The Unmasking of a Lady
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‘Lady Bicknell?’ Mary wrinkled her nose. ‘Why on earth would I want to do that? If the woman has any interest in soldiers’ widows, I’ve yet to hear of it!’
Adam hesitated, then bent his head and spoke into her ear. ‘I believe she’s been dabbling in a little blackmail. I need to see a specimen of her handwriting.’
‘Blackmail!’ Mary stepped back a pace. The sleepiness was gone from her eyes. ‘Is everything all right, Adam?’
‘Perfectly,’ he said. ‘I just need to prove something.’
Mary chewed on her lower lip for a moment, surveying him, and then nodded. ‘Very well, I’ll write to her.’
‘Thank you.’ Adam took her hand again. ‘You’re an angel.’ He bowed and kissed her fingertips.
Mary uttered an unladylike snort. ‘Hardly.’
Adam grinned at her. Their affair was over—Mary no longer a widow, but once again a wife—but the fondness remained. ‘Would you care to dance?’
‘Far too fatiguing!’ Mary hid a yawn behind her fan.
Adam laughed and took his leave of her. He retreated to an embrasure, where he leaned against the wall and sipped champagne and thought about what precisely he would say to Arabella Knightley. How dared she have the effrontery to discuss marriage with Grace—
There she was.
He experienced a moment of déjà vu, brief and dizzying. He’d stood like this once before: leaning against a wall, a glass dangling from his fingers, and watched as a young lady with sable-dark hair and an elegant face and eyes that looked almost black entered a ballroom. He’d been six years younger, half-foxed—and he’d stared at her and thought I want her.
Adam straightened away from the wall. This time it wasn’t with appreciation that he watched Arabella Knightley across the ballroom. No one could deny she had style; it was in the way she moved, the way she held her head. Her beauty—the lustre of her hair, the darkness of her eyes, the pale glow of her skin—was merely fuel to his anger. He lifted his glass again, swallowed the last of the champagne, and set the glass down on a mahogany side table with a sharp clunk. He began to walk around the perimeter of the ballroom, pushing his way through the other guests.
He had a bone to pick with Miss Arabella Knightley.
Arabella escorted her grandmother to the card room. Playing cards—a pastime the fifth Earl of Westcote had thought unseemly for a lady—was his relict’s favourite activity in her widowhood.
‘Supper at midnight,’ Lady Westcote said, reaching for a pack of cards. Her hair gleamed like silver in the light falling from the chandeliers.
‘Yes, Grandmother.’
Arabella turned her back on the card room and its elderly inhabitants. On the threshold of the ballroom she paused, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. Armour, she told herself, touching a light fingertip to her gown. Then she took a deep breath and stepped into the ballroom again.
Someone spoke her name quietly, ‘Arabella.’
‘Helen!’ Arabella turned, smiling. ‘How lovely to see you. Are you well?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ Helen Dysart said.
As always, Arabella had to stop herself from hugging Helen. That silent misery could so well have been her own.
‘Ah, the lovely Miss Knightley,’ drawled a voice.
Arabella’s smile stiffened. ‘George.’
George Dysart pushed a glass of champagne into his wife’s hand, not caring that it slopped over her gloved fingers. He raised a second glass in Arabella’s direction, as if toasting her, and swallowed a large mouthful. His face was flushed and he swayed slightly as he stood. Nine-tenths drunk.
Little was left of the man who’d courted her six years ago. George’s hair still fell in golden waves over his brow, but the blue eyes were now bloodshot. His figure had lost its slenderness and his face—which she’d once thought angelic—was almost unrecognisable beneath a layer of fat. He looked precisely what he was: a man given to dissipation.
George raised his glass again, this time towards his wife. ‘Helen,’ he said. ‘Named after the most beautiful woman in the world.’ He hooted with laughter, making heads turn, ended on a hiccup, and swayed slightly. ‘Her parents made a mistake there, didn’t they? Should have called her Medu—’
‘George, would you mind getting me something to drink?’ Arabella said. ‘Lemonade, please.’
George Dysart shut his mouth. His hand clenched. Arabella saw Helen tense, as if expecting a blow.
George’s gaze lifted, catching on the faces still turned in their direction. He seemed to swallow his rage. ‘A drink? Certainly.’ He brushed past Arabella, buffeting her deliberately with his shoulder.
‘I apologise,’ Helen said quietly. ‘George has had a little too much to drink.’
