Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(31)

This was her life. This was where the tides of fortune had landed her. She had no time or use for honor.

Artemis raised her chin. “You don’t think I’ll tell everyone your secret?”

“I don’t think you would dare.” He looked so alone, standing here in the merciless morning sunshine. “But even if you do so, Miss Greaves, I doubt very much that anyone will believe you.”

She sucked in her breath, feeling the blow before it had been dealt, but still his voice continued, chill and uncaring.

“You are, after all, the sister of a madman and the daughter of a gentleman known for his lunatic behavior. I believe if you attempt to tell anyone my secret, you stand a very good chance of being incarcerated in Bedlam yourself.” He bowed precisely, icily, every inch the impenetrable aristocrat as he threatened her with her most nightmarish fear. Had he ever let anyone past those walls? Did he even wish for the warmth of human contact? “Good day, Miss Greaves. I trust the rest of your stay at Pelham House will be satisfactory.”

He turned and walked away from her.

Belle and Starling followed without a glance, but Percy stood a moment looking between Artemis and his master, hesitating.

“Go on,” she muttered to the dog, and with a low whine he trailed after the duke.

Bon Bon whimpered and leaned against her ankles. The morning was suddenly cold again. Artemis curled her bare toes into the loam of the woods, watching Wakefield’s arrogant back as he left her. He didn’t know her. He was just another man under all those layers of wealth and power and solitary indifference. Just another obstacle to Apollo’s freedom. There was no reason to feel as if she’d broken something very new.

And he was wrong: she did dare. There was literally nothing she wouldn’t do for her brother.

THAT AFTERNOON THE sun shone brightly on the green on the south side of Pelham House. Maximus knew he was supposed to be enjoying the day and, more important, the lady he was wooing, but all he could think about was the infuriating Miss Greaves. To actually attempt to blackmail him—him, the Duke of Wakefield—was entirely beyond the pale. How she thought he might be so weak was a source of scorn, rage, and bewilderment within him. There was another emotion lurking there, deep inside, something perilously close to hurt—but he had no desire to examine that further, so he concentrated upon the rage. He’d make sure to impress upon the wench his displeasure with her actions if only she weren’t being so completely childish as to ignore him all morning.

Not that her studied disregard bothered him in the slightest.

“You’ll think me a braggart, Your Grace, but I vow I’m a fair hand with a bow,” Lady Penelope chirped beside him.

“Indeed?” Maximus murmured absently.

Miss Greaves drifted behind them, silent as a wraith. He had the most persistent urge to turn and confront her—make her say something to him. Instead, of course, he sedately led Lady Penelope toward where footmen and maids milled about with the accoutrements of archery. Opposite, across the green, three large wooden targets had been set up, not too far away, for the ladies were to have their turn today demonstrating what skills they might have in archery. The gentlemen were expected to observe and praise—whether the archer deserved it or not, of course, for a lady’s vanity was a fragile thing.

Maximus stifled an impatient sigh. This sort of thing—the silly games, the entire house party, come to that—was expected of him, not only for courting a lady such as Lady Penelope, but also in the regular way of things because of his rank, his social standing, and his position in Parliament, but there were times such as this when the whole thing rankled. He could be in a London coffeehouse right now, urging another member of Parliament to enact better legislation against the sale of gin. He could be in St. Giles, following any number of leads into the deaths of his parents. Damn it, for that matter he could be with his secretary managing his estates—not his favorite work, but important nonetheless.

Instead he was strolling a green like a veritable fop with a rather silly girl on his arm.

“Do you practice archery, Miss Greaves?” he found himself asking, quite out of the blue. The sunshine had probably gone to his head.

“Oh, no,” Lady Penelope exclaimed before her cousin could answer. “Artemis doesn’t shoot. She hasn’t time for such pursuits.”

Why not? he wanted to ask. Surely Miss Greaves’s station as Lady Penelope’s companion didn’t preclude hobbies of her own—even silly ones like ladies’ archery? Except it might very well do. Her position was a sort of genteel modern-day slavery, reserved solely for the most vulnerable of the gentler sex—those without family of their own. Lady Penelope could keep Miss Greaves busy from morning to night if she chose, and Miss Greaves would be expected to be grateful for the servitude.

The thought made his mood darker.

“I also enjoy riding, sketching, dancing, and singing,” Lady Penelope prattled on. She tapped his sleeve with one flirtatious finger. “Perhaps I can demonstrate my voice for you—and the other guests—this evening, Your Grace?”

“I would be delighted,” he replied automatically.

Behind them he heard a slight choking sound. He turned his head and glanced back to see Miss Greaves with her lips twitching. He had a sudden suspicion regarding Lady Penelope’s supposedly lovely singing voice.

“Oh, look, the Duke of Scarborough is helping with the targets,” Lady Penelope continued. “He told me last night that he likes to hold an annual contest at his country estate for athletics such as running and archery, so I suppose he’s quite the expert. No doubt that’s why he’s so skilled at fencing as well.” She seemed to realize her comments weren’t the most politic and sent an annoyingly sympathetic glance his way. “Of course, not everyone has the time to practice fencing or indeed any other athletic endeavor.”