The glint in Arabella Knightley’s eyes, the faint edge to her smile, told him she knew he was lying.
Adam bowed over her hand, and then turned to watch her leave the room. His eyes lingered in unwilling appreciation on her figure. Miss Knightley’s ankles, glimpsed beneath the flounced hem of her gown, were very fine.
He cleared his throat and turned to Grace. “I thought I made it quite clear last night that I don’t want you associating with Miss Knightley.”
Grace glanced at him. “You did.”
“Then what was she doing here—”
“I like her,” Grace said. “And so does Aunt Seraphina.”
Adam inhaled slowly. “Grace, I utterly forbid you to have anything to do—”
“You sound exactly like Father.”
His head jerked slightly back. He blinked, offended. “I beg your pardon?”
“If I want to be friends with Bella, I will!”
Bella. Adam gritted his teeth at the sound of that name on his sister’s tongue. He inhaled another slow breath and tried to speak calmly. “Grace, you’re being unreasonable. I really must insist. Miss Knightley is not someone you should associate with.”
“Her birth is noble.”
“Yes, but—”
“She’s not baseborn. Is she?”
“No, but—”
“So what has she done?”
“Her mother—”
“What has Bella done that deserves censure?”
Adam looked at his sister in silence. “Nothing,” he said after a long moment. He sighed, and sat down beside her. “Grace, I’d prefer not to go into the details—”
“I wish you would!”
Adam looked at his sister. Her eyes were wide and interested.
He shifted uneasily on the sofa. Not for the first time he realized how ill-equipped he was for the role of guardian. How much should he tell a girl of Grace’s age? “Ask your Aunt Seraphina,” he said cravenly.
“I have,” Grace said. “She was very vague.”
Adam made a show of looking at his watch. “Is that the time? I really must be going.”
The expression on Grace’s face, the skeptical lift of her eyebrows, was wholly adult.
Adam ignored it. He rose and started for the door.
“Then I shall ask Bella,” Grace said to his back.
Adam halted. He turned around and stared at her.
Grace clasped her hands in her lap and stared back at him. Her whole attitude was one of hopefulness.
Better I tell her than Miss Knightley does. Who knew the sordid details Arabella Knightley would include in her recital?
Adam walked back to the sofa and sat. He straightened his cuffs and flicked a piece of lint off his sleeve, wondering what exactly to say. Keep it brief. He cleared his throat and spoke: “Miss Knightley’s father was the second son of the Earl of Westwick. Her mother was the daughter of a French comte. They met in France before the Terror and married without the permission of either of their families.” He glanced at Grace. “She was a Catholic, you understand.”
Grace nodded, wide-eyed. “They were disowned?”
“He was; Westwick was notoriously bad-tempered. As for her . . .” Adam shrugged. “The Terror was starting. I understand her family were among the first victims.”
“Oh.”
“Knightley brought his wife to England and they lived in Kent for a number of years—in reduced circumstances, I believe, but quite respectably—and then he died.”
“How old was Bella?”
“Five, or so.” Adam shrugged again. “Knightley left his widow no income, so she approached Westwick, asking for help. The earl refused to let her set foot inside his house. He said he’d take the child, but not her.”
“And she chose—”
“She chose to keep her daughter.”
Grace moistened her lips. “What happened then?”
Adam looked at the silver platter and the last macaroon, stranded amid a sea of crumbs. “Mrs. Knightley went to live with a friend of her husband’s, a nobleman. After a time, she became his mistress. By all accounts she was a very beautiful woman.”
“And Bella?”
“Was with her.”
Grace was silent for a moment. “But that’s not so bad, is it?” she ventured. “Quite a number of married ladies have . . . have affaires and are still received everywhere.”
He glanced at her. Where had she learned that? “True, but Mrs. Knightley had more than one protector over a number of years, and then, when her beauty failed her, she descended into London’s slums—taking her daughter with her.”
Grace plucked at a thread on the arm of the sofa. “Was Mrs. Knightley a . . . a fallen woman in the slums?”
“Yes,” Adam said.
Grace bit her lip. She pulled the piece of thread free and wound it around her fingertip. “How long was Bella there?” she asked, not looking at him.
“Until her mother died. Three or four years, I think. She was twelve when Westwick took her in.”
“Twelve?” Grace said, glancing at him.
Adam nodded, remembering the twelve-year-old Grace had been: shy, eager, innocent.
“How horrible for Bella,” his sister said, her expression sober.
Adam shrugged. “Westwick educated her, made her heir to his fortune when his sons died without issue, launched her into Society—”
“No,” Grace said. “I meant, how horrible for Bella to lose both her parents.” She bit her lip and then smiled crookedly at him. “She was younger than I was when Mother died—and she didn’t have a brother.”
Adam had no memory of his own mother’s death—he’d been in swaddling clothes—but he had a vivid recollection of Grace’s mother dying.
He looked at his sister, remembering the lost, dazed expression in her eyes, the bleakness in her face, her silent grief as she’d clung to him—and remembering, too, the surge of love he’d felt for her, the fierce need to protect her.
He cleared his throat. “No,” he said. “Miss Knightley didn’t have a brother.”
Grace was silent for a moment. “I want to be friends with her.”
Adam rubbed his brow. “Grace,” he said. “Miss Knightley isn’t good ton.” He hesitated, reluctant to tell her. “In London she’s known as—”
“Miss Smell o’ Gutters. Yes, I know.”
Adam winced. Shame heated his face. Miss Smell o’ Gutters. A name that could be laid at his door. No wonder she hates me.
“I don’t care about that—or about any of it! Any more than
