“You may think that I daren’t expose you,” Adam said, in a conversational tone. “That I daren’t risk my sister’s reputation. But I know—and you doubtless do, too—that Grace didn’t run off with Reginald Plunkett. She’s guilty of writing a love letter, but not of eloping.” He shrugged lightly. “A young girl’s folly. In a year it will be forgotten. My sister is wealthy enough, and well-connected enough, that she’ll make a good match.”
Adam swung his foot and watched Lady Bicknell over his steepled fingers. “Your choice, Lady Bicknell? Will you leave, or stay?”
Lady Bicknell wet her lips. There was a sheen of perspiration on her face. “Leave,” she said, in a hoarse voice. “But—”
“No buts, Lady Bicknell,” Adam said, smiling. “You’ll leave London tomorrow. If you don’t, I shall ruin you so thoroughly that you won’t dare show your face in public ever again. If you set foot outside Lancashire, I shall ruin you. If any word about George Dysart’s death reaches the ears of the ton, if you attempt to blackmail Helen Dysart again, I shall ruin you. Is that clear?”
Lady Bicknell cast him a glance. He saw hatred in her eyes. “Yes.”
Adam looked at her for a moment, gently swinging his foot. “Tell me . . . how did you come to be in possession of Grace’s love letter?”
“I don’t have to tell you—”
Adam stopped swinging his foot. “Lady Bicknell, you’re not in a position to argue with me.”
Lady Bicknell flushed. “I was in Birmingham,” she said, her voice sullen. “In November last year. My abigail made Mr. Plunkett’s acquaintance after he’d been turned off. He confided his story in her, and . . . she told me.”
“Knowing you’d make use of it, no doubt.” His voice was contemptuous.
Lady Bicknell said nothing.
“How much did you pay for the letter?”
“Twenty guineas.”
“And George Dysart’s death? Was it your maid who discovered the truth of that?”
“Yes,” Lady Bicknell said again, not looking at him. “I thought there might be more to the story than had been broadcast. I sent her to . . . to make the acquaintance of Mr. Dysart’s valet, and from him she learned which brothel he’d been visiting that night.”
“An enterprising woman, this abigail of yours,” Adam said. “Alas, I fear you’ll have to do without her from now on.”
Lady Bicknell glanced at him swiftly.
“Your maid takes the next ship to America,” Adam said, holding her eyes. “Is that clear?”
“But—”
“Is that clear?” he repeated in a hard voice.
Lady Bicknell lowered her gaze. “Yes.”
“Good.” Adam stood and walked across to the writing desk beneath the window. A quick search revealed a quill, ink, and paper. He brought them back to the table. “Your word that you’ll do as you have promised, Lady Bicknell. In black and white, so there can be no mistaking it.”
“But surely—”
“Lady Bicknell, given your history, do you think I’m inclined to trust you?”
She was silent as he uncapped the inkpot and handed her the quill.
Adam sat again. “I, Pamela Vera Bicknell, of Donwick Hall, Colne, Lancashire . . .” he dictated.
Lady Bicknell glanced at him swiftly.
Adam smiled at her, baring his teeth. “I had my man of business investigate you, Lady Bicknell. You’d be surprised how much I know about you and your affairs. Donwick Hall needs a new roof, or so I’m told . . .”
Lady Bicknell pressed her lips together. She began to write. I, Pamela Vera Bicknell, of Donwick Hall, Colne, Lancashire—
“Do hereby admit that, in November 1817, I purchased from Mr. Reginald Plunkett . . .”
The quill scratched across the paper.
“. . . a letter written to him by Miss Grace St. Just, and that I subsequently used this letter to obtain a pearl bracelet and pearl earrings from her.”
Lady Bicknell finished one sheet of paper. She put it aside and drew a second sheet towards herself. Her glance was malevolent.
Adam smiled and gently swung his foot. “Further, I directed my maid—please write her name, Lady Bicknell—to seek information concerning the death of George Dysart in May 1818, and, by threatening to reveal the particulars of Mr. Dysart’s death, I extorted five thousand pounds from his widow.” He waited until she’d caught up. “And a final line, at the bottom of the page: I do freely admit these things.”
Lady Bicknell hesitated, and then dipped her quill in the inkpot. She wrote stiffly: I do freely admit these things.
“Another sheet of paper, Lady Bicknell.”
She didn’t look at him this time, just pulled another page towards her. Her posture, her whole manner, was eloquent of rage.
“I pledge my secrecy on the aforementioned matters, and give my word not to engage in any further blackmail activities.” Adam watched over his steepled fingers as she wrote. “Further, I pledge to return to Lancashire tomorrow and to not set foot outside that county for the rest of my life.”
Lady Bicknell dipped her quill again, almost knocking over the inkpot, so violent was the movement. “Lancashire!” The word burst from her. “Why can’t I—”
Because you saw Tom’s face. “It is a condition of our agreement,” Adam said coldly. “Be thankful Lancashire is a moderately large county.”
Her lips pinched together. She wrote, digging the quill into the page, almost tearing the paper.
“In exchange, charges will not be laid against me and my reputation shall remain intact. And now you may sign it, Lady Bicknell. And date it today, May thirtieth.”
She did.
Adam read the confession while the ink dried. Lady Bicknell had made no attempt to disguise her handwriting; it matched both the letter and the blackmail drafts. “Excellent,” he said.
Lady Bicknell made no comment.
Adam gathered the pages. “I’ll have my man of business check that your maid leaves for America.” He stood and looked down at Lady Bicknell. “Remember,” he said softly. “I have the power to ruin you.”
Lady Bicknell made no reply. Her eyes shone with hatred.
“Good day, madam. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.” At the door he paused and looked back at her, smiling. “Enjoy your journey to Lancashire.”
ADAM ST. JUST arrived half an hour after Helen Dysart had departed. Arabella’s chest tightened painfully as
