Maiden Lane [6] Duke of Midnight (13 page)

“
He didn’t do it
.” She was directly in front of him, one small palm placed on his chest, and though he knew it wasn’t so, he seemed to feel the heat of her skin burning through his clothes. “Don’t you understand? Apollo is innocent. He’s been locked away in that hellish place for four years and he will never get out. You must help him. You must—”

“No,” he said as gently as he was able, “I do not
have
to do anything.”

For a moment her mask fell and her emotions showed through, devastating and real: rage, hurt, and a grief so deep it rivaled his own.

Stunned, he opened his mouth to speak.

But before he could, she struck, as precisely and mercilessly as her namesake.

“You
do
have to save my brother,” she said, “because if you do not I will tell everyone in England that you are the Ghost of St. Giles.”

A
RTEMIS HELD HER
breath. She’d dared to slip a bridle over a tiger’s head and now she waited to see if he’d do her bidding or bat her aside with one powerful paw.

The Duke of Wakefield stood very still, his sable eyes slowly narrowing on her and she was reminded that, save for the king, this was possibly the most powerful man in England.

At last he spoke. “I think not.”

Her lips firmed. “You believe I won’t do it?”

“Oh, I believe that you’re quite capable of such perfidy,
Miss Greaves,” he said silkily as he turned to continue his walk.

She swallowed. It had been a shared walk, but it no longer seemed like one.

Heat rose in her cheeks. “My loyalty lies with my brother.”

“I did save your life in St. Giles,” he reminded her.

She remembered that lithe grace, the deadly skill with his swords, and she remembered the final salute he’d given her before she’d mounted the carriage. She was now certain that he’d made sure to see her to safety.

None of that mattered. “He is my
brother
and his life is at stake. I will not feel guilt.”

He spared her a dismissive glance. “Nor do I expect you to, madam. I merely state the facts. No insult is intended. I believe you to be a worthy opponent.”

“But?”

He sighed and stopped to face her as if dealing with a particularly trying maidservant. “I think you have not bothered to ascertain what type of opponent
I
am. I have no intention of bowing to blackmail.”

She inhaled, reluctantly admiring. If she wasn’t fighting for Apollo she might have conceded the field to him, for this
was
blackmail and hardly very fair.

But then again, she was no gentleman, raised on the traditions of honor. She had been a lady—a person often deemed by men such as he to have not enough intelligence to understand complicated male concepts such as honor. And now? Now she was a woman hardened by the capriciousness of fate.

This was her life. This was where the tides of fortune had landed her. She had no time or use for honor.

Artemis raised her chin. “You don’t think I’ll tell everyone your secret?”

“I don’t think you would dare.” He looked so
alone
, standing here in the merciless morning sunshine. “But even if you do so, Miss Greaves, I doubt very much that anyone will believe you.”

She sucked in her breath, feeling the blow before it had been dealt, but still his voice continued, chill and uncaring.

“You are, after all, the sister of a madman and the daughter of a gentleman known for his lunatic behavior. I believe if you attempt to tell anyone my secret, you stand a very good chance of being incarcerated in Bedlam yourself.” He bowed precisely, icily, every inch the impenetrable aristocrat as he threatened her with her most nightmarish fear. Had he ever let anyone past those walls? Did he even wish for the warmth of human contact? “Good day, Miss Greaves. I trust the rest of your stay at Pelham House will be satisfactory.”

He turned and walked away from her.

Belle and Starling followed without a glance, but Percy stood a moment looking between Artemis and his master, hesitating.

“Go on,” she muttered to the dog, and with a low whine he trailed after the duke.

Bon Bon whimpered and leaned against her ankles. The morning was suddenly cold again. Artemis curled her bare toes into the loam of the woods, watching Wakefield’s arrogant back as he left her. He didn’t
know
her. He was just another man under all those layers of wealth and power and solitary indifference. Just another obstacle to Apollo’s freedom. There was no reason to feel as if she’d broken something very new.

And he was wrong: she
did
dare. There was literally nothing she wouldn’t do for her brother.

