The Unmasking of a Lady

Arabella’s thoughts were in turmoil. Adam St Just was the last man—absolutely the last—she’d ever thought would offer for her.

She twisted the towel in her hands. What do I do?

His offer was astonishingly flattering. One of the great prizes on the Marriage Mart, a man who’d had caps past counting set at him…And he chooses me? Why?

He’d said that he admired her, that he respected her, that he had affection for her. She knew what he meant by that last word: affection. St Just didn’t leer at her like Lord Dalrymple did, but she recognised the warmth in his eyes. He wanted her, as a man wants a woman.

Arabella shuddered.

Her instinctive response to St Just’s offer had been no—it still was. Because if she married him she’d have to share his bed.

The Unmasking of A Lady

Emily May

www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author

EMILY MAY grew up in a house full of books—her mother worked as a proof-reader and librarian, and her father is a well-known New Zealand novelist. Emily has studied a wide number of subjects, including Geology and Geophysics, Canine Behaviour and Ancient Greek. Her varied career includes stints as a field assistant in Antarctica and a waitress on the Isle of Skye. Most recently she has worked in the wine industry in Marlborough, New Zealand.

Emily loves to travel, and has lived in Sweden, backpacked in Europe, and travelled overland in the Middle East, China and North Africa. She enjoys climbing hills, yoga workouts, watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and reading. She is especially fond of Georgette Heyer’s Regency and Georgian novels.

Emily writes Regency romances as Emily May, and dark, romantic fantasy novels as Emily Gee (www.emilygee.com).

A previous novel by this author:

THE EARL’S DILEMMA

This book is for Margareta and Maurice, for their very generous hospitality.

I can’t thank you enough!

Acknowledgements

This book started its life while I was travelling in Canada. I’d like to thank the various public libraries in and around Victoria on Vancouver Island (in particular the Esquimalt branch) where I figured out the plot. And thanks to the public library in Prince Rupert (a town where the bald eagles are as plentiful as sparrows), where the second chapter was written. But the biggest thanks go to the owners of the backpackers’ hostel on Denman Island, on whose veranda the first chapter was written. I wish I could have written the whole book there!

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 hairbrushes 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 coloured 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 grey 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 piece of 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 unrecognisable. 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 recognisable, 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 cheek. ‘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—might 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 to what she was referring.

‘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 realising 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—in which he’d delayed his journey by one day, and 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 knife. 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, at the signature and 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 re-read 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 on to 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 them 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 realising 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 Westcote, 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 recognised 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 disclaiming 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 armour her childhood had given her—armour 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 beau monde’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 jewelled 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 sympathised 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.

Six 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.