No, not just a man, but the Duke of Wakefield. Romantic fools didn’t qualify for the job.

Better to concern himself with the present. Which was why he was haunting St. Giles tonight. It had been far too long since he’d seen to his duty: the hunt for the man who had killed his parents. Night after night, year after year, he’d stalked these stinking alleys, hoping to find some trail, some clue to the identity of the footpad who had robbed and killed them. The man was probably dead by now, yet Maximus couldn’t give up the chase.

It was the least he could do for the parents he’d failed so fatally.

Maximus froze as the scent of gin hit his nostrils. He’d emerged from the alley. A man lay in the channel of the larger street the alley emptied into. Broken barrels gushed the nauseous liquid as the man groaned next to his weary nag, an overturned cart still hitched to the horse.

Maximus’s lip curled. A gin seller—or perhaps even a distiller. He started forward, pushing down the roiling of his stomach at the stench of gin, when he saw the second man. He sat a great black horse just inside an alley kitty-corner to Maximus’s own, which was why Maximus hadn’t seen him at once. His coat was a dark blue, gilt or silver buttons glinting in the dark, and in both hands he held pistols. As Maximus emerged, his head turned, and Maximus could see he wore a black cloth over the lower part of his face, his tricorne hiding the upper part.

The highwayman cocked his head, and somehow Maximus knew he was grinning beneath the black cloth. “The Ghost of St. Giles, as I live and breathe. I’m surprised we haven’t met before, sir.” He shrugged indolently. “But then I suppose I’ve only just returned to these parts. No matter—even if I’ve been gone for decades, you should know I still rule this patch of London.”

“And who might you be?” Maximus kept his voice to a whispered rasp—as did the highwayman.

They might disguise their voices, but the cadence of a gentleman was impossible to conceal.

“Don’t you recognize me?” The highwayman’s tone was mocking. “I’m Old Scratch.”

And he fired one of his pistols.

Maximus ducked, the brick beside his head exploded, and the gin cart horse bolted up the street, dragging the broken cart behind.

The highwayman wheeled his own horse and galloped away down the alley. Maximus hurdled the gushing barrels and raced after Old Scratch, his heart banging against his chest as his boot heels rang on the filthy cobblestones. The alley was darker than the street they’d left. He might be running headlong into a trap, but he wouldn’t have been able to not give chase even if the real Old Scratch had stood in his way.

There’d been a glint at the highwayman’s throat. Something pinned to his neck cloth. It had almost looked—

A shout, then the clear boom of a gunshot.

Maximus hit the end of the alley at a dead run, nearly barreling into the flank of Captain Trevillion’s mount. The captain was fighting as his horse attempted to rear. One of his dragoons was down on the ground, blood welling from a wound on his stomach. The wounded man gasped, eyes wide and uncomprehending. Another dragoon, a pale young lad, was still mounted, his face white and shocked.

“Stay with him, Elders!” Trevillion shouted at the boy. “Do you hear me, Elders?”

The young soldier’s head snapped up at the tone of command. “Yes, sir! But the Ghost—”

“Let me worry about the Ghost.” Trevillion had control of his horse now and Maximus braced himself for his attack.

Instead, Trevillion gave him a sharp look and said, “He was heading north, in the direction of Arnold’s Yard.”

With that he wheeled his horse and set spurs to the beast’s sides.

Maximus leaped to a crumbling house, swarming up the side. The way to Arnold’s Yard was a maze of twisting, narrow lanes, and if Old Scratch was truly headed in that direction, then Maximus could move more quickly over the rooftops.

Above, the moon had deigned to reveal her pale face, casting his shadow ahead of him as he scrambled over tiles and rotting wooden shingles, while below…

Maximus caught his breath. Below, Trevillion was riding like a demon, skillfully guiding his horse around obstacles and leaping the ones he couldn’t avoid. It had been so long since Maximus had hunted like this, in tandem with another. Once, long, long ago there had been the others, young men, one just a boy. They’d sparred and fought, joked and wrestled. But somehow he’d grown apart, forever stalking the stinking streets of St. Giles alone. His quest hadn’t room for others.

It was good, he realized as he panted and ran. Good to have someone at his back.

He heard a shout from below and slid to the edge of the roof to peer over. Trevillion had come to an alley entirely blocked by an empty cart.

The dragoon captain looked up, a shaft of moonlight catching the gleam of metal on his tall hat and illuminating the pale oval of his face. “I’ll have to find a way around. Can you go ahead?”

“Yes,” Maximus shouted down.

Trevillion nodded curtly without another word and backed his horse.

Maximus ran. The rooftops were jumbled here. The buildings were from before the Great Fire. They listed, tired and crumbling, waiting for another fire or merely a strong wind to send them crashing to the ground. He leaped between two buildings so close that a grown man would have to turn sideways to sidle between them. He made the second roof, but his boot slipped. He fell, sliding on his hip nearly off the edge. He caught himself just as his boots flew into space. He could hear the clatter of hoofbeats now. Trevillion couldn’t have found a way around so fast.

It must be Old Scratch.

Maximus twisted, peering beyond his dangling feet, and saw as the shadow entered the alley below. He didn’t give himself time to think.

He let go.

