The Unmasking of a Lady

She tapped the fan against her knee and resolved to wait a day or so before deciding.

Adam woke reluctantly. He heard his valet, Perkins, draw back the curtains and closed his eyes more tightly, trying to burrow back into the dream, to recapture the pleasures of a soft mouth and fragrant skin, of dark ringlets gleaming in candlelight—

Dark ringlets?

Adam’s eyes snapped open. It was Mary, he told himself. But Mary had always been leisurely in bed; the woman in his dream had been eager and passionate—and as slender as Mary was voluptuous.

The last, sensual wisps of the dream vanished abruptly. Adam uttered a curse and pushed back his bedclothes.

A ride in the park on Goliath, under a sky heavy with clouds, did little to improve his mood. An hour spent sparring in Jackson’s Saloon was much more successful. Adam walked around to St James’s Street whistling under his breath and took the steps up to White’s two at a time.

The ground-floor parlour was pleasantly empty. Lord Alvanley sat at the bow window, where Brummell had liked to sit. He looked up from a newspaper. ‘Afternoon, St Just.’

‘Alvanley.’ Adam strolled across to the bow window. ‘What’s new?’

His lordship folded the newspaper and put it aside. ‘Have you heard about the Wootton chit?’

Adam shook his head. He sat and reached for the newspaper. ‘A bottle of claret,’ he said to the waiter.

‘Madness in the family,’ Alvanley declared, stretching out his legs.

Adam glanced at him. ‘What? The Wootton heiress?’

His lordship nodded. ‘It’s the latest on dit.’

Adam grunted, and removed Miss Wootton from his list of possible brides.

Another newcomer entered the room, his step jaunty. ‘Afternoon, Alvanley,’ he said cheerfully. ‘St Just.’

Adam looked around. Jeremy Allen, Marquis of Revel-stoke, trod towards the bow window, resplendent in a dark blue coat with extravagantly long tails, cream-coloured pantaloons and gold-tasselled hessians. The folds of his neckcloth were so intricate, the points of his collar so high, that he had no hope of turning his head. The most arresting aspect of his appearance was his waistcoat, an exotic garment featuring dazzling golden suns against a celestial blue background.

‘Good God,’ Alvanley said, involuntarily.

Adam uttered a laugh. He put the newspaper down and shaded his eyes with one hand. ‘Go away, Jeremy. You’re blinding me.’

His friend grinned and paid no attention to the request. He took the third chair in the alcove and sat, crossing his legs. His boots were polished to a mirror-like gleam. The scent of Steek’s lavender water wafted gently from him. His hair was curled in the cherubim style, beneath which his eyes gleamed with mischief.

Alvanley lifted his quizzing glass and examined the glittering suns on Jeremy’s waistcoat. ‘Is that gold thread?’

‘Of course,’ Jeremy said. He produced a snuff box in sky-blue enamel that matched his waistcoat and opened it with the elegant flick of a fingertip. ‘Snuff?’

‘Have you heard about the Wootton chit?’ Lord Alvanley asked, taking a pinch.

‘Mad as a hatter,’ Jeremy said. ‘About to be committed to Bedlam.’

Adam raised his eyebrows. ‘Surely you jest!’

‘Me?’ Jeremy said, grinning, swinging one leg. ‘When do I jest?’

Adam, acquainted with Jeremy since their first day at Eton, chose to ignore that question. He picked up the newspaper again.

‘Your name’s in the betting book,’ Jeremy said in an extremely innocent voice.

Adam didn’t look up from the newspaper. ‘No, it’s not.’

‘Actually, it is,’ Lord Alvanley said.

Adam glanced up sharply. Alvanley was grinning widely. Alongside him, Jeremy sat examining his nails, an expression of demure innocence on his face.

Adam was familiar with that expression. He eyed his friend with misgiving. After a moment he pushed up out of his chair and went in search of the betting book. Jeremy trailed after him.

‘The devil,’ Adam said, as he read the latest entry. Adam St Just, to marry Miss Knightley before the end of the year, 500 guineas.

‘Well?’ Jeremy said, sly humour in his voice. ‘Am I right?’

‘What you are,’ Adam said, closing the book with more violence than was necessary, ‘is a cod’s head!’

‘I say,’ Jeremy protested, half-laughing, following Adam as he strode back to the bow window. ‘That’s not very nice.’

‘If you think I’m going to marry Miss Knightley, then you are a cod’s head!’ Adam said severely. His claret had arrived. He poured himself a glass and swallowed half of it in one gulp.

