Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(34)

She had his attention.

“That’s quite brave of you, Your Grace,” Artemis said, raising her voice as she turned to the Duke of Scarborough, “offering to fight the Ghost of St. Giles. For I noted at the time that the Ghost was a rather large man. Why, he was almost exactly the same height as—” She glanced about the assembled party as if searching for a gentleman of suitable height. When her eyes landed on Wakefield, he already had a wry expression. “Why, our host, the Duke of Wakefield, in fact.”

There was a fraught pause as Artemis held Wakefield’s narrowed gaze, before it was broken rather prosaically by Penelope. “Don’t be silly, Artemis. The Ghost was at least a foot taller than His Grace. Although I’m quite sure the Duke of Scarborough would have been able to defeat him.”

The last was a lie so obvious that Artemis didn’t even bother rolling her eyes.

“Certainly, His Grace would’ve been of better help than my brother,” Phoebe said, uncaring of her treachery.

“Phoebe,” Wakefield growled low in warning.

“Yes, brother dear?” Phoebe turned her blithely bright face to the duke, who was lurking like a tiger with indigestion in the corner. “You must admit that you did not show well with Scarborough yesterday.”

“His Grace, the Duke of Scarborough, obviously has many more years than I practicing his fencing.” Wakefield bowed to the other duke so gracefully that Artemis wondered if he’d really meant the insult to Scarborough’s age. “And you, brat, should show more respect to your elders.”

The teasing tone caught Artemis off guard. He truly did care for his sister, she reminded herself. He might be overprotective, but he loved Phoebe. The thought unsettled her. She was blackmailing this man. She didn’t want to think about the softer, more human parts of him.

She girded her loins and readied another salvo. “Did you really find the Ghost so monstrously tall? Truly, I thought he had the height and the physical bearing of His Grace. Indeed, were the duke a better swordsman, it might’ve been he we met in St. Giles.”

“But whyever would His Grace traipse about St. Giles?” Penelope asked in honest confusion. “Only ruffians and the poor go there.”

“Well, we were there, weren’t we?” Artemis retorted.

Penelope waved a dismissive hand. “That’s different. I was on a grand adventure.”

“Which nearly got you both killed, by the sound of it,” Phoebe whispered in Artemis’s ear.

“Come, my lady,” Scarborough said jovially. “Enough of this talk of scoundrels. You promised to sing for us, I remember. Will you do it now?”

“Oh, yes.” Penelope immediately brightened at the prospect of being at the center of attention. “I just need an accompanist.”

“I can play,” Phoebe said, “if I know the piece you’ll be singing.”

Artemis helped her navigate across the room to the clavichord.

“What would you like to perform?” Phoebe asked as she settled gracefully at her instrument.

Penelope smiled. “Do you know ‘The Shepherdess’s Lament?’ ”

Artemis stifled a sigh and found a seat. Penelope had a very small repertoire that consisted of rather sentimental and treacly songs.

Wakefield lowered himself beside her and she couldn’t help but stiffen a little.

“A miss, I think,” he murmured out of the side of his mouth as they watched Penelope tilt her chin very high and extend one hand. “You can do much better than that.”

“Are you challenging me, Your Grace?”

A corner of his mouth curled up, though he didn’t look at her. “Only a fool would provoke his nemesis. What in hell is she doing?”

Artemis glanced back to the musician and singer. Penelope had laid one hand on her stomach, her other still extended unnaturally, and assumed a tragic look. “That’s her performing stance, Your Grace. I’m sure you’ll become quite accustomed to it when you marry my cousin.”

The duke winced. “Touché.”

Phoebe began playing with a skill and dash beyond her years.

Artemis raised her brows in delight, whispering to the duke, “Your sister is a wonderful player.”

“That she is,” he said softly.

And then Penelope sang. It wasn’t that she was a bad songstress, per se, but her soprano voice was thin and on certain notes, quite sharp.

Then, too, the piece she’d chosen was unfortunate.

“ ‘Venture not to pet my woolly lamb,’ ” Penelope warbled, not quite hitting the right note on “lamb.” “ ‘For she is shy and too gentle for a man’s wicked hand.’ ”

“Do you know,” Mrs. Jellett said thoughtfully from behind them, “I do believe this song may have a double meaning.”

Artemis caught the duke’s sardonic gaze and felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

“Behave, Miss Greaves,” he murmured under his breath, his voice husky and deep.

“Fine words for a man who runs about St. Giles at night in a mask,” she whispered.

He frowned, glancing around. “Hush.”

She arched one eyebrow. “Why?”

The look he gave her was somehow disappointed. “That’s the way of it, then?”