‘Would you like to go home?’
Helen’s eyes followed her husband’s progress. She shook her head. ‘It’s best if I stay.’
Arabella reached out and touched the back of her friend’s hand lightly. ‘Helen, if I can help in any way…’
Helen shook her head again.
Arabella bit her lip, wishing she could pay George a visit as Tom. It wasn’t possible; everything George Dysart owned came from his wife. ‘Come riding with me tomorrow.’
‘Thank you.’ Helen’s smile reached her eyes. ‘That would be lovely.’
Arabella surveyed her. Helen wasn’t beautiful—her nose was too aquiline for that—but her face had character. There was quiet strength in her eyes, courage in the way she held her chin. George Dysart was a fool not to realise the value of his wife. The sooner he drinks himself into the grave, the better.
The quadrille came to its end. There was a surge of movement off the dance floor. ‘I’d best leave before George returns,’ Arabella said.
‘I apologise for my husband’s behaviour—’
‘Don’t,’ Arabella said, swiftly clasping her friend’s hand. She turned from Helen, halting as a man stepped into her path and bowed.
‘Miss Knightley.’
Arabella gritted her teeth and smiled. ‘Lord Dalrymple.’
During her first Season, her admirers—what few there’d been—had fallen into two categories: men who were prepared to ignore her mother’s reputation for the sake of the Westcote fortune, and men who courted her because of her mother’s reputation.
Lord Dalrymple fell into the latter category. She’d recognised it the first time they’d met, and she recognised it now: the look in his eyes, the slow, speculative smile, as if he were undressing her in his mind. She willed herself not to stiffen and said politely, ‘How do you do?’
‘Very well, Miss Knightley. Very well indeed.’ Lord Dalrymple was a large man with a fleshy face, greying ginger hair, and a receding hairline. ‘Are you engaged for the next dance?’
It was a familiar question, one she hated. Lord Dalrymple’s touch—always slightly too familiar, too lingering—made her skin crawl.
The musicians picked up their bows again. The first strains of music were audible above the hum of conversation.
A waltz. For a moment she felt sick. No contredanse, where the steps would part them from each other; instead, her hand in his for the entire dance, his arm around her.
Arabella touched her gown lightly. Armour. ‘Engaged?’
Lord Dalrymple’s smile widened. His teeth glinted, large and horse-like. ‘May I have this dance?’
‘Miss Knightley has promised the waltz to me.’
Arabella turned towards the smooth male voice—and found herself staring at Adam St Just.
‘You?’ Dalrymple said, his disbelief clearly audible.
‘Unless she wishes to change her mind.’ St Just’s voice was cool, almost bored. ‘It is a lady’s prerogative, after all.’
Dislike welled inside her. Arabella quashed it; she knew which was the lesser of two evils. ‘Yes,’ she lied, turning back to Lord Dalrymple with a smile. ‘I’ve already promised this dance to Mr St Just.’
It was the first time in six years that Arabella had walked on to a dance floor with Adam St Just. She was aware of heads turning and sidelong glances of astonishment. She was equally astonished. Why had St Just asked her to dance?
The answer came as she glanced at him. St Just’s jaw was tight, his mouth a thin line. He’s going to tell me off.
Arabella lifted her chin. Let him try!
They made their bows to each other. As always, the opening notes of the waltz filled her with dread. She took a deep breath and forced herself not to tense as St Just took her hand, as his arm came around her.
They began to dance. The feeling of being trapped was strong. A man is holding me. Panic rose sharply in her. All her instincts told her to break free. Arabella concentrated on breathing calmly, on keeping a slight smile on her face.
‘I would appreciate it, Miss Knightley, if you’d refrain from giving my sister advice about matters that are none of your concern.’ St Just spoke the words coldly.
Arabella met his eyes. There was nothing of the lover about him; on the contrary, his animosity was clearly visible.
Her panic began to fade. She raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh? Would you?’
St Just’s jaw clenched.
Arabella observed this—and began to feel quite cheerful. ‘I was only trying to help,’ she said, widening her eyes.
His grip tightened. ‘It is none of your business who my sister does—or doesn’t—marry.’
Arabella ignored this remark. ‘Why do you wish Grace to marry so young?’
‘That’s none of your business!’
‘Grace is little more than a child. She has no idea what she wants in a marriage—’
‘I shall decide what she wants!’ St Just snapped.
