Duke of Midnight

His words were slurred. The man was obviously drunk.



“I’m not going to rob you,” Maximus said impatiently. “Where do you live?”



But the man wasn’t listening. He’d started wailing weakly, his entire body thrashing rather like a landed flounder.



Maximus frowned, looking around. The people of St. Giles had begun to creep from their houses in preparation for the day. Two men scurried by, their faces averted. Most here knew better than to show interest in anything resembling danger, but a trio of small boys and a dog had gathered at a safe distance across the lane, staring.



“Oi!” A little woman wearing a tattered red skirt advanced on the boys. They made to run, but she was quick, grabbing the eldest by the ear. “What did I tell you, Robbie? Go’n fetch that pie for yer da.”



She let go of the ear and all three boys darted off. The woman straightened and caught sight of Maximus and the wounded man. “Oi! You there! Leave ’im alone.”



Tiny though the woman was, she was brave enough to confront him, and Maximus had to admire that.



He ignored the man’s continued moaning and turned to her, whispering. “I didn’t do this. Can you see him home?”



She cocked her head. “ ’Ave to see to me man, then start me work, don’t I?”



Maximus nodded. He dipped two fingers into a pocket sewn into his tunic and came out with a coin, which he tossed to her. “Is that enough to make it worth your time?”



She caught the coin handily and glanced at it. “Aye, ’spect it is.”



“Good.” He looked at the wounded man. “Tell this woman your place of residence and she’ll see you home.”



“Oh, thank you, fair lady.” The drunken man seemed to think the little woman was his savior.



She rolled her eyes, but said with a sort of gruff kindness as she came over and bent to take his arm, “Now what mess ’ave you gotten yerself into, sir?”



“ ’Twas Old Scratch, plain as day,” the man muttered. “Had a great big pistol and demanded my purse or my life. And then he hit me anyway!”



Maximus shook his head as he moved off. Stranger things had been imagined in St. Giles than highway robbery by the Devil, he supposed, but he hadn’t time to stay and learn more about the matter. It was already far too light. He swarmed up the side of a building, making his way to the roof. Below he could hear the clatter of hooves and he swore under his breath. It was early yet for the Dragoons to be about St. Giles, but he didn’t want to take the chance it might be they.



He ran across the angled rooftops, leaping from building to building. He had to descend to the ground twice, each time for only a short run before he was back traveling by London rooftop.



Twenty minutes later he caught sight of Wakefield House.



When he’d first started his career as the Ghost of St. Giles, he and Craven had very quickly realized that he would need a secret means of access to the town house. Which was why, instead of approaching the house directly, Maximus slid into the gardens in back. They were a long, narrow strip of land between the house and the mews, and at one side was an ancient folly. It was small, little more than a moss-covered stone arch enclosing a bench. Maximus entered and knelt to sweep aside a pile of dead leaves by the bench. Underneath was an iron ring set into the stone paving. He grasped it and lifted and a square block of stone pulled back on well-oiled hinges, revealing a short drop to a tunnel. Maximus lowered himself inside and pulled the covering stone back on top. He was in complete and utter blackness.



Wet blackness.



Maximus crouched, for the tunnel was only about five feet high—not nearly tall enough for him to stand upright—and began crab-walking through the cramped space. The walls were barely wider than his shoulders and he brushed against them often. Water dripped in a slow lament, and he splashed through stagnant pools every third step. He could feel his chest tighten, his breath coming too light and fast, and he fought to breathe deeper, to lay his hand against slimy brick without flinching. Only a few feet further. He’d used the tunnel for years. He should be resigned to its horrors—and the memories they evoked—by now.



Even so, he couldn’t help but draw a deep, relieved breath when he came to the wider entrance to his underground exercise room. He felt carefully along the wall as he stepped down, searching for the small ledge that held tinder and flint.



He’d only just struck a spark when the door that led to the house opened and Craven appeared with a candle in hand.



Maximus exhaled in relief at the light.



Craven advanced toward him, holding his candle high. Maximus had never told his valet his feelings on the tunnel, yet as in innumerable times past Craven was lighting the candelabras set into the walls as swiftly as he could.



“Ah, Your Grace,” the valet drawled as he worked. “I’m gratified to see that you’ve returned in one piece and with barely any blood about your person.”



Maximus glanced down and saw the rusty stain on his tunic sleeve. “Not mine. I found a gentleman who’d been robbed in St. Giles.”



“Indeed? And was your other mission fruitful?”



“No.” Maximus stripped off the tunic and leggings of his costume, swiftly donning his more usual breeches, waistcoat, and coat. “I have a task for you.”



“I live to serve,” Craven intoned in a ponderous voice so solemn it could only be subtle mockery.



Maximus was tired, so he ignored the response. “Find out everything you can about Artemis Greaves.”



Chapter Four



“What bargain might that be?” asked King Herla.



The dwarf grinned. “It’s well known that you’ve betrothed yourself to a fair princess. As it happens, I, too, will soon be wed. If you will do me the honor of inviting me to your wedding banquet, I in turn will invite you to my wedding festivities.”



Well, King Herla thought deeply on the matter, for ’tis known that one should not enter a pact, however innocent, with one of the Fae without due consideration, but in the end he saw no harm in the invitation.



