Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(39)

“He did say he loved me more than the sun,” she said, her voice as dry and brittle as ashes.

“Ah.” He looked up as they emerged from the woods at the brightly shining sun. The man had been an idiot and a cad, no matter if he’d managed to save his own good name. Besides. Anyone could see she was tied to the moon, not the sun. “Then I wish I had it in my power to make him live without the sun for the rest of his pitiful life.”

She stopped and glanced at him. “That’s a romantic thing to say.”

He shook his head. “I’m not a romantic man, Miss Greaves. I don’t say things that I don’t mean. I find it a waste of time.”

“Do you?” she looked at him oddly for a moment, then sighed and glanced toward the house. “We’re no longer in the woods, are we? The day is about to begin.”

He bowed. “Indeed it is. Don your helmet, Lady Moon.”

She lifted her chin. “And you yours.”

He nodded and strode away without looking back. But he couldn’t help wishing it were different. That they could lay aside their armor and find a way to have the woods around them always.

A far too dangerous thought.

Chapter Eight

The Dwarf King was very pleased with King Herla’s wedding present, and when at last the feasting ended and his guests were leaving, he bid farewell to his friend with the gift of a small, snow-white hound.

“I know your love of the hunt,” said the Dwarf King. “With this hunting dog in your saddle, your arrow will never miss the quarry. But mind that you do not dismount before the dog leaps down of its own accord. In this way you shall always be safe.”…

—from The Legend of the Herla King

Artemis entered Penelope’s room just before eleven of the clock to find her cousin seated before her vanity mirror, turning her head one way and then another as she scrutinized her coiffure.

“What do you think of this new style?” she asked. Curled tendrils framed her face, artfully interwoven with seed pearls. “Blackbourne suggested it, but I’m uncertain if it truly complements the roundness of my face.”

Blackbourne was at the far end of the room tidying Penelope’s stockings and could clearly hear their exchange—not that Penelope seemed to care. “I like it,” Artemis said truthfully. “It’s quite elegant, yet very modern, too.”

Penelope flashed one of her lovely smiles—the real one that not many people saw. For a moment Artemis wondered if Wakefield had ever seen that smile. Then she shook the thought aside. “Do you want your shawl?”

“I suppose you’ve already been out.” Penelope touched a curl.

“Yes. I had a ramble with Bon Bon.”

“I had wondered where Bon Bon had got to.” Penelope nodded at herself in the mirror, apparently satisfied with her hair. “No, I’ll leave the shawl and then if I get cold I’ll send Wakefield or Scarborough to fetch it for me.”

She grinned over her shoulder at Artemis.

Artemis shook her head, amused at the thought of her cousin using dukes as her errand boys. “Then if there’s nothing else, shall we go down?”

“Yes.” Penelope gave a last careful pat to her hair. “Oh, wait. There was something…” She began rummaging in the mess of jewelry, fans, gloves, and other debris that in the short time they’d been at Pelham House had taken up residence on the vanity. “Here ’tis. I knew I forgot something. This arrived for you this morning by special rider ’round about eight. Ridiculous. Who sends notes so early?”

She held out a rather tattered letter.

Artemis took it, prying off the seal with her thumbnail. There was no use chiding Penelope about the lateness in delivering the letter. Her cousin was perennially absentminded—especially in matters not her own. Hastily, she scanned the cheap paper, words suddenly jumping out at her as she realized that the letter was from the guard at Bedlam that she’d bribed long ago to send word if anything terrible ever happened.

Your brother… dying… come soon.

Dying.

No, this couldn’t be true. Not when she’d finally found a way to get him out.

But she couldn’t take that risk.

Dying.

“Penelope.” Artemis carefully folded the letter, creasing it between her fingertips. Her hands were trembling. “Penelope, I must return to London.”

“What?” Penelope was peering at her nose in the mirror now. She dabbed on a bit of rice powder. “Don’t be silly. We’ve another week and a half at the house party.”

“Apollo is ill. Or”—Artemis drew in a shuddering breath—“he’s been beaten again. I must go to him.”

Penelope sighed deeply, in the same manner as she would if she’d been presented with a new gown and found the lace edging the sleeves not quite up to what she’d expected. “Now, Artemis, dear. I’ve told you again and again that you must learn to forget your… brother.” She shuddered delicately as if even the mere word somehow acknowledged the relationship more than she wished. “He’s quite beyond your help. It’s Christian, I know, to wish to give comfort to him, but I ask you: can one comfort a beast maddened by disease?”

“Apollo is not diseased, nor is he a beast,” Artemis said in a tight voice. Penelope’s lady’s maids were still in the bedroom. They acted as if they had no ears, but Artemis knew full well that servants could hear. She would not succumb to humiliation. Apollo needed her. “He was accused falsely.”