find out who you are,’ Adam said aloud.
He felt a spurt of cheerfulness. Proving that Lady Bicknell was a blackmailer, finding a husband for Grace, his own search for a bride—those were things he had to do. Discovering Tom’s identity was something altogether different. Not only would it take his mind off worrying about Grace, it would be fun.
Adam pulled a blank sheet of paper towards him and uncapped his inkpot.
Look for a thief? Such behaviour is hardly worthy of a St Just! The voice was his father’s, ringing in his ears, even though the old man had been dead these past three years. The cold disapproval was as loud, as clear, as if his father stood at his shoulder. You may not be the duke, but I expect you to behave as if you are!
Adam hissed between his teeth. He pushed any thought of his father aside, dipped his quill in ink and began to write.
Adam St Just’s town house was as elegantly appointed as Arabella had expected; no one could accuse St Just of lacking either money or taste. The parlour was decorated in blue and cream, the furniture was in the Grecian style, with clean lines and scrolled ends, and a pretty frieze of acanthus leaves ran around the room.
Grace St Just was every bit as beautiful as her surroundings. Her face was flower-like, open and innocent—and also fierce. The glint in her eyes, the set of her chin, were those of a woman prepared to fight.
‘Advice?’ Arabella said, echoing the girl’s question. ‘I can only tell you how I do it.’
‘Please.’ Grace sat forwards eagerly.
Arabella smiled wryly. ‘It sounds foolish, but…when I dress, I imagine I’m putting on armour.’
The girl blinked. ‘Armour?’
‘Yes.’ Arabella touched her gown. ‘You see muslin; I see armour.’
‘Oh.’
Arabella picked up her teacup. ‘And then I imagine that each disapproving stare, each sneer, each whispered remark, is a tiny arrow.’ She sipped her tea. ‘The arrows fly at me, but they can’t hurt me.’ The delicate porcelain cup made a noise as she replaced it in its saucer. Clink. Like an arrow striking armour. ‘It makes me want to laugh when I imagine the arrows lying helpless on the ground at my feet.’ She grinned at the girl. ‘And my amusement annoys my detractors—which amuses me even more.’
‘Oh,’ said Grace again. Her expression was uncertain.
Arabella eyed her for a moment. ‘If the image is too martial for you, perhaps you’d like to try something else? Oilskin repelling drops of water, or…or…have you ever seen how water rolls off a duck’s back?’
‘Yes.’ Grace’s face brightened. ‘Water off a duck’s back! I’ll do that.’
Arabella returned the girl’s smile. She picked up a macaroon and bit into it. The flavours of sugar and coconut mingled on her tongue.
Grace St Just busied herself pouring another cup of tea. ‘I can’t thank you enough, Miss Knightley. I’m very much in your debt—’
‘Bella,’ she said. ‘Please call me Bella.’
The girl’s smile was shy. ‘Then you must call me Grace.’
Arabella took another bite of macaroon. She chewed slowly, imagining St Just’s reaction when he discovered that his sister was on first-name terms with her. Laughter rose in her throat.
Grace’s smile faded as she sipped her tea. Her expression became pensive.
Arabella dismissed Adam St Just from her thoughts. ‘You’ve had an unfortunate introduction into society, but there’s some usefulness to be had from it.’
‘Usefulness?’ Grace put down her teacup.
‘It’s given you the opportunity to see people for who they are. It’s shown you what’s beneath the surface.’
Grace looked as if she’d rather not know.
‘You’d prefer the shallow, empty flattery of those who admire your name and your fortune?’ Arabella asked softly.
The girl flushed and shook her head.
‘Then you may look upon this experience as fortunate.’
Grace looked down at her lap. She pleated a fold of sprigged muslin between her fingers. ‘Three girls who were at school with me are making their débuts this Season.’ She bit her lip and glanced up. ‘It must be one of them who…’ Tears shone in her eyes. ‘I thought they were my friends.’
Arabella handed her a handkerchief. She watched in quiet sympathy as Grace wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
The girl folded the square of linen. ‘He was my music master.’
‘Grace, you don’t need to tell me anything. It’s no concern of mine—or anyone else’s—what did or didn’t happen.’
‘Nothing happened,’ Grace said bitterly. ‘Although I almost…I almost—’
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Arabella said softly.
Grace didn’t seem to hear. ‘I thought I loved him,’ she said. ‘I was going to run away with him. And then my brother came.’ Her fingers twisted on the handkerchief, wringing it. ‘And it turned out that…that he…that my music master was married.’
Arabella refilled Grace’s teacup and handed it to her. ‘A valuable experience,’ she said, and smiled at the girl’s look of shock. ‘You’ve gained insight into the male character, have you not? You won’t fall for blandishments and flattery again.’
Grace shook her head, still looking taken aback.
‘I was courted by a fortune hunter during my first Season,’ Arabella told her. ‘Although I didn’t realise it until afterwards. It was a useful lesson.’
‘Oh?’ Grace’s eyes sharpened with interest.
‘His name was George Dysart. He was very handsome!’ Arabella smiled wryly, remembering. ‘He seemed so desperately in love with me that for a time I fancied myself in love with him.’ He’d made her feel precious. He’d told her that her background didn’t matter to him; her fortune and her family were unimportant—it was her he loved.
She had believed him, had even begun to reconsider her decision not to marry—
‘What happened?’ Grace asked.
Arabella was silent as memory returned: George embracing her, trying to kiss her, and her instinctive recoil. ‘I was…too slow, and so he turned his attention elsewhere. Another heiress.’
Grace’s eyebrows rose. ‘She married him?’
‘Yes. Poor Helen.’
‘You’re friends with her?’
Arabella