So King Herla shook the Dwarf King’s hand and they agreed to attend each other’s weddings.…



—from The Legend of the Herla King



Three days later Artemis Greaves descended from the Chadwicke carriage and looked up in awe. Pelham House, the seat of the dukes of Wakefield for the last one hundred years, was the largest private residence she’d ever seen. A massive yellow stone building with rows upon rows of windows across the facade, Pelham dwarfed the numerous carriages drawn up at its front. Twin colonnaded arms reached out from the central building, embracing the huge circular drive. A tall portico dominated the entrance, four Ionic columns holding aloft the triangular pediment with wide steps across the front leading to the drive. Pelham House was majestic and daunting and didn’t look particularly welcoming.



Rather like its owner.



Artemis was conscious that the Duke of Wakefield stood at the center of the portico, wearing a blue suit so dark it was nearly black, his immaculately white wig making him look austere and aristocratic. Presumably he was there to welcome his guests to the country party—although one would never know it from his unsmiling face.



“Do you see she’s here?”



Artemis started at the hiss at her shoulder, nearly dropping poor Bon Bon, asleep in her arms. She juggled the little dog, a shawl, and Penelope’s nécessaire box before turning to her cousin. “Who?”



There were three other carriages in the drive beside their own, and “she” could’ve been any number of ladies.



Still Penelope widened her eyes as if Artemis had become suddenly dimwitted. “Her. Hippolyta Royale. Whyever would Wakefield invite her?”



Because Miss Royale was one of the most popular ladies of the last year, Artemis thought but of course did not say out loud—she wasn’t actually dimwitted. She glanced to where Penelope indicated and saw the lady descending from her carriage. She was tall and slim, dark haired and dark eyed, a quite striking figure, really, especially in the dull gold-and-purple traveling costume she wore. Artemis noted that Miss Royale appeared to be arriving unaccompanied, and it occurred to her that unlike most ladies, she’d never seen the heiress with a particular friend. She was friendly—or at least she seemed so, for Artemis had never been introduced—but she didn’t link arms with a bosom bow, didn’t lean close and giggle over gossip. Miss Royale appeared eternally alone.



“I knew I should’ve brought the swan,” Penelope said.



Artemis shuddered at the memory of the hissing fowl and hoped she didn’t look too wild-eyed at her cousin. “Er… the swan?”



Penelope pouted. “I have to find some way to make him notice me instead of her.”



Artemis felt a pang of protectiveness toward her cousin. “You’re beautiful and vivacious, Penelope, dear. I can’t imagine any gentleman not noticing you.”



She forbore pointing out that even had Penelope been plain and retiring, she would still have been the center of attention at all times. Her cousin was the richest heiress in England, after all.



Penelope blinked at her words and almost looked shy.



Miss Royale murmured a “good afternoon” as she crossed in front of them on the way to the portico entrance of Pelham.



Penelope’s eyes narrowed determinedly. “I’ll not let that upstart steal my duke away from me.”



And so saying, she marched off, evidently with the idea of reaching the Duke of Wakefield ahead of Miss Royale.



Artemis sighed. This was going to be a very long fortnight. She crossed to the side of the gravel drive, almost in back of one of the long colonnaded arms, and set Bon Bon gently down on the grass. The elderly dog stretched and then toddled, stiff-legged, to a nearby bush.



“Ah, Miss Greaves.”



She turned to see the Duke of Scarborough striding toward her, looking rather dapper in a scarlet riding habit. “I hope your journey was a comfortable one?”



“Your Grace.” Artemis dipped into a low curtsy, a little confused. Dukes—or indeed any gentlemen—rarely sought her out. “Our journey was quite pleasant. And yours, sir?”



The duke beamed. “Rode my gelding, Samson, with my carriage behind, don’t you know.”



She couldn’t help smiling just a bit. He was such a jovial gentleman—and so pleased with himself. “All the way from London?”



“Yes, indeed.” He puffed out his chest. “I like the exercise. Keeps me youthful. And where is Lady Penelope, if I might enquire?”



“She’s gone ahead to greet the Duke of Wakefield.”



Artemis bent to lift up Bon Bon and the little dog sighed as if in gratitude. When she rose the Duke of Scarborough’s eyes were narrowed. She turned to look where he was gazing. Penelope was leaning close to Wakefield and smiling up at him as she let him kiss her hand.



Scarborough caught Artemis’s curious stare and his expression relaxed into another cheery smile. “Always did like a challenge. May I?”



He took the nécessaire from her hand and offered his arm.



“Thank you.” She laid her fingertips on his arm, reminded again of why she rather liked the elderly duke. In her other arm, Bon Bon laid his little chin on her shoulder.



“Now Miss Greaves,” he said as he led her slowly toward the front doors, “I’m afraid I have an ulterior motive in seeking you out.”



“Do you, Your Grace?”



“Oh, yes.” His eyes twinkled at her merrily. “And I think you’re a bright enough lass to have an inkling of what it is. I wonder if you might tell me the sort of things your cousin likes most in the world.”



“Well…” Artemis glanced at her cousin as she thought about the matter. Penelope was laughing prettily at something the Duke of Wakefield had said, though Artemis noted that the gentleman himself wasn’t smiling. “I suppose she likes the same sort of things most ladies do: jewels, flowers, and beautiful objects of all kinds.” She hesitated, biting her lip, then shrugged. It wasn’t as if it were a secret, after all. “Beautiful, expensive objects.”

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