Arabella laughed, as much from amusement as to annoy him. The sense of being trapped had evaporated. For the first time in her life, she was finding pleasure in a waltz. Each sign of St Just’s irritation—the narrowing of his eyes and tightening of his jaw, the gritting of his teeth—was something to be noted and enjoyed.
‘You find that amusing?’
‘Yes. Grace is still learning who she is. Until she knows that, how can she—or you—have any idea what will suit her in a husband?’
‘A man of good breeding.’ He swung her into an abrupt turn. ‘A man of respectable fortune and—’
‘No,’ Arabella said. ‘I’m talking about a man’s character.’
St Just looked down his nose at her. ‘If you imagine that I’d allow Grace to marry a man of unsavoury character—’
‘You misunderstand me again, Mr St Just. I’m talking about those qualities that are more particular to a person. Qualities that have nothing to do with one’s bloodline or fortune, or even with one’s public character.’ Her smile was edged. ‘Let us take, as an example, your search for a wife.’
St Just stiffened. He almost missed a step. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said in a frigid tone.
‘Look around you, Mr St Just. This room is filled with young women of excellent birth and breeding. The question is, which one should you choose?’
Chapter Four
‘The subject of my marriage is none of your concern,’ Adam said, biting the words off with his teeth.
Arabella Knightley showed her ill breeding by ignoring him. ‘If bloodline is your sole criterion, then Miss Swindon would suit you perfectly. Her fortune is respectable and—like yourself—she claims a duke as her grandfather. Her manners are impeccable and her appearance pleasing.’
Adam wasn’t fooled by the artless, innocent manner. Miss Knightley was deliberately trying to annoy him.
‘What more could you want?’ she asked, looking up at him.
Adam felt his pulse give a kick and then speed up. Such dark eyes.
He looked away and cleared his throat.
‘However,’ Miss Knightley continued, ‘if you wish for a wife who’ll be a good mother, then you should direct your attention towards Miss Fforbes-Brown.’
His attention jerked back to her. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘What kind of mother do you want for your children, Mr St Just?’
The question was more than impertinent; it was insolent. Adam retreated into hauteur. ‘I must repeat myself, Miss Knightley: that is none of your concern!’
She ignored him again. ‘But then, that also depends on what kind of father you want to be, doesn’t it? Do you wish to see your children’s first steps and hear their first words—or are such things not important to you?’ There was censure in her eyes, in her voice. ‘Do you intend for your children to be brought up by a succession of nursemaids, Mr St Just, or—?’
‘No,’ Adam said, blurting out the word. ‘I don’t.’ I want what I didn’t have. I want my children to know their parents. I want them to know they’re loved.
Arabella Knightley regarded him for a long moment, as if doubting the truth of his words. ‘In that case, may I suggest you make Miss Fforbes-Brown your choice of bride? She’s very fond of children.’
Adam glanced around the ballroom. It was better than looking at Miss Knightley, at her eyes, at that indentation in her chin, at that soft mouth. His gaze came to rest on Miss Eustacia Swindon. She was tall and fair-haired, with aristocratic features and a proud manner—and high on his list of potential brides.
Sophia Fforbes-Brown was also on the dance floor. Adam observed her for several seconds. Miss Fforbes-Brown’s breeding was genteel, her fortune small, her manners undeniably warmer and more open than Miss Swindon’s. True, her figure was plumper than was fashionable, but she had a pretty, laughing face.
He concentrated on pondering Arabella Knightley’s suggestion—anything rather than let his attention stray to the slenderness and warmth of gloved fingers, to her—
Adam wrenched his mind back to her question. What kind of mother do you want for your children?
The answer was easy: Someone who’d delight in her children. Mentally he shifted Miss Swindon to the bottom of his list, and placed Miss Fforbes-Brown near the top.
The lilting strains of the waltz crept into his consciousness, and with that, a traitorous awareness of the pleasure of dancing with Miss Knightley. She was a superb dancer, light on her feet, following his lead with apparent effortlessness.
Adam glanced at her face. She was watching him.
God, she’s beautiful. The rich shine of her hair, the eyes as dark as midnight. He looked at her smooth, milk-white skin, the delicate indentation in her chin, the soft curve of her mouth—and desire clenched in his chest. I want her.
‘Mr St Just, why do you wish Grace to marry this year?’
So that someone else may have the responsibility of her—and perhaps not fail as miserably as I have.