T
HAT AFTERNOON THE
sun shone brightly on the green on the south side of Pelham House. Maximus knew he was supposed to be enjoying the day and, more important, the lady he was wooing, but all he could think about was the infuriating Miss Greaves. To actually attempt to blackmail him—
him
, the Duke of Wakefield—was entirely beyond the pale. How she thought he might be so
weak
was a source of scorn, rage, and bewilderment within him. There was another emotion lurking there, deep inside, something perilously close to hurt—but he had no desire to examine
that
further, so he concentrated upon the rage. He’d make sure to impress upon the wench his displeasure with her actions if only she weren’t being so completely childish as to ignore him all morning.

Not
that her studied disregard bothered him in the slightest.

“You’ll think me a braggart, Your Grace, but I vow I’m a fair hand with a bow,” Lady Penelope chirped beside him.

“Indeed?” Maximus murmured absently.

Miss Greaves drifted behind them, silent as a wraith. He had the most persistent urge to turn and confront her—make her say something to him. Instead, of course, he sedately led Lady Penelope toward where footmen and maids milled about with the accoutrements of archery. Opposite, across the green, three large wooden targets had been set up, not
too
far away, for the ladies were to have their turn today demonstrating what skills they might have in archery. The gentlemen were expected to
observe and praise—whether the archer deserved it or not, of course, for a lady’s vanity was a fragile thing.

Maximus stifled an impatient sigh. This sort of thing—the silly games, the entire house party, come to that—was expected of him, not only for courting a lady such as Lady Penelope, but also in the regular way of things because of his rank, his social standing, and his position in Parliament, but there were times such as this when the whole thing rankled. He could be in a London coffeehouse right now, urging another member of Parliament to enact better legislation against the sale of gin. He could be in St. Giles, following any number of leads into the deaths of his parents. Damn it, for that matter he could be with his secretary managing his estates—not his favorite work, but important nonetheless.

Instead he was strolling a green like a veritable fop with a rather silly girl on his arm.

“Do you practice archery, Miss Greaves?” he found himself asking, quite out of the blue. The sunshine had probably gone to his head.

“Oh, no,” Lady Penelope exclaimed before her cousin could answer. “Artemis doesn’t shoot. She hasn’t time for such pursuits.”

Why not?
he wanted to ask. Surely Miss Greaves’s station as Lady Penelope’s companion didn’t preclude hobbies of her own—even silly ones like ladies’ archery? Except it might very well do. Her position was a sort of genteel modern-day slavery, reserved solely for the most vulnerable of the gentler sex—those without family of their own. Lady Penelope could keep Miss Greaves busy from morning to night if she chose, and Miss Greaves would be expected to be grateful for the servitude.

The thought made his mood darker.

“I also enjoy riding, sketching, dancing, and singing,” Lady Penelope prattled on. She tapped his sleeve with one flirtatious finger. “Perhaps I can demonstrate my voice for you—and the other guests—this evening, Your Grace?”

“I would be delighted,” he replied automatically.

Behind them he heard a slight choking sound. He turned his head and glanced back to see Miss Greaves with her lips twitching. He had a sudden suspicion regarding Lady Penelope’s supposedly lovely singing voice.

“Oh, look, the Duke of Scarborough is helping with the targets,” Lady Penelope continued. “He told me last night that he likes to hold an annual contest at his country estate for athletics such as running and archery, so I suppose he’s quite the expert. No doubt that’s why he’s so skilled at fencing as well.” She seemed to realize her comments weren’t the most politic and sent an annoyingly sympathetic glance his way. “Of course, not everyone has the time to practice fencing or indeed any other athletic endeavor.”

The slight gasp that came from behind them most definitely sounded like a choked-off laugh this time.

“Oh, I’m sure His Grace has other, more cerebral skills,” came Miss Greaves’s voice in suspiciously dulcet tones.

Lady Penelope looked as if she were deciphering the word
cerebral
.

“I spend a great deal of time in Parliament,” he replied in what even to his own ears sounded like a damnably pompous tone. “I’m glad to see that you’ve regained your voice, Miss Greaves.”

“I never lost it, I do assure you, Your Grace,” Miss Greaves responded sweetly. “But are we to understand that you don’t practice fencing at all? If so, your performance yesterday—at least at the beginning of your duel with the Duke of Scarborough—must be a veritable miracle. I vow, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you fought with a sword nearly every night.”

