Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(40)

“You know that’s not true, darling,” Penelope said in what really was an attempt to be gentle, Artemis was sure. Unfortunately it only made her want to scream at her cousin. “Papa did all he could for your brother—and you, for that matter. Really, this harping on about that poor, insane thing isn’t very grateful of you. I do think you can do better.”

Artemis wanted to stomp out of the room. To fling Penelope’s rote words back in her face and finally—finally—have done with all this artifice.

But that, in the end, would not serve Apollo.

She still needed her uncle’s help. If she left now, abandoned Penelope and the Earl of Brightmore’s protection, then she might reach Apollo, but she’d have no way of getting him out of Bedlam. Only a powerful man could do that.

Perhaps, in fact, only the Duke of Wakefield.

Yes. That was what she must do. Stay here at the house party—though it near killed her not to fly to Apollo’s side—and make the duke help her. Help Apollo. If she had to, she’d scream the Ghost of St. Giles’s secret identity from the rooftops.

She truly had nothing to lose now.

THAT AFTERNOON MAXIMUS took luncheon with his guests. He sat at the head of the long mahogany table in the great hall at Pelham House and wished for perhaps the first time in his life that one did not have to dine in order of precedence. For what gave dukes the right to sit at the upper end, also decreed that lowly lady’s companions were seated so far away at the bottom of the table that one might as well send a carrier pigeon if one wanted to communicate with said lowly lady’s companion. Not that he did, of course. Whatever had caused the hectic flush in Miss Greaves’s cheeks, the almost manic gesturing, the nearly desperate light in her fine gray eyes… all of that was of no concern to him.

Or shouldn’t be in any case, for he found himself quite unable to keep his attention on his table companion’s chatter.

Not that it was easy at any time to understand Lady Penelope.

That lady fluttered her eyelashes as she said, “And as I told Miss Alvers, one might suggest chocolate after four of the clock, but to actually drink it—and with pickled cucumbers, no less!—can never be correct. Don’t you agree, Your Grace?”

“I haven’t formed an opinion about chocolate, before or after four of the clock,” Maximus replied drily.

“Hadn’t you, Wakefield?” Scarborough, sitting to his left, looked shocked. “I find that deplorable, though no offense is meant—”

“And none taken,” Maximus murmured as he took a sip of his wine.

“But all persons of manners must have an opinion on chocolate,” the older man continued, “and indeed other beverages, and when they ought to be taken, how, and with what other suitable foodstuffs. Lady Penelope shows great sensitivity to have such a pretty turn of mind on the matter.”

Maximus arched a brow at his rival. Really, the man had certainly won this round by the simple expedient of having been able to articulate such nonsense with a perfectly straight face. What was more—he checked Lady Penelope’s expression closely, sighing silently when he found the expected—the lady had swallowed the sweetly wrapped offal, hook, line, and sinker. Maximus discreetly tipped his wineglass to the older man.

Scarborough winked back.

But Lady Penelope was already leaning forward, nearly dipping her abundant cleavage in her fish, to say earnestly to Scarborough, “I’m so thankful you agree, Your Grace. You would not credit it, but Artemis just last week said she didn’t care one way or the other if her tea was taken with blue figured china or red!”

Scarborough inhaled sharply. “You don’t say!”

“Indeed.” Lady Penelope sat back, having delivered this terrible breach of etiquette. “I have both, naturally, but wouldn’t dream of serving anything but coffee in the red, although sometimes”—she peeked coquettishly at Scarborough through her eyebrows—“sometimes I do serve chocolate in the blue.”

“Naughty thing,” the elderly duke breathed.

Maximus did sigh aloud at that, though no one seemed to notice. Was this truly the type of conversation he would have to endure once married? He stared broodingly into his wineglass and then glanced down the table to where Miss Greaves was laughing too loudly at something Mr. Watts had said. Somehow he doubted he would ever grow weary of her conversation. The thought was disturbing. He shouldn’t even be meditating on Miss Greaves—there was no room for her in his carefully ordered life.

“I suppose I ought not to blame poor Artemis,” Lady Penelope said with a thoughtful air. “She hasn’t my refinement—nor my sensitivity.”

Maximus nearly snorted. If refinement was quibbling over the type of china to serve chocolate in, then he supposed that Miss Greaves did indeed lack it—and he for one regarded her the better for it.

He looked down the table again and felt an irrational urge to push poor Mr. Watts out of his chair when Miss Greaves tilted her head toward him to hear something he’d said. He caught her eye briefly and she stared back in defiance, her mouth twisting tragically before looking away again.

Something was wrong. She was leaking emotion.

He sipped his wine, contemplating the matter. It was barely a few hours since he’d seen her in the woods this morning. Then she’d been as defiant as ever, no trace of weakness. The preluncheon entertainment had divided the ladies from the gentlemen. The latter had gone grouse hunting—with dismal luck—while the former had engaged in some sort of party game. Had something disturbed her during the games?