The Unmasking of a Lady. Emily May
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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
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