My Lady Thief Read online

  Arabella dismissed Lady Bicknell from her thoughts. She continued her search of the ballroom, looking for Grace St. Just.

  She found her finally, seated alongside a St. Just aunt. The girl wore a white satin gown sewn with seed pearls. More pearls gleamed at her earlobes and around her pale throat. She was astonishingly lovely, and yet she was sitting in a corner as if she didn’t want anyone to notice her.

  Arabella was reminded, vividly, of her own first Season. It was no easy thing to make one’s début surrounded by whispers and conjecture and sidelong glances.

  And I had advantages that Grace does not. She’d had the armor her childhood had given her; armor a girl as gently reared as Grace St. Just couldn’t possibly have. And she’d had advice—advice it appeared no one had given Grace.

  Arabella chewed on her lower lip. She glanced at the dance floor, trying to decide what to do. Her eyes fastened on one of the dancers, a tall man with a patrician cast to his features. Adam St. Just, cousin to the Duke of Frew.

  She eyed him with resentment. St. Just’s manner was as aloof, as proud, as if it was he who held the dukedom, not his cousin. How could I have been such a fool as to believe he liked me? She should be grateful to St. Just; he’d taught her never to trust a member of the ton—a valuable lesson. But it was impossible to be grateful while she still had memory of the beaumonde’s gleeful delight in her humiliation.

  Arabella watched him dance, hoping he’d misstep or trample on his partner’s toes. It was a futile hope; St. Just had the natural grace of a sportsman. His partner, a young débutante, lacked that grace. The girl danced stiffly, her manner awkward and admiring.

  Arabella’s lips tightened. No doubt St. Just accepted the admiration as his due; for years he’d been one of the biggest prizes on the marriage market, courted for his wealth, his bloodline, his handsome face.

  She looked again at Grace St. Just. The girl bore little resemblance to her half-brother. Adam St. Just’s arrogance was stamped on him—the way he carried himself, the tilt of his chin, the set of his mouth. Everything about him said I am better than you. Grace had none of that. She sat looking down at her hands, her shoulders slightly hunched as if she wished to hide.

  I really should help her.

  Arabella looked at St. Just again. As she watched, he cast a swift, frowning glance in the direction of his sister.

  He’s worried about her.

  It was disconcerting to find herself in agreement with him.

  Arabella swallowed the last of her lemonade, not tasting it, and handed her empty glass to a passing servant. No one snubbed her as she made her way through the crush of guests, her smiles were politely returned, and yet everyone in the ballroom—herself included—knew that she didn’t belong. The satin gown, the fan of pierced ivory, the jeweled combs in her hair, couldn’t disguise what she was: an outsider.

  Music swirled around her, and beneath that was the rustle of silk and satin and gauze, the hum of voices. Her ears caught snippets of conversation. Much of tonight’s gossip seemed to be about Lady Bicknell. Opinion was divided: some sympathized with Lady Bicknell; others thought it served her right.

  There was no doubt why Tom had paid her a visit last night.

  “That tongue of hers,” stated a florid gentleman in a waistcoat that was too tight for him.

  “Most likely,” his wife said, glancing up and meeting Arabella’s eyes. For a brief second the woman’s smile stiffened, then she inclined her head in a polite nod.

  Seven years ago that momentary hesitation would have hurt; now she no longer cared. Arabella smiled cheerfully back at the woman. Only four more weeks of this. Four more weeks of ball gowns and false smiles, of pretending to belong, and then she could turn her back on Society. But first, I must help Grace St. Just.

  The girl looked up as Arabella approached. She was fairer than her half-brother, her hair golden instead of brown, her eyes a clear shade of blue. She was breathtakingly lovely—and quite clearly miserable.

  “Miss St. Just.” Arabella smiled and extended her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Arabella Knightley.”

  Grace St. Just flushed faintly. She hesitated a moment, then held out her hand. Her brother has warned her about me.

  Arabella sat, ignoring the St. Just aunt who frowned at her, lips pursed in disapproval, from her position alongside Grace. “How are you finding your first Season?”

  “Oh,” said Grace. She sent a darting glance in the direction of the dance floor. “It’s very . . . that is to say—”

  “I hated mine,” Arabella said frankly. “Everyone staring and whispering behind their hands. It’s not pleasant to be gossiped about, is it?”

  Grace St. Just stopped searching the dance floor for her brother. She stared at Arabella. “No. It isn’t.”

  “Someone gave me some advice,” Arabella said. “When I was in a similar position to you. If you don’t think it impertinent of me, I should like to pass it on.”

  She had the girl’s full attention now. Those sky-blue eyes were focused on her face with an almost painful intensity. “Please,” Grace St. Just said. Even the aunt leaned slightly forward in her chair.

  “It was given to me by Mr. Brummell,” Arabella said. “If he were still in England, I’m certain he’d impart it to you himself.”

  “The Beau?” Grace breathed. “Truly?”

  Arabella nodded. “He said . . .” She paused for a moment, remembering. The Beau’s voice had been cool and suave, and oddly kind. “He said I must ignore it, and more than that, I must ignore it well.”

  It was the only time Beau Brummell had spoken to her. But he had always nodded to her most politely after that, his manner one of faint approval.

  “And so I did as he suggested,” Arabella said. “I gave the appearance of enjoying myself. I smiled at every opportunity, and when I couldn’t smile, I laughed.” She smoothed a wrinkle in one of her long gloves, remembering. A slight smile tugged at her lips. “I believe some people found it very annoying.”

