My Lady Thief

Chapter 2-1

Chapter Two

Adam rode out the next morning under a gray sky. London’s roads were damp from a night’s rain. He passed through the gate into Hyde Park, inhaling the scents of wet grass and wet earth and the rich, fresh smell of horse manure. The Row was relatively empty. Adam urged Goliath into a canter. He liked mornings like this, when the ton stayed abed and he could almost pretend he was at home, exercising Goliath on the Downs, not surrounded by the sprawl and clamor of London.

His thoughts turned to Grace as he rode up and down the strip of tan. Last night she’d smiled, danced, even laughed. The Season, which had begun to look like a disaster, could be saved. He’d find a husband for Grace, a man of good birth and character, a man who’d take care of her.

Adam was conscious of a feeling of lightness, as if a weight that had been sitting on his shoulders had suddenly lifted. He began to whistle beneath his breath.

Another rider entered the Row. The black mare and the claret-red riding habit were familiar, as were the rider’s elegant seat and her jaunty, plumed hat.

Adam’s good mood evaporated abruptly. This was one of the irritations of London: that Arabella Knightley should choose to exercise her horse at the same time as him. He pretended not to see her, but it was impossible to maintain the pretense for long with the Row so thin of riders. The third time they passed he nodded stiffly. She returned the gesture. The amusement in her smile, the slightly mocking glint in her dark eyes, as if she was laughing at him, made his hands tighten on the reins. Goliath snorted and tossed his head.

Adam loosened his grip. “Tomorrow we’ll come earlier,” he told the horse, and then he pushed all thought of Arabella Knightley out of his head, focusing instead on the far more interesting subject of Tom the burglar’s identity.

That subject occupied him as he trotted back through rain-damp streets to Berkeley Square, as he gave Goliath to his groom and walked around from the mews, as he entered the cool entrance hall and handed hat, whip, and gloves to the butler. “A pot of tea, Fiscus,” he said, and walked down the hallway to his study.

Adam sat down at his desk with the letters spread before him and a teacup at his elbow. The blackmail notes were so foul, so ugly, that they seemed to taint the air he breathed, as if they gave off an odor of rankness and decay, of rot.

The notes gave no clue of the writer’s identity. The paper was plain, the handwriting ordinary. Anyone could have written them. Lady Bicknell, Tom claimed.

Adam pondered this. Lady Bicknell was a widow of long standing who possessed a disagreeably sharp tongue. An unpleasant woman, certainly. But was she a blackmailer?

Tom said so. But Tom was a thief and therefore not to be trusted. I need proof. Something in Lady Bicknell’s hand, with her named signed in ink, for all to see. But how?

Adam sat for a long time, thinking, and then smiled. Yes, that will work very well. Reaching for the teacup, he took a mouthful, grimaced, and swallowed the cold liquid. He shoved the cup away, pushed the blackmail notes aside, and studied the piece of paper that really interested him: Tom’s note.

Who are you? he asked silently, staring at the black cat.

The cat stared back at him, giving nothing away. Its gaze was fixed, inanimate, and yet almost insolent. A challenge.

“I’m going to find out who you are,” Adam said aloud.

He felt a spurt of cheerfulness. Proving that Lady Bicknell was a blackmailer, finding a husband for Grace, his own search for a bride—those were things he had to do. Discovering Tom’s identity was something altogether different. Not only would it take his mind off worrying about Grace, it would be fun.

Adam pulled a blank sheet of paper towards him and uncapped his inkpot.

Look for a thief? Such behavior is hardly worthy of a St. Just! The voice was his father’s, ringing in his ears, even though the old man had been dead these past three years. The cold disapproval was as loud, as clear, as if his father stood at his shoulder. You may not be the duke, but I expect you to behave as if you are.

Adam hissed between his teeth. He pushed thought of his father aside, dipped his quill in ink, and began to write.

