“Yes.”
“Send for a physician if—”
“I will,” Polly said.
St. Just turned to her. “I’ll visit you tomorrow. After I’ve seen Lady Bicknell. I’ll bring back Helen Dysart’s money. I promise.”
Arabella blinked back tears. “I found the money,” she said in a small voice.
St. Just looked at her for a moment, his face hidden in shadow. He said nothing.
Arabella twisted her hands together. “Adam . . .” Her voice wobbled. “She saw my face.”
“Then it’s just as well you’re covered in soot,” he said quietly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And then he vanished into the darkness.
ADAM WALKED RAPIDLY in the direction of Berkeley Square. After two blocks he stopped and leaned against a shadowy wall. He squeezed his eyes shut. Dear God, I almost killed her.
He stood for several minutes, trying to calm his breathing, but memory of that moment kept replaying in his head: the window shattering, Arabella falling—
It had been instinct to throw the stone—and it had been an incredibly stupid thing to do. Arabella could have broken her neck. She could have died.
She didn’t, he told himself. She didn’t break her neck. She’s all right. He knew that, and yet his hands were trembling and he had a tight, sick knot of horror in his belly.
Adam inhaled a shuddering breath. He opened his eyes and pushed away from the wall, heading for his house and a very stiff drink.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE NEXT MORNING Arabella’s left arm was almost too stiff to move. Her wrist was ringed with bruises where Lady Bicknell’s fingers had dug in. She couldn’t put any weight on her ankle; it was swollen to twice its normal size.
“Should I send for the physician?” Polly asked anxiously.
Arabella shook her head. “I need my writing materials. Can you please get them?”
Sitting up in bed with a tray on her knees, she wrote Tom’s last message, drew the black cat for the last time. Then she wrapped the message, Lady Bicknell’s drafted blackmail note, and the banknotes in brown paper and tied the package with string. “Can you take this around to Helen Dysart, please? Don’t let anyone recognize you.”
Polly departed, wearing a veiled hat.
Left alone, Arabella hugged her knees. The shaking had stopped, but the urge to cry was still strong. Why hadn’t St. Just yelled at her? Why hadn’t he said I told you so?
Tears welled in her eyes.
St. Just had been right about last night’s burglary; she should never have attempted it. It had been the height of arrogance, the height of stupidity.
Arabella blinked back tears. The world was bleak this morning. Her bedroom, with its pretty cream-and-rose wallpaper, the chintz curtains, the rose-embroidered coverlet, was drab and colorless. Even the sunlight streaming in the windows seemed tinged with gray.
The panic of agreeing to marry Adam St. Just was nothing compared to today’s despair.
She’d thrown St. Just’s offer of marriage back in his face. Why hadn’t she realized how precious his love was until it was too late?
A tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.
IN THE EARLY afternoon, when St. Just might be expected to call, Arabella made her way slowly downstairs, leaning on Polly’s arm for support, and sat on the chaise longue in the parlor with her foot propped up on a cushion. She made light of her ankle—Just a slight sprain, she told her grandmother with a laugh. I slipped getting out of bed—and hid the bruises on her wrist with a long-sleeved dress.
Lady Westwick was inclined to fuss over her.
“I’m fine, Grandmother,” Arabella said, smiling widely. She picked up the latest issue of Ackermann’s Repository. “I’ll just sit quietly and read.”
Lady Westwick departed to make her social calls. Arabella had done no more than restlessly flick through the fashion plates when the butler announced the arrival of a visitor.
“Mrs. Dysart? Yes, I’m at home to her.”
She put aside the magazine and smoothed her gown over her legs. I must not betray myself.
The door opened again. The butler bowed Helen Dysart into the parlor.
Arabella held out her hand. “Forgive me for not standing,” she said with a smile. “I’ve been foolish enough to turn my ankle.”
Helen came quickly across the room and clasped her hand. “What happened?”
Arabella pulled a rueful face. “I slipped climbing out of bed this morning. Very clumsy of me.”
Helen didn’t release her hand. She stood, looking down at her.
“Do have a seat,” Arabella said, unsettled by that intent gaze. “I’m glad you’ve come. I was afraid I’d offended you yesterday.”
“Offended me?” Helen released her hand. She chose a pretty giltwood chair, pulled it closer to the chaise longue, and sat, holding her reticule. She seemed to be in a state of suppressed excitement. “No, I’m not offended.” She stared at Arabella again.
That direct, searching gaze was disconcerting. Arabella shifted uncomfortably. “Would you like something to drink? Tea, perhaps?”
Helen shook her head. “Bella . . .” She leaned forward on the chair. “Mrs. Ingram paid me a visit, not half an hour ago. She said that Lady Bicknell almost captured the burglar Tom last night!”
Arabella feigned surprise. She opened her eyes wide. “Oh. How . . . exciting for her.”
“According to Mrs. Ingram, Tom is a small man with black eyes and a cleft chin.”
Arabella repressed the impulse to touch her chin. She clasped her hands in her lap. “Oh?” she said again.
“Yes,” Helen said, looking intently at her. “Apparently Tom was injured jumping from the window. Lady Bicknell said he was limping as he ran away.”
Arabella could think of nothing to say except “Oh,” again.
Helen clutched the reticule more tightly. Her eyes were very bright. “Bella . . . I know it was you!”
Arabella tried to laugh. The sound came out slightly unsteady. “Me? How absurd—”
“You match the description,” Helen said. “And look!” She opened the reticule, extracted a piece of paper, and held it out. “Tom sent me this, this morning.”
Arabella didn’t need to look at it; she knew the short message by heart. Mrs. Dysart, with my compliments, Tom. She pretended to read it
