Duke of Midnight

The Duke of Scarborough nodded vigorously as though she’d imparted some wonderful wisdom. “Indeed, indeed, my dear Miss Greaves. Lady Penelope should be showered with all that is most lovely. But is there anything else you might tell me? Anything at all?”

They were nearly to the portico and on impulse Artemis ducked her head to murmur, “What Penelope really adores is attention. Pure, undivided attention.”

The Duke of Scarborough just had time to wink and say, “You’re a marvel, Miss Greaves, truly you are.”

And then they were climbing the steps to where the Duke of Wakefield stood with Penelope beside him.

“Your Grace.” Wakefield’s bow was curt enough to nearly be insulting. His cold eyes flicked between Scarborough and Artemis and one corner of his mouth crimped. “Welcome to Pelham House.” He merely glanced at a waiting footman and the man promptly stepped forward. “Henry will show you to your rooms.”

“Thank you, sir!” The Duke of Scarborough grinned. “A nice little house you have here, Wakefield. I confess it quite puts my own country seat, Clareton, to shame. Of course I’ve recently built a music room at Clareton.” Scarborough’s eyes widened innocently. “Pelham hasn’t been updated since your dear father’s time, has it?”

If Wakefield was bothered by the rather obvious jab, he didn’t show it. “My father had the south facade on the opposite side of the building rebuilt, as I’m sure you remember, Scarborough.”

Artemis realized with a start that Scarborough was of an age to have been a contemporary of Wakefield’s father. What did Wakefield feel, welcoming his father’s friend to his home? Seeing what his father might’ve looked like had he lived? She examined Wakefield’s face. Nothing at all, if one were to go by his expression.

For a moment the Duke of Scarborough’s face softened. “Had all those windows put in to overlook the garden for your mother, didn’t he? Mary always did like her gardens.”

It was slight, but Artemis thought she saw a muscle tic underneath the Duke of Wakefield’s left eye. For some reason the small reaction prompted her into speech. “What sort of instruments have you in your new music room, Your Grace?”

“I confess, none at all.”

Artemis blinked. “You haven’t any musical instruments in your music room?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the point in it?” Penelope asked rather irritably, joining the conversation for the first time. “ ’Tisn’t a music room without musical instruments.”

Scarborough looked suspiciously crestfallen. “Oh, dear, I hadn’t thought of that, my lady. I confess I was so interested in hiring the most talented Italian artist to paint the murals on the ceiling, finding the best imported pink marble, and making sure that the workmen used enough gold to gild the walls and ceiling that I forgot all about the musical instruments themselves.”

Lady Penelope turned, almost as if against her will, to the Duke of Scarborough. “Gold…”

“Oh, quite.” Scarborough leaned forward earnestly. “I do think one shouldn’t stint on gilding, don’t you? Makes one look so damnably frugal.”

Penelope’s perfect pink lips parted. “I—”

“And now that you’ve pointed out my folly in neglecting actual instruments for the music room, perhaps you could give me your opinion.” Somehow Scarborough had tucked Penelope’s hand into the bend of his elbow. “For instance, I’ve heard that Italian clavichords have the best sound, but I confess I do enjoy the look of some of the French painted ones, even if they cost nearly double the Italian. I think in some ways taste should precede art, don’t you?”

Scarborough turned and guided Penelope into the house as she answered. He was so adroit that Artemis wondered if her cousin even realized she was being managed. She glanced at the Duke of Wakefield, expecting him to be frowning after the odd couple, and she was indeed right about one thing: he was frowning.

But it was at her rather than Penelope.

Artemis inhaled, feeling a strange tightness in her chest. He stared at her so intently, as if his entire focus was upon her. Those sable eyes were stern and dark, but there was a spark of something hidden away at the back of them that she suddenly wanted to discover.

“Your Grace.”

Artemis nearly jumped at the words. More guests had arrived, drawing the duke’s attention. She turned swiftly to go inside, but as she entered the cold marble hall, she thought she knew what she’d seen in the duke’s eyes.

A spark of warmth.

She shivered. The thought shouldn’t have filled her with dread, but it did.

ARTEMIS WOKE BEFORE dawn the next morning. She’d been given a room next to Penelope’s, smaller than her cousin’s but far grander than the ones she usually stayed in.

But then everything about Pelham House was grand.

She stretched, remembering the long table in the immense dining room where they’d eaten dinner last night. Besides herself and Penelope, Miss Royale, and the Duke of Scarborough, the guests included Lord and Lady Noakes, a couple in their fifties; Mrs. Jellett, a well-known society lady with a penchant for gossip; Mr. Barclay, a male version of Mrs. Jellett; Lord and Lady Oddershaw, political allies of the duke; and finally Mr. Watts, also a political ally. Artemis was glad to see Lady Phoebe and Miss Picklewood, who were in attendance as well. Unfortunately, she’d not had the opportunity to talk to Phoebe last night. They’d sat at opposite ends of the table during dinner, and Phoebe had retired shortly after the meal ended.

Artemis rose and dressed in her usual brown serge. It would be hours yet before Penelope would wake and need her. In the meantime, there was something Artemis longed to do.

