“Papa, I told you yesterday at luncheon that I was to attend the Viscount of d’Arque’s ball this eve,” Penelope said as her lady’s maid, Blackbourne, fussed with the bow of her half cloak. They were in the grand entrance hall to Brightmore House waiting for the carriage to pull around from the mews.
“Thought you were there last night,” the earl said vaguely. He was a big man with bulbous blue eyes and a commanding nose that rather overtook his chin. He’d just arrived home with his secretary—a withered little man with a frightening head for numbers—and was doffing his tricorne and cape.
“No, darling,” Penelope said, rolling her eyes. “Last night I was dining with Lady Waters at her house.”
Artemis felt like rolling her eyes but refrained, because of course last night they’d been busy being nearly killed in St. Giles and hadn’t been anywhere near Lady Waters’s dining room. Actually, she rather thought Lady Waters might not even be in town at the moment. Penelope lied with a breathtaking virtuosity.
“Eh,” the earl grunted. “Well, you look exquisite, Penny.”
Penelope beamed and twirled to show off her new gown, a brocaded satin primrose gown overembroidered with bunches of flowers in blue, red, and green. The gown had taken a month to put together and cost more than what ninety percent of Londoners made in a year.
“And you, too, of course, Artemis,” the earl said absently. “Quite lovely indeed.”
Artemis curtsied. “Thank you, Uncle.”
For a moment Artemis was struck by how very different this life was from the one she’d known growing up. They’d lived in the country, then, just she, Apollo, Papa, and Mama. Papa had been estranged from his own father, and their household was meager. There had been no parties, let alone balls. Strange to think that she’d become used to attending grand soirees—that she was actually bored by the prospect of yet another one.
Artemis smiled wryly to herself. She was grateful to the earl—who was really a distant cousin, not her uncle. She’d never met either him or Penelope while Papa and Mama still lived, and yet he’d taken her into his house when she’d become a social pariah. Between her lack of dowry and the stigma of familial madness, she had no hope of marrying and having a household of her own. Still, she couldn’t quite forget that the earl had refused—absolutely and without opportunity for appeal—to help Apollo as well. The most he’d done was make sure that Apollo was hastily committed to Bedlam instead of going to trial. That had been an easy enough job for the Earl of Brightmore: no one wanted an aristocrat hanged for murder. The elite of society wouldn’t stand for such a thing—even if the aristocrat in question had never moved much in society.
“You’ll turn every young gentleman’s head at that dance.” The earl was already talking to his daughter again, his eyes narrowing for a moment. “Just make sure yours isn’t turned as well.”
Perhaps he was more aware of Penelope than Artemis gave him credit for.
“Never fear, Papa.” Penelope bussed her sire’s cheek. “I only collect hearts—I don’t give them away.”
“Ha,” her father replied rather absently—his secretary was whispering something in his ear. “See you tomorrow, shall I?”
“Yes, darling.”
And with a last flurry of curtsies and bows from the gaggle of lady’s maids and footmen, Penelope and Artemis were out the door.
“I don’t know why we didn’t bring Bon Bon,” her cousin said as the carriage pulled away. “His fur would’ve quite set off this gown.”
Bon Bon was Penelope’s small, white, and quite elderly dog. Artemis wasn’t sure how he would “set off” Penelope’s gown. Besides, she hadn’t had the heart to disturb the poor thing when she’d seen him curled up in the silly green-and-pink dog bed Penelope’d had made for him.
“Perhaps,” Artemis murmured, “but his white fur would’ve stuck to your skirts as well.”
“Oh.” Penelope frowned quite becomingly, her small rosebud mouth pouting. “I wonder if I should get a pug. But everyone has one—they’re almost common—and the fawn isn’t nearly so striking as Bon Bon’s white.”
Artemis sighed silently and kept her opinions about choosing a dog by the color of its fur to herself.
Penelope began prattling about dogs and dresses and fashion and the house party at the Duke of Wakefield’s country residence they would soon attend. Artemis merely had to nod here and there to help with the conversation. She thought about Apollo and how thin he’d appeared this morning. He was a big man—or had been. Bedlam had caved in his cheeks, hollowed his eyes, and made the bones at his wrists protrude. She had to find more money to pay the guards, more food to bring him, more clothes to give him. But all that was just a temporary fix. If she didn’t discover some way to get her brother out of Bedlam, she very much feared he wouldn’t live another year there.
