Duke of Midnight

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 trained 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 anything 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.



She grimaced and looked away. What a sour woman she was becoming! She had a sudden awful vision of herself as a crabby old lady, shuffling along in whatever house she landed in as her cousin’s companion, faded, dusty, and forgotten.

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