Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(24)

“No, actually, it isn’t,” he said, flatly.

“Humph.” They’d reached the ground floor now and she turned to walk toward the back of the house.

He grimaced as he took the last step overly hard on his bad leg.

She didn’t turn, but he noticed that she slowed her pace for him.

He limped grimly after.

Outside, a wide, paved terrace ran along the entire back of the house. Beyond was a formal garden, the flower beds mostly dormant at this time of year. There were two gardeners plus the young boy who helped them. All three came to attention as Lady Phoebe appeared.

“M’lady,” the eldest, a gnarled specimen of a man, called to give her their direction.

“Givens,” Lady Phoebe said. “Never tell me you’re planting without me.”

“Nay, m’lady,” the other gardener replied. He could’ve been Givens’s twenty-years-younger twin, they looked that much alike. In fact, Trevillion suspected that they were in some way related. He made a mental note to find out how.

“We was jus’ lookin’ over the canes,” Givens said.

“And how are they?” Lady Phoebe started forward. The canes had been laid out on the lawn between the flower beds.

Trevillion cursed under his breath and lengthened his stride, his stick thumping on the paving stones. He caught up to her just as she neared the shallow steps that led down to the garden.

“If you don’t mind, my lady.” He took her arm without waiting for her reply.

“And if I do?” she murmured.

There was not much point in answering that question, so he merely said, “The grass begins here.”

She nodded, keeping her head high as he led her toward the gardeners. “A pity that Artemis couldn’t stay to help me.”

“Yes, my lady.” He glanced down at her, eyes narrowing. “Strange that you were unaware of where she went this morning.”

She frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?” he asked softly. “I’ve noticed the duchess often makes mysterious errands.”

“Whatever you’re implying, Captain Trevillion, I don’t think I like it.”

He sighed silently as they made the gardeners and she pointedly turned her attention to them and the rose canes.

He watched, leaning heavily on his walking stick, and wondered if she really had no idea. Lady Phoebe was close to her sister-in-law—very close. She must know that the duchess had a twin brother, Apollo Greaves, Lord Kilbourne, who had recently escaped from Bedlam—and was still on the run from the King’s men.

Did she know, however, why Lord Kilbourne had been committed to Bedlam? Did she know about the bloody triple murder that had been hushed up when the aristocrat was locked away? Perhaps she’d never heard—she was a sheltered lady, after all. Or perhaps she knew and had chosen to forget the four-year-old scandal.

Trevillion found it impossible to forget. Four years ago he’d arrested Lord Kilbourne.

And Kilbourne had been drenched in the blood of his friends.

HE COULD NEVER claim the title if he was wanted for a murder he hadn’t committed.

The next day Apollo hacked savagely at a small tree with his curved pruning knife, welcoming the stretch and burn of his muscles. Why should it matter? The title had never been important to him. If anything, it had meant separation from his sister—his family—when he was a schoolboy. Apollo snorted. The earl hadn’t cared if his son’s family ate or had proper clothes, but by damnation his son’s heir—and thus his own—would be expensively educated.

He paused to wipe away the sweat on his brow. There was no logical reason for him to care about the title. Except…

Except that it was one more thing stolen from him because of the murders.

He grunted and had lifted his arm to attack the tree again when he heard it: a gruff voice mumbling.

Apollo raised his head, glancing around. He was on the far side of the pond, in quite a deserted area of the garden. The other gardeners had been set the task of clearing dead trees near the musician’s gallery. He’d been half expecting Indio and Daffodil to find him today, but so far they hadn’t.

And the voice didn’t sound at all like Indio’s.

Curious, he stuck the pruning knife into the wide belt at his waist and crept around the tree he’d been assaulting. He and the other gardeners had made some headway on the area of the garden between the pond and the theater, but here, on the far side of the pond, all was still wild chaos. Clumps of burned trees stood here and there, with the remains of hedges trailing throughout. The voice was growing louder as he neared, and appeared to be coming from behind one of the few hedges still growing.

Cautiously he ventured nearer, peering around the remains of a big tree.

“ ‘… Or consider yourself a knave, my lord,’ ” Miss Stump was muttering to herself in an artificially low voice. She paced before a fallen tree on which a flat board had been laid. On top of the board were paper, a small bottle of ink, and a quill—obviously a makeshift desk.

“Bollocks,” she muttered to herself in her own voice. “Knave. Knave. Knave. Completely the wrong word. Oh, of course!”

She bent to the paper and scribbled furiously for a few minutes, and then stood. All at once her demeanor changed. Her shoulders squared, she widened her stance, put her fists on her hips, and Lily Stump became a broad-shouldered man. “You’ll pay your chits, if you’re a gentleman at all, Wastrel.”