She sighed softly as Penelope kept talking about Belgium lace.
Half an hour later they were descending the carriage steps in front of a grand mansion ablaze with lights.
“It’s a pity, really,” Penelope said, shaking out her skirts.
“What is?” Artemis bent to straighten the hem at the back.
“Lord d’Arque.” Her cousin gestured vaguely at the stunning town house. “Such a beautiful man and rich as well—he’s nearly perfect.”
Artemis wrinkled her forehead, trying to follow her cousin’s sometimes mazelike thought process. “But he’s not?”
“No, of course not, silly,” Penelope said as she sailed toward the front doors. “He’s not a duke, is he? Oh, I say, there’s Lord Featherstone!”
Artemis trailed after Penelope as she flitted up to the young lordling. George Featherstone, Baron Featherstone, had large blue eyes with luxuriant curling lashes and a red, full-lipped mouth, and had it not been for the strength of his jawline and the length of his nose, he might’ve been mistaken for a girl. He was considered very comely by most of the ladies in London society, although Artemis personally found the nasty glint in those pretty blue eyes distasteful.
“My Lady Penelope!” Lord Featherstone crowed, halting on the marble steps and making an extravagant bow. He wore a crimson coat and breeches with a gold waistcoat embroidered in crimson, purple, and bright leaf green. “What news?”
“My lord, I am pleased to report that I have been to St. Giles,” Penelope said, extending her hand.
Lord Featherstone bowed over it, lingering a fraction of a second too long before looking up through his lush eyelashes. “And did you partake of a cup of gin?”
“Alas, no.” Penelope flipped open her fan and turned her face into it as if abashed. “Better.” She lowered the fan to reveal a grin. “I met the Ghost of St. Giles.”
Lord Featherstone eyes widened. “Say you so?”
“Indeed. My companion, Miss Greaves, can bear witness.”
Artemis curtsied.
“But this is wonderful, my lady!” Lord Featherstone threw wide his arms, the gesture making him wobble, and for a moment Artemis worried that he might overbalance on the steps, but he merely braced himself by throwing one foot on the next step up. “A masked demon vanquished by the beauty of a maiden.” He tilted his head and glanced sideways at Penelope, a sly smile on his lips. “You did vanquish him, did you not, my lady?”
Artemis frowned. Vanquish was rather a risqué word that could be taken—
“Good evening, my lady, my lord,” a calm, deep voice said.
Artemis turned. The Duke of Wakefield appeared from the darkness behind them, his footfalls making no sound. He was a tall, lean man, dressed severely in black and wearing an elegant white wig. The lights from the mansion cast faintly ominous shadows across his countenance, emphasizing the right angles of his face: the stern, dark shelf of his eyebrows, the prominent nose positioned vertically underneath, which led straight to the thin, almost cruel line of his lips. The Duke of Wakefield was not considered as beautiful as Lord Featherstone by the ladies of society, but if one could look at his features a
part from the man beneath, it was possible to see that he was in fact a handsome man.
Coldly, sternly handsome, with nary a trace of softness to relieve the harsh masculine planes of his face.
Artemis repressed a shiver. No, the Duke of Wakefield would never be a darling of the feminine members of society. Something about him was so opposite to female that he almost repelled the softer sex. This was not a man to be swayed by gentleness, beauty, or sweet words. He would bend—assuming he was even capable of bending—only for reasons of his own.
“Your Grace.” Penelope made a flirtatious curtsy while Artemis dipped more sedately beside her. Not that anyone noticed. “How lovely to see you this evening.”
“Lady Penelope.” The duke bowed over her hand and straightened. His dark eyes betrayed no emotion, either positive or negative. “What’s this I heard about the Ghost of St. Giles?”
Penelope licked her lips in what might have been a seductive movement, but Artemis thought her cousin was probably nervous. The duke was rather daunting at the best of times. “A grand adventure, Your Grace. I met the Ghost himself last night in St. Giles!”
