She raised her gaze. “I beg your pardon?”
“What do you do with the jewels? How do you sell them?”
“I take them to a friend who knows a . . . a fence.” She resolutely didn’t look at Polly, standing one pace behind them on the path.
“A friend in the ton?”
“No. In Whitechapel.”
She expected disdain, contempt even; instead St. Just nodded. “And then you give the money to charity?”
“I give it to a school.”
“Which school?”
Arabella flushed. “A school that I . . . founded.”
His eyebrows rose. He stared at her for a moment, and then said, “Tell me about your school, Miss Knightley.”
She looked at him doubtfully.
“Please, Miss Knightley. I’d like to know.” He was telling the truth; she saw it in his face, heard it in his voice.
Arabella cleared her throat. She fixed her gaze on the Roun