Adam St. Just’s townhouse was as elegantly appointed as Arabella had expected; no one could accuse St. Just of lacking either money or taste. The parlor was decorated in blue and cream, the furniture was in the Grecian style, with clean lines and scrolled ends, and a pretty frieze of acanthus leaves ran around the room.

Grace St. Just was every bit as beautiful as her surroundings. Her face was flower-like, open and innocent—and also fierce. The glint in her eyes, the set of her chin, were those of a woman prepared to fight.

“Advice?” Arabella said, echoing the girl’s question. “I can only tell you how I do it.”

“Please.” Grace sat forward eagerly.

Arabella smiled wryly. “It sounds foolish, but . . . when I dress, I imagine I’m putting on armor.”

The girl blinked. “Armor?”

“Yes.” Arabella touched her gown. “You see muslin; I see armor.”

“Oh.”

Arabella picked up her teacup. “And then I imagine that each disapproving stare, each sneer, each whispered remark, is a tiny arrow.” She sipped her tea. “The arrows fly at me, but they can’t hurt me.” The delicate porcelain cup made a noise as she replaced it in its saucer. Clink. Like an arrow striking armor. “It makes me want to laugh when I imagine the arrows lying helpless on the ground at my feet.” She grinned at the girl. “And my amusement annoys my detractors—which amuses me even more.”

“Oh,” said Grace again. Her expression was uncertain.

Arabella eyed her for a moment. “If the image is too martial for you, perhaps you’d like to try something else? Oilskin repelling drops of water, or . . . or . . . have you ever seen how water rolls off a duck’s back?”

“Yes.” Grace’s face brightened. “Water off a duck’s back! I’ll do that.”

Arabella returned the girl’s smile. She picked up a macaroon and bit into it. The tastes of sugar and coconut mingled on her tongue.

Grace St. Just busied herself pouring another cup of tea. “I can’t thank you enough, Miss Knightley. I’m very much in your debt—”

“Bella,” she said. “Please call me Bella.”

The girl’s smile was shy. “Then you must call me Grace.”

Arabella took another bite of macaroon. She chewed slowly, imagining St. Just’s reaction when he discovered that his sister was on first-name terms with her. Laughter rose in her throat.

Grace’s smile faded as she sipped her tea. Her expression became pensive.

Arabella dismissed Adam St. Just from her thoughts. “You’ve had an unfortunate introduction into Society, but there’s some usefulness to be had from it.”

“Usefulness?” Grace put down her teacup.

“It’s given you the opportunity to see people for who they are. It’s shown you what’s beneath the surface.”

Grace looked as if she’d rather not know.

“You’d prefer the shallow, empty flattery of those who admire your name and your fortune?” Arabella asked softly.

The girl flushed and shook her head.

“Then you may look upon this experience as fortunate.”

Grace looked down at her lap. She pleated a fold of sprigged muslin between her fingers. “Three girls who were at school with me are making their débuts this Season.” She bit her lip and glanced up. “It must be one of them who . . .” Tears shone in her eyes. “I thought they were my friends.”

Arabella handed her a handkerchief. She watched in quiet sympathy as Grace wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

The girl folded the square of linen. “He was my music master.”

“Grace, you don’t need to tell me anything. It’s no concern of mine—or anyone else’s—what did or didn’t happen.”

“Nothing happened,” Grace said bitterly. “Although I almost . . . I almost—”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Arabella said softly.

Grace didn’t seem to hear. “I thought I loved him,” she said. “I was going to run away with him. And then my brother came.” Her fingers twisted on the handkerchief, wringing it. “And it turned out that . . . that he . . . that my music master was married.”

Arabella refilled Grace’s teacup and handed it to her. “A valuable experience,” she said, and smiled at the girl’s look of shock. “You’ve gained insight into the male character, have you not? You won’t fall for blandishments and flattery again.”

Grace shook her head, still looking taken aback.