The duke simply looked at her.
Artemis stirred uneasily. Penelope didn’t seem to be aware that her lark might not be taken as an accomplishment by the duke. “Cousin, perhaps we should—”
“Lady Penelope has the wonderful courage of Britannia herself,” Lord Featherstone trumpeted. “A sweetly brave bearing embraced by the beauty of her form and face, resulting in perfection of manner and grace. My lady, please, accept this bauble as a token of my admiration.”
Lord Featherstone dropped to one knee and held out his jeweled snuffbox. Artemis snorted under her breath. She couldn’t help thinking that Penelope had won the wager fair and square, at risk of both life and limb. Lord Featherstone’s snuffbox wasn’t the simple offering he was trying to make it seem.
Male ninny.
Penelope reached for the snuffbox, but strong fingers were ahead of hers. The duke plucked the thing from Lord Featherstone’s hand—making the younger man flinch—and held it up to the light. It was oval, gold, and there was a tiny, round painting of a girl was on the top, bordered by pearls.
“Very pretty,” His Grace drawled. He palmed the box and turned to Lady Penelope. “But hardly worth your life, my lady. I hope you’ll not risk something so precious for such a mundane trinket again.”
He tossed the box to Penelope, who simply blinked, forcing Artemis to dive rather ungracefully for the thing. She caught the snuffbox before it could hit either the ground or Penelope, and straightened to see the duke’s eyes upon her.
For a moment she froze. She’d never looked into his eyes before—she was a creature relegated to the sides of ballrooms and the back of sitting rooms. Gentlemen rarely noticed a lady’s companion. If she’d been quizzed as to His Grace’s eye color, she would’ve had to reply simply that they were dark. Which they were. Very dark, nearly black, but not quite. The Duke of Wakefield’s eyes were a deep, rich brown, like coffee newly brewed, like walnut wood oiled and polished, like seal fur shining in the light, and even though they were rather lovely to look at, they were as cold as iron in winter. One touch and her very soul might freeze.
“An adept catch, Miss Greaves,” the duke said, breaking the spell.
He turned and mounted the stairs.
Artemis blinked after him. When had he learned her name?
“Pompous ass,” Lord Featherstone said so loudly the duke must’ve heard, though he gave no sign as he disappeared into the mansion. Lord Featherstone turned to Lady Penelope. “I must give apology, my lady, for the ungentlemanly actions of the duke. I can only assume he has lost all sense of play or fun and has ossified into an old man before the age of forty. Or is it fifty? I vow, the duke might well be as old as my father.”
“Surely not.” Lady Penelope’s brows drew together as if she were truly worried that the duke had suddenly aged overnight. “He can’t be over forty years of age, can he?”
Her appeal was to Artemis, who sighed and slipped the snuffbox into her pocket to give back to Penelope later. If she did not take care of it, Penelope was sure to leave it at the mansion or in the carriage. “I believe His Grace is but three and thirty.”
“Is he?” Penelope brightened before blinking suspiciously. “How do you know?”
“His sisters have mentioned it in passing,” Artemis said drily. Penelope was friends—or at least acquaintances—with both Lady Hero and Lady Phoebe herself, but Penelope was not in the habit of listening, let alone remembering, what her friends said in conversation.
“Oh. Well, that’s good then.” And nodding to herself, Penelope accepted Lord Featherstone’s arm and proceeded into the town house.
They were greeted by liveried footmen, taking and storing their wraps before they mounted the grand staircase to the upper floor and Lord d’Arque’s ballroom. The room was like a fairyland. The pink-and-white marble floor shone under their feet. Overhead, crystal chandeliers sparkled with thousands of candles. Hothouse carnations in every shade of pink, white, and crimson overflowed from huge vases, perfuming the air with the sharp scent of cloves. A group of musicians at one end of the ballroom played a languid melody. And the guests were arrayed in every color of the rainbow, moving gracefully, as if to an unspoken dance, like a cohort of ethereal fairy folk.
