Duke of Midnight

  “Yes.” Artemis watched as Penelope tapped Wakefield flirtatiously on the arm. He was smiling down at her. “She’s getting on well with your brother.”

  “Is she?” Phoebe asked.

  Artemis glanced at Phoebe, wondering. Phoebe had made it plain in the past that she didn’t think Penelope the best choice for her brother, but of course she had no say in the matter. Was Phoebe worried that she’d have to move out of her brother’s house if Penelope married Wakefield?

  “Here’s Miss Picklewood,” Artemis told her companion as they approached two ladies. “She’s in conversation with Mrs. Jellett.”

  “Oh, Phoebe, dear,” Miss Picklewood called. “I was just telling Mrs. Jellett that you’re the one who manages the garden.”

  Phoebe smiled. “I only maintain the garden. Mother was the original designer.”

  “Then she had quite an artistic hand,” Mrs. Jellett said promptly. “I do envy you the space you have to work with. My Mr. Jellett left me only a small garden at our country house. Now can you tell me what this elegant flower is? I don’t remember ever seeing the like.”

  Artemis watched as Phoebe bent and felt the flower before giving a quite academic lecture about the plant, its origin, and how it had come to be growing here at Pelham. Artemis was a bit bemused. She hadn’t known her friend was so interested in gardening.

  A wet nose thrust itself into her hand and at the same time Miss Picklewood chuckled. “Percy seems quite taken with you. Usually he never leaves Maximus’s side.”

  Artemis glanced down at the hunting spaniel’s adoring brown eyes and ruffled his soft ears. She was surprised to see that Bon Bon was by the bigger dog’s side, pink tongue hanging out as he panted happily. She looked up. The duke was escorting Penelope on the far side of the garden. “Where’s Mignon?”

  Miss Picklewood pointed to where the little spaniel was nosing under a boxwood. “She doesn’t much like the larger dogs, unlike Bon Bon.”

  “Mmm.” Artemis crouched to give the little white dog a pat as well. “I haven’t seen him so active in years.”

  “I must show Lady Noakes,” Mrs. Jellett was saying in a rather-too-loud voice. “She’s such a keen gardener, though she doesn’t often have the funds to indulge.” She tucked her chin into her neck and whispered, “Noakes gambles, you know.”

  Miss Picklewood shook her head. “Gambling is such an evil.” She sent Mrs. Jellett a significant look. “Have you heard the story about Lord Pepperman?”

  “No!”

  Phoebe gave a small groan. “If you’ll excuse us, Cousin Bathilda, Mrs. Jellett, Artemis expressed a special interest in the espaliered apricot trees.”

  Artemis dutifully took her friend’s arm and waited until they’d walked out of earshot before leaning close. “Espaliered apricots?”

  Phoebe stuck her nose in the air. “Something everyone should take an interest in. Besides, I’m not sure I could take the Pepperman story again.”

  A shrill whistle rent the air. Percy, who had been trotting along beside them, lifted his head alertly before racing to Wakefield’s side. Bon Bon scrambled on short little legs to keep up with his new friend.

  Artemis watched the dogs go and found herself staring at the duke. He was looking in her direction, and even at this distance he was commanding, almost as if he were demanding something of her.

  She felt light-headed.

  Then Penelope tapped him on the arm and he turned to the other woman to smile and make some comment.

  Artemis shivered despite the bright sunshine.

  Phoebe bumped at her shoulder. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Have you?” Artemis said distractedly. Wakefield and Penelope had met up with Lord and Lady Oddershaw, and even at this distance she recognized the slight stiffening of the duke’s shoulders. He seemed displeased by something Lord Oddershaw was saying.

  “Wouldn’t it be lovely if all the ladies from the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children went together to see the theater at Harte’s Folly?”

  Artemis blinked and looked down at Phoebe. “That does sound lovely—I’m sure Penelope would like to attend. She likes any sort of public event, even if she doesn’t always follow the play.”

  Phoebe smiled up at her. “And you, too, of course. You’re rather an honorary member, don’t you think? Since you attend the meetings with Penelope?”

