“Oh, that’s interesting.”

Artemis looked up at Phoebe’s soft exclamation. “What?”

“You said it was the Duke of Scarborough in front of Maximus and Penelope?” Phoebe nodded discreetly to where the older man stood in front of her brother and Penelope. Scarborough was grinning and bending over Penelope’s hand. “He isn’t used to that.”

“What?” Artemis jerked her gaze away to stare at her companion. “Who?”

“Maximus.” Phoebe had a fond smile on her face—an expression that Artemis had a hard time reconciling with the autocratic iceberg that was Wakefield. “With a rival. He usually just indicates what he wants and others rush to see that he gets it.”

Artemis bit her lip, stifling a smile at the image of servants, family, and friends scurrying to fulfill the duke’s every whim as he strode by, oblivious.

As if somehow he was aware of her amusement, Wakefield turned at that moment and glanced at her.

She inhaled, lifting her head, as she met his dark eyes.

Penelope placed her hand on his sleeve and he turned back.

Artemis looked down and only then realized her hands were trembling. She grasped them together. “Do you really think Scarborough any sort of competition for your brother?”

“Well…” Phoebe tilted her head, considering, as Artemis watched Scarborough somehow persuade the gentleman sitting on the other side of Penelope to vacate his seat. The duke promptly sat down himself. “In the normal way of things I wouldn’t think his chances very good at all. Maximus is young and handsome, rich and powerful. And I’ve always thought he had a certain compelling air about him, don’t you?”

Oh, yes.

“But,” Phoebe continued, “the Duke of Scarborough seems quite taken with Lady Penelope, and really I think that might make all the difference.”

Artemis frowned. “What do you mean?”

Phoebe’s plump lips folded inward, her large brown eyes looking sad. “Well, Scarborough cares, doesn’t he? Maximus doesn’t—not really. No doubt he’s a bit compelled by the chase, but if he doesn’t win”—she shrugged her shoulders—“he’ll simply find another suitable heiress. She—Lady Penelope herself—doesn’t really matter to him. And if it comes right down to it, wouldn’t you chose passion—however old—over dispassion?”

“Yes.” Her agreement wasn’t even considered. What woman wouldn’t want interest—real interest—in her and her alone, no matter the physical attributes of the suitor? If Penelope ever stopped to consider the matter, the Duke of Scarborough would instantly win. Poor Wakefield didn’t stand a chance.

Except… he wasn’t poor, was he? He was one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, and a man personally to be wary of, if not downright feared.

She watched him, his broad shoulders fitted in fine dark green silk, his profile turned as he examined the woman he was courting as she flirted with another man. He might as well be observing a pair of beetles in a primitive mating dance. One would never know by looking at him that he wanted Penelope for himself.

What would it be like to garner this man’s passion?

Artemis felt a visceral thrill go through her at the thought. Had Wakefield ever been engaged? Was he even capable of deep interest? He was so contained, so cold, save for that one moment this morning when he’d come alive over the gin trade, of all things. It seemed almost laughable to think of him bound by obsession with a female.

Yet she could imagine him so—intent, focused on his goal, his woman. He’d guard his chosen mate, make her both fear and long for his attention. She shivered. He would be relentless in his pursuit, unmerciful in his victory.

And she would never see him so.

She sighed, determinedly staring at her hands clenched in her lap. She longed for a man like the duke—the ache of want was a physical thing—but she would never have him, let alone a man more attainable. Her fate was to be alone.

Cursed to celibacy.

The voice of the Duke of Scarborough rose. Artemis glanced up. The latest duelists had finished, and Scarborough was saying something to Wakefield. Scarborough’s face was jovial, but his eyes were hard.

“What’s happening?” Phoebe asked.

“I don’t know,” Artemis replied. “I think Scarborough is asking something of your brother. Oh. Oh, my. He’s challenged Wakefield.”

“Has he?” Phoebe looked interested.

Artemis’s brows rose. “Is your brother a good swordsman?”

“I don’t know.” Phoebe shrugged. “He’s never been much interested in fashionable pursuits—he prefers politics—but it hardly matters, does it? Scarborough must be thirty years his senior.”

Penelope threw back her head in a sharp laugh that they could hear easily even three rows back. Artemis couldn’t help but lean forward. Wakefield was so rigid. So proud.

Scarborough said something else and Wakefield abruptly stood.

“He’s accepting.”

“Oh, dear,” Phoebe said with much satisfaction.

“He can’t win,” Artemis muttered in distress. “If he beats Scarborough, he looks a bully, if he loses—”

“He’ll be humiliated,” Phoebe said serenely.

Artemis felt a sudden sharp irritation with her good friend. The younger woman should be at least a little upset at the prospect of her brother’s downfall.

Wakefield’s valet, a tall, thin man, was helping the duke remove his coat. The servant appeared to murmur something in Wakefield’s ear before the duke shook his head abruptly and walked away. His waistcoat was black, overworked in gold thread that sparkled in the sunshine, the full sleeves of his snowy white shirt rippling slightly in the breeze. Scarborough already had a sword and was swishing it about importantly. The older man seemed to handle the weapon expertly and Artemis’s heart clenched.

Better to be thought a bully than for such a proud man to be defeated.

