The Unmasking of a Lady. Emily May

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      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 colouring 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 about Arabella Knightley: that he was so strongly attracted to her. The second 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 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?’ he 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!’

      Chapter Two

      Adam rode out the next morning under a grey sky. London’s roads were damp from a night’s rain. He passed through the gate into Hyde Park, inhaling the scents of wet grass and wet earth and the rich, fresh smell of horse manure. The Row was relatively empty. Adam urged Goliath into a canter. He liked mornings like this, when the ton stayed abed and he could almost pretend he was at home, exercising Goliath on the Downs, not surrounded by the sprawl and clamour of London.

      His thoughts turned to Grace as he rode up and down the strip of tan. Last night she’d smiled, danced, even laughed. The Season, which had begun to look like a disaster, could be saved. He’d find a husband for Grace, a man of good birth and character, a man who’d take care of her.

      Adam was conscious of a feeling of lightness, as if a weight that had been sitting on his shoulders had suddenly lifted. He began to whistle beneath his breath.

      Another rider entered the Row. The black mare and the claret-red riding habit were familiar, as were the rider’s elegant seat and her jaunty, plumed hat.

      Adam’s good mood evaporated abruptly. This was one of the irritations of London: that Arabella Knightley should choose to exercise her horse at the same time as him. He pretended not to see her, but it was impossible to maintain the pretence for long with the Row so thin of riders. The third time they passed he nodded stiffly. She returned the gesture. The amusement in her smile, the slightly mocking glint in her dark eyes, as if she was laughing at him, made his hands tighten on the reins. Goliath snorted and tossed his head.

      Adam loosened his grip. ‘Tomorrow we’ll come earlier,’ he told the horse, and then he pushed all thought of Arabella Knightley out of his head, focusing instead on the far more interesting subject of Tom the burglar’s identity.

      That subject occupied him as he trotted back through raindamp streets to Berkeley Square, as he gave Goliath to his groom and walked around from the mews, as he entered the cool entrance hall and handed hat, whip and gloves to the butler. ‘A pot of tea, Fiscus,’ he said, and walked down the hallway to his study.

      Adam sat down at his desk with the letters spread before him and a teacup at his elbow. The blackmail notes were so foul, so ugly, that they seemed to taint the air he breathed, as if they gave off an odour of rankness and decay, of rot.

      The notes gave no clue of the writer’s identity. The paper was plain, the handwriting ordinary. Anyone could have written them. Lady Bicknell, Tom claimed.

      Adam pondered this. Lady Bicknell was a widow of longstanding who possessed a disagreeably sharp tongue. An unpleasant woman, certainly. But was she a blackmailer?

      Tom said so. But Tom was a thief and therefore not to be trusted. I need proof. Something in Lady Bicknell’s hand, with her named signed in ink, for all to see. But how?

      Adam sat for a long time, thinking, and then smiled. Yes, that will work very well. Reaching for the teacup, he took a mouthful, grimaced and swallowed the cold liquid. He pushed the cup away, pushed the blackmail notes aside and studied the piece of paper that really interested him: Tom’s note.

      Who are you? he asked СКАЧАТЬ