  “I suppose.” Artemis’s lips twisted wryly. She certainly would never be a real member since the Ladies’ Syndicate existed to help the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children in St. Giles. Money was a rather large prerequisite for becoming a member.

  “Oh, do say you’ll come,” Phoebe said, hugging Artemis’s arm close. “They’re doing Twelfth Night with Robin Goodfellow playing Viola. She’s always so funny in her breeches roles. I quite love her low voice and the droll way she speaks her lines.”

  Oh, Artemis thought with a pang. Phoebe probably couldn’t actually see the actors on the stage when she attended the theater. It would all be about the speeches of the actors for her.

  “Of course I’ll come,” she said warmly to the younger woman.

  “That’s settled, then,” Phoebe said with a little skip. “I’ll ask the other ladies if they can attend, too.”

  Artemis felt the corner of her mouth curl at Phoebe’s infectious joy. They were nearing the end of the garden and a stone seat set against the wall, and Artemis now saw that a solitary figure sat there, gazing into the distance as if deep in thought.

  “You know,” she said impulsively, “I’ve heard that Miss Royale is an heiress in her own right.”

  Phoebe’s brows knit slightly. “Yes?”

  Artemis squeezed her arm significantly. “There’s always room for one more member of the Ladies’ Syndicate.”

  “Oh!” Phoebe said.

  Artemis patted her arm and raised her voice just a bit. “And here’s Miss Royale.”

  That lady swung her head around as if she hadn’t noticed their approach. “Good afternoon.” Her voice was low for a woman, her expression cautious.

  Phoebe smiled innocently. “Are you enjoying the gardens, Miss Royale?”

  “Why, yes, my lady,” Miss Royale replied. “Er… will you both join me?”

  Her words were a trifle belated as Phoebe had already settled on one side of her while Artemis had taken the other.

  “Thank you,” Phoebe said sweetly. “I was just telling Miss Greaves that I do hope all the ladies of the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children can join me at Harte’s Folly when we return to town.”

  Miss Royale blinked at this information, but politely replied, “I don’t believe I’ve heard of the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children.”

  Phoebe opened her eyes wide. “Haven’t you?”

  Artemis privately hid a smile as Phoebe began expounding on the St. Giles orphanage and all the good works it did for the most vulnerable of children. She glanced up as she did so and saw Wakefield, still strolling with Lady Penelope and Lord Oddershaw. His face was creased in an irritable frown.

  What had Lord Oddershaw said to him?

  MAXIMUS WOKE FROM dreams of work unfinished and bloody tresses shining dully in the moonlight. He’d been awake until well past two of the clock in polite argument with Oddershaw. Maximus didn’t mind the intrusion of politics into his house party, but he didn’t like the other man’s insistence on bringing up the matter when Maximus had been in the garden with Lady Penelope. But, although Oddershaw was an uncouth blowhard, he was also an important political ally in order to build a strong backing for Maximus’s newest Gin Act.

  Thus the dreary duty of debating the man into the small hours.

  He rose and quickly donned his old coat and boots and strode through Pelham to the back of the house. Even having slept later than usual, he met only a few servants, and they were well t
rained enough to simply bow or curtsy without speaking as he passed by.

  Mornings were the one time of day that he kept to himself.

  Outside, he strode around Pelham in the direction of the long stables. Usually the dogs were waiting for him in the stable yard, eager for their ramble, but today the yard was empty.

  Maximus frowned and set off for the woods.

  The sun was already up as he crossed the wide south lawn, and the sudden darkness of the canopy when he entered the woods made him blind for a moment. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again she appeared before him like some ancient goddess, calm and otherworldly, standing under the tall trees as if she owned them, his dogs at her side.

  Percy broke the moment first, naturally, rushing from Miss Greaves to him, muddy and excited. A small, formerly white dog darted out from behind her skirts, barking madly as it chased after Percy.

  “You’re late today, Your Grace,” Miss Greaves said, almost as if she’d been waiting for him.

  Foolish notion. “I talked long into the night with Lord Oddershaw,” he said. “Is that Lady Penelope’s dog?” He looked down at the dog sniffing around his ankles. He didn’t remember ever seeing the animal so muddy—or so active.