Whether by instinctive timing or simple good luck, he landed on Old Scratch. The highwayman just had warning enough to raise his arm in defense. Maximus caught an elbow to the side of his face, and then he fell to the horse’s haunches as the horse reared beneath both of them. Maximus slid, his booted toes brushing the ground before he kicked back up to straddle the horse. His weight pulling on the highwayman’s upper body, combined with the horse’s movement, should have dragged Old Scratch from the saddle. Somehow, the highwayman hung on with unnatural strength and skill. The horse’s front hooves met the cobblestones again with a teeth-crunching jolt, nearly throwing Maximus from his prey. Maximus punched at the man’s head, missing as the highwayman twisted like a snake. Maximus grabbed for his hat, trying to reach the scarf. If he could only see Old Scratch’s features.

The highwayman turned almost all the way around in the saddle, gold and green glinting at his throat. A knife flashed. Maximus hit out with a gloved hand, felt a tug, and the knife clanged against the bricks on the nearby building. But he’d had to let go to defend himself. The horse lurched forward as the highwayman put spurs to its side and at the same time Maximus felt a hard shove.

He tumbled to the ground, heavy hooves flying close to his head. Instinctively, he ducked and rolled as the sound of hoofbeats retreated.

For a moment he lay against a wall gulping air.

“You let him get away.” The voice was Trevillion’s and slightly out of breath.

Maximus looked up with a glare. “Not on purpose, I assure you.”

The dragoon captain grunted, looking tired. He was leading his horse, having entered the alley from a very narrow lane.

Maximus rose, glancing from the narrow lane to Trevillion’s rangy mare. “I’m surprise you didn’t get stuck in there.”

The other man raised a sardonic eyebrow. “I think Cowslip’s surprised, too.” He gave the mare an affectionate pat on the neck.

Maximus blinked. “Cowslip?”

Trevillion glared. “I didn’t name her.”

Maximus grunted noncommittally. He supposed he hadn’t any leg to stand on, considering the names his sister had given his dogs. He bent to examine the ground close to the wall of the opposite building.

“What are you looking for?”

“He dropped his dagger. Ah.” Maximus bent and picked up the knife with satisfaction, stepping closer to the dragoon and the better moonlight.

The dagger was a two-edged blade, a simple, narrow triangle, with hardly any guard and a leather-wrapped handle. Maximus turned it in his hands, peering for any sort of mark without result.

“May I?”

Maximus looked up to see the dragoon captain holding out his hand. His hesitation was only a split second long, but he saw Trevillion’s knowing glance anyway.

Maximus handed over the dagger.

The dragoon examined it and then sighed. “Common enough. It could belong to almost anyone.”

“Almost?”

A corner of Trevillion’s thin lips cocked up. “He’s an aristocrat. I’d bet Cowslip on it.”

Maximus slowly nodded. Trevillion was an intelligent officer, but then he’d always known that.

“Did you get a look at his face?” the captain asked, handing him back the dagger.

Maximus grimaced. “No. Slippery as an eel. He made sure I couldn’t catch hold of that scarf.”

“Outwrestled by a man older than you?”

Maximus glanced up sharply.

Trevillion shrugged at his look. “He had a small bit of paunch about his middle and he sat his saddle a bit stiffly. He’s athletic, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he were older than forty.” He considered a moment as if thinking over what he remembered of the highwayman, then nodded to himself. “He might even be older than that. I’ve seen men on the far side of seventy riding to the hounds without problem.”

“I think you’re right,” Maximus said.

“Was there anything else you noticed about Old Scratch?”

Maximus thought about that glint of green at the highwayman’s throat and decided to keep that hint to himself. “No. What do you know of the man?”

“Old Scratch is without fear—or morals, as far as I can see.” Trevillion looked grim. “He not only robs both rich and poor, he doesn’t hesitate to harm or even murder his victims.”

“How broad is the area he frequents?”

“Only St. Giles,” Trevillion said promptly. “Perhaps because he meets little resistance or because the people here are more vulnerable and not as protected.”

Maximus grunted, staring at the knife in his hands. A highwayman who hunted only in St. Giles and said he’d not been back for many years. Could he be the man who’d murdered his parents so long ago?

“I have to return to my men.” Trevillion placed his boot in Cowslip’s stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle.

Maximus nodded, tucking the highwayman’s dagger into his boot, and turned.

“Ghost.”

He stopped and looked at the captain.

The other man’s face gave nothing away. “Thank you.”

IF ONLY APOLLO could talk. Artemis frowned as she crept down the darkened hall that night, Bon Bon trotting at her heels. It was past midnight, so everyone ought to have been asleep in Wakefield House—well, everyone save Craven, who she’d left guarding her brother. The valet never seemed to sleep. One presumed he must be fulfilling his duties to Maximus, yet he somehow managed to care for Apollo as well.

Artemis shook her head. Craven was a capable nurse—though she didn’t like to think how he’d come by his experience—yet Apollo still couldn’t speak. Otherwise her brother seemed to be getting better, but every time he tried to utter a word, his throat only produced strangled sounds. Sounds that quite obviously caused him a great deal of pain. She just wished he could tell her he was better in his own words instead of scrawled handwriting.

Then she might believe him.

The corridor outside Maximus’s door was deserted. Still she looked nervously around before she tapped at the door. She might have decided to embrace her path as a fallen woman, but it seemed it was hard to quell the fears of a lifetime.

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