My Lady Thief

Chapter 1-2

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 physical 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.

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.”