Chapter One
The thief stood in front of Lady Bicknell's dressing table and looked with disapproval at the objects strewn across it: glass vials of perfume; discarded handkerchiefs; a clutter of pots and jars of cosmetics - rouge, maquillage - many gaping open, their contents drying; two silver-backed hair brushes with strands of hair caught among the bristles; a messy pile of earrings, the facetted jewels glinting dully in the candlelight.
The thief stirred the earrings with a fingertip. Gaudy. Tasteless. In need of cleaning.
The dressing table, the mess, offended the thief's tidy soul. She pursed her lips and examined the earrings again, more slowly. The diamonds were paste, the sapphires nothing more than coloured glass, the rubies... She picked up a ruby earring and looked at it closely. Real, but such a garish, vulgar setting. The thief grimaced and put the earring back, more neatly than its owner had done. There was nothing on the dressing table that interested her.
She turned to the mahogany dresser. It stood in the corner, crouching on bowed legs like a large toad. Three wide drawers and at the top, three small ones, side by side, beneath a frowning mirror. The thief quietly opened the drawers and let her fingers sift through the contents, stirring the woman's scent from the garments: perspiration, perfume.
The topmost drawer on the left, filled with a tangle of silk stockings and garters, wasn't as deep as the others.
For a moment the thief stood motionless, listening for footsteps in the corridor, listening to the breeze stir the curtains at the open window, then she pulled the drawer out and laid it on the floor.
Behind the drawer of stockings was another drawer, small and discreet, and inside that...
The thief grinned as she lifted out the bracelet. Pearls gleamed in the candlelight, exquisite, expensive.
The drawer contained - besides the bracelet - a matching pair of pearl earrings and four letters. The thief took the earrings and replaced the letters. She was easing the drawer back into its slot when a name caught her eye. St Just.
St Just. The name brought with it memory of a handsome face and grey eyes, memory of humiliation - and a surge of hatred.
She hesitated for a second, and then reached for the letters.
The first one was brief and to the point. Here, as requested, is my pearl bracelet. In exchange, I must ask for the return of my letter. It was signed Grace St Just.
The thief frowned and unfolded the second letter. It was written in the same girlish hand as the first. The date made her pause - November 6th, 1817. The day Princess Charlotte had died, although the letter writer wouldn't have known that at the time.
Dearest Reginald, the letter started. The thief skimmed over a passionate declaration of love and slowed to read the final paragraph. I miss you unbearably. Every minute seems like an hour, every day a year. The thought of being parted from you is unendurable. If it must be elopement, then so be it. A tearstain marked the ink. Your loving Grace.
The thief picked up the third letter. It was a draft, some words crossed out, others scribbled in the margins.
Miss St Just, a letter you wrote to a Mr Reginald Plunkett of Birmingham has come into my possession. I should like to return this letter to you. In exchange I ask nothing more than your pearl bracelet. You may leave the bracelet in the Dutch garden in the Kensington Palace Gardens. Hide it in the urn at the north-eastern corner of the pond.
The thief thinned her lips. She stopped reading and picked up the final letter. Another draft.
Dear Miss St Just, thank you for the bracelet. I find, however, that I require the earrings as well. You may leave them in the same place. Do not worry about the your letter; it is safe in my keeping.
The thief slowly refolded the piece of paper. Blackmail. There was a sour taste in her mouth. She looked down at the bracelet and earrings, at the love letter, and bit her lower lip. What to do?
St Just. Memory flooded through her: the smothered laughter of the ton, the sniggers and the sideways glances, the gleeful whispers.
The thief tightened her lips. Resentment burned in her breast and heated her cheeks. Adam St Just could rot in hell for all she cared, but Grace St Just ... Grace St Just didn't deserve this.
Her decision made, the thief gathered the contents of the hidden drawer - letters and jewels - and tucked them into the pouch she wore around her waist, hidden beneath shirt and trousers. Swiftly she replaced both drawers. Crossing the room, she plucked the ruby earrings from the objects littering Lady Bicknell's dressing table. The rubies went into the pouch, nestling alongside the pearls. The thief propped an elegant square of card among the remaining earrings. The message inscribed on it was brief: Should payment be made for a spiteful tongue? Tom thinks so. There was no signature; a drawing of a lean alley cat adorned the bottom of the note.
The thief gave a satisfied nod. Justice done. She glanced at the mirror. In the candlelight her eyes were black. Her face was soot-smudged and unrecognisable. For a moment she stared at herself, unsettled, then she lifted a finger to touch the faint cleft in her chin. That, at least, was recognisable, whether she wore silk dresses or boys' clothing in rough, dark fabric.
The thief turned away from her image in the mirror. She trod quietly towards the open window.
