Duke of Midnight
She had his attention.
“That’s quite brave of you, Your Grace,” Artemis said, raising her voice as she turned to the Duke of Scarborough, “offering to fight the Ghost of St. Giles. For I noted at the time that the Ghost was a rather large man. Why, he was almost exactly the same height as—” She glanced about the assembled party as if searching for a gentleman of suitable height. When her eyes landed on Wakefield, he already had a wry expression. “Why, our host, the Duke of Wakefield, in fact.”
There was a fraught pause as Artemis held Wakefield’s narrowed gaze, before it was broken rather prosaically by Penelope. “Don’t be silly, Artemis. The Ghost was at least a foot taller than His Grace. Although I’m quite sure the Duke of Scarborough would have been able to defeat him.”
The last was a lie so obvious that Artemis didn’t even bother rolling her eyes.
“Certainly, His Grace would’ve been of better help than my brother,” Phoebe said, uncaring of her treachery.
“Phoebe,” Wakefield growled low in warning.
“Yes, brother dear?” Phoebe turned her blithely bright face to the duke, who was lurking like a tiger with indigestion in the corner. “You must admit that you did not show well with Scarborough yesterday.”
“His Grace, the Duke of Scarborough, obviously has many more years than I practicing his fencing.” Wakefield bowed to the other duke so gracefully that Artemis wondered if he’d really meant the insult to Scarborough’s age. “And you, brat, should show more respect to your elders.”
The teasing tone caught Artemis off guard. He truly did care for his sister, she reminded herself. He might be overprotective, but he loved Phoebe. The thought unsettled her. She was blackmailing this man. She didn’t want to think about the softer, more human parts of him.
She girded her loins and readied another salvo. “Did you really find the Ghost so monstrously tall? Truly, I thought he had the height and the physical bearing of His Grace. Indeed, were the duke a better swordsman, it might’ve been he we met in St. Giles.”
“But whyever would His Grace traipse about St. Giles?” Penelope asked in honest confusion. “Only ruffians and the poor go there.”
“Well, we were there, weren’t we?” Artemis retorted.
Penelope waved a dismissive hand. “That’s different. I was on a grand adventure.”
“Which nearly got you both killed, by the sound of it,” Phoebe whispered in Artemis’s ear.
“Come, my lady,” Scarborough said jovially. “Enough of this talk of scoundrels. You promised to sing for us, I remember. Will you do it now?”
“Oh, yes.” Penelope immediately brightened at the prospect of being at the center of attention. “I just need an accompanist.”
“I can play,” Phoebe said, “if I know the piece you’ll be singing.”
Artemis helped her navigate across the room to the clavichord.
“What would you like to perform?” Phoebe asked as she settled gracefully at her instrument.
Penelope smiled. “Do you know ‘The Shepherdess’s Lament?’ ”
Wakefield lowered himself beside her and she couldn’t help but stiffen a little.
“A miss, I think,” he murmured out of the side of his mouth as they watched Penelope tilt her chin very high and extend one hand. “You can do much better than that.”
“Are you challenging me, Your Grace?”
A corner of his mouth curled up, though he didn’t look at her. “Only a fool would provoke his nemesis. What in hell is she doing?”
Artemis glanced back to the musician and singer. Penelope had laid one hand on her stomach, her other still extended unnaturally, and assumed a tragic look. “That’s her performing stance, Your Grace. I’m sure you’ll become quite accustomed to it when you marry my cousin.”
The duke winced. “Touché.”
Phoebe began playing with a skill and dash beyond her years.
Artemis raised her brows in delight, whispering to the duke, “Your sister is a wonderful player.”
“That she is,” he said softly.
And then Penelope sang. It wasn’t that she was a bad songstress, per se, but her soprano voice was thin and on certain notes, quite sharp.
Then, too, the piece she’d chosen was unfortunate.
“ ‘Venture not to pet my woolly lamb,’ ” Penelope warbled, not quite hitting the right note on “lamb.” “ ‘For she is shy and too gentle for a man’s wicked hand.’ ”
“Do you know,” Mrs. Jellett said thoughtfully from behind them, “I do believe this song may have a double meaning.”
Artemis caught the duke’s sardonic gaze and felt the heat rise in her cheeks.
“Behave, Miss Greaves,” he murmured under his breath, his voice husky and deep.
“Fine words for a man who runs about St. Giles at night in a mask,” she whispered.
He frowned, glancing around. “Hush.”
The look he gave her was somehow disappointed. “That’s the way of it, then?”
“You know that’s impossible.” He stared at Penelope and Phoebe, though she certainly hoped he wasn’t paying attention to them since his upper lip was lifted in a curl of disdain. “Your brother killed three men.”
“No,” she said, leaning a little closer to him so that their words would not be overheard. She could smell the woods on him, incongruous in this overly ornamented room. “He was accused of killing three men. He didn’t do it.”
