“That would be perfect.” said Arabella, relieved. “And tonight I’ll go as Tom and get Helen’s money—”
“No,” St. Just said.
“But . . . we have to get back Helen’s money!”
“I’ll get it when I confront Lady Bicknell.”
Arabella shook her head. “It needs to be done tonight. What if Lady Bicknell spends it or . . . or says she has spent it? Helen will never get it back!”
“I’ll get the money back,” St. Just repeated. “Don’t worry.” He laid his hand on hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“Can’t you go today?” she pleaded.
“No,” St. Just said. “It’s almost four o’clock, and I’m promised to dinner before the Yarmouths’ ball. Tomorrow is soon enough.” He smiled at her. “Don’t worry, Lady Bicknell won’t blackmail any more people.”
“We need to get Helen’s money back tonight,” Arabella said, pulling her hand free. “It may not be there tomorrow!”
“Bella . . .” There was a note of warning in St. Just’s voice. “You promised you’d cease to be Tom.”
“I know. But Helen’s my friend. I have to try! Don’t you see?”
“No,” St. Just said. “I don’t see. We’ll deal with Lady Bicknell tomorrow. Isn’t that soon enough?”
“I have to do it tonight,” Arabella said stubbornly. Part of her knew she was being irrational—but it was Helen’s money, and Helen was one of the very few friends she had. If Helen needed help, she would give it, regardless of the consequences. “Come, Polly, I see our carriage waiting.” She began walking towards the drive.
St. Just caught her elbow. “You gave me your word.”
“Well, now I’m taking it back!”
“Arabella,” St. Just said, his voice low and fierce. “If you’re caught you could hang.”
“I won’t be caught.” She wrenched her elbow free. “I know what I’m doing.”
St. Just caught her elbow again. This time his fingers were tighter. “Arabella, I forbid you to—”
Anger blossomed inside her. “Forbid?”
St. Just released her arm. His jaw clenched briefly. “You’re to be my wife,” he said stiffly. “And as your husband, I have the right to forbid—”
“I’m not your wife yet. Nor am I your dog or your child, to be told what to do!”
St. Just’s jaw clenched again. He looked down his nose at her. “If you behave like a child, then you may expect to be treated like one.”
Arabella felt a surge of relief, eclipsing her anger. Here was an escape from their betrothal. “If this is how you intend to treat your wife, Mr. St. Just, then allow me to inform you that I shall not marry you.”
Behind her she heard Polly gasp. St. Just’s face stiffened, as if she’d struck him. “Arabella,” he said. “Bella—”
“Our engagement is over.”
She saw his dismay. “Bella,” he said. “Please—”
“Good day, Mr. St. Just.” Arabella turned on her heel. She was trembling. “Come, Polly.”
The trembling grew stronger as she marched towards the waiting carriage. Once inside, she burst into tears.
Polly fussed over her, clucking with concern.
“It’s nothing,” Arabella said, between sobs. “I’m just relieved. I knew it was a mistake.”
AT DINNER, ARABELLA told her grandmother she was feeling unwell and not equal to the Yarmouths’ ball. It wasn’t a lie; her head ached and her hands still trembled slightly.
Lady Westwick expressed concern and declared that she’d stay home, but allowed herself to be persuaded not to, Mrs. Yarmouth being such a close friend of hers.
“Go straight to bed,” she said, pulling on her gloves in the entrance hall.
“Yes, Grandmother.”
“Would you like some laudanum? My maid—”
“I’ll be fine, Grandmother.”
Lady Westwick kissed her cheek fondly and hastened out the door in a rustle of silk and lace.
Arabella climbed the stairs slowly. “Ready, Polly?” she asked, as she entered her bedroom.
They changed from cambric gowns into coarse brown shirts and trousers. Arabella pulled a knitted woolen hat over her hair and made sure that not one curl escaped.
They’d done this many times before. Each time it had been a thrill; tonight it wasn’t. She felt dull and weary as she fastened the pouch around her waist, as she tucked Tom’s message inside.
“Here,” Polly said, handing her a piece of charcoal.
Arabella carefully blackened her face. When she was finished, a stranger stared back from the mirror. The cleft in her chin was the only thing she recognized of herself.
“Ready?” Polly asked.
“Yes.”
ARABELLA PLACED HER foot in Polly’s cupped hands. “Now.”
A grunt, a scramble, and she was up on the small balcony with its wrought iron railing. She crouched for a moment, aware of a strong sense of déjà vu. She’d been in this exact spot only three weeks ago.
She looked down and waved.
Polly nodded. She stepped back into the shadows.
The déjà vu became stronger: the broken latch was still broken, the window opened with the same faint creak it had last time, the room had the same stale, musty smell. Arabella closed the window behind her. She blinked and let her eyes adjust to the dimness. The shapes of the furniture were the same: a desk, an armchair, two low bookcases. A clock ticked on the mantelpiece.
She walked across to the door and opened it quietly. This time she knew where she was going; there was no need to peer into darkened rooms. She went swiftly and silently up one flight of stairs and turned right.
Arabella laid her hand on the door to Lady Bicknell’s bedchamber. For a long moment she stood, listening for movement, then she turned the handle and pushed the door slightly open.
She listened, and heard only silence.
Arabella slipped inside and closed the door behind her. There was no key in the door; that, too, was the same as last time.
She didn’t like being unable to lock the door. It made the skin prickle between her shoulder blades. She hurried across to
