Duke of Midnight
Percy flushed a hare and the dogs were off, crashing through the underbrush with all the subtlety of a regiment of soldiers. Two birds were startled by the chase and he looked up, watching their flight.
And then he was aware that he was no longer alone.
His heart certainly did not leap at her presence.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” Miss Greaves was bareheaded, wearing her usual mud-brown costume. Her cheeks were pink from her morning walk, her lips a deep rose.
He glanced down and saw with irritation that her feet were bare again. “You ought to wear shoes in these woods. You could cut your feet.”
Her lips curved in that not-smile and his irritation grew. Everyone else leaped to comply with his wishes, but not her.
Percy ran up, flush with the excitement of his hunt, and made to jump up on her.
“Down,” Miss Greaves calmly commanded, and the spaniel nearly tripped over his own filthy paws to obey.
Maximus sighed.
“Did you catch that poor bunny?” she murmured sweetly to Percy as he wriggled madly with delight. “Did you tear it to shreds?”
Maximus’s brows rose. “You voice a bloody sentiment for a lady, Miss Greaves.”
She shrugged. “I doubt he could ever catch a rabbit, Your Grace. Besides”—she added as she straightened—“I am named for the goddess of the hunt.”
He looked at her oddly. She was in a strange mood this morning. She’d never been deferential to him, but today she seemed almost confrontational.
The greyhounds returned, panting, along with Lady Penelope’s white lapdog, and all three greeted Miss Greaves.
He glanced at Miss Greaves in questions and she shrugged. “Bon Bon seems to like the morning rambles, and I know he loves your Percy. It’s almost as if he’s found a second life.”
She started forward. Starling, Bon Bon, and Percy ranged into the woods, but Belle fell into step with them, nosing along the path. They walked together wordlessly in what might be deemed a companionable silence if it weren’t for the tense set of her shoulders.
Maximus glanced at her sideways. “I take it your parents were of a classical mind?”
“My mother.” She nodded. “Artemis and Apollo. The Olympian twins.”
“Ah.”
She took a deep breath, her inhalation making the bodice of her dress expand distractingly. “My brother was committed to Bedlam four years ago.”
“Yes, I know.”
He caught her look and didn’t much like the cynical tilt of her lips. “Of course you do. Tell me, Your Grace, do you have all the ladies you’re interested in investigated before you decided to court them?”
“Yes.” There was no point in denying it. “I owe it to my title to ensure I marry the best lady possible.”
She hummed noncommittally in response, which irritated him. “Your brother killed three men in a crazed, drunken rage.”
She stiffened. “I’m surprised that you wish to continue courting Penelope, if you know about it. Madness is said to run in families.”
It was obviously a sore point with her. Still, she proudly wore a goddess’s name. One didn’t coddle such as she. “Your line isn’t directly connected to Lady Penelope’s. Besides, murder doesn’t necessarily mean madness. If your brother hadn’t been the grandson of an earl, he’d have been hanged instead of committed to a hospital for the insane. No doubt it was better for all concerned—rather a member of the nobility be mad than executed.”
He was watching her so he saw the pained grimace cross her face before she schooled her expression. “You’re right. The scandal was awful. I’m sure it was the final straw that killed my mother. For weeks we thought he might be arrested and executed. If it weren’t for Penelope’s father…”
They’d come to the clearing and she stopped, turning toward him. He had an odd impulse to take her into his arms. To tell her that he’d keep the world and all its gossips at bay.
But she squared her shoulders, looking at him frankly and without fear. Perhaps she didn’t need a champion. Perhaps she was well enough without him. “He isn’t mad, you know, and he didn’t kill those men.”
He watched her. The loved ones of monsters were sometimes blind to their sins. No point in saying that fact aloud.
She inhaled. “You could get him out.”
He raised his brows. “I’m a duke, not the king.”
“You could,” she said stubbornly. “You could free him.”
He looked away, sighing. “Even if I were wont to do so, I do not think I would. Your brother was judged insane, Miss Greaves, though I’m sure it hurts you to admit it. He was found with the bodies of three men, terribly murdered. Surely—”
“He didn’t do it.” She was directly in front of him, one small palm placed on his chest, and though he knew it wasn’t so, he seemed to feel the heat of her skin burning through his clothes. “Don’t you understand? Apollo is innocent. He’s been locked away in that hellish place for four years and he will never get out. You must help him. You must—”
“No,” he said as gently as he was able, “I do not have to do anything.”
For a moment her mask fell and her emotions showed through, devastating and real: rage, hurt, and a grief so deep it rivaled his own.
But before he could, she struck, as precisely and mercilessly as her namesake.
“You do have to save my brother,” she said, “because if you do not I will tell everyone in England that you are the Ghost of St. Giles.”
ARTEMIS HELD HER breath. She’d dared to slip a bridle over a tiger’s head and now she waited to see if he’d do her bidding or bat her aside with one powerful paw.
The Duke of Wakefield stood very still, his sable eyes slowly narrowing on her and she was reminded that, save for the king, this was possibly the most powerful man in England.
At last he spoke. “I think not.”
