The Unmasking of a Lady. Emily May

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СКАЧАТЬ She pulled a face. ‘To think I fancied myself in love with George!’

      Grace looked down at her hands. It took no particular insight to know what she was thinking about.

      Arabella picked up her cup again. ‘That’s why I say your experience was useful. It’s taught you to see men more clearly. When you come to choose a husband, it will stand you in good stead.’

      ‘Adam’s going to choose my husband for me.’

      Arabella’s eyebrows arched. ‘Is he?’ she said drily. ‘And you’ll have no say in the matter?’

      ‘Oh, well…’ Grace flushed. ‘If I dislike him, then Adam won’t…’

      ‘When is this happy event to take place?’

      ‘This Season,’ the girl said. ‘Only…it will be more difficult now that…the rumours—’

      ‘Hmm.’ Arabella settled back in her chair. ‘How old are you?’

      ‘Seventeen.’

      ‘Seventeen.’ All her dislike of Adam St Just rushed back in force. Grace was still a child, and he wanted to marry her off. ‘If your brother wishes for a marriage this Season, let it be his own!’ she said tartly.

      Grace nodded. ‘Yes, that’s what he intends.’

      Arabella blinked in surprise. ‘Your brother’s looking for a bride?’

      ‘He says it’s time. He’s nearly thirty.’

      Arabella bit her upper lip to stop it curling in a sneer. What St Just thought timely for his sister was very different from what he thought timely for himself. ‘I wish him luck,’ she said with polite mendacity.

      ‘Oh, Adam’s not worried.’

      ‘I’m sure he’s not,’ Arabella said drily. St Just was one of the most eligible bachelors in England. He might not have a title, but he had everything else a fastidious bride required: excellent lineage, substantial wealth, good looks.

      She reached for another macaroon, and found herself wishing that St Just would suffer a rebuff in his suit.

      

      Adam laid down his quill and read through the list.

      

       Well-heeled

       Educated

      Those he’d inferred from Tom’s note—the quality of the paper, the elegance of the handwriting, the lack of spelling mistakes.

      

       An artist

      Well, everyone knew that. The black cat, drawn in various poses, was as famous as the thief’s name.

      

       Moral

      An odd attribute for a thief, but one that went without saying—Tom always chose victims who’d harmed others.

      

       Young

      A guess, this. But Tom must be youthful to accomplish such feats as scaling walls and climbing in windows.

      

      A member of the ton.

      This was the most startling of his inferences, based not on who Tom’s victims were, but how they were chosen. Would a servant have witnessed all the acts that had roused Tom’s ire? His instinct said no.

      Adam pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards him and started a new list. Lady Bicknell, May 1818. The first of this Season’s victims, presumably punished for the malicious remarks that had reduced poor Mrs Findley to tears at the Parnells’ ball.

      He rolled the quill between his fingers. Who had drawn Tom’s attentions last year?

      Ah, yes. Lord Randall, who’d fallen off his horse in Hyde Park and, in a fury of embarrassment, whipped the poor beast until he drew blood.

      Adam grimaced in memory. Without doubt, Randall had deserved Tom’s visit.

      He dipped the quill in ink and wrote Lord Randall, 1817, and then beneath that, a third name and date: The Honourable Miss Smidley, 1817.

      Miss Smidley had stumbled upon exiting the Chapel Royal, tripping the prettiest of last year’s débutantes and breaking the girl’s ankle. No one who’d seen the look of triumph on Miss Smidley’s face would ever think it an accident.

      Adam re-read what he’d written. The Parnells’ ball. Hyde Park. The Chapel Royal. Too many different places for one servant to be.

      Tom was a member of the ton.

      It was an astonishing conclusion. It was…

      Adam tried to identify the sensation he was feeling. Exhilaration. It was exhilarating to think that Tom was a member of the ton, someone he’d spoken to, perhaps played cards with. He felt a hunter’s flare of excitement. I’ll find out who you are.

      He heard his father’s voice again: I expect better behaviour of you than this. You’re a St Just!

      Adam pushed memory of his father irritably aside. He dipped the quill in ink. What else did he know about the thief?

      1813, Tom appears, he wrote, the quill scratching lightly across the paper. The thief had been active every year since, apart from…1816, Tom absent. Why? Had Tom undertaken the Grand Tour?

      Adam laid the quill down. He’d find the answer to that question when he discovered the thief’s identity.

      He read his notes one more time before folding them with Tom’s message—the cat still challenging him with its stare—and placing them in his desk drawer. He stood and stretched, aware that he was hungry.

      Aunt Seraphina was in the morning room, her head bent over her needlework.

      ‘Where’s Grace?

      ‘In the parlour, with a visitor.’

      Adam whistled lightly under his breath as he walked along the corridor. The door to the blue parlour was ajar. He heard the sound of female voices and his mood brightened still further. This was what he’d wanted for Grace: friends, gaiety. Her Season had had shaky start, to be sure, but things were looking up now and—

      Grace and her friend turned their heads at his entrance. Adam froze. His face stiffened in shock.

      Arabella Knightley put down her teacup. She appeared to be suppressing a smile.

      Adam shut the door with a snap and advanced into the room. ‘Miss Knightley. What a…pleasant surprise.’

      Her СКАЧАТЬ