My Lady Thief Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

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  Dear Reader

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  AFTERWARDS

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  Thank You

  The Spinster's Secret

  The Earl's Dilemma

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  MY LADY THIEF

  Emily Larkin

  Get the first book in my new Regency romance series for free when you join my Readers’ Group.

  Details can be found at the end of this book.

  Dear Reader

  My Lady Thief was originally published under another title and penname. If you’ve read The Unmasking of a Lady by Emily May, then you’ve read this book already and I suggest you put it back on the (digital) shelf and choose something else to read. (Unless you really like the new cover, in which case feel free to buy it!)

  If you haven’t previously read this book, I hope you enjoy it. It’s one of my all-time favorites and I’m delighted to be able to issue this new edition.

  Best wishes,

  Emily Larkin

  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 payment 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.

  Adam experienced a throat-tightening rush of emotion. He folded his sister briefly in his arms and then released her. How did we become so distant? He cleared his throat. “Have you any engagements today? Would you like to ride out to Richmond?”

  “Oh, yes! I should like that of all things!” She rose, and the pearls tumbled from her lap onto the damask-covered sofa. A much-creased letter fluttered down alongside them. It was addressed to Reginald Plunkett in Grace’s handwriting.

  The delight faded from his sister’s face, leaving it miserable once more.

  Adam gestured to the letter. “Do you want to keep it?”

  Grace shook her head.

  “Shall I burn it for you? Or would you prefer—”

  “I don’t want to touch it!” Her voice was low and fierce.

  Adam nodded. He scooped up the pearls and placed them in Grace’s palm, curling her fingers around them, holding her hand, holding her gaze. “Forget about this, Grace. It’s over.”

  Grace nodded, but the happiness that had briefly lit her face was gone.

  Adam stood. He kissed her cheek. “Go and change,” he said, releasing her hand.

  When she’d gone, he picked up the pieces of paper: Grace’s love letter, Tom’s note, Lady Bicknell’s blackmail drafts. He allowed his rage to flare again. Lady Bicknell would pay for the distress she’d caused Grace. She’d pay deeply.

  But some of the blame was his. The distance between himself and Grace was his fault: he’d been his sister’s guardian, not her friend. She’d been too afraid of his disappointment, his anger, to ask for help.

  Adam strode from the morning room. His shame was a phy
sical thing; he felt it in his chest as if a knife blade was buried there.

  He had failed Grace. Somehow, without realizing it, he’d become to her what their father had been to him: disapproving and unapproachable.

  But no more, he vowed silently as he entered his study. No more.

  Adam grimly placed the letters in the top drawer of his desk. He put Tom’s note in last and let his gaze dwell on the signature. “I would like to know who you are,” he said under his breath. And then he locked the drawer and put the key in his pocket.

  * * *

  ARABELLA KNIGHTLEY, GRANDDAUGHTER of the fifth Earl of Westwick, paused alongside a potted palm and surveyed the ballroom. Lord and Lady Halliwell were launching their eldest daughter in style: hundreds of candles blazed in the chandeliers, a profusion of flowers scented the air, and yards of shimmering pink silk swathed the walls. An orchestra played on a dais and dancing couples filled the floor, performing the intricate steps of the quadrille. The débutantes were distinguishable by their self-consciousness as much as by their pale gowns.

  Grace St. Just wasn’t on the dance floor. Arabella looked at the ladies seated around the perimeter of the ballroom, scanning their faces as she sipped her lemonade. Her lip lifted slightly in contempt as she recognized Lady Bicknell.

  The woman’s appearance—the tasteless, gaudy trinkets, the heavy application of cosmetics—was reminiscent of her dressing table. Her earrings . . . Arabella narrowed her eyes. Yes, Lady Bicknell was wearing the diamond earrings she herself had discarded as worthless.

  If the woman’s appearance was in keeping with her dressing table, her figure brought to mind the mahogany dresser: broad and squat. Like a frog, Arabella thought, watching as Lady Bicknell’s wide, flat mouth opened and shut. She was declaiming forcefully, her heavy face flushed with outrage. One of the ladies seated alongside her hid a smile behind her fan; the other, a dowager wearing a purple turban, listened with round-eyed interest.

  Telling the tale of Tom’s thieving, Arabella thought, with another curl of her lip. The woman certainly wouldn’t mention the other items that had gone missing last night: the pearl bracelet and earrings, the blackmail letters.