‘You danced with her last night,’ Jeremy said, sitting.

‘If I married every woman I danced with, I’d be a bigamist a hundred times over!’ Adam said, refilling his glass. ‘You may as well pay Charlton that money now, for you’ve lost it!’

Jeremy swung one leg and smiled, his expression as cherubic as his curls. ‘I believe I’ll wait,’ he said.

Adam, aware of Alvanley sitting, grinning, alongside them, retreated into a dignified silence. He reached for the newspaper again and opened it with a crackle of pages.

That night, the ton arrived en masse at the Pinkhursts’ dress ball. The first person Adam saw, as he entered the ballroom, was Arabella Knightley in a dress of ivory-white tiffany silk shot through with gold thread and a golden fillet in her dark hair. God, she’s lovely, was his involuntary thought. He hastily averted his gaze.

The second person he saw was Jeremy Allen, magnificent in a long-tailed coat of peacock blue, a luxuriantly embroidered waistcoat, black satin knee breeches and silk stockings. Jewels glittered in the folds of Jeremy’s neckcloth and on each of his long fingers. His hair was brushed into the careful dishevelment of the Brutus.

Adam escorted Grace and his Aunt Seraphina to seats, and strolled across to greet his friend. ‘Jeremy,’ he said, ‘you look prettier than any of the ladies here.’

Jeremy was unoffended. He laughed. He raised his quizzing glass and observed Adam through it. ‘And you look very plain.’

Adam grinned.

‘I see that the delectable Miss Knightley is here,’ Jeremy said in a tone of sly innocence.

‘Dance with her yourself, if you like her that much.’ A servant in livery and a powdered wig proffered a tray. Adam took a glass of champagne.

Jeremy lowered the quizzing glass with a sigh. ‘It’s much more entertaining when you rise to the bait.’

Adam smiled and sipped the champagne.

‘I believe I shall,’ Jeremy declared.

‘Shall what?’

‘Ask her to dance. Excellent dancer, Miss Knightley.’ He wandered off in the direction of Arabella Knightley.

Adam thrust Miss Knightley out of his thoughts and concentrated on his task for the night: interviewing potential brides. He danced with each of the young ladies on his shortlist, asked a number of questions and listened carefully to the answers.

The hour advanced past midnight. The air was heavy with the scents of perfume, pomade and perspiration. Ladies with flushed cheeks waved their fans, starched collar points drooped in the heat, and even the candles in the chandeliers seemed to wilt.

Adam found an empty alcove and a glass of chilled champagne and mentally reviewed his list of brides. He removed Miss Swindon from it entirely, and placed Miss Fforbes-Brown at the top.

His gaze strayed to Miss Knightley. She looked very French as she waited for her turn in the quadrille, slender and dark-eyed, dark-haired.

He felt a stir of attraction and wrenched his gaze from her. He drained the champagne glass. When the quadrille was over, he headed purposefully for Miss Fforbes-Brown and solicited her hand for the next waltz. It was a most agreeable dance; there was none of the discomfort of waltzing with Arabella Knightley, the barbed comments, the frisson of desire. He was so pleased with Miss Fforbes-Brown’s plump prettiness, her common sense and cheerfulness, her enthusiasm for children, that he resolved to seek an interview with her father.

He relinquished Miss Fforbes-Brown to her next partner, a Sir Humphrey Holbrook, and retreated to the alcove again. Grace was sitting out the cotillion. Adam watched her from across the ballroom, conscious of a sharp pang of regret. Grace’s début should have been a triumph; instead it was close to being a disaster.

He glanced at Miss Wootton. Like Grace, she wasn’t dancing. No crowd of young men clustered around the heiress tonight, competing for her attention. She sat out the cotillion, wearing an expression of miserable bewilderment. Her mother, seated beside her, had a tight-lipped smile on her face.

Adam stood up for a quadrille next. He was waiting for his turn in the figure when he noticed that Sir Humphrey Holbrook was dancing with Miss Fforbes-Brown for a second time. This discovery so disconcerted him that he almost missed his cue for the glissade. He concentrated carefully on his steps and then watched the baronet escort Miss Fforbes-Brown from the dance floor. Had Sir Humphrey also realised that she’d be a good wife?

Adam frowned, and resolved to keep a closer eye on Humphrey Holbrook. He went in search of a glass of champagne and then strolled across to where his Aunt Seraphina sat. His footsteps faltered when he saw his aunt’s companion. The familiar sensations swept through him—shame and guilt, the stir of attraction—and he almost turned and headed in the opposite direction.

