“Only you knew I was being blackmailed,” Helen said quietly, putting the note back in her reticule.
Arabella moistened her lips. “A fluke,” she said. “Tom just happened to be at Lady Bicknell’s last night and he found—”
“It was you,” Helen said, with utter conviction in her voice. “Lady Bicknell described you perfectly. And you’ve hurt your leg.”
Arabella tried to laugh again. “Helen—”
“I came to thank you . . . and to warn you. Bella, you must be careful!”
Arabella looked away from that direct gaze. “Helen,” she said. “Indeed, you’re wrong . . .”
“I know I’m not.” Helen stood and bent swiftly, hugging Arabella. “Thank you so much.” Her grip tightened. “And for heaven’s sake, be careful! If you should be ruined because of me—”
“I won’t be,” Arabella said. She bit her lip. They were words she shouldn’t have uttered, an acknowledgement that she was Tom.
Helen released her and kissed her cheek. “Thank you,” she said once more. “And be careful!” She picked up her reticule and crossed the room. For a moment she paused at the door, looking back, dressed in the severe black of full mourning. She raised her hand, a gesture of thanks, of farewell, opened the door and was gone.
Arabella stayed where she was, sitting on the chaise longue, staring at the door. A small man with black eyes and a cleft chin. He was limping as he ran away. She touched her chin, fingered the indentation. The moment Lady Bicknell saw her, recognition would spark.
Arabella closed her eyes. There was no proof she was Tom, she would never dangle from a hangman’s rope—but once the rumors started . . .
I’m ruined.
A week ago she wouldn’t have cared; now she did. If she was ruined, then so too was her grandmother. And as for Adam St. Just—
A tear crept down her cheek.
If Adam St. Just should renew his offer, she would have to say no.
A GLAZIER WAS installing a new pane of glass in Lady Bicknell’s bedroom window. Adam traced the path of Arabella’s fall with his eyes—from the windowsill to the projecting stone canopy below, to the pavement—and felt again that stomach-twisting horror. She could easily have broken her neck.
He crossed the road, trod up the steps to Lady Bicknell’s door, and plied the knocker.
The butler escorted him to a drawing room decorated in an unattractive shade of green. Lady Bicknell was seated on a sofa, a squat, stout figure. Adam glanced at her gown. Someone really should tell her that so many flounces on one dress was unflattering. He made a shallow bow.
“Please be seated, Mr. St. Just.”
He chose a chair directly opposite her and sat.
Lady Bicknell smiled. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Adam looked at her broad face and felt a surge of loathing. Such a despicable hobby, blackmail. “This,” he said, and removed the bundle of papers from his pocket. He unfolded the topmost page and laid it on the low table between them. “This is the draft of a blackmail letter to my sister. Very ugly, I think you’ll agree. And here . . .” he placed the next piece of paper alongside the first, “. . . is another one.” He glanced at Lady Bicknell. “I received these in the mail, courtesy of a gentleman named Tom. I believe you’re acquainted with him?”
Lady Bicknell stared at the pieces of paper. She made no movement, no sound.
Adam smiled, enjoying her stupefied expression. He unfolded the third and final page and laid it alongside the other two. “I received this from Tom the week before last. A letter he’d intercepted to . . .” he squinted and pretended to read the writing. “Lady Mary Vane. Discussing a charity function. I think we’ll agree it’s in your hand, won’t we, Lady Bicknell? Your signature is at the bottom of the page.” He glanced at her again. Her expression was frozen.
“Compare these letters,” he invited her. “I think you’ll clearly see, as I have, that the writing on all three is the same. And here . . .” he tapped the letter to Mary Vane, “. . . is your signature, Lady Bicknell.”
Adam sat back in his chair. He crossed his legs and swung one foot, at ease. “I received another message from Tom this morning, informing me that you had the . . . er, ill-breeding to blackmail Mrs. Dysart. He was most unimpressed.”
Lady Bicknell transferred her stare from the pieces of paper to him.
Adam steepled his fingers and looked at her over the top of them. “Nothing to say?” he asked softly.
Lady Bicknell swallowed, an audible sound. “This is nonsense. Lies!”
Adam smiled and swung his foot. “Your signature speaks for itself, Lady Bicknell.”
“How dare you make such an accusation! You’re in league with this . . . this thief.”
“Regretfully, I’m not. I should like to be; I approve wholeheartedly of his tactics.” Adam stopped swinging his foot. “There are certain people in this world, Lady Bicknell, who deserve to be punished. You are one of them.”
Outrage flushed her broad face. “How dare—”
“No,” Adam said, his voice flat and hard. “The question is, how dare you? This—” he indicated the blackmail letters with his hand, “is utterly despicable! It’s the work of a person of the meanest, basest character!”
The color deepened on Lady Bicknell’s face. Her eyes slid away from his.
Adam resteepled his hands. He began swinging his foot again. “You have a choice, Lady Bicknell. I suggest you listen carefully.” He waited until she looked at him. “Your first option is to leave London tomorrow. You will return to your home in Colne and never set foot outside Lancashire again. Ever.”
“But—”
“Your reputation will remain intact,” Adam said, overriding her protest. “However, if you choose the second option, it will not.” He held her gaze and said softly, “If you choose to remain in London, I will lay charges with a magistrate and tell the world that you’re a blackmailer . . . and I can guarantee that the beaumonde will turn their backs on you. You will be outcast, Lady Bicknell.”
Lady Bicknell said nothing. The flush had faded from her