She slipped quietly from the room, glancing up and down the wide corridor outside. A maid was walking away from her, but otherwise the hallway was deserted. Artemis picked up her skirts and ran lightly to the back of the house. There was a staircase here—grand, but not the overwhelming monstrosity at the front of the house. She crept down it carefully. It wasn’t as if she was doing anything wrong, but she liked the idea of moving unseen. Of not having to answer to anyone.

A door nearly as tall as the front one led to the south side of the house. She tried the handle, holding her breath. It turned beneath her fingers, but then she heard footsteps.

Quickly she opened the door and was out onto the back terrace. She stood beside the door, breathing quietly, and watched through the windows beside the door as a footman hurried by.

When he was past she slipped down the wide steps into the garden. Trimmed hedges stood severe and dark in the grayish pink light of dawn. She ran her hand over the prickly leaves as she padded down a gravel path. She’d worn neither hat nor gloves, a terrible breach of etiquette. Ladies never went outside without both for fear of freckling in the sun, even when the sun wasn’t out.

But then she’d never been much of a lady.

The hedges ended at a wide, cut grass lawn and Artemis bent on a sudden impulse, pulling both her slippers and stockings from her feet. Holding them in one hand, she ran for the stand of trees, the dewy grass making her feet wet.

She was panting by the time she’d made the edge of the trees, her heart beating faster, a grin stretching her lips. It had been so long since she’d been in the country.

Since she’d been herself.

The Earl of Brightmore had a country residence, naturally, but neither he nor Penelope ever went there. They were much too enamored of the city. Artemis hadn’t been back to the country in years, and she hadn’t had a proper run on grass since…

Well, since she’d been forced to leave her childhood home.

She shook the dreary thought from her mind. This time was precious and there was no point in using it to mourn past sorrows. The sun was up now, the light fresh and delicately new, and she tiptoed into the trees, placing her steps carefully, for her feet had become tender since she’d last walked barefoot on a forest floor.

This wasn’t really a forest, she knew—it was a carefully cultivated copse, made to look wild by expensive gardeners—but it would do. Overhead, the birds were waking, singing their joy at the new day. A squirrel ran up the trunk of a tree and then paused to scold her as she glided past. Soft leaves rustled underfoot, and every now and again she stepped on bare earth, cool and welcoming.

She could lose herself here. Cast off her clothing and become a wild thing, escaping civilization and society, another animal in the woods. She’d never have to go back, never have to bow to those who thought her inferior or simply looked through her as if she were the paper on the walls.

She could be free.

But who would care about Apollo, then? Who would visit him, bring him food, and tell him stories so he wouldn’t truly go insane? He’d rot, forgotten in Bedlam, and she couldn’t let that happen to her darling brother.

Something moved in the trees up ahead. Artemis stilled, flattening herself to a broad trunk. It wasn’t that she was frightened of whoever it was, but she liked her solitude. Wanted to enjoy it a little longer.

She heard a panting and then all at once she was surrounded by dogs. Three dogs, to be specific: two greyhounds and a hunting spaniel with a lovely plumed tail, wagging briskly. For a moment she and the dogs merely took stock of each other. She looked around, but no one else seemed to be in the woods, as if the dogs had gone for a jaunty ramble all on their own.

Artemis extended her fingers. “Are you three by your lonesome, then?”

At her voice the spaniel sniffed interestedly at her fingertips, his mouth hanging open as if he were grinning. She fondled his silky ears and then the greyhounds bounded forward to give their approval.

A corner of her mouth curved up and she stepped out, continuing her own walk. The dogs ranged in front of her and to the sides, loping ahead before circling back to snuffle her fingers or butt against her hand as if to receive permission before trotting off again.

Artemis meandered for a bit, not worrying about their destination, she and the dogs, and then, suddenly, the trees parted. Ahead was a pond, the morning sun shining off the dappled water. At the far side of the pond was a clever rustic bridge that led to a small, artfully tumbling tower at the other end.

The two greyhounds went immediately to the pond’s edge to drink while the spaniel decided simply to wade in until he could lap the water without bending his head.

Artemis stood at the tree line, watching the dogs, tilting her face to scent the woods.

A shrill whistle broke the tranquility.

All three dogs lifted their heads. The taller greyhound—a brindled brown-and-gold female—took off toward the bridge, the other greyhound—a red female—right behind. The spaniel bounded to shore in a shower of water, shaking vigorously before barking and following.

There was a figure on the other side of the bridge, drawing closer. A man in worn boots and an aged coat that once had been of exquisite cut. He was tall, with broad shoulders, and he moved like a great cat. A floppy hat covered his head, obscuring his features. For a moment Artemis inhaled in shocked recognition.

But then he stepped into the light and she saw that she’d been mistaken.

It was the Duke of Wakefield.

MAXIMUS SAW MISS Greaves standing at the edge of the woods like a suspicious dryad and thought, Naturally. What other lady would be up and about so scandalously early? What other lady would make his dogs desert him?

Those same dogs ran to him as if to share with him their new friend. Belle and Starling milled around his feet while Percy planted muddy paws on his thigh and drooled upon his coat.

“Traitors,” Maximus murmured to the greyhounds, not bothering to reprimand the disheveled spaniel. He glanced across the pond, half expecting Miss Greaves to have disappeared, but she was still watching him.

“Good morning,” he called.

He approached her as he would a wild, woodland creature: gingerly and with an attempt to appear harmless, but she didn’t start. He amended the analogy as he drew closer: a wild animal would show fear.