“I was courted by a fortune hunter during my first Season,” Arabella told her. “Although I didn’t realize it until afterwards. It was a useful lesson.”

“Oh?” Grace’s eyes sharpened with interest.

“His name was George Dysart. He was very handsome.” Arabella smiled wryly, remembering. “He seemed so desperately in love with me that for a time I fancied myself in love with him.” He’d made her feel precious. He’d told her that her background didn’t matter to him; her fortune and her family were unimportant—it was her he loved.

She had believed him, had even begun to reconsider her decision not to marry—

“What happened?” Grace asked.

Arabella was silent as memory returned: George embracing her, trying to kiss her, and her instinctive recoil. “I was . . . too slow, and so he turned his attention elsewhere. Another heiress.”

Grace’s eyebrows rose. “She married him?”

“Yes. Poor Helen.”

“You’re friends with her?”

Arabella smiled at the girl’s startled expression. “You think I should resent her?” She shook her head. “No. We’ve become close friends. Helen’s had a dreadful marriage. I pity her sincerely.” She pulled a face. “To think I fancied myself in love with George!”

Grace looked down at her hands. It took no particular insight to know what she was thinking about.

Arabella picked up her cup again. “That’s why I say your experience was useful. It’s taught you to see men more clearly. When you come to choose a husband, it will stand you in good stead.”

“Adam’s going to choose my husband for me.”

Arabella’s eyebrows arched. “Is he?” she said dryly. “And you’ll have no say in the matter?”

“Oh, well . . .” Grace flushed. “If I dislike him, then Adam won’t . . .”

“When is this happy event to take place?”

“This Season,” the girl said. “Only . . . it will be more difficult now that . . . the rumors—”

“Hmm.” Arabella settled back in her chair. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen.” All her dislike of Adam St. Just rushed back in force. Grace was still a child, and he wanted to marry her off. “If your brother wishes for a marriage this Season, let it be his own!” she said tartly.

Grace nodded. “Yes, that’s what he intends.”

Arabella blinked in surprise. “Your brother’s looking for a bride?”

“He says it’s time. He’s nearly thirty.”

Arabella bit her upper lip to stop it curling in a sneer. What St. Just thought timely for his sister was very different from what he thought timely for himself. “I wish him luck,” she said with polite mendacity.

“Oh, Adam’s not worried.”

“I’m sure he’s not,” Arabella said dryly. St. Just was one of the most eligible bachelors in England. He might not have a title, but he had everything else that a fastidious bride required: excellent lineage, substantial wealth, good looks.

She reached for another macaroon, and found herself wishing that St. Just would suffer a rebuff in his suit.

Adam laid down his quill and read through the list.

Well-heeled

Educated

Those he’d inferred from Tom’s note—the quality of the paper, the elegance of the handwriting, the lack of spelling mistakes.

An artist

Well, everyone knew that. The black cat, drawn in various poses, was as famous as the thief’s name.

Moral

An odd attribute for a thief, but one that went without saying; Tom always chose victims who’d harmed others.

Young

A guess, this. But Tom must be youthful to accomplish such feats as scaling walls and climbing in windows.

A member of the ton

This was the most startling of his inferences, based not on who Tom’s victims were, but how they were chosen. Would a servant have witnessed all the acts that had roused Tom’s ire? His instinct said no.

Adam pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards him and started a new list. Lady Bicknell, May 1818. The first of this Season’s victims, presumably punished for the malicious remarks that had reduced poor Mrs. Findley to tears at the Parnells’ ball.

He rolled the quill between his fingers. Who had drawn Tom’s attentions last year?

Ah, yes. Lord Randall, who’d fallen off his horse in Hyde Park and, in a fury of embarrassment, whipped the poor beast until he drew blood.

Adam grimaced in memory. Without doubt, Randall had deserved Tom’s visit.

He dipped the quill in ink and wrote Lord Randall, 1817, and then beneath that, a third name and date: The Hon. Miss Smidley, 1817.