‘Because…I thought it would be best for her.’
Miss Knightley’s eyebrows rose fractionally. ‘You thought?’
Adam opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Had he changed his mind?
‘May I suggest that you allow Grace to find her feet this Season, and not think of marriage?’
He tried to be offended by the impertinence of Miss Knightley’s suggestion, but all he could think of was how incredibly tempting her mouth was. Ripe, yet demure. If he bent his head and kissed her, what would she taste of?
To his relief he heard the orchestra play the final notes of the waltz. Adam hurriedly released her hand. He stepped back a pace and bowed. And then he escorted her from the dance floor as fast as could be considered polite.
After a supper of white soup and lobster patties in the company of her grandmother, Arabella returned to the ballroom. A cotillion was playing. She watched the dancers and sipped lemonade, wishing the drink wasn’t quite so sweet.
‘—Miss Wootton.’
‘Madness in the family?’
Arabella glanced sideways, identifying the speakers: Mrs Harpenden and Lady Clouston, their heads bent close together. Miss Harpenden, a diffident young woman in her second Season, hovered alongside her mother.
‘I have it on good authority,’ Mrs Harpenden said in a carrying whisper. ‘They say the girl is showing signs of it already.’
‘Mother,’ Miss Harpenden said hesitantly, ‘you can’t be certain—’
‘Of course they’ll deny it. Who wouldn’t!’ Mrs Harpenden nodded sagely. ‘But it must be said, they’re in a rush to marry her off.’
‘Mother—’
‘Someone should warn the poor girl’s suitors,’ Mrs Harpenden said, her expression pious.
‘But, Mother—’ Miss Harpenden said, a note of desperation in her voice. ‘You don’t know that—’
‘Hush,’ her mother rebuked her. ‘I’m talking to Lady Clouston.’
Miss Harpenden bit her lip and was obediently silent.
Arabella bit her lip too. She turned her attention to the dance floor, searching for Miss Wootton. She found her in a set near the orchestra, a pretty, vivacious girl with brown curls and rosy cheeks.
Arabella sipped her lemonade and watched Miss Wootton dance. Beside her, Mrs Harpenden’s voice sank to a low whisper, audible but unintelligible.
The cotillion came to its conclusion, the dancers made their bows to each other and the dance floor emptied. Mrs Harpenden and Lady Clouston bid each other farewell. Mrs Harpenden’s smile was smug as she watched Lady Clouston push her way through the throng of guests. ‘Come along,’ she said, turning to her daughter. ‘We must find you a partner for the next dance.’ She set off across the ballroom.
Miss Harpenden followed, her expression miserable.
Arabella stayed where she was. She looked again for Miss Wootton.
The girl stood on the far side of the ballroom. She was undeniably the most sought-after of this Season’s débutantes, a young woman in happy possession of wealth, beauty, and a good bloodline. Young men clustered about her like bees around a honey pot.
It was the kind of popularity Grace would be enjoying if rumours weren’t circulating about her.
Arabella waited until the next dance began, then made her way around the perimeter of the ballroom.
‘That’s Miss Knightley,’ she heard a young debutante whisper as she approached. ‘Have you heard what they call her? Miss Smell O’Gutters.’
The girl was hastily shushed by her companion.
Arabella’s step didn’t falter. In her imagination the words scrabbled to find purchase on her satin gown, failed and slid harmlessly to the floor.
She smiled cordially at the girl, who turned deep pink.
Grace St Just was seated alongside her aunt, Mrs Seraphina Mexted. Her smile was bright and fixed. Mrs Mexted caught Arabella’s enquiring glance and said, ‘Heard someone whispering about her.’
‘Never a pleasant experience.’ Arabella sat next to Grace. ‘Who was it?’
‘Miss Brook,’ Grace said.
‘Oh, yes. I know who she is. Looks like a pug dog.’
The aunt snorted, and turned the sound into a cough.
‘A pug dog?’ Grace said, her brow creasing.
‘Yes. Poor girl, she has a very unfortunate nose.’
Grace turned her attention to the dance floor. After a moment she said, ‘Oh, so she does.’ Her expression became more cheerful.
Arabella smoothed the dark blue folds of her gown over her lap. ‘Your aunt may disagree with me, but I believe that if a person says something about you, and they’re not someone you hold in respect, then you should feel free to ignore their opinion.’
Mrs Mexted thought for a moment, and then nodded.