  She looked up and held Grace St. Just’s eyes. “So that’s my advice. However difficult it may seem, you must ignore what people are saying, the way they look at you. And you must ignore it well.”

  “Ignore it?” Tears filled the girl’s eyes. “How can I?”

  “It isn’t easy,” Arabella said firmly. “But it can be done.”

  Grace shook her head. She hunted in her reticule for a handkerchief. “I would much rather go home.” Her voice wobbled on the last word.

  “Certainly you may do that, but if I may be so bold, Miss St. Just . . . the rumors are just rumors. Speculation and conjecture. If you shrug your shoulders, London will find a new target. But if you leave now, the rumors will be confirmed.”

  Grace looked stricken. She sat with the handkerchief clutched in her hand and tears trembling on her eyelashes.

  “It doesn’t matter whether you committed whatever indiscretion London thinks you did,” Arabella said matter-of-factly. “What matters is whether London believes it or not.”

  Grace St. Just bit her lip. She looked down at the handkerchief and twisted it between her fingers.

  “Be bold,” Arabella said softly.

  “Bold?” The girl’s laugh was shaky. “I’m not a bold person, Miss Knightley.”

  “I think you can be anything you want.”

  Arabella’s voice was quiet, but it made the girl look up. For a moment they matched gazes, and then Grace St. Just gave a little nod. She blew her nose and put the handkerchief away. “Tell me . . . how you did it, Miss Knightley. If you please?”

  Arabella was conscious of a sense of relief. She sat back in her chair and glanced at the dance floor. Adam St. Just was watching them. She could see his outrage, even though half a ballroom separated them.

  It was tempting to smile at him and give a mocking little wave. Arabella did neither. She turned her attention back to Grace St. Just.

  * * *

  ADAM RELINQUISHED MISS HORNBY
to the care of her mother. He turned and grimly surveyed the far corner of the ballroom. His sister sat alongside Arabella Knightley, as she had for the past fifteen minutes.

  They made a pleasing tableau, dark and fair, their heads bent together as they talked, Miss Knightley’s gown of deep rose-pink perfectly complementing his sister’s white satin.

  Adam gritted his teeth. He strode around the ballroom, watching as Grace said something and Miss Knightley replied—and his aunt, Seraphina Mexted, sat placidly alongside, nodding and smiling and making no attempt to shoo Miss Knightley away.

  Grace lifted her head and laughed.

  Adam’s stride faltered. Arabella Knightley had made Grace laugh. In fact, now that he observed more closely, his sister’s face was bright with amusement.

  She looks happy.

  Arabella Knightley had accomplished, in fifteen minutes, what he had been trying—and failing—to do for months. How in Hades had she done it? And far more importantly, why?

  Miss Knightley looked up as he approached. Her coloring showed her French blood—hair and eyes so dark they were almost black—but the soft dent in her chin, as if someone had laid a fingertip there at her birth, proclaimed her as coming from a long line of Knightleys.

  His eyes catalogued her features—the elegant cheekbones, the dark eyes, the soft mouth—and his pulse gave a kick. It was one of the things that annoyed him most about Arabella Knightley: that he was so strongly attracted to her. The second most annoying thing was the stab of guilt—as familiar as the attraction—that always accompanied sight of her.

  Adam bowed. “Miss Knightley, what a pleasure to see you here this evening.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Truly?” Her voice was light and amused, disbelieving.

  Adam clenched his jaw. This was the third thing that annoyed him most about Miss Knightley: her manner.

  Arabella Knightley turned to Grace and smiled. “I must go. My grandmother will be wanting supper soon.”

  Adam stepped back as she took leave of his sister and aunt. The rose-pink gown made her skin appear creamier and the dark ringlets more glossily black. A striking young woman, Miss Knightley, with her high cheekbones and dark eyes. And an extremely wealthy one, too. But no man of birth and breeding would choose to marry her—unless his need for a fortune outweighed everything else.

  She turned to him. “Good evening, Mr. St. Just.” Cool amusement still glimmered in her eyes.

  Adam gritted his teeth and bowed again. His gaze followed her. Miss Knightley’s figure was slender and her height scarcely more than five foot—and yet she had presence. It was in her carriage, in the way she held her head. She was perfectly at home in the crowded ballroom, utterly confident, unconcerned by the glances she drew.

  Adam turned to his aunt. “Aunt Seraphina, how could you allow—”

  “I like her,” Aunt Seraphina said placidly. “Seems a very intelligent girl.”

  Adam blinked, slightly taken aback.

  “I like her, too,” Grace said. “Adam, may I invite her—”

  “No. Being seen in her company will harm your reputation. Miss Knightley is not good ton.”

  “I know,” said Grace. “She spent part of her childhood in the slums. Her mother was a . . . a . . .” She groped for a euphemism, and then gave up. “But I like her. I want to be friends with her.”

  Over my dead body.

  “Shall we leave?” Adam said, changing the subject. “It’s almost midnight and we’ve a long journey tomorrow.” To Sussex, where there’d be no Arabella Knightley.

  He began to feel more cheerful.

  “I’ve decided to stay in London,” Grace said.

  Adam raised his eyebrows. “You have?”

  “Yes,” Grace said. “This is my first Season, and I’m going to enjoy it.”

  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.