The Unmasking of a Lady. Emily May

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?

      She tapped the fan against her knee and resolved to wait a day or so before deciding.

      

      Adam woke reluctantly. He heard his valet, Perkins, draw back the curtains and closed his eyes more tightly, trying to burrow back into the dream, to recapture the pleasures of a soft mouth and fragrant skin, of dark ringlets gleaming in candlelight—

      Dark