  “Yes.” She fell into step with him as easily as if they’d been doing this for years. “What were you talking to Lord Oddershaw about?”

  He glanced at her. She wore a brown dress he’d seen innumerable times on her before and he remembered her wardrobe with its three dresses: two for day and one for evening balls. “We discussed politics. I doubt a lady such as yourself would be interested.”

  “Why?”

  He frowned. “Why what?”

  “Why wouldn’t a lady such as myself be interested in your political discussion, Your Grace?” Her tone was perfectly correct and yet somehow he thought she was mocking him.

  As a result his voice might’ve been a trifle brusque. “It had to do with canals and a proposed act of my own to eradicate the gin trade in London amongst the poor. Fascinating stuff, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  She didn’t rise to the bait. “What do canals have to do with the gin trade?”

  “Nothing.” He picked up a stick and threw it rather overhard for Percy, not that the silly spaniel minded. The dog took off, barking joyfully, as Lady Penelope’s pet tried gallantly to keep up. Apparently the odd pair had become friends. “Oddershaw is angling for me to back his act opening a canal in Yorkshire that will benefit his mining interests before he’ll throw his support behind my Gin Act.”

  “And you don’t want to support his canal?” She picked up her skirts to step over a tree root and he saw the flash of her white ankle. She’d taken off her shoes again.

  “It’s not that.” Maximus frowned. The intricacies of parliamentarian politics were so twisted that he didn’t often like to discuss them with ladies or men uninterested in politics. Everything built upon another thing, and it was rather hard to explain the entire tangled mess. He glanced again at Miss Greaves.

  She was watching the path, but she looked up as if she felt his gaze and met his eyes, her own impatient. “Well? What is it, then?”

  He found himself smiling. “This is the third canal act Oddershaw has proposed. He’s using Parliament to line his pockets. Not”—he shook his head wryly—“that he’s the only one doing it. Most, I suppose, want laws that’ll help themselves. But Oddershaw is rather egregiously open about it.”

  “So you won’t do as he wishes?”

  “Oh, no,” he said softly. Grimly. “I’ll back his damned act. I need his vote and, more important, the votes of his cronies.”

  “Why?” She stopped and faced him, her brows knit faintly as if she truly wanted to know about his political mechanisms. Or perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps she wanted to know his mind.

  Or his soul.

  “You’ve been in St. Giles,” he said, turning to her. “You’ve seen the desolation, the… the disease that gin causes there.” He took a step closer to her without conscious thought. “There are women who sell their babies in St. Giles for a sip of gin. Men who rob and kill just to have another cup. Gin’s the rot that lies at the heart of London, and it will bring her down if it’s not stopped. That damned drink must be cauterized like a festering wound, cut clean out, or the entire body will fail, don’t you see?” He stopped and stared at her, realizing that his voice was too loud, his tone too heated. He swallowed. “Don’t you see?”

  He stood over her almost threateningly, yet Miss Greaves merely watched him, her head slightly cocked. “You’re very passionate on the matter.”

  He looked away, taking a careful step back. “It’s my business—my duty as a member of the House of Lords—to be passionate on the matter.”

  “Yet men such as Lord Oddershaw aren’t. You just said so.” She moved closer to him, peering into his face as if all his hidden secrets were somehow made plain to her there. “I wonder why you might care so much for St. Giles?”

  He swung on her, a snarl at his lips. Care for St. Giles? Hadn’t he already made it plain to her that he hated the place?

  It was as if icy water poured over him. His head snapped back. No. He hadn’t told her his feelings on St. Giles before—at least not as the Duke of Wakefield.

  The Ghost had.

  Maximus squared his shoulders carefully and turned back to the path. “You mistake me, Miss Greaves. It’s the gin and its ungodly trade I care about—not where it’s plied. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to ready myself for the morning so that I might attend to my guests.”

  He whistled for the dogs and strode away, but as he did so, he was very aware of one fact:

  Miss Greaves was a dangerous woman.