Grace looked doubtful. ‘Are you saying I shouldn’t respect Miss Brook because of her nose?’
Arabella couldn’t help laughing. ‘No,’ she said. ‘This has nothing to do with Miss Brook’s nose. What I’m saying is that if someone behaves in a manner that makes it impossible for you to respect them—such as gossiping, or passing on slander—then you should give no weight to their opinion of you.’ She paused for a few seconds, holding Grace’s gaze. ‘So my question is, do you respect Miss Brook’s opinion?’
‘But I don’t know her,’ Grace protested.
‘Precisely. You don’t know each other—and yet she’s talking about you.’
Grace flushed. She looked down at her lap and began to pleat folds of satin between her fingers.
‘Do you hold Miss Brook in respect?’ Arabella asked quietly.
‘Not any more.’
‘Then her opinion of you shouldn’t matter.’
Grace bit her lip. After a moment she said, ‘That’s easier said than done.’
‘What is?’
Arabella glanced up. Adam St Just, looking his most supercilious, stood before them.
‘Ignoring people’s opinions,’ Grace said, accepting the glass of orgeat he handed her. ‘Bella says that’s what she does.’
‘Does she?’ There was censure in St Just’s voice. The glance he cast Arabella was chilly with disapproval. ‘Everyone’s opinion?’
‘Oh, no,’ Grace said, sipping from the glass. ‘Only those people one doesn’t respect.’
‘And who might they be?’ St Just asked, still frowning.
‘People who gossip and spread rumours,’ Grace said. ‘Or who say nasty things about people they don’t know.’
Adam St Just stopped frowning. He flushed faintly and raised a hand to straighten the folds of his neck cloth.
‘Do you agree?’ Grace asked.
‘Er…yes,’ he said.
Arabella’s lip curled slightly.
Grace nodded, and sipped her orgeat. Her expression was less miserable than it had been.
St Just glanced at the dance floor, where a contredanse was drawing towards its conclusion. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’m engaged for the next dance.’
Arabella watched him move off through the crowd. Despite his wealth, St Just eschewed such adornments as fobs and seals and quizzing glasses. In his dress, he was very like Beau Brummell had been—elegant and understated, each garment cut perfectly to fit him. His build was athletic; neither his shoulders nor his calves required padding.
An attractive man—until one noticed the way he had of looking down his nose at the world.
Arabella turned to Grace. ‘Do you know Miss Harpenden?’
‘Elizabeth Harpenden? Her sister Charlotte was at school with me in Bath.’
‘Charlotte isn’t in London?’
Grace shook her head. ‘She’s still in Bath. Her parents won’t let her come out until Elizabeth has married.’
Arabella tapped her fan against her knee and considered this information. ‘And Miss Wootton?’ she asked. ‘Do you know her?’
‘No. She’s from Yorkshire, I believe.’ Grace glanced to where Miss Wootton stood, attended by a number of admiring young gentlemen. ‘She looks like she’s enjoying herself.’ Her voice was wistful and slightly envious.
‘Yes.’ Arabella scanned the ballroom, looking for Elizabeth Harpenden. The girl was being escorted from the dance floor by a heavy-set young man with pretensions to dandyism.
Arabella felt a moment’s sympathy for Miss Harpenden. Her face was almost pretty, her figure almost graceful. In a smaller and more restricted setting she might have had a chance to shine; in London she was practically invisible.
Of course, if this Season’s beauties were discredited, Elizabeth Harpenden would be more visible.
Arabella tapped her fan against her knee and watched as Mrs Harpenden received her daughter. The woman’s manner was slightly bullying. A mother who scolds, rather than praises.
‘Are you engaged for the next d-d-dance, Miss St Just?’
Arabella looked up to see Viscount Mayroyd make his bow to Grace.
‘No,’ Grace said, blushing prettily. ‘I’m not.’
‘Then may I have the p-p-pleasure?’ The young man’s eyes were as blue as Grace’s. He had a very engaging smile.
Grace nodded. She gave her glass to her aunt and stood.
‘I like him,’ Mrs Mexted said, with a nod in the young viscount’s direction, once he was out of earshot.
‘So do I.’ Perhaps because of his stutter, young Mayroyd had a kind-heartedness that many of his peers lacked.
Arabella returned to her observation of Miss Wootton. The girl was clearly enjoying herself. But not for long, if Mrs Harpenden has her way.
Did the woman deserve a visit from Tom?