Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(14)

He grunted and resumed searching.

“Why do you don the disguise of a harlequin actor and run about St. Giles?” She cocked her head, watching him. His movements were economical. Precise. Yet, strangely graceful for a man. “You know, there are those who think you a ravisher of women—and worse.”

“I’m not.” He shut the drawer and glanced about her room. Had years spent hunting in the night made him able to see in the dark? She could hardly make out the outlines of her room and it was her own. He chose the old wardrobe next, a piece that had been replaced with something newer and finer in one of Brightmore House’s guest rooms. He opened the door, peering in. “I’ve never violated any woman.”

“Have you killed?”

He paused at that, before reaching into the wardrobe to move aside her spare day gown. “Once or twice. The men deserved it, I assure you.”

She could believe that. St. Giles was a terrible place. A place where people were driven by poverty, drink, and despair to the depths of a human soul. She’d read reports in her uncle’s discarded news sheets of robberies and murders, of entire families found starved to death. For a gentleman to venture into St. Giles night after night for years to confront the demons unleashed by man’s worst state… he must have more than a trifling reason. She very much doubted he did it for excitement or on a dare.

Artemis inhaled on the thought. What sort of man acted as he did? “You must love St. Giles very much.”

He whirled at that, and an awful, loud laugh broke from his lips. “Love. Dear God, you mistake me, ma’am. I do it not for love.”

“Yet the citizens of St. Giles are the ones who benefit from your…” She trailed off, trying to think of how to describe what he did. Hobby? Duty? Obsession? “Work. If, as you say, you don’t harm except those who deserve it, then those who live in St. Giles are the safer for what you do, surely?”

“I care not how my actions affect them.” He closed the door to the wardrobe with finality.

“I do,” she said simply. “Your actions saved my life.”

He was standing, looking about the room. There wasn’t much left: the mantel and her bedside table, both without anything to hide something in. “Why are you so concerned with my actions in any case?”

Even in his whispered voice he sounded irritable, and she supposed he had a right. “I don’t know. I guess that you’re a… novelty, really. I don’t usually have the occasion to talk to a gentleman at length.”

“You’re Lady Penelope’s relation and companion. I would think between balls, parties, and teas you’d have more than ample opportunity to meet gentlemen.”

“Meet them, yes. Have a true conversation?” She shook her head. “Gentlemen have no reason to talk to ladies such as I. Not unless their intentions are less than honorable.”

He took a step toward her, almost as if the movement was involuntary. “You’ve been accosted by men?”

“It’s the way of the world, isn’t it? My position makes me vulnerable. Those that are strong will always go after those they think are weak.” She shrugged. “But it isn’t often, and in any case I’ve been able to fend for myself.”

“You aren’t weak.” It was a statement, final and without doubt.

She found his conviction flattering. “Most would think me so.”

“Most would be wrong.”

They stared at each other and she had the idea that they were both somehow taking stock of the other. She certainly was. He wasn’t what she would have expected, had she bothered to think about what to expect from a masked harlequin. He seemed to be truly listening to her, and that hadn’t happened to her in a very long time. Well, except with the Duke of Wakefield last night, she silently amended.

The Ghost had understood her truth in a shockingly short period of time.

Then there was his anger—the underlying pulse of suppressed rage that seemed to vibrate through him. She could feel it, almost a living thing, pressing against her.

“What are you looking for?” she asked abruptly. “It’s rather rude for a gentleman to enter a lady’s room without permission.”

“I’m not a gentleman.”

“Really? I thought otherwise.”

She’d spoken without thinking and immediately regretted it. He was beside the bed in an instant, large, male, and dangerous, and she remembered at this inopportune moment what the creature had been in that clearing in her dream: a tiger. In an English forest. She almost laughed at the absurdity.

She was forced to tilt her head up to see him, baring her neck, which was never a good idea when in the presence of a predator.

He bent over her, deliberately planting his fists on the bed on either side of her hips, caging her in. She swallowed, feeling the heat of his body. She could smell him: leather and male sweat, and it should have repelled her.

Except it did the opposite.

He thrust his masked face into hers, so close she could see the glint of his eyes behind it. “You have something that belongs to me.”

She held very still, breathing in his exhalations, sharing the same air as he, like a very dear enemy.

His face dipped toward hers, angling, and her eyelids fell. For a very brief moment, she thought she felt the brush of something warm across her lips.