Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(54)

“Obviously,” Makepeace drawled back.

The duke ignored that. “Am I to assume from Captain Trevillion’s presence that you’ve already made some inquiries?”

Apollo exchanged a glance with Trevillion and Apollo nodded.

“Yes, Your Grace, I have done some investigation into the matter.” The captain cleared his throat. “It seems Lord Kilbourne’s uncle, William Greaves, is in some debt to his grandfather’s, the earl’s, estate.”

Montgomery, who had been poking at his teacup, looked up at that. “Splendid! We have a viable candidate for a substitute murderer. Now to simply alert the authorities with a well-placed hint—”

“A hint about what, exactly?” Makepeace exploded. “We don’t have a scrap of real evidence that ’Pollo’s uncle did anything.”

“Oh, evidence is easily manufactured, I find,” the duke said carelessly as he dropped a marzipan orange into his tea. He watched it sink with interest.

There was a short, appalled silence.

The duke seemed to realize something was amiss. He glanced up, his blue eyes wide and innocent. “Problem?”

Fortunately it was Trevillion who replied. “I’m afraid we can’t simply manufacture evidence, Your Grace,” he said calmly but firmly. “We must discover the evidence naturally.”

“How tedious!” The duke actually pouted before assuming a rather alarmingly crafty expression. “It’ll take much less time my way, you comprehend.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” Makepeace burst out and for a moment Apollo was afraid he’d have to physically restrain him. “You’re discussing falsifying evidence to hang a man.”

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Mr. Harte,” the duke snapped. “You believe him just as guilty as I. You just want to salve your conscience by working for the evidence. The end result is the same, I assure you: an arrested man and Lord Kilbourne saved from Bedlam.”

“Nevertheless,” Trevillion said. He didn’t raise his voice, but such was its command, the other two men looked to him. “We’ll do it our way. Your Grace.”

For a moment the soldier and the aristocrat glared at each other.

Then the duke suddenly knocked over his teacup, spilling the mess on a stack of papers. “Oh, very well,” he said, petulant, over the squawks of Makepeace. Apparently the papers were broadsheets he’d been meaning to read. “I suppose there’s no help for it. We’ll have to go to William Greaves’s country house outside Bath and hunt around like farmers’ wives after chicken eggs.”

They all stared at him.

“What now?”

Trevillion cleared his throat, but Makepeace, perhaps because of his sodden broadsheets, beat him to it. “How do you propose we get into Greaves’s country house? Surely he’ll notice four men tramping through his rooms.”

“I doubt it,” Montgomery purred, “since he’ll be holding a country party in a little over a fortnight’s time with an especial play as the centerpiece of the event. Naturally, I have been invited. I’ll simply arrive with my very good friend, Mr. Smith”—he sent a significant glance at Apollo—“and there you are.”

“There we won’t be, because the first thing Greaves will do will be to have ’Pollo arrested,” Makepeace objected.

“Actually,” Apollo interjected thoughtfully, “I’ve never met… the man.”

Makepeace swung on him, looking betrayed. “What, never?”

Apollo shrugged. “Perhaps… as a baby? I certainly have no… memory of him or the rest of his family. He probably’s never… seen me.” He looked over at Trevillion calmly sipping his tea. “Can Lady Phoebe find… a way to get an invitation to… the house party?”

“No,” the captain said with certainty. “Her brother does not want her to attend social events except those held by a family member. There are very few exceptions. However”—he looked considering—“I believe Wakefield has a house in Bath. It shouldn’t be too hard to suggest Lady Phoebe take the waters. And, since she enjoys the theater very much, she might be able to attend a private theatrical performance for one night. I shall look into the matter.”

Montgomery clapped his hands. “Then it’s settled. As I see it, there’s but one thing to do in the intervening two weeks.”

“And what is that?” Makepeace grated.

The duke turned his bright-blue eyes on Apollo, making him exceptionally nervous. “Why, outfit Lord Kilbourne as the aristocrat he is.”

Chapter Twelve

Ariadne followed the winding corridors of the labyrinth for days and nights. She ate the cheese and bread her mother had hidden in the folds of her robe and drank the dew that collected in the crevices of the stone at night. Sometimes she would hear an animal’s roar or what sounded like a man’s shout, but often she heard nothing at all except the scrape of her slippers on the hard earth of the labyrinth. And then, on the third day, she found the first skeleton…

—From The Minotaur

Two weeks later Lily looked up at the gray stone facade of William Greaves’s country house and thought she should be excited.

It was the first opportunity in months and months for her to perform—and it would be in one of her own plays. By dint of nearly killing herself, she’d finished A Wastrel Reform’d on time and sent the manuscript by porter to Edwin, despite her misgivings. He’d already had a buyer, after all, and they both needed the money rather badly.