Then you must call me Grace.”
Arabella took another bite of macaroon. She chewed slowly, imagining St. Just’s reaction when he discovered that his sister was on first-name terms with her. Laughter rose in her throat.
Grace’s smile faded as she sipped her tea. Her expression became pensive.
Arabella dismissed Adam St. Just from her thoughts. “You’ve had an unfortunate introduction into Society, but there’s some usefulness to be had from it.”
“Usefulness?” Grace put down her teacup.
“It’s given you the opportunity to see people for who they are. It’s shown you what’s beneath the surface.”
Grace looked as if she’d rather not know.
“You’d prefer the shallow, empty flattery of those who admire your name and your fortune?” Arabella asked softly.
The girl flushed and shook her head.
“Then you may look upon this experience as fortunate.”
Grace looked down at her
