He heard his father’s voice again: I expect better behavior of you than this. You’re a St. Just!
Adam pushed the memory of his father irritably aside. He dipped the quill in ink. What else did he know about the thief?
1813, Tom appears, he wrote, the quill scratching lightly across the paper. The thief had been active every year since, apart from . . . 1816, Tom absent. Why? Had Tom undertaken the Grand Tour?
Adam laid the quill down. He’d find the answer to that question when he discovered the thief’s identity.
He read his notes one more time before folding them with Tom’s message—the cat still challenging him with its stare—and placing them in his desk drawer. He stood and stretched, aware that he was hungry.
Aunt Seraphina was in the morning room, her head bent over her needlework.
“Where’s Grace?
“In the parlor, with a visitor.”
Adam whistled lightly under his breath as he walked along the corridor. The door to the blue parlor was ajar. He heard the sound of female voices and his mood brightened still further. This was what he’d wanted for Grace: friends, gaiety. Her Season had had a shaky start, to be sure, but things were looking up now and—
Grace and her friend turned their heads at his entrance. Adam froze. His face stiffened in shock.
Arabella Knightley put down her teacup. She appeared to be suppressing a smile.
Adam shut the door with a snap and advanced into the room. “Miss Knightley. What a . . . pleasant surprise.”
Her eyebrows arched in amusement. She knew his opinion of her—all London knew that.
Marry Arabella Knightley? Certainly, if one wishes to live with the smell of the gutter.
The words seemed to hang between them in the air, words he’d uttered seven years ago. Words the ton had taken up with glee.
Adam felt a swift rush of shame. He bowed stiffly.
“Would you care to join us, Mr. St. Just?” Miss Knightley’s voice was smooth and amused.
Do you think I’ll leave my sister alone with you? Adam chose a lyre-backed chair at a distance from her and sat. His eyes lighted on a silver platter of macaroons. His stomach almost rumbled.
“Bella and I have been talking about . . . oh, so many things!”
Bella? Adam jerked his attention from the macaroons. His sister was calling Miss Knightley, Bella?
Not for long, he promised grimly. This was one friendship he was going to terminate.
He glanced at Miss Knightley. She was watching him. Her face was composed into an expression of politeness, but there was something in those dark eyes that made him uncomfortable.
Adam looked away, at her teacup and saucer, at her plate, and tried to identify what it was he’d glimpsed. Not amusement or laughter this time. Something darker, something—
Loathing.
He shifted uncomfortably in the chair and stared at her plate. Crumbs lay on it, golden and delicious. His mouth began to water.
“We’ve been discussing the subject of marriage. Grace says you’re going to choose a husband for her.”
His gaze jerked up. “Yes,” he said, a short, clipped word with a silent message: And it’s none of your business.
Arabella Knightley smiled. She turned her attention to Grace. “I’m certain your brother will choose a man of impeccable breeding and handsome fortune—but there are more important things to a husband than that.”
Adam narrowed his eyes. He opened his mouth.
“Do you want a husband who’s kind?” Miss Knightley asked. “A man who prefers to laugh, or frown? An impatient man? A proud man?”
Grace’s brow creased thoughtfully. “Oh.”
“I shall take into account the man’s character,” Adam said stiffly. The note of censure in his voice was clearer this time.
Again, Miss Knightley didn’t hear it. “Of course you will,” she said affably. “But are the characteristics you’re looking for the same ones that Grace wants?” Her expression was friendly, but there was a disconcerting gleam in her dark eyes, something . . . adversarial.
She’s baiting me, Adam realized.
Miss Knightley turned to Grace again. “It’s you who’ll have to live with this man, not your brother, so you must be certain he’s someone who’ll make you happy.”
“But . . . how shall I know?”
“By observation over a period of time. Which is why I suggest you not be in a hurry to marry.”
Adam frowned. “Miss Knightley—”
“You’re not on the shelf,” Arabella Knightley said to Grace, ignoring him. “Far from it! Don’t allow yourself to be rushed into something you must live with forever.”
“Miss Knightley,” Adam said curtly. “The subject of my sister’s marriage is none—”
“You have your own marriage to consider.” Arabella Knightley turned her smile to him. “Don’t you, Mr. St. Just?”
Adam blinked. “I beg your pardon?” he said, retreating into hauteur, looking down his nose at her.
Miss Knightley’s smile sharpened. “Grace tells me you’re looking for a bride. Do choose wisely, Mr. St. Just. Think how tragic it would be if you married someone who made your life miserable.”
Adam looked at her in dislike.
“Adam . . . ?” Grace said uncertainly. “You won’t—”
“Of course not,” he said.
Miss Knightley abandoned her needling of him. “Enough of marriage!” she said to Grace. Her smile became more natural. “Shall we talk about books? Which do you prefer? The Mysteries of Udolpho or The Italian?”
“Oh, Udolpho!” Grace said. “And you?”
Adam glowered at Miss Knightley. She looked the perfect lady, dressed in white muslin, dark ringlets clustered about her shapely head, but there was a vixen buried beneath that enchanting exterior.
His eyes lingered on her face, taking unwilling note of her features: the creamy skin, the soft mouth, the tantalizing indentation in her chin. He was aware of a traitorous flare of attraction—
Adam wrenched his gaze away. He frowned down at the table. The golden crumbs on Miss Knightley’s plate caught his eye again.
“Are you hungry, Mr. St. Just? Would you like a macaroon?”
“Yes, do have some, Adam.” Grace held the silver platter out to him. “They’re delicious.”
His stomach threatened to rumble. Adam reached out and took two. Chewing, he listened as Miss Knightley and Grace discussed Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. He ate six macaroons, wincing each time
