My Lady Thief

Chapter One The thief stood in front of Lady Bicknell’s dressing table and looked with disapproval at the objects strewn across it: glass vials of perfume, discarded handkerchiefs, a clutter of pots and jars of cosmetics—rouge, maquillage; many gaping open, their contents drying—two silver-backed hair brushes with strands of hair caught among the bristles, a messy pile of earrings, the faceted jewels glinting dully in the candlelight. The thief stirred the earrings with a fingertip. Gaudy. Tasteless. In need of cleaning. The dressing table, the mess, offended the thief’s tidy soul. She pursed her lips and examined the earrings again, more slowly. The diamonds were paste, the sapphires nothing more than colored glass, the rubies . . . She picked up a ruby earring and looked at it closely. Real, but such a garish, vulgar setting. The thief grimaced and put the earring back, more neatly than its owner had done. There was nothing on the dressing table that interested her. She turned to the mahogany dresser. It stood in the corner, crouching on bowed legs like a large toad. Three wide drawers and at the top, three small ones, side by side, beneath a frowning mirror. The thief quietly opened the drawers and let her fingers sift through the contents, stirring the woman’s scent from the garments: perspiration, perfume. The topmost drawer on the left, filled with a tangle of silk stockings and garters, wasn’t as deep as the others. For a moment the thief stood motionless, listening for footsteps in the corridor, listening to the breeze stir the curtains at the open window, then she pulled the drawer out and laid it on the floor. Behind the drawer of stockings was another drawer, small and discreet, and inside that . . . The thief grinned as she lifted out the bracelet. Pearls gleamed in the candlelight, exquisite, expensive. The drawer contained—besides the bracelet—a matching pair of pearl earrings and four letters. The thief took the earrings and replaced the letters. She was easing the drawer back into its slot when a name caught her eye. St. Just. St. Just. The name brought with it memory of a handsome face and gray eyes, memory of humiliation—and a surge of hatred. She hesitated for a second, and then reached for the letters. The first one was brief and to the point. Here, as requested, is my pearl bracelet. In exchange, I must ask for the return of my letter. It was signed Grace St. Just. The thief frowned and unfolded the second letter. It was written in the same girlish hand as the first. The date made her pause—November 6th, 1817. The day Princess Charlotte had died, although the letter writer wouldn’t have known that at the time. Dearest Reginald, the letter started. The thief skimmed over a passionate declaration of love and slowed to read the final paragraph. I miss you unbearably. Every minute seems like an hour, every day a year. The thought of being parted from you is unendurable. If it must be elopement, then so be it. A tearstain marked the ink. Your loving Grace. The thief picked up the third letter. It was a draft, some words crossed out, others scribbled in the margins. My dear Miss St. Just, I have a letter of yours you wrote to a Mr. Reginald Plunkett of Birmingham has come into my possession. If you want it back. In exchange for its return. I should like to return this letter to you. In exchange I want ask nothing more than your pearl bracelet. You may leave it the bracelet for me in the Dutch garden in the Kensington Palace Gardens. Place it Hide it in the urn at the northeastern corner of the pond. The thief thinned her lips. She stopped reading and picked up the final letter. Another draft. Dear Miss St. Just, thank you for the bracelet. I find, however, that I want require the necklace the earrings as well. You may leave them in the same place. Do not worry about the your letter; I have it it is safe in my keeping. The thief slowly refolded the paper. Blackmail. There was a sour taste in her mouth. She looked down at the bracelet and earrings, at the love letter, and bit her lower lip. What to do? St. Just. Memory flooded through her: the smothered laughter of the ton, the sniggers and the sideways glances, the gleeful whispers. The thief tightened her lips. Resentment burned in her breast and heated her cheeks. Adam St. Just could rot in hell for all she cared, but Grace St. Just . . . Grace St. Just didn’t deserve this. Her decision made, the thief gathered the contents of the hidden drawer—letters and jewels—and tucked them into the pouch she wore around her waist, hidden beneath shirt and trousers. Swiftly she replaced both drawers. Crossing the room, she plucked the ruby earrings from the objects littering Lady Bicknell’s dressing table. The rubies went into the pouch, nestling alongside the pearls. The thief propped an elegant square of card among the remaining earrings. The message inscribed on it was brief: Should p*****t be made for a spiteful tongue? Tom thinks so. There was no signature; a drawing of a lean alley cat adorned the bottom of the note. The thief gave a satisfied nod. Justice done. She glanced at the mirror. In the candlelight her eyes were black. Her face was soot-smudged and unrecognizable. For a moment she stared at herself, unsettled, then she lifted a finger to touch the faint cleft in her chin. That, at least, was recognizable, whether she wore silk dresses or boys’ clothing in rough, dark fabric. The thief turned away from her image in the mirror. She trod quietly towards the open window. Adam St. Just found his half-sister in the morning room, reading a letter. Her hair gleamed like spun gold in the sunlight. “Grace?” His sister gave a convulsive start and clutched the letter to her breast. A bundle of items on her lap slid to the floor. Something landed with a light thud. Adam saw the glimmer of pearls. “Is that your bracelet? I thought you’d lost—” He focused on her face. