Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(30)

Maximus glanced at her sideways. “I take it your parents were of a classical mind?”

“My mother.” She nodded. “Artemis and Apollo. The Olympian twins.”

“Ah.”

She took a deep breath, her inhalation making the bodice of her dress expand distractingly. “My brother was committed to Bedlam four years ago.”

“Yes, I know.”

He caught her look and didn’t much like the cynical tilt of her lips. “Of course you do. Tell me, Your Grace, do you have all the ladies you’re interested in investigated before you decided to court them?”

“Yes.” There was no point in denying it. “I owe it to my title to ensure I marry the best lady possible.”

She hummed noncommittally in response, which irritated him. “Your brother killed three men in a crazed, drunken rage.”

She stiffened. “I’m surprised that you wish to continue courting Penelope, if you know about it. Madness is said to run in families.”

It was obviously a sore point with her. Still, she proudly wore a goddess’s name. One didn’t coddle such as she. “Your line isn’t directly connected to Lady Penelope’s. Besides, murder doesn’t necessarily mean madness. If your brother hadn’t been the grandson of an earl, he’d have been hanged instead of committed to a hospital for the insane. No doubt it was better for all concerned—rather a member of the nobility be mad than executed.”

He was watching her so he saw the pained grimace cross her face before she schooled her expression. “You’re right. The scandal was awful. I’m sure it was the final straw that killed my mother. For weeks we thought he might be arrested and executed. If it weren’t for Penelope’s father…”

They’d come to the clearing and she stopped, turning toward him. He had an odd impulse to take her into his arms. To tell her that he’d keep the world and all its gossips at bay.

But she squared her shoulders, looking at him frankly and without fear. Perhaps she didn’t need a champion. Perhaps she was well enough without him. “He isn’t mad, you know, and he didn’t kill those men.”

He watched her. The loved ones of monsters were sometimes blind to their sins. No point in saying that fact aloud.

She inhaled. “You could get him out.”

He raised his brows. “I’m a duke, not the king.”

“You could,” she said stubbornly. “You could free him.”

He looked away, sighing. “Even if I were wont to do so, I do not think I would. Your brother was judged insane, Miss Greaves, though I’m sure it hurts you to admit it. He was found with the bodies of three men, terribly murdered. Surely—”

“He didn’t do it.” She was directly in front of him, one small palm placed on his chest, and though he knew it wasn’t so, he seemed to feel the heat of her skin burning through his clothes. “Don’t you understand? Apollo is innocent. He’s been locked away in that hellish place for four years and he will never get out. You must help him. You must—”

“No,” he said as gently as he was able, “I do not have to do anything.”

For a moment her mask fell and her emotions showed through, devastating and real: rage, hurt, and a grief so deep it rivaled his own.

Stunned, he opened his mouth to speak.

But before he could, she struck, as precisely and mercilessly as her namesake.

“You do have to save my brother,” she said, “because if you do not I will tell everyone in England that you are the Ghost of St. Giles.”

ARTEMIS HELD HER breath. She’d dared to slip a bridle over a tiger’s head and now she waited to see if he’d do her bidding or bat her aside with one powerful paw.

The Duke of Wakefield stood very still, his sable eyes slowly narrowing on her and she was reminded that, save for the king, this was possibly the most powerful man in England.

At last he spoke. “I think not.”

Her lips firmed. “You believe I won’t do it?”

“Oh, I believe that you’re quite capable of such perfidy, Miss Greaves,” he said silkily as he turned to continue his walk.

She swallowed. It had been a shared walk, but it no longer seemed like one.

Heat rose in her cheeks. “My loyalty lies with my brother.”

“I did save your life in St. Giles,” he reminded her.

She remembered that lithe grace, the deadly skill with his swords, and she remembered the final salute he’d given her before she’d mounted the carriage. She was now certain that he’d made sure to see her to safety.

None of that mattered. “He is my brother and his life is at stake. I will not feel guilt.”

He spared her a dismissive glance. “Nor do I expect you to, madam. I merely state the facts. No insult is intended. I believe you to be a worthy opponent.”

“But?”

He sighed and stopped to face her as if dealing with a particularly trying maidservant. “I think you have not bothered to ascertain what type of opponent I am. I have no intention of bowing to blackmail.”

She inhaled, reluctantly admiring. If she wasn’t fighting for Apollo she might have conceded the field to him, for this was blackmail and hardly very fair.

But then again, she was no gentleman, raised on the traditions of honor. She had been a lady—a person often deemed by men such as he to have not enough intelligence to understand complicated male concepts such as honor. And now? Now she was a woman hardened by the capriciousness of fate.