Duke of Midnight

“Oh, indeed.” Penelope snapped closed her fan and tapped Artemis on the shoulder. “He’s jealous.”



Artemis gazed at her beautiful cousin. There were several adjectives she might use to describe the duke’s frame of mind when he’d left them: scornful, dismissive, superior, arrogant… actually, now that she thought of it, she was fairly sure she could come up with dozens of adjectives, and yet jealous wasn’t one of them.



Artemis cleared her throat carefully. “I’m not sure—”



“Ah, Lady Penelope!” A gentleman with a bit of a tummy straining the buttons of his elegant suit stepped deliberately in front of them. “You are as lovely as a summer rose.”



Penelope’s mouth pursed at this rather pedestrian compliment. “I thank you, Your Grace.”



“Not at all, not at all.” The Duke of Scarborough turned to Artemis and winked. “And I trust that you’re in the best of health, Miss Greaves.”



“Indeed, Your Grace.” Artemis smiled as she bobbed a curtsy.



The duke was of average height but had a slight stoop that made him seem shorter. He wore a snowy wig, a lovely champagne-colored suit, and diamond buckles on his shoes—which, rumor had it, he could well afford. Gossip also said that he was on the hunt for a new wife, since the duchess had passed away several years previously. Unfortunately, while Penelope could probably forgive the man his stoop and little belly, she was not so sanguine about his age, for the Duke of Scarborough, unlike the Duke of Wakefield, was well past his sixtieth year.



“I am on my way to meet a friend,” Penelope clipped out, trying to dodge the man.



But the duke was the veteran of many a ball. He moved with admirable deftness for his age, somehow catching Penelope’s hand and hooking it through his elbow. “Then I shall have the pleasure of escorting you there.”



“Oh, but I’m quite thirsty,” Penelope parried. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to fetch me a cup of punch, Your Grace?”



“I’d be most delighted, my lady,” the duke said, and Artemis thought she saw a twinkle in his eye, “but I’m sure your companion wouldn’t mind the chore. Would you, Miss Greaves?”



“Certainly not,” Artemis murmured.



Penelope might be her mistress, but she rather had a fondness for the elderly duke—even if he didn’t have a prayer of winning Penelope. She turned sedately, but fast enough to pretend not to hear her cousin’s sputter. The refreshments room was on the other side of the ballroom, and her progress was slow, for the middle of the floor was taken up by dancers.



Yet, her lips were still curved faintly when she heard an ominously rumbling voice. “Miss Greaves. Might I have a word?”



Naturally, she thought as she looked up into the Duke of Wakefield’s cold seal-brown eyes.



“I’M SURPRISED YOU know my name,” Miss Artemis Greaves said.



She wasn’t a woman he would notice under normal circumstances. Maximus gazed down at the upturned face of Miss Greaves and reflected that she was one of the innumerable female shades: companions, maiden aunts, poor relations. The ones who hung back. The ones who drifted quietly in the shadows. Every man of means had them, for it was the duty of a gentleman to take care of females such as she. See to it that they were clothed and housed and fed and, if possible, that they were happy or at least content with their lot in life. Beyond that, nothing, for these types of females didn’t impact on masculine issues. They didn’t marry and they didn’t bear children. Practically speaking they had no sex at all. There was no reason to notice a woman like her.



And yet he had.



Even before last night he’d been aware of Miss Greaves trailing her cousin, always in concealing colors—brown or gray—like a sparrow in the wake of a parrot. She hardly spoke—at least within his hearing—and had mastered the art of quiet watchfulness. She made no move to draw any attention to herself at all.



Until last night.



She’d dared to move to draw a knife on him in the worst part of London, had stared him in the eye without any fear at all, and it was as if she stepped into the light. Suddenly her form was clear, standing out from the crowd around them. He saw her. Saw the calm, oval face and the entirely ordinary feminine features—ordinary save for the large, rather fine dark gray eyes. Her brown hair was pulled into a neat knot at her nape, her long, pale fingers laced calmly at her waist.



He saw her and the realization was vaguely disturbing.



She raised delicate eyebrows. “Your Grace?”



He’d been staring too long, lost in his own musings. The thought irritated him and thus his voice was overharsh. “What were you thinking, letting Lady Penelope venture into St. Giles at night?”



Many ladies of his acquaintance would’ve burst into tears at such an abrupt accusation.



Miss Greaves merely blinked slowly. “I cannot imagine why you would think I have any control at all over what my cousin does.”



A fair point, yet he could not acknowledge it. “You must’ve known how dangerous that part of London is.”



“Oh, indeed I do, Your Grace.” He had intercepted her meander about the edge of the ballroom and now she started forward again.



He was perforce made to stroll by her side if he didn’t want her to simply walk away from him. “Then surely you could’ve persuaded your cousin to refrain from such a foolish action?”



“I’m afraid Your Grace has an overly optimistic view of both my cousin’s docility and my own influence over her. When Penelope has an idea in her head, wild horses couldn’t pull her away from it. Once Lord Featherstone mentioned the words ‘wager’ and ‘dashing,’ I’m afraid we were quite doomed.” Her dulcet voice held an amused undertone that was unreasonably attractive.