The duelists stood facing each other, their swords raised. Lord Noakes stood between them and held aloft a handkerchief. For a moment all was still, as if everyone had realized that there was much more to this duel than a simple demonstration of skill.

Then the handkerchief fluttered to the ground.

Scarborough lunged forward, astoundingly agile for a man his age. Wakefield caught his first thrust and retreated, moving carefully. It was evident at once that he either was a much less practiced swordsman… or he was holding back.

“Scarborough is pressing him,” Artemis said anxiously. “Your brother is only defending.”

Scarborough smirked as he said something so low only his opponent could hear.

Wakefield’s face went completely blank.

“Your Grace,” Wakefield’s valet called in warning.

Wakefield blinked and cautiously stepped backward.

Scarborough’s lips moved again.

And then something unexpected happened. The Duke of Wakefield transformed. He crouched low, his body flowing into an elegant threat as he attacked the older man with a kind of brutal grace. Scarborough’s eyes widened, his own sword parrying blow after blow as he backed hastily. Wakefield’s sword flashed in the sunlight, his movements too fast to interpret, his lean body dangerous, and controlled, and Artemis had the sudden realization that he was toying with Scarborough.

She was standing now, unaware of having left her seat, her heart beating unnaturally fast.

“What’s happening?” Phoebe stood as well, pulling frantically at her arm.

Wakefield lunged without fear, without hesitation, at the older man using a flurry of precise, deadly blows that, had the swords been sharp…

“He’s…” Artemis choked, her mouth hanging open.

She’d seen this before.

Wakefield didn’t move like a dancer. He moved like a great jungle cat. Like a man who knew how to kill.

Like a man who had killed.

Scarborough stumbled, his face shining with sweat. Wakefield was on him in seconds, a tiger pouncing for the kill, his lip curled into almost languid dismissal of the other man as his sword descended toward—

“Your Grace!”

The valet’s shout seemed to loop about Wakefield’s neck and jerk him back like a noose. He froze, his great chest heaving, his snow-white sleeves fluttering in the breeze. Scarborough stared at him, gape-mouthed, his sword still half-raised in defense.

Wakefield deliberately touched his sword to the ground.

“What is it?” Phoebe asked. “What is it?”

“I…” Artemis blinked. “I don’t know. Your brother has lowered his sword.”

Scarborough wiped his brow, then he moved toward Wakefield gingerly as if not quite believing that he was no longer under attack. Scarborough’s blunted sword tip hit Wakefield on the throat, a blow strong enough that it would bruise. The smaller man stood there for a moment, panting, almost as if he were surprised by his victory.

“Scarborough’s won,” Artemis murmured absently.

Wakefield spread wide his arms in surrender and opened his right hand so that his sword fell to the ground.

He turned his head to meet Artemis’s gaze.

His eyes were dark, dangerous, and not at all cold. He burned with an internal inferno she wanted to touch. She stared into the gaze of a tiger and knew, even as she watched the cat retreat into the camouflage of a gentleman:

The Duke of Wakefield was the Ghost of St. Giles.

Chapter Six

A fortnight later it was King Herla’s turn to attend the Dwarf King’s wedding. He took the strongest and best of his men and, entering a dark cavern, rode into the depths of the earth itself, for the land of the dwarves is deep underground. They journeyed for a day and a night, traveling ever lower, until they came to a vast, open plain. Above, rock curved, craggy and jagged, like an ominous sky, and below lay the cottages, lanes, and town squares of Dwarfland.…

—from The Legend of the Herla King

Maximus woke just before dawn with a gasp, the image of his mother’s white face burned into the darkness behind his eyelids, the emeralds ripped from her lifeless neck. The stink of gin seemed to linger in the air, but he knew that was merely a phantom from the dream.

Percy nosed his hand as he lay in the ancient Wakefield ducal bed. Above him, dark green drapes surrounded a gilded coronet carved into the canopy. Had any of his ancestors been plagued by dreams and doubts? Judging by the proud faces lining his gallery, he thought not. Each of those men had attained their title by the peaceful death of their father or grandfather. Not by violent murder unavenged.

He deserved his nightmares.

Percy licked his fingers with disgusting dog sympathy, and Maximus sighed and rose. The spaniel backed a step and sat, wagging his tail enthusiastically as he dressed. Percy, like the other dogs, was supposed to spend the night in the stables, but despite the fact that he wasn’t nearly as clever as Belle or Starling, he somehow usually found a way past innumerable footmen and Craven into Maximus’s bedroom at night. It was rather a mystery how he managed it. Perhaps providence had granted luck where it hadn’t graced intelligence.

“Come.” Maximus slapped his thigh and strode from the room, the spaniel trotting after.

He nodded to a sleepy maid before trekking to the stables to pick up the greyhounds. Both pushed their soft, silky heads into his palms while Percy yipped and ran a wide circle around them, skittering on the dew-damp cobblestones. Greetings done, they headed for the woods.

The sun was just rising, its pale rays lighting the leaves. It would be a beautiful day, perfect for the afternoon picnic and frivolities. Yesterday had been a success, if he judged rightly, in his planned courtship of Lady Penelope. She’d hung on his arm and giggled—sometimes at the oddest moments—and seemed altogether enthralled. If her enchantment was for his title and money rather than for his person, well, that was how it was naturally done at their rank and to be expected. The thought shouldn’t bring a darkening of his mood.