Adam grimaced. He’d been as peremptory as his father, as dictatorial. I’d have been angry, too, if I were her.
His head jerked around as another carriage turned into Charles Street. The horses slowed to a walk. The carriage halted outside Lady Bicknell’s house.
ARABELLA SAT BACK on her heels. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She’d searched every inch of Lady Bicknell’s bedchamber and dressing room, examined every drawer, inspected every item of clothing, turned up the rugs, checked the mattress, looked behind the mirrors and underneath the chair seats. The banknotes weren’t slipped down the back of a painting or hidden inside a vase, they hadn’t been stitched into a cushion or stuffed down the toe of a shoe. If they were somewhere in the house, it wasn’t here.
She swore beneath her breath and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. She’d been here too long. Any moment now—
Arabella looked at the clock more intently. It was made of lacquered mahogany and gilt. It was large enough . . .
She pushed to her feet and hurried across the room.
The clock was surprisingly heavy. She took it down and unfastened the catch. The back sprang open.
Yes! Breath hissed triumphantly between her teeth.
The clock contained the package of banknotes, still wrapped in black cloth. Crammed in with it was a folded piece of paper. Arabella smoothed the creases and read swiftly.
Dear Mrs. Dysart,
It has come to my knowledge attention that your husband was at a Molly House brothel when he died met his untimely end. I wonder whether you knew Were you aware that his choice of prostitute companion that night was male? Further, were you aware did you know that he your husband was with a young boy?
I feel certain that you do will not wish to make have these details made known public. In exchange for my silence on this matter, I would like am willing to accept the sum of three five thousand pounds. You may place Leave the money in the Dutch garden at Kensington . . .
Arabella grimaced. She refolded the paper and hurriedly stuffed both it and the package into the pouch beneath her shirt. She placed the clock back on the mantelpiece and reached up to balance Tom’s message on top. Among the foulest of God’s creatures is the blackmailer. The black cat sat underneath, his gaze contemptuous.
Behind her, the door opened. “—shoes pinch my toes,” a peevish voice said.
Arabella swung around.
Lady Bicknell stood in the doorway, massive in a gown of lilac satin with deep flounces. On her head was a cornette of tulle and lace.
Time seemed to halt as they stared at each other. Arabella’s heart stopped beating, the clock stopped ticking. Everything froze—
Lady Bicknell uttered a shriek.
Arabella dropped Tom’s note. She ran for the window, shoved aside the curtains, and thrust her leg over the sill.
“Thief!” screamed Lady Bicknell. “Thief!”
Arabella scrambled out the window. She hung for a moment, gripping the sill, her feet desperately scrabbling for a toe hold. There were none. Just jump!
A hand clamped around her wrist. “Got you!” Lady Bicknell cried.
Arabella pushed away from the wall of the house, trying to fall, to jump—
Lady Bicknell grunted and hung on, her fingers digging in. “Thief!” she screamed.
Time seemed to halt again. Arabella hung suspended. It felt as if her arm was being wrenched from its socket, her hand torn from her wrist. She saw the triumph in Lady Bicknell’s eyes, saw the rouge on her cheeks, heard her panted breaths—
The window shattered with a crack of glass.
Lady Bicknell recoiled, shrieking.
Arabella landed on the stone window canopy, tumbled off it, and fell to the pavement, landing hard, knocking the breath from her lungs.
She lay for a moment, stunned, listening to Lady Bicknell’s screams through the broken window two floors up. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe—
Get up! Run!
She lurched to her feet. A sharp pain stabbed up her right ankle. She began to run unsteadily, limping, too dazed to see where she was going.
A figure loomed alongside. Hands grabbed her.
Arabella wrenched free, staggering, falling to one knee.
“It’s me,” a male voice said, and then someone picked her up as if she was a sack of potatoes and began to run.
FOR SEVERAL MINUTES everything was hectic, confused, a blur edged with terror—and then the world steadied and came into focus again. She understood what was happening: she was slung over Adam St. Just’s shoulder; Polly ran alongside them.
St. Just lowered her to the ground in an alleyway and crouched over her. “Bella . . .” He was panting. “Are you all right?”
Arabella pushed up to sit. She was shaking, uncontrollable shudders that seemed to come from deep inside her. “I’m fine.”
St. Just obviously didn’t believe her. He ran his hands over her face, her skull. “You’re not cut? The glass—”
“I’m fine,” she said again, and almost burst into tears.
“Is nothing broken? You fell so far—”
Arabella sat shaking, fighting tears, while St. Just felt his way down each arm—shoulder, elbow, wrist—and then each leg. He worked in silence, the touch of his hands firm yet careful. Why didn’t he yell at her? Tell her she’d been stupid, foolish, arrogant? That it served her right?
She flinched when he reached her right ankle.
“Painful?” St. Just examined the joint carefully, then released her foot and sat back on his heels. “I don’t think it’s broken.”
Arabella struggled to her feet, ignoring the stab of pain. She took a limping step.
“Your ankle—”
“It’s just a sprain,” she said, trying not to cry.
St. Just swung her into his arms.
“This way,” Polly said.
Their route took them via back alleys and mews. St. Just carried her like a child, cradled close. Arabella squeezed her eyes shut against tears. The shaking inside her refused to stop.
In the mews behind her grandmother’s house, in a dark pool of shadow, St. Just lowered her to the ground again. “You’ll take care of her?”