Craven, he chided himself, and stepped forwards. ‘Good evening, Miss Knightley.’ He bowed, and turned to his aunt. ‘Where’s Grace?’

‘Talking to Miss Wootton.’

Adam swung on his heel and looked across the ballroom. His sister sat alongside Miss Wootton. Grace was talking, her expression animated; Miss Wootton listened intently.

Adam turned to Miss Knightley. ‘Your doing?’

She shook her head. The golden ribbon threaded through her dark hair glinted in the candlelight. ‘Grace felt sorry for her. She’s a very kind-hearted girl.’

‘In this instance her kindness is misplaced. If Miss Wootton has some…instability, then I’d prefer that Grace didn’t become friends—’

‘Miss Wootton is no more unstable than you or I!’ Miss Knightley said tartly. ‘It’s a rumour set about to discredit her.’

Adam frowned. ‘Rumour? Are you certain?’

‘Yes.’ Her nod was emphatic. ‘I overheard it being started two nights ago.’

‘You did?’ Adam put up his brows. ‘By whom?’

‘By a mother with a daughter to marry off.’

Adam sipped his champagne thoughtfully, digesting this fact. ‘Does this mother have any connection with the seminary Grace attended in Bath?’

Miss Knightley glanced at him. Her eyes were almost black in the candlelight. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you think she’s responsible for the rumours about Grace?’

‘I think it likely.’ Arabella Knightley lifted her shoulders in an expressive, Gallic shrug. ‘But since I wasn’t present when those particular rumours started, I have no way of knowing.’

Adam’s fingers tightened on the stem of the glass. ‘Who is this woman?’

Miss Knightley’s eyebrows arched. ‘Mr St Just, surely you don’t expect me to tell you that?’

‘The devil I don’t—’

‘Adam,’ his aunt reproved.

Adam clenched his jaw and glared at Miss Knightley. She seemed unoffended by his language. A dimple appeared in her cheek, as if she was trying not to laugh, and her eyes were suspiciously bright.

‘You refuse to tell me?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘There’s absolutely no proof that this woman spread any rumours about Grace—’

‘But you think she did—’

‘Precisely, Mr St Just. I think; I don’t know. They’re two very different things.’

Adam gripped his glass tightly. ‘I should like to speak with this woman.’

‘I’m sure you would,’ Miss Knightley said. ‘But in all conscience, I can’t name her. Think how remiss it would be of me if you upbraided her for something she didn’t do!’

‘I shouldn’t upbraid her,’ he said with stiff dignity.

Her eyebrows rose again. Disbelief was eloquent on her face.

Adam flushed.

‘Mr St Just, if I were to pass on information that I don’t know to be true, I should be as worthy of blame as any scandalmonger.’

Aunt Seraphina nodded. ‘Miss Knightley is correct.’

He knew she was, but being told that didn’t improve his temper. Adam glared at his aunt.

She smiled placidly and patted the chair alongside her. ‘Do sit down, dear. It’s very fatiguing to have you towering over one.’

He swung his glare back to Miss Knightley. Laughter glimmered in her dark eyes. ‘Mr St Just, I fear you’re about to break that glass.’

Adam hurriedly unclenched his hand.

Miss Knightley looked past him. Her smile became warmer.

Adam turned his head. ‘Grace.’

Grace sat beside Aunt Seraphina in a soft flurry of satin and gauze. ‘I told Letty what Mr Brummell said to Bella. And she’s going to do it too!’

Aunt Seraphina gave an approving nod.

Grace smoothed her skirt and turned to Miss Knightley. ‘And I told her what you said, Bella, about it being useful experience, and how she has the opportunity to see people for who they truly are—and Letty perfectly understood what you meant!’ Her face was alight with enthusiasm. ‘We’ve decided that we’re going to do it together!’

Adam couldn’t help smiling at Grace’s animation. The knot of anger in his chest began to unravel. ‘Are you?’

Grace nodded. ‘Yes! And then I told her what you said, Bella, about…’ Her brow creased in concentration. ‘How one has to respect someone in order to care what their opinion of you is.’

Adam lost his smile. He glanced at Miss Knightley, remembering the words he’d spoken six years ago, feeling the familiar stab of guilt, of shame. I wish I’d never uttered them.

The façade Arabella Knightley presented to the world was one of resilience, insouciance, toughness, and yet, as his gaze rested on her, all he saw was the softness of her mouth, the smooth translucency of her skin, the delicacy of her bone structure—her femininity and her vulnerability.