He turned slowly on her. What was she about now?

Miss Greaves met his gaze, her own face serene, but there was a wicked gleam at the back of her eyes that made a chill run up his spine.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Artemis,” Lady Penelope said plaintively after a rather awkward beat.

“May I help you don your arm guard, Lady Penelope?” Scarborough asked behind Maximus.

Maximus cursed under his breath. He hadn’t noticed the ass sidling over.

Miss Greaves tutted. “I’m quite shocked by such language from a distinguished parliamentarian, Your Grace.”

“I’m sure that you are anything but shocked, Miss Greaves,” he snapped without thinking.

The corner of her lush mouth quirked in her not-smile, and he had a black urge to take her hand and pull her into the copse. To plunder that enticing mouth until she either smiled frankly or cried aloud in pleasure.

He blinked the erotic image away. What was he thinking? This was the gray little companion of the woman he meant to
marry
—and a blackmailer to boot. He shouldn’t be feeling anything for her save revulsion.

But
revulsion
was not the word that came to mind when she leaned a little closer, ridiculously attractive in
her dowdy brown frock, and whispered, “You’d better move quickly, Your Grace, or Scarborough will snatch Lady Penelope out from under your nose. He
is
the more dashing duelist, after all.”

And she sauntered over to stand by Phoebe before he could make a suitable retort.

Maximus scowled and glanced at the ladies readying to shoot. Scarborough had somehow managed to position himself behind Lady Penelope, and with both arms wrapped about her, was tying on her arm guard. Maximus wanted to roll his eyes. Really, why fight for a lady so silly as to fall for such an obvious ploy?

Because it was for the dukedom.

He squared his shoulders and marched toward the couple. “If I might?” Ignoring both Scarborough’s frown and Lady Penelope’s sly smile, he swiftly and competently tied the arm guard on her arm. Stepping back, he couldn’t help but glance to where Miss Greaves and Phoebe stood.

Miss Greaves gave a mocking salute.

He scowled and turned back to make sure his other guests were prepared to shoot.

“We gentlemen assume the role of audience today,” Scarborough said jovially as they stepped aside.

Maximus drifted toward Phoebe and Miss Greaves as Lady Noakes took up her bow.

“Hiding in the back row, Your Grace?” Miss Greaves murmured as he drew near.

Lady Noakes shot her arrow.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Greaves said.

“It went wide, didn’t it?” Phoebe said.

“Nearly hit Johnny,” Maximus said grimly.

“Your footman jumped rather nimbly,” Miss Greaves mused. “Almost as if he’d been given lessons by the Ghost of St. Giles.”

Maximus shot a narrow-eyed look at her.

She smiled—
really
smiled, teeth and all—back. And despite the circumstances—her blackmail, the people all around them, his anger—he caught his breath in admiration. When Miss Greaves smiled her entire face lit and became utterly beautiful.

Maximus looked away, swallowing.

Phoebe giggled. “I can see why you sought refuge back here with us, dear brother. Self-preservation is the better part of valor, I think.”

They watched in silence as both Mrs. Jellett and Lady Oddershaw shot rather wildly, though Mrs. Jellett’s arrow found the target through some fluke of the wind that seemed to surprise even her.

Maximus cleared his throat, loath to admit either his own cowardliness or his guests’ lack of talent with a bow and arrow. “Lady Penelope has a fine form.” The lady was angling herself as she drew her string back.

“Oh, indeed,” Miss Greaves said earnestly. “She practices on her form quite often.”

They watched in silence as Lady Penelope’s arrow hit the rim of the target and bounced off.

“Her
aim
is another matter, of course,” Miss Greaves murmured.

Maximus winced as Johnny crept cautiously into the field to retrieve the arrows shot so far. The footman was a braver man than he.

“She’s going for another shot,” Scarborough said, and indeed Lady Penelope had assumed her archer’s stance
again. She made a very fine figure, he noticed dispassionately: the cherry-red ribbons twined in her ebony locks fluttered in the wind, and her profile was almost Grecian.