Artemis wrinkled her nose ruefully at her plain gown. It was brown, and if the other guests were fairies, then she supposed she must be a dark little troll. Her gown had been made the first year that she’d come to live with Penelope and the earl, and she’d worn it ever since to all the balls she attended with Penelope. After all, she was merely the companion. She was there to fade into the background, which she did with admirable skill, even if she did say so herself.
“That went well,” Penelope said brightly.
Artemis blinked, wondering if she’d missed something. They’d lost Lord Featherstone and the crowd was thickening around them. “I’m sorry?”
“Wakefield.” Penelope waved open her elaborately painted fan as if her companion could somehow read her mind and thus complete the thought.
“Our meeting with the duke went well?” Artemis supplied doubtfully. Surely not.
“Oh, indeed.” Penelope snapped closed her fan and tapped Artemis on the shoulder. “He’s jealous.”
Artemis gazed at her beautiful cousin. There were several adjectives she might use to describe the duke’s frame of mind when he’d left them: scornful, dismissive, superior, arrogant… actually, now that she thought of it, she was fairly sure she could come up with dozens of adjectives, and yet jealous wasn’t one of them.
Artemis cleared her throat carefully. “I’m not sure—”
“Ah, Lady Penelope!” A gentleman with a bit of a tummy straining the buttons of his elegant suit stepped deliberately in front of them. “You are as lovely as a summer rose.”
Penelope’s mouth pursed at this rather pedestrian compliment. “I thank you, Your Grace.”
“Not at all, not at all.” The Duke of Scarborough turned to Artemis and winked. “And I trust that you’re in the best of health, Miss Greaves.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” Artemis smiled as she bobbed a curtsy.
The duke was of average height but had a slight stoop that made him seem shorter. He wore a snowy wig, a lovely champagne-colored suit, and diamond buckles on his shoes—which, rumor had it, he could well afford. Gossip also said that he was on the hunt for a new wife, since the duchess had passed away several years previously. Unfortunately, while Penelope could probably forgive the man his stoop and little belly, she was not so sanguine about his age, for the Duke of Scarborough, unlike the Duke of Wakefield, was well past his sixtieth year.
“I am on my way to meet a friend,” Penelope clipped out, trying to dodge the man.
But the duke was the veteran of many a ball. He moved with admirable deftness for his age, somehow catching Penelope’s hand and hooking it through h
is elbow. “Then I shall have the pleasure of escorting you there.”
“Oh, but I’m quite thirsty,” Penelope parried. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to fetch me a cup of punch, Your Grace?”
“I’d be most delighted, my lady,” the duke said, and Artemis thought she saw a twinkle in his eye, “but I’m sure your companion wouldn’t mind the chore. Would you, Miss Greaves?”
“Certainly not,” Artemis murmured.
Penelope might be her mistress, but she rather had a fondness for the elderly duke—even if he didn’t have a prayer of winning Penelope. She turned sedately, but fast enough to pretend not to hear her cousin’s sputter. The refreshments room was on the other side of the ballroom, and her progress was slow, for the middle of the floor was taken up by dancers.
Yet, her lips were still curved faintly when she heard an ominously rumbling voice. “Miss Greaves. Might I have a word?”
Naturally, she thought as she looked up into the Duke of Wakefield’s cold seal-brown eyes.
“I’M SURPRISED YOU know my name,” Miss Artemis Greaves said.
She wasn’t a woman he would notice under normal circumstances. Maximus gazed down at the upturned face of Miss Greaves and reflected that she was one of the innumerable female shades: companions, maiden aunts, poor relations. The ones who hung back. The ones who drifted quietly in the shadows. Every man of means had them, for it was the duty of a gentleman to take care of females such as she. See to it that they were clothed and housed and fed and, if possible, that they were happy or at least content with their lot in life. Beyond that, nothing, for these types of females didn’t impact on masculine issues. They didn’t marry and they didn’t bear children. Practically speaking they had no sex at all. There was no reason to notice a woman like her.
And yet he had.
Even before last night he’d been aware of Miss Greaves trailing her cousin, always in concealing colors—brown or gray—like a sparrow in the wake of a parrot. She hardly spoke—at least within his hearing—and had mastered the art of quiet watchfulness. She made no move to draw any attention to herself at all.