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” Grace hastily wiped her cheeks. “Just something in my eye.” She bent and hurriedly gathered several pieces of paper and the bracelet. A pearl earring lay stranded on the carpet. Adam nudged it with the toe of his boot. “And this?” He picked up the earring and held it out. Grace flushed. She took the earring Adam frowned at her. “Grace, what is it?” “Nothing.” Her smile was bright, but her eyes slid away from his. Adam sat down on the sofa alongside her. “Grace . . .” he said, and then stopped, at a loss to know how to proceed. The physical distance between them—a few inches of rose-pink damask—may as well have been a chasm. The twelve years that separated them, the difference in their genders, seemed insurmountable barriers. He felt a familiar sense of helplessness, a familiar knowledge that he was failing in his guardianship of her. He looked at his sister’s downcast eyes, the curve of her cheek, the slender fingers clutching the pearl earring. I love you, Grace. He cleared his throat and tried to say the words aloud. “Grace, I hope you know that I . . . care about you and that I want you to be happy.” It was apparently the wrong thing to say. Grace began to cry. Adam hesitated for a moment, dismayed, and then put his arm around her. To his relief, Grace didn’t pull away. She turned towards him, burying her face in his shoulder. It hurt to hear her cry. Adam swallowed and tightened his grip on her. She’d grown thinner since their arrival in London, paler, quieter. I should take her home. To hell with the Season. The storm of tears lessened. Adam stroked his sister’s hair. “What is it, Grace?” “I didn’t want to disappoint you again,” she sobbed. “You’ve never disappointed me.” Grace shook her head against his shoulder. “Last year . . .” She didn’t need to say more; they both knew what she was referring to. “I was angry—but not with you.” He’d been more than angry: he’d been furious. Furious at Reginald Plunkett, furious at the school for hiring the man, but mostly furious at himself for not visiting Grace more often, for not realizing how lonely she was, how vulnerable to the smiles and compliments of her music teacher. The anger stirred again, tightening in his chest as if a fist was clenched there. I should have horsewhipped him. I should have broken every bone in his body. Adam dug in his pocket for a handkerchief. Grace had come perilously close to ruin. Even now, six months later, he woke in a cold sweat from dreams—nightmares—where he’d delayed his journey by one day, where he’d arrived in Bath to find her gone. “Here,” he said, handing her the handkerchief. Grace dried her cheeks. Adam smiled at her. “Now, tell me what’s wrong.” Grace looked down at her lap, at the papers and the pearls. She extracted a sheet of paper and handed it to him. My dear Miss St. Just, I have a letter of yours you wrote to a Mr. Reginald Plunkett of Birmingham has come into my possession. If you want it back. In exchange for its return. I should like to return this letter to you. In exchange I want ask nothing more than your pearl bracelet. “What!” He stared at his sister. “Someone’s blackmailing you?” Grace bit her lip. Adam’s fingers tightened on the sheet of paper. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Her gaze fell. Because you were afraid I’d be angry at you, disappointed in you. Adam swallowed. He looked back at the blackmail letter without seeing it. He rubbed his face with one hand. “Grace . . .” “Here.” She handed him another piece of paper. The writing was the same as the first, the intent as ugly. “You did what this person asked? You gave them your pearls?” His rage made the sunlight seem as sharp-edged as a sword. The room swung around him for a moment, vivid with anger. He focused on a chair. The rose-pink damask had become the deep crimson of blood, the gilded wood was as bright as flames. How dared anyone do this to her? The sheet of paper crumpled in his fist. I’ll kill them— “Yes.” Grace gathered the bracelet and the earrings within the curve of her palm. Adam blinked. His anger fell away, replaced by confusion. “Then why—?” “Tom returned them to me.” “Tom?” He blinked again at the elegant piece of paper she handed him, at the brief message, the signature, the cat drawn in black ink at the bottom of the page. His interest sharpened. That Tom. I believe these belong to you, Tom had written. I found them in Lady Bicknell’s possession. “And the letter to Reginald Plunkett?” Grace touched a folded piece of paper in her lap. Adam read the note again. Tom. “The devil,” he said, under his breath. He fastened his gaze on his sister. “Was there anything else? Anything that might identify him?” Grace shook her head. Adam touched the ink-drawn cat with a fingertip. It stared back at him, sitting with its tail curled across its paws, unblinking, calm. He lifted his eyes to the signature, and above that to the message. “Lady Bicknell,” he said aloud, and the rage came back. “Apparently,” Grace said. The blackmail letters were clearly drafts. “You have the ones she sent you?” Grace shook her head. “I burned them.” Adam reread Lady Bicknell’s letters, letting his eyes rest on each and every word, scored out or not. “She’ll pay for this,” he said grimly. “By God, if she thinks she can—!” He recollected himself, glanced at his sister’s face, and forced himself to sit back on the sofa, to form his mouth into a smile. “Forget this, Grace. It’s over.” “Yes,” said Grace, but her expression was familiar: pale, miserable. She’d worn it four years ago when her mother died, and she’d worn it last November when she’d learned the truth about Reginald Plunkett. Adam reached for her hand. “How odd, that we must be grateful to a thief.” He laughed, tried to make a joke of it. Grace smiled dutifully. Adam looked at her, noting the paleness of her cheeks, the faint shadows beneath the blue eyes. “Grace, would you like to go home?” Away from the press of buildings and people and the sly whispers of gossip. Her face lit up, as if the sun had come from behind a cloud. “Oh, yes!” “Then I’ll arrange it.” “Thank you!” She pulled her hand free from his grasp and embraced him, swift and wholly unexpected.