Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(26)

She was watching the path, but she looked up as if she felt his gaze and met his eyes, her own impatient. “Well? What is it, then?”

He found himself smiling. “This is the third canal act Oddershaw has proposed. He’s using Parliament to line his pockets. Not”—he shook his head wryly—“that he’s the only one doing it. Most, I suppose, want laws that’ll help themselves. But Oddershaw is rather egregiously open about it.”

“So you won’t do as he wishes?”

“Oh, no,” he said softly. Grimly. “I’ll back his damned act. I need his vote and, more important, the votes of his cronies.”

“Why?” She stopped and faced him, her brows knit faintly as if she truly wanted to know about his political mechanisms. Or perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps she wanted to know his mind.

Or his soul.

“You’ve been in St. Giles,” he said, turning to her. “You’ve seen the desolation, the… the disease that gin causes there.” He took a step closer to her without conscious thought. “There are women who sell their babies in St. Giles for a sip of gin. Men who rob and kill just to have another cup. Gin’s the rot that lies at the heart of London, and it will bring her down if it’s not stopped. That damned drink must be cauterized like a festering wound, cut clean out, or the entire body will fail, don’t you see?” He stopped and stared at her, realizing that his voice was too loud, his tone too heated. He swallowed. “Don’t you see?”

He stood over her almost threateningly, yet Miss Greaves merely watched him, her head slightly cocked. “You’re very passionate on the matter.”

He looked away, taking a careful step back. “It’s my business—my duty as a member of the House of Lords—to be passionate on the matter.”

“Yet men such as Lord Oddershaw aren’t. You just said so.” She moved closer to him, peering into his face as if all his hidden secrets were somehow made plain to her there. “I wonder why you might care so much for St. Giles?”

He swung on her, a snarl at his lips. Care for St. Giles? Hadn’t he already made it plain to her that he hated the place?

It was as if icy water poured over him. His head snapped back. No. He hadn’t told her his feelings on St. Giles before—at least not as the Duke of Wakefield.

The Ghost had.

Maximus squared his shoulders carefully and turned back to the path. “You mistake me, Miss Greaves. It’s the gin and its ungodly trade I care about—not where it’s plied. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to ready myself for the morning so that I might attend to my guests.”

He whistled for the dogs and strode away, but as he did so, he was very aware of one fact:

Miss Greaves was a dangerous woman.

THAT AFTERNOON FOUND Artemis once again arm in arm with Phoebe as they strolled out the south doors of Pelham. Luncheon had been a rather tiresome affair, as she’d been seated next to Mr. Watts, who was interested only in argument and his own opinion. She was glad to spend a moment with Phoebe, not least because she wasn’t in the habit of shouting in Artemis’s ear.

Phoebe squinted at the green beyond the formal garden. “What are they doing?”

Artemis looked to the green where the guests were already gathering. “They’ve set up an exercise yard, I think. Your brother mentioned something about games earlier—I believe the gentlemen will be demonstrating their dueling skills. Here’s where the gravel turns to grass.”

They stepped carefully onto the green as Artemis described the scene for Phoebe. Several footmen stood about holding various swords while others were setting down chairs for the ladies to take as they observed the demonstration. Wakefield snapped his fingers and pointed and two chairs were instantly placed at the front for him.

Phoebe sighed. “This won’t be that interesting unless someone misses and pinks their opponent.”

“Phoebe!” Artemis scolded under her breath.

“You know it’s true.” How could Phoebe look so very innocent and have such bloodthirsty thoughts? “We’ll all have to make admiring noises while the gentlemen scowl and try to look dangerous.”

Artemis’s amusement was dampened by the sight of Wakefield carefully helping Penelope to the seat he’d provided. Next to her, the footmen began to make a row of chairs. Penelope beamed up at the duke, her face quite impossibly beautiful in the autumn sun. Artemis remembered how ferocious he’d looked as he’d described the devastation gin wrought in London. Did he save his passions for the floor of Parliament? For he wore a mask of calm politeness now. No, she couldn’t imagine him letting that mask slip even in the heat of political argument.

“Who is going first?” Phoebe asked as they took their own seats two rows behind Wakefield and Penelope.

Artemis tore her gaze away from the duke, and reminded herself that she’d already decided that there was no percentage in pining after the man. “Lord Noakes and Mr. Barclay.”

Phoebe’s nose wrinkled. “Really? I wasn’t aware that Mr. Barclay did anything more strenuous than lift an eyebrow.”

Artemis snorted softly, watching the duelists. Lord Noakes was a man in his late fifties, of medium height and with a very small paunch. Mr. Barclay was at least twenty years younger, but didn’t look nearly as fit. “He seems quite serious. He’s taken off his coat and is swishing his sword about in a manly manner.” She winced at a particularly vehement move. “Oh, dear.”