‘And I told her, oh, everything you said!’

‘I had no idea my words were such pearls of wisdom,’ Miss Knightley said, her tone light and ironic.

Grace didn’t appear to hear the irony. She nodded. ‘Oh, yes, they are!’

To his astonishment, Adam found himself silently agreeing. Arabella Knightley was the last friend he’d choose for Grace—but her advice had been invaluable.

‘Letty and I have decided we’re going to be bosom friends!’ Grace announced.

Miss Knightley laughed. ‘Every girl needs a bosom friend,’ she said. ‘Please excuse me, I see my grandmother looking for me.’

Adam stepped back. He bowed silently and watched her leave. Her words echoed in his ears: Every girl needs a bosom friend. Miss Knightley had no bosom friend. She had no friends that he was aware of, other than Helen Dysart.

She must be very lonely.

‘Polly,’ Arabella said to her maid as she climbed out of bed the following morning. ‘I’m going to have a headache this afternoon.’

Polly looked up from laying out Arabella’s riding habit. She grinned. ‘How unfortunate.’

Warm water steamed in the porcelain bowl in the washstand. Arabella washed her face thoroughly. There was no way of knowing whether Mrs Harpenden’s tongue had spread the rumours about Grace St Just, but the woman was, without doubt, the instigator of Miss Wootton’s fall from grace. And as such, she deserves a visit from Tom.

She reached for a towel and turned to Polly.

Her maid’s expression was bright and expectant.

‘I shan’t be attending the Pentictons’ musicale tonight,’ Arabella said, drying her face. ‘Instead, I shall be at Half Moon Street. Number 23.’

‘Number 23, Half Moon Street,’ Polly repeated, with a nod. ‘I’ll check it out this afternoon.’

‘Thank you.’ Arabella laid the towel aside and began to dress. Long hours stretched until she could don Tom’s shirt and trousers, but already anticipation was beginning to build inside her. She felt it tingling in her fingertips, in her toes.

Arabella blew out a breath. The waiting would be hard today.

She rode out on Merrylegs and expended some of her restless energy cantering around the Row. To her disappointment, there was no sign of Adam St Just. The mood she was in, she would have enjoyed needling him.

The afternoon was spent in her bedchamber, pretending to have a headache. She lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling, thinking about her birthday. Twenty-five days remained until that date—twenty-five days of London and the ton, of living a narrow, pampered life. But on the twenty-sixth day her fortune became her own and she’d no longer be bound by the promise she’d made her mother. She’d never have to set foot in a ballroom again, never have to exchange polite greetings and smiles with people who despised her as much as she despised them. She’d be free to be herself—and to spend her inheritance as she saw fit.

Arabella hugged herself tightly. The sunbeams streaming in through the window matched her mood. She stared at the shafts of light, imagining the properties she’d purchase, the staff she’d hire, the children she’d rescue from the slums.

Her grandmother looked in on her once, and recommended that she draw the curtains and dab Hungary Water at her temples.

‘Where’s your maid?’

‘Hatchards,’ Arabella said. ‘Buying a book for me.’

Her grandmother sniffed, a disapproving sound. ‘A footman could have done that,’ she said, and departed to pay a call on one of her numerous friends.

Arabella didn’t close the curtains; instead she pulled out her drawing materials. She laid a tray across her lap, selected several pieces of card, and opened her inkpot.

She’d drawn four cats in different poses by the time Polly returned, carrying a parcel wrapped in paper and string.

Arabella laid down her quill. ‘Well?’

‘Looks fairly easy,’ Polly said, handing her the parcel. ‘From the mews, that is. Not from the front.’ She untied her bonnet and sat on the end of Arabella’s bed. ‘There’s this wall, see, and from the top you can reach the first row of windows.’

‘Good,’ said Arabella, setting the parcel to one side. ‘We’ll leave at ten.’

Polly nodded. She stood. ‘I’ll check Tom’s clothes.’

‘Thank you.’ Arabella returned to her work. She studied the four cats, hesitated for a moment, and then selected one. Writing carefully she inscribed a message to Mrs Harpenden. Then she capped the inkpot.

A glance at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece showed that it was nearly six o’clock.

Arabella grimaced. Four more hours to wait.

Chapter Five

Polly had been correct—it was easy to gain entry to the rented house on Half Moon Street. A heave—and a push from Polly—had her on top of the brick wall, and in a few seconds she was crouching beneath one of the windows. It was the work of less than a minute to break one of the diamond-shaped panes, extract the glass from the leading, slip her hand inside, and open the window.

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