Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(8)

She sighed softly as Penelope kept talking about Belgium lace.

Half an hour later they were descending the carriage steps in front of a grand mansion ablaze with lights.

“It’s a pity, really,” Penelope said, shaking out her skirts.

“What is?” Artemis bent to straighten the hem at the back.

“Lord d’Arque.” Her cousin gestured vaguely at the stunning town house. “Such a beautiful man and rich as well—he’s nearly perfect.”

Artemis wrinkled her forehead, trying to follow her cousin’s sometimes mazelike thought process. “But he’s not?”

“No, of course not, silly,” Penelope said as she sailed toward the front doors. “He’s not a duke, is he? Oh, I say, there’s Lord Featherstone!”

Artemis trailed after Penelope as she flitted up to the young lordling. George Featherstone, Baron Featherstone, had large blue eyes with luxuriant curling lashes and a red, full-lipped mouth, and had it not been for the strength of his jawline and the length of his nose, he might’ve been mistaken for a girl. He was considered very comely by most of the ladies in London society, although Artemis personally found the nasty glint in those pretty blue eyes distasteful.

“My Lady Penelope!” Lord Featherstone crowed, halting on the marble steps and making an extravagant bow. He wore a crimson coat and breeches with a gold waistcoat embroidered in crimson, purple, and bright leaf green. “What news?”

“My lord, I am pleased to report that I have been to St. Giles,” Penelope said, extending her hand.

Lord Featherstone bowed over it, lingering a fraction of a second too long before looking up through his lush eyelashes. “And did you partake of a cup of gin?”

“Alas, no.” Penelope flipped open her fan and turned her face into it as if abashed. “Better.” She lowered the fan to reveal a grin. “I met the Ghost of St. Giles.”

Lord Featherstone eyes widened. “Say you so?”

“Indeed. My companion, Miss Greaves, can bear witness.”

Artemis curtsied.

“But this is wonderful, my lady!” Lord Featherstone threw wide his arms, the gesture making him wobble, and for a moment Artemis worried that he might overbalance on the steps, but he merely braced himself by throwing one foot on the next step up. “A masked demon vanquished by the beauty of a maiden.” He tilted his head and glanced sideways at Penelope, a sly smile on his lips. “You did vanquish him, did you not, my lady?”

Artemis frowned. Vanquish was rather a risqué word that could be taken—

“Good evening, my lady, my lord,” a calm, deep voice said.

Artemis turned. The Duke of Wakefield appeared from the darkness behind them, his footfalls making no sound. He was a tall, lean man, dressed severely in black and wearing an elegant white wig. The lights from the mansion cast faintly ominous shadows across his countenance, emphasizing the right angles of his face: the stern, dark shelf of his eyebrows, the prominent nose positioned vertically underneath, which led straight to the thin, almost cruel line of his lips. The Duke of Wakefield was not considered as beautiful as Lord Featherstone by the ladies of society, but if one could look at his features apart from the man beneath, it was possible to see that he was in fact a handsome man.

Coldly, sternly handsome, with nary a trace of softness to relieve the harsh masculine planes of his face.

Artemis repressed a shiver. No, the Duke of Wakefield would never be a darling of the feminine members of society. Something about him was so opposite to female that he almost repelled the softer sex. This was not a man to be swayed by gentleness, beauty, or sweet words. He would bend—assuming he was even capable of bending—only for reasons of his own.

“Your Grace.” Penelope made a flirtatious curtsy while Artemis dipped more sedately beside her. Not that anyone noticed. “How lovely to see you this evening.”

“Lady Penelope.” The duke bowed over her hand and straightened. His dark eyes betrayed no emotion, either positive or negative. “What’s this I heard about the Ghost of St. Giles?”

Penelope licked her lips in what might have been a seductive movement, but Artemis thought her cousin was probably nervous. The duke was rather daunting at the best of times. “A grand adventure, Your Grace. I met the Ghost himself last night in St. Giles!”

The duke simply looked at her.

Artemis stirred uneasily. Penelope didn’t seem to be aware that her lark might not be taken as an accomplishment by the duke. “Cousin, perhaps we should—”

“Lady Penelope has the wonderful courage of Britannia herself,” Lord Featherstone trumpeted. “A sweetly brave bearing embraced by the beauty of her form and face, resulting in perfection of manner and grace. My lady, please, accept this bauble as a token of my admiration.”

Lord Featherstone dropped to one knee and held out his jeweled snuffbox. Artemis snorted under her breath. She couldn’t help thinking that Penelope had won the wager fair and square, at risk of both life and limb. Lord Featherstone’s snuffbox wasn’t the simple offering he was trying to make it seem.

Male ninny.

Penelope reached for the snuffbox, but strong fingers were ahead of hers. The duke plucked the thing from Lord Featherstone’s hand—making the younger man flinch—and held it up to the light. It was oval, gold, and there was a tiny, round painting of a girl was on the top, bordered by pearls.