Arabella turned back to the room. It was overly warm and thick with the scent of perfume. A fire lay dying in the grate. She took the candle from the bedside table, lit it from the coals, and looked around. The room was no tidier than it had been last time.
She ignored the dressing table, with its litter of objects, and trod quickly across to the mahogany dresser. She pulled out the drawer of stockings, and then the hidden drawer behind that. It was empty.
Damn.
Arabella replaced the drawer. She drew in a deep breath and released it. She’d have to search the entire room.
ADAM STARED GRIMLY across the ballroom. Fury swirled inside him. He’d had a right to forbid Arabella. He’d been trying to protect her—and she’d reacted as if he was the worst kind of tyrant!
His fingers tightened around his glass. He gulped a mouthful of wine. She didn’t mean it, he told himself. She was angry. Once she calms down she’ll change her mind.
But beneath the fury was a tight coil of anxiety. What if she doesn’t?
“Not dancing tonight?”
“No,” Adam said, not turning his head. He swallowed another mouthful of wine and avoided looking at the faces on the dance floor, because if he saw Arabella, by God, he’d be hard-pressed not to stride across and shake her—
Jeremy stepped up alongside him. “Looking for the delightful Miss Knightley?”
Adam’s jaw clenched.
“Alas.” Jeremy sighed theatrically. “She’s not here.”
Not here? Adam’s rage, his sense of ill-usage, faltered slightly. He scanned the ballroom, frowning, looking for a slim figure, a head of dark hair.
“How was your week in the country?” Jeremy asked. His voice was light, sly, teasing. “One wonders . . . does one hear wedding bells?”
“What do you mean she’s not here?” Adam demanded.
“Who?”
Adam swung round to face him. “You know damned well who I mean. What do you mean she’s not here? Her grandmother is!” He’d seen that perfectly coiffed white hair and abruptly turned away, too consumed by rage to want to see Arabella.
Jeremy abandoned his teasing. “You’re in a filthy mood,” he remarked.
Adam scowled. “Damn it, Jeremy—”
“Lady Westwick arrived alone.”
Adam’s mouth was suddenly dry. Arabella isn’t here.
Dear God . . . she wouldn’t be such a fool as to burgle Lady Bicknell . . . would she?
He thrust the glass at Jeremy. “Here.”
“I say,” Jeremy protested. “Where are you going?”
But Adam was already striding away.
HE SET OUT for Lady Westwick’s house, almost running, but several blocks short of his destination he halted. He stared at a street sign, dimly visible in the light cast by a gas lamp. Charles Street. Where Lady Bicknell hired a house.
He turned down the street, walking briskly, counting off the numbers in his head. Lady Bicknell’s house was on the corner.
Clouds had covered the moon. The street was dark except for pools of light around each lamp post. Adam squinted up at Lady Bicknell’s house. Was one of the windows on the second floor open?
It was too dark for him to be certain.
He hurried down the alleyway to the mews. It was darker here, thick with shadows. He looked up at the house and saw nothing out of place.
Adam turned on his heel. “Polly?” he said in a low voice. “Are you here?” And then, more urgently. “Polly!”
One of the shadows broke free from a neighboring house: a figure dressed in men’s clothes, too tall to be Arabella.
Adam strode to her. “Is she inside?”
“Yes.”
“Dear God.” Adam closed his eyes. Then he opened them and reached for Polly, gripping her arm. “How long has she been in there?”
Polly didn’t pull away. “More than an hour,” she said, in a troubled voice.
Adam’s heart seemed to stop beating. “You think . . . she’s been caught?”
Polly shook her head. “No. There’d have been a ruckus.”
Adam tried to breathe calmly. “Then why—”
“I think she can’t find the money.”
Adam swung around and stared at the house. A package of banknotes would be damnably easy to hide. There must be a thousand places it could be concealed—if it was even there. Lady Bicknell had been at the Yarmouths’ ball. He tried to remember if she’d been carrying a reticule, and if so, how large it had been. “How do we get Arabella out?”
“We don’t,” Polly said. “We wait.”
Adam shook his head. “I’ll go in and get her.” Urgency thrummed inside him. If Arabella was caught . . .
“How?”
“The same way she got in.”
Polly looked at him for a long moment, her face a pale oval in the dark, then shook her head. “You’ll get caught. It’s best to wait.”
“But—”
“Bella always makes sure she’s got two ways out. She’ll be all right.”
“She’s been in there over an hour!” Adam said fiercely.
“Then she’ll be out soon.”
Every muscle in his body vibrated with urgency. Dear God, if Arabella was caught . . .
Adam pulled out his pocket watch. Eleven o’clock. “Another half hour,” he said. “And then I’m going in.”
HE STOOD IN the shadows, staring up at the window Polly said was Lady Bicknell’s. The curtains were drawn. It was impossible to tell whether there was anyone inside, whether a candle was lit.
With each passing minute, more dread gathered inside him, twisting, churning. Adam glanced at his watch. The hands had crawled another three minutes.
A carriage turned into Charles Street with a clatter of iron wheels and hooves. Adam tensed. Please, don’t let it be—
The carriage drove past.
He found he’d been holding his breath. He blew it out and looked up at the window. Damn it, Bella. Get out of there!
He tried to imagine what she was doing, but his thoughts slid sideways, to Kensington Gardens, to her voice, the anger blazing in her eyes. I’m not your dog or your child, to be told what to do!
Adam shifted his weight uncomfortably. He looked away from the window. Arabella’s voice continued relentlessly in his head: If this