  THAT AFTERNOON FOUND Artemis once again arm in arm with Phoebe as they strolled out the south doors of Pelham. Luncheon had been a rather tiresome affair, as she’d been seated next to Mr. Watts, who was interested only in argument and his own opinion. She was glad to spend a moment with Phoebe, not least because she wasn’t in the habit of shouting in Artemis’s ear.

  Phoebe squinted at the green beyond the formal garden. “What are they doing?”

  Artemis looked to the green where the guests were already gathering. “They’ve set up an exercise yard, I think. Your brother mentioned something about games earlier—I believe the gentlemen will be demonstrating their dueling skills. Here’s where the gravel turns to grass.”

  They stepped carefully onto the green as Artemis described the scene for Phoebe. Several footmen stood about holding various swords while others were setting down chairs for the ladies to take as they observed the demonstration. Wakefield snapped his fingers and pointed and two chairs were instantly placed at the front for him.

  Phoebe sighed. “This won’t be that interesting unless someone misses and pinks their opponent.”

  “Phoebe!” Artemis scolded under her breath.

  “You know it’s true.” How could Phoebe look so very innocent and have such bloodthirsty thoughts? “We’ll all have to make admiring noises while the gentlemen scowl and try to look dangerous.”

  Artemis’s amusement was dampened by the sight of Wakefield carefully helping Penelope to the seat he’d provided. Next to her, the footmen began to make a row of chairs. Penelope beamed up at the duke, her face quite impossibly beautiful in the autumn sun. Artemis remembered how ferocious he’d looked as he’d described the devastation gin wrought in London. Did he save his passions for the floor of Parliament? For he wore a mask of calm politeness now. No, she couldn’t imagine him letting that mask slip even in the heat of political argument.

  “Who is going first?” Phoebe asked as they took their own seats two rows behind Wakefield and Penelope.

  Artemis tore her gaze away from the duke, and reminded herself that she’d already decided that there was no percentage in pining after the man. “Lord Noakes and Mr. Barclay.”

  Phoebe’s nose wrinkled. “Really? I wasn’t aware that Mr. Barclay did anythi
ng more strenuous than lift an eyebrow.”

  Artemis snorted softly, watching the duelists. Lord Noakes was a man in his late fifties, of medium height and with a very small paunch. Mr. Barclay was at least twenty years younger, but didn’t look nearly as fit. “He seems quite serious. He’s taken off his coat and is swishing his sword about in a manly manner.” She winced at a particularly vehement move. “Oh, dear.”

  “What? What?”

  Artemis leaned closer to Phoebe, for Mrs. Jellett had cocked her head in front of them as if trying to hear their murmured conversation. “Mr. Barclay nearly took off one of the footmen’s noses with his sword.”

  Phoebe giggled, the sound sweet and girlish, and Wakefield glanced over, his dark, cold eyes meeting Artemis’s so suddenly it was almost like plunging her hand into snow. His gaze flicked to his sister beside her and the lines that bracketed his firm lips softened. Strange that here and now they were hardly acquaintances, yet in the woods they were something very close to friends.

  The duelists raised their swords.

  The match was utterly without surprises. All gentlemen were taught from a young age how to duel—to use swords with elegance and grace, more a dance than any real fighting. Artemis knew that there were schools in London where aristocrats went to perfect their form, exercise, and learn the rules of sword fighting. They were all trained, either well or not, and they all used the same regimented movements. She couldn’t help comparing the two males’ lunging in precise steps that probably had flowery French names with the Ghost’s moving with deadly intent. The two gentlemen in front of her wouldn’t last a minute with the Ghost, she realized. The thought sent an elated thrill of triumph through her. She really ought to be ashamed of such a bloody bias.

  But she wasn’t. She wasn’t.

  The duel ended with the courteous touch of a blunted sword tip to Lord Noakes’s embroidered waistcoat, just over his heart.

  Phoebe discreetly yawned behind her palm when Artemis related the scene.

  Lord Oddershaw and Mr. Watts were next. By the time the Duke of Scarborough took off his coat for the third demonstration, Artemis was watching the back of Wakefield’s head as he bent politely once more to hear Penelope’s chatter and wondering if he was as bored as she was. He was attentive to her cousin, but Artemis had a hard time believing he really found her conversation very interesting.