Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(87)

He looked at his dripping hands. “Captain Trevillion’s and a horse named Cowslip.”

She blinked, wondering if she’d heard right. But as she stared at him he said nothing more. She wrapped her arms around her bent knees. She remembered, vaguely, meeting the dragoon captain years ago in St. Giles. He’d seemed a stern man. She shivered. “Is Captain Trevillion dead?”

“No,” he whispered. “No, but he’s very badly injured.”

“What happened?”

“I found him.”

“Who?”

He finally looked up at that, and though his face was drawn, his eyes burned. “Old Scratch. The man who killed my parents.”

She let out a sigh. “Then you captured him?”

“No.” He threw down a washcloth he’d been using and braced his arms on the dresser. “We chased Old Scratch to the Seven Dials pillar in St. Giles. There he shot Trevillion’s horse and the horse fell on the captain.”

Artemis drew in a breath. Such accidents happened and they could easily be fatal to the rider. “But you said he’s alive.”

Maximus at last looked at her. “His leg is badly broken. I had to put down the horse and then I brought Trevillion here.”

Artemis began to rise. “Does he need nursing?”

“Yes, but I’ve seen to that.” Maximus held up his hand, forestalling her. “I sent for my doctor as soon as I arrived. He set the leg as best he could. He wanted to take it off, but I forbade it.” Maximus winced. “The leg is bandaged and the doctor says if it doesn’t putrefy Trevillion may live. I have one of the footmen sitting with him. There’s nothing more to be done tonight.”

Artemis stared. She was half on, half off the bed, stopped by his command. “But the captain may still die?”

Maximus turned away. “Yes.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

He nodded as he stripped his breeches off. “I’ve lost my only ally.”

She looked at him sharply. “And a friend, I think.”

He paused for a split second before he began unbuttoning his smalls. “That, too.”

“Will you send more soldiers out to capture Old Scratch?”

He kicked off his smalls and straightened, nude. “I’ll go after him myself.”

“But…” She frowned, glancing away from his distracting body. “Wouldn’t it be better to have help?”

He threw back his head and barked with laughter. “Better, yes, but I have no one to ask for help.”

She stared. “Why not? You mentioned before the two other boys—men now—that you trained with. Surely one of them—”

He made a cutting motion with the blade of his hand. “They’ve left off dressing as the Ghost.”

“Then someone else. You’re the Duke of Wakefield.”

He shook his head impatiently. “This is a dangerous chase—”

“Yes, it is,” she interrupted. “I can see the bruises on your ribs and you have a cut on your shoulder.”

“All the more reason to do this by myself,” he said. “I don’t want anyone else hurt in my service.”

“Maximus,” she said softly, trying to understand, trying to find what would move him. “Why must you do this at all? If he’s a highwayman the soldiers will capture and hang him sooner or—”

He whirled, sudden and violent, and kicked one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. It flew across the room and hit the wall, splintering. He stood, chest heaving, and stared at the battered chair, though she very much doubted he saw it.

“Maximus?”

“I killed them.” His voice was raw.

“I don’t understand.”

“On the night they were murdered. It was because of me that they were in St. Giles.” He finally looked up, his eyes dry and stark and so wounded she wanted to cry the tears he couldn’t.

Instead she lifted her chin and commanded, “Tell me.”

“We were at the theater that night.” He held her eyes as if afraid to look away. “Only Father, Mother, and I, for Hero was too young and Phoebe was just a baby. It was something of a privilege for me—I wasn’t that long out of a governess’s care. I remember we saw King Lear and I was dreadfully bored, but I didn’t want to show it, for I knew it would make me seem naïve and young. Afterward, we got in the carriage, and I don’t know how, I can’t remember, though I’ve been over and over it in my mind, but Father was talking about guns. I’d received a pair of fowling pieces for my birthday, and I’d taken them out and shot some birds in the garden in London the week before, and he’d been quite angered. I’d thought he was done scolding me, but it came up again and this time he said he’d take my guns away from me until I learned to handle them properly. I was surprised and angered and I shouted at him.”

He inhaled sharply as if he couldn’t catch his breath.

“I shouted at my father. I called him a bastard, and my mother began to weep and then to my horror I felt tears at my own eyes. I was fourteen and the thought of crying in front of my father was too terrible to bear. I threw open the carriage door and ran out. Father must’ve stopped the carriage then and come after me, and I suppose Mother followed. I ran and ran. I didn’t know where we were, and I didn’t much care, but the houses were tumbling down and I could smell spilled gin and corruption. I heard my father’s shouts as he neared, and in a moment of malicious stupidity I ducked around a corner, behind some barrels—gin barrels—and hid. The smell of gin was overwhelming, filling my nostrils, my lungs, my head until I wanted to vomit. I heard a shot.”