He frowned. “It’s Featherstone’s fault.”



“Oh, indeed,” she said with unwarranted cheerfulness.



He scowled down at her. Miss Greaves didn’t seem at all worried that her cousin had nearly caused both their deaths in St. Giles. “Lady Penelope should be dissuaded from associating with gentlemen like Featherstone.”



“Well, yes—and ladies, too.”



“Ladies?”



She gave him a wry look. “Some of my cousin’s most harebrained ideas have originated with ladies, Your Grace.”



“Ah.” He looked blankly at her, absently noting that her eyelashes were quite lush and black—darker than her hair, in fact. Did she use some type of paint on them?



She sighed and leaned closer, her shoulder brushing his. “Last season Penelope was persuaded that a live bird would make an altogether unique accessory.”



Was she bamming him? “A bird.”



“A swan, in fact.”



She looked quite grave. If, in fact, she was playing some type of silly game with him, she hid it well. But then one such as she had innumerable occasions to learn to hide her thoughts and feelings. It was almost a requirement, in fact.



“I never noticed Lady Penelope with a swan.”



She glanced swiftly up at him, and he saw the corner of her lips curve. Just slightly, and then it was gone. “Yes, well, it was only for a week. As it turns out, swans hiss—and bite.”



“Lady Penelope was bitten by a swan?”



“No. Actually, I was.”



His brows knit at that bit of information, imagining that fair skin darkening with a bruise. He didn’t like the image. How often was Miss Greaves hurt whilst carrying out her duties as companion to Lady Penelope?



“Really, sometimes I think my cousin should be locked up for her own good,” Miss Greaves muttered. “But that isn’t likely to happen, is it?”



No, it wasn’t. Nor was it likely that Miss Greaves herself would find some other source of livelihood—somewhere away from her dangerously feckless cousin.



That simply wasn’t the way the world worked, and even if it was, it was no concern of his.



“Your tale makes it even more imperative that you find a way to persuade Lady Penelope out of the more dangerous of her ideas.”



“I have tried—I do try,” she said in a low voice. “But I am simply her companion, after all.”



He stopped and looked at her, this woman more self-possessed than her lot in life gave her any right to be. “Not her friend?”



She turned to glance up at him, that nearly invisible smile at the corner of her lips again, tiny and discreet, almost as if she’d learned not to smile very widely, not to acknowledge strong emotion too soon. “Yes, I am her friend. Her relative and her friend. I care for Penelope quite a bit—and I think she loves me as well. But first and foremost I am her lady’s companion. We will never be equals, because my position will always be lesser to hers. So, although I may suggest we not enter St. Giles at night, I can never order her.”



“And whither she goes, so do you?”



She inclined her head. “Yes, Your Grace.”



His jaw tightened. He knew all this, yet still he found the information… irritating. He looked away. “When Lady Penelope marries, her husband will rein her in. Keep her safe.” Keep you safe.



“Perhaps.” She tilted her head, gazing at him. She was an intelligent woman. Surely she knew his intentions toward her cousin.



He looked at her hard. “He will.”



She shrugged. “That would be for the best, I suppose. Of course if Penelope were reined in, we wouldn’t meet such interesting people as the Ghost of St. Giles.”



“You make light of the danger.”



“Maybe I do, Your Grace,” she said gently, as if he were the one who should be reassured, “but I must admit it was exciting to see the Ghost.”



“That ruffian.”



“Actually, I’m not sure he is.” They had started strolling again and he finally realized that she’d been making for the refreshments room. “May I tell you a secret, Your Grace?”



Usually when ladies offered such a thing to him, they did it in the interest of flirtation, yet Miss Greaves’s expression was straightforward. He found himself curious. “Please.”



“I believe the Ghost might be of high birth.”



He was careful to keep his face blank even as his heartbeat began to speed. What could he possibly have let slip? “Why?”



“He left something with me last night.”



Dread wrapped itself about his chest. “What?”



That hidden smile played about her lips again. Mysterious. Captivating. Utterly feminine.



“A signet ring.”



THE DUKE OF Wakefield’s face was as still as stone. Artemis wondered what he thought and, rather disconcertingly, what he thought of her. Did he disapprove of her levity regarding the Ghost of St. Giles? Or did he find it offensive that she thought a costumed footpad might be an aristocrat?



She searched his face for a second more and then faced forward again. She supposed it hardly mattered what he thought of her—besides being an adequate lady’s companion for Penelope. He’d never before sought her out specifically to talk to her. She doubted he would ever do so again. They, simply put, didn’t move in the same orbits. She smiled wryly to herself. They didn’t even move in the same universe.



“Are you going to fetch refreshment for Lady Penelope?” he asked, his voice rumbling pleasantly at her shoulder.



“Yes.”



She saw him nod out of the corner of her eye. “I’ll help you bring it back.” He turned to the footman ladling glasses of punch and snapped his fingers. “Three.”



To her amusement, the man leaped to provide three glasses of punch while the duke simply stood there.



“That’s very kind of you, Your Grace,” she said, all trace of irony carefully erased from her voice.



“You know that’s not true.”