Arabella handed her a handkerchief. She watched in quiet sympathy as Grace wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
The girl folded the square of linen. “He was my music master.”
“Grace, you don’t need to tell me anything. It’s no concern of mine—or anyone else’s—what did or didn’t happen.”
“Nothing happened,” Grace said bitterly. “Although I almost . . . I almost—”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Arabella said softly.
Grace didn’t seem to hear. “I thought I loved him,” she said. “I was going to run away with him. And then my brother came.” Her fingers twisted on the handkerchief, wringing it. “And it turned out that . . . that he . . . that my music master was married.”
Arabella refilled Grace’s teacup and handed it to her. “A valuable experience,” she said, and smiled at the girl’s look of shock. “You’ve gained insight into the male character, have you not? You won’t fall for blandishments and flattery again.”
Grace shook her head, still looking taken aback.
“I was courted by a fortune hunter during my first Season,” Arabella told her. “Although I didn’t realize it until afterwards. It was a useful lesson.”
“Oh?” Grace’s eyes sharpened with interest.
“His name was George Dysart. He was very handsome.” Arabella smiled wryly, remembering. “He seemed so desperately in love with me that for a time I fancied myself in love with him.” He’d made her feel precious. He’d told her that her background didn’t matter to him; her fortune and her family were unimportant—it was her he loved.
She had believed him, had even begun to reconsider her decision not to marry—
“What happened?” Grace asked.
Arabella was silent as memory returned: George embracing her, trying to kiss her, and her instinctive recoil. “I was . . . too slow, and so he turned his attention elsewhere. Another heiress.”
Grace’s eyebrows rose. “She married him?”
“Yes. Poor Helen.”
“You’re friends with her?”
Arabella smiled at the girl’s startled expression. “You think I should resent her?” She shook her head. “No. We’ve become close friends. Helen’s had a dreadful marriage. I pity her sincerely.” She pulled a face. “To think I fancied myself in love with George!”
Grace looked down at her hands. It took no particular insight to know what she was thinking about.
Arabella picked up her cup again. “That’s why I say your experience was useful. It’s taught you to see men more clearly. When you come to choose a husband, it will stand you in good stead.”
“Adam’s going to choose my husband for me.”
Arabella’s eyebrows arched. “Is he?” she said dryly. “And you’ll have no say in the matter?”
“Oh, well . . .” Grace flushed. “If I dislike him, then Adam won’t . . .”
“When is this happy event to take place?”
“This Season,” the girl said. “Only . . . it will be more difficult now that . . . the rumors—”
“Hmm.” Arabella settled back in her chair. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen.” All her dislike of Adam St. Just rushed back in force. Grace was still a child, and he wanted to marry her off. “If your brother wishes for a marriage this Season, let it be his own!” she said tartly.
Grace nodded. “Yes, that’s what he intends.”
Arabella blinked in surprise. “Your brother’s looking for a bride?”
“He says it’s time. He’s nearly thirty.”
Arabella bit her upper lip to stop it curling in a sneer. What St. Just thought timely for his sister was very different from what he thought timely for himself. “I wish him luck,” she said with polite mendacity.
“Oh, Adam’s not worried.”
“I’m sure he’s not,” Arabella said dryly. St. Just was one of the most eligible bachelors in England. He might not have a title, but he had everything else that a fastidious bride required: excellent lineage, substantial wealth, good looks.
She reached for another macaroon, and found herself wishing that St. Just would suffer a rebuff in his suit.
ADAM LAID DOWN his quill and read through the list.
Well-heeled
Educated
Those he’d inferred from Tom’s note—the quality of the paper, the elegance of the handwriting, the lack of spelling mistakes.
An artist
Well, everyone knew that. The black cat, drawn in various poses, was as famous as the thief’s name.
Moral
An odd attribute for a thief, but one that went without saying; Tom always chose victims who’d harmed others.
Young
A guess, this. But Tom must be youthful to accomplish such feats as scaling walls and climbing in windows.
A member of the ton
This was the most startling of his inferences, based not on who Tom’s victims were, but how they were chosen. Would a servant have witnessed all the acts that had roused Tom’s ire? His instinct said no.
Adam pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards him and started a new list. Lady Bicknell, May 1818. The first of this Season’s victims, presumably punished for the malicious remarks that had reduced poor Mrs. Findley to tears at the Parnells’ ball.
He rolled the quill between his fingers. Who had drawn Tom’s attentions last year?
Ah, yes. Lord Randall, who’d fallen off his horse in Hyde Park and, in a fury of embarrassment, whipped the poor beast until he drew blood.
Adam grimaced in memory. Without doubt, Randall had deserved Tom’s visit.
He dipped the quill in ink and wrote Lord Randall, 1817, and then beneath that, a third name and date: The Hon. Miss Smidley, 1817.
Miss Smidley had stumbled upon exiting the Chapel Royal, tripping the prettiest of last year’s débutantes and breaking the girl’s ankle. No one who’d seen the look of triumph on Miss Smidley’s face would ever think it an accident.
Adam reread what he’d written. The Parnells’ ball. Hyde Park. The Chapel Royal. Too many different places for one servant to be.
Tom was a member of the ton.
It was an astonishing conclusion. It was . . .
Adam tried to identify the sensation he was feeling. Exhilaration. It was exhilarating to think that Tom was a member of the ton, someone he’d spoken to, perhaps
