Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(14)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

She rolled her eyes, but said with a sort of gruff kindness as she came over and bent to take his arm, “Now what mess ’ave you gotten yerself into, sir?”

“ ’Twas Old Scratch, plain as day,” the man muttered. “Had a great big pistol and demanded my purse or my life. And then he hit me anyway!”

Maximus shook his head as he moved off. Stranger things had been imagined in St. Giles than highway robbery by the Devil, he supposed, but he hadn’t time to stay and learn more about the matter. It was already far too light. He swarmed up the side of a building, making his way to the roof. Below he could hear the clatter of hooves and he swore under his breath. It was early yet for the Dragoons to be about St. Giles, but he didn’t want to take the chance it might be they.

He ran across the angled rooftops, leaping from building to building. He had to descend to the ground twice, each time for only a short run before he was back traveling by London rooftop.

Twenty minutes later he caught sight of Wakefield House.

When he’d first started his career as the Ghost of St. Giles, he and Craven had very quickly realized that he would need a secret means of access to the town house. Which was why, instead of approaching the house directly, Maximus slid into the gardens in back. They were a long, narrow strip of land between the house and the mews, and at one side was an ancient folly. It was small, little more than a moss-covered stone arch enclosing a bench. Maximus entered and knelt to sweep aside a pile of dead leaves by the bench. Underneath was an iron ring set into the stone paving. He grasped it and lifted and a square block of stone pulled back on well-oiled hinges, revealing a short drop to a tunnel. Maximus lowered himself inside and pulled the covering stone back on top. He was in complete and utter blackness.

Wet blackness.

Maximus crouched, for the tunnel was only about five feet high—not nearly tall enough for him to stand upright—and began crab-walking through the cramped space. The walls were barely wider than his shoulders and he brushed against them often. Water dripped in a slow lament, and he splashed through stagnant pools every third step. He could feel his chest tighten, his breath coming too light and fast, and he fought to breathe deeper, to lay his hand against slimy brick without flinching. Only a few feet further. He’d used the tunnel for years. He should be resigned to its horrors—and the memories they evoked—by now.

Even so, he couldn’t help but draw a deep, relieved breath when he came to the wider entrance to his underground exercise room. He felt carefully along the wall as he stepped down, searching for the small ledge that held tinder and flint.

He’d only just struck a spark when the door that led to the house opened and Craven appeared with a candle in hand.

Maximus exhaled in relief at the light.

Craven advanced toward him, holding his candle high. Maximus had never told his valet his feelings on the tunnel, yet as in innumerable times past Craven was lighting the candelabras set into the walls as swiftly as he could.

“Ah, Your Grace,” the valet drawled as he worked. “I’m gratified to see that you’ve returned in one piece and with barely any blood about your person.”

Maximus glanced down and saw the rusty stain on his tunic sleeve. “Not mine. I found a gentleman who’d been robbed in St. Giles.”

“Indeed? And was your other mission fruitful?”

“No.” Maximus stripped off the tunic and leggings of his costume, swiftly donning his more usual breeches, waistcoat, and coat. “I have a task for you.”

“I live to serve,” Craven intoned in a ponderous voice so solemn it could only be subtle mockery.

Maximus was tired, so he ignored the response. “Find out everything you can about Artemis Greaves.”

Chapter Four

“What bargain might that be?” asked King Herla.

The dwarf grinned. “It’s well known that you’ve betrothed yourself to a fair princess. As it happens, I, too, will soon be wed. If you will do me the honor of inviting me to your wedding banquet, I in turn will invite you to my wedding festivities.”

Well, King Herla thought deeply on the matter, for ’tis known that one should not enter a pact, however innocent, with one of the Fae without due consideration, but in the end he saw no harm in the invitation.

So King Herla shook the Dwarf King’s hand and they agreed to attend each other’s weddings.…

—from The Legend of the Herla King

Three days later Artemis Greaves descended from the Chadwicke carriage and looked up in awe. Pelham House, the seat of the dukes of Wakefield for the last one hundred years, was the largest private residence she’d ever seen. A massive yellow stone building with rows upon rows of windows across the facade, Pelham dwarfed the numerous carriages drawn up at its front. Twin colonnaded arms reached out from the central building, embracing the huge circular drive. A tall portico dominated the entrance, four Ionic columns holding aloft the triangular pediment with wide steps across the front leading to the drive. Pelham House was majestic and daunting and didn’t look particularly welcoming.

Rather like its owner.

Artemis was conscious that the Duke of Wakefield stood at the center of the portico, wearing a blue suit so dark it was nearly black, his immaculately white wig making him look austere and aristocratic. Presumably he was there to welcome his guests to the country party—although one would never know it from his unsmiling face.

“Do you see she’s here?”

Artemis started at the hiss at her shoulder, nearly dropping poor Bon Bon, asleep in her arms. She juggled the little dog, a shawl, and Penelope’s nécessaire box before turning to her cousin. “Who?”

There were three other carriages in the drive beside their own, and “she” could’ve been any number of ladies.

Still Penelope widened her eyes as if Artemis had become suddenly dimwitted. “Her. Hippolyta Royale. Whyever would Wakefield invite her?”

Because Miss Royale was one of the most popular ladies of the last year, Artemis thought but of course did not say out loud—she wasn’t actually dimwitted. She glanced to where Penelope indicated and saw the lady descending from her carriage. She was tall and slim, dark haired and dark eyed, a quite striking figure, really, especially in the dull gold-and-purple traveling costume she wore. Artemis noted that Miss Royale appeared to be arriving unaccompanied, and it occurred to her that unlike most ladies, she’d never seen the heiress with a particular friend. She was friendly—or at least she seemed so, for Artemis had never been introduced—but she didn’t link arms with a bosom bow, didn’t lean close and giggle over gossip. Miss Royale appeared eternally alone.