Her lips firmed. “You believe I won’t do it?”
“Oh, I believe that you’re quite capable of such perfidy, Miss Greaves,” he said silkily as he turned to continue his walk.
She swallowed. It had been a shared walk, but it no longer seemed like one.
Heat rose in her cheeks. “My loyalty lies with my brother.”
“I did save your life in St. Giles,” he reminded her.
She remembered that lithe grace, the deadly skill with his swords, and she remembered the final salute he’d given her before she’d mounted the carriage. She was now certain that he’d made sure to see her to safety.
None of that mattered. “He is my brother and his life is at stake. I will not feel guilt.”
He spared her a dismissive glance. “Nor do I expect you to, madam. I merely state the facts. No insult is intended. I believe you to be a worthy opponent.”
“But?”
He sighed and stopped to face her as if dealing with a particularly trying maidservant. “I think you have not bothered to ascertain what type of opponent I am. I have no intention of bowing to blackmail.”
She inhaled, reluctantly admiring. If she wasn’t fighting for Apollo she might have conceded the field to him, for this was blackmail and hardly very fair.
But then again, she was no gentleman, raised on the traditions of honor. She had been a lady—a person often deemed by men such as he to have not enough intelligence to understand complicated male concepts such as honor. And now? Now she was a woman hardened by the capriciousness of fate.
This was her life. This was where the tides of fortune had landed her. She had no time or use for honor.
Artemis raised her chin. “You don’t think I’ll tell everyone your secret?”
“I don’t think you would dare.” He looked so alone, standing here in the merciless morning sunshine. “But even if you do so, Miss Greaves, I doubt very much that anyone will believe you.”
She sucked in her breath, feeling the blow before it had been dealt, but still his voice continued, chill and uncaring.
“You are, after all, the sister of a madman and the daughter of a gentleman known for his lunatic behavior. I believe if you attempt to tell anyone my secret, you stand a very good chance of being incarcerated in Bedlam yourself.” He bowed precisely, icily, every inch the impenetrable aristocrat as he threatened her with her most nightmarish fear. Had he ever let anyone past those walls? Did he even wish for the warmth of human contact? “Good day, Miss Greaves. I trust the rest of your stay at Pelham House will be satisfactory.”
He turned and walked away from her.
Belle and Starling followed without a glance, but Percy stood a moment looking between Artemis and his master, hesitating.
“Go on,” she muttered to the dog, and with a low whine he trailed after the duke.
Bon Bon whimpered and leaned against her ankles. The morning was suddenly cold again. Artemis curled her bare toes into the loam of the woods, watching Wakefield’s arrogant back as he left her. He didn’t know her. He was just another man under all those layers of wealth and power and solitary indifference. Just another obstacle to Apollo’s freedom. There was no reason to feel as if she’d broken something very new.
And he was wrong: she did dare. There was literally nothing she wouldn’t do for her brother.
THAT AFTERNOON THE sun shone brightly on the green on the south side of Pelham House. Maximus knew he was supposed to be enjoying the day and, more important, the lady he was wooing, but all he could think about was the infuriating Miss Greaves. To actually attempt to blackmail him—him, the Duke of Wakefield—was entirely beyond the pale. How she thought he might be so weak was a source of scorn, rage, and bewilderment within him. There was another emotion lurking there, deep inside, something perilously close to hurt—but he had no desire to examine that further, so he concentrated upon the rage. He’d make sure to impress upon the wench his displeasure with her actions if only she weren’t being so completely childish as to ignore him all morning.
Not that her studied disregard bothered him in the slightest.
“You’ll think me a braggart, Your Grace, but I vow I’m a fair hand with a bow,” Lady Penelope chirped beside him.
“Indeed?” Maximus murmured absently.
Miss Greaves drifted behind them, silent as a wraith. He had the most persistent urge to turn and confront her—make her say something to him. Instead, of course, he sedately led Lady Penelope toward where footmen and maids milled about with the accoutrements of archery. Opposite, across the green, three large wooden targets had been set up, not too far away, for the ladies were to have their turn today demonstrating what skills they might have in archery. The gentlemen were expected to observe and praise—whether the archer deserved it or not, of course, for a lady’s vanity was a fragile thing.
Maximus stifled an impatient sigh. This sort of thing—the silly games, the entire house party, come to that—was expected of him, not only for courting a lady such as Lady Penelope, but also in the regular way of things because of his rank, his social standing, and his position in Parliament, but there were times such as this when the whole thing rankled. He could be in a London coffeehouse right now, urging another member of Parliament to enact better legislation against the sale of gin. He could be in St. Giles, following any number of leads into the deaths of his parents. Damn it, for that matter he could be with his secretary managing his estates—not his favorite work, but important nonetheless.
Instead he was strolling a green like a veritable fop with a rather silly girl on his arm.
“Do you practice archery, Miss Greaves?” he found himself asking, quite out of the blue. The sunshine had probably gone to his head.
“Oh, no,” Lady Penelope exclaimed before her cousin could answer. “Artemis doesn’t shoot. She hasn’t time for such pursuits.”