His face softened then in an expression she’d seen before—seen and loathed. “Your loyalty to your brother is to be commended, but the evidence was quite damning. He had blood on his person and the carving knife in his hand when found.”
She sat back, eyeing him. The blood part was well known as was the knife—but that it had been a carving knife was not. “I see your investigations were quite detailed.”
“Naturally. Did you think they would be otherwise?” He finally turned to look at her, and his face was hard and cold, as if they’d never wandered together at early dawn in a secluded wood. “Perhaps you ought to remember, Miss Greaves, that I make it my business to obtain what I set my sights on.”
She couldn’t very well get up and leave him without causing a scene, but she dearly wanted to. “Well, then, in the interests of fairness, perhaps you ought to know, Your Grace, that I have no intention of yielding the field to you.”
Beside her he inclined his head a fraction of an inch. “Then en garde, Miss Greaves.”
Fortunately at that moment the end of Penelope’s ballad was signaled by a long, rather screeching, drawn-out high note that so stunned the audience it was a moment before anyone started clapping.
“How lovely,” Artemis said loudly. “Perhaps an encore—”
“Oh, but my brother has such a wonderful voice,” Phoebe interrupted, shooting Artemis an incredulous glance. “Will you sing for us, Maximus?”
Penelope looked a bit sulky at having the light taken away from her.
“No one needs to hear me,” Wakefield demurred.
“I do like a sweet feminine voice better than a deep masculine one,” Scarborough said.
Wakefield’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps a duet. I believe Phoebe knows several of the songs on the sheet music in the cabinet.”
He stood and went to a tall, intricately carved cabinet and started drawing out music, reading each title aloud as he did so Phoebe could choose the ones she knew by heart.
But when Maximus held out a song, Penelope sniffed and pointed out the female voice was for an alto and she sang only soprano.
For a moment there was a stir of alarm in the audience at the prospect of another solo by Penelope.
Then Phoebe piped up. “Well, then, I’ll just have to take the lady’s part. Really, it won’t do to miss out on Maximus singing, now that he’s agreed.” And before the duke could escape she was beginning the opening bars on the clavichord.
Artemis clasped her hands together in her lap. No doubt Phoebe had wrangled her brother into singing merely to forestall another performance from Penelope. She had no expectations of any great talent, and by the restlessness of those about her, neither did anyone else. When this duet was over she meant to corner him and make—
The masculine voice was low but clear, capturing the senses, running along the back of her neck like a caress, making her shiver in delight. Artemis very much feared she was gaping. The Duke of Wakefield had a voice to make angels—or devils—weep. It wasn’t the type of male voice currently admired—for the high, unnatural voice of the musico was the rage of London at the moment—but his was the sort of voice that would always seduce the ear. Sure and strong, with a vibrating masculinity on the low notes. She could sit and listen to a voice like this for hours.
The Duke of Wakefield seemed unaware of the stir his singing made in his guests. He leaned casually over Phoebe as he read the music he held in one hand, the other placed affectionately on her shoulder. And when they negotiated a particularly intricate passage together, he caught the grin Phoebe threw at him and smiled in return. Naturally, unself-consciously.
Almost joyfully.
If he’d never been the Duke of Wakefield, was this how he would have been? A strong man without coldness or the driving need to dominate and control? Loving and happy?
The thought of such a man was strangely alluring, but even as she considered this phantom being, she caught the duke’s gaze and knew: it was the man as he was now—flawed as he was now—that she longed for. She wanted to clash with his dominating nature, wanted to run with him in the forest, wanted to challenge him, mentally and physically, to games of their own making.
And the coldness?
Staring into his autocratic eyes, Artemis wished with all her heart. If she could, she’d take his coldness and make it her own.
Transform it into a heat to engulf them both.
APOLLO LAY IN his filthy straw and listened to the boot heels of the approaching guards. It was too late for them to be making the rounds. The inmates of this dismal place had already been served a delicate meal of moldy bread and brackish water. The lights had been dimmed. There was no earthly reason for the guards to be here save in the name of mischief.
He sighed, his chains clinking as he shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. A new inmate had been brought in yesterday, a young woman, he thought. Due to the construction of the cells, he couldn’t see any of his neighbors, except for the cell across the way from his own. That was occupied by a man whose diseased skin bore a striking resemblance to lichen on a rock.
Last night the new female inmate had sung well into the wee hours, the words of her song quite vulgar, yet her voice had been beautiful and somehow lost. Whether she was truly mad or simply the victim of relatives or a husband grown tired of her, he had no idea.
Not that it mattered here.
Light glowed in the corridor and the boot heels stopped.
“Ave ye something for me, pretty?” It was Ridley, a man both muscled and mean.
“Give us a kiss, then.” And that was Leech, Ridley’s favored henchman.
The woman moaned, low and hurt. Whatever they intended for her was probably quite grim. A chain rattled, as if she were trying to scurry out of their reach.
“Oi!” Apollo shouted. “Oi, Ridley!”
“Shut it, Kilbourne,” the guard yelled. He sounded distracted.