Maiden Lane [6] Duke of Midnight (26 page)

A good deal of squealing ensued.

Artemis signaled the maid for another pot of tea.

When Phoebe had at last quieted and Artemis had poured everyone a fresh dish of tea, Lady Hero sat back. “It’s just that he becomes so
brooding
.”

Artemis mentally thought that Lord Griffin—a rakish man who often had a grin on his face—could never touch
the brooding of Hero’s brother, but she forbore pointing this out.

Phoebe piped up. “Your confinement with sweet William went well. Surely he’ll remember that?”

“I think he may have some type of wasting brain disease,” Lady Hero said darkly. “He’s been
hovering
.”

Phoebe bit her lip as if quelling her amusement at her brother-in-law’s worry over his wife’s condition. “Well, in any case, this explains why you were so insistent that we visit the modiste this afternoon.”

Lady Hero immediately brightened. “Yes, I ordered a dress before I knew and that will have to be altered, but besides that I’ve seen some lovely new gowns from Paris especially for ladies in an interesting way. And of course we’ll have to get something for Miss Greaves.”

Artemis blinked, nearly dropping her dish of tea. “What?”

Phoebe nodded, looking unsurprised by her sister’s non sequitur. “Maximus already instructed me this morning to make sure she had at least three new gowns as well as everything else she might need.”

“But…” A lady could never accept a gift of clothing from a gentleman. Even with her spotty education and upbringing, that one rule had been drummed into her. Only a mistress accepted such financial obligation from a gentleman.

But wasn’t that what she already was?

“It’s only right,” Phoebe was saying stubbornly. “You came to stay with me without any thought for your own schedule.”

Artemis crimped her lips, trying not to laugh.
What
schedule? She lived at the beck and call of Penelope. She had no plans of her own.

“Besides,” Phoebe said more bluntly, “I’m tired of looking at that brown thing.”

Artemis smoothed a hand over her lap. “What’s wrong with my brown dress?”

“It’s
brown
,” Phoebe said. “Not coffee or fawn or that delicious shade of dark copper, but brown. And not your color at all, in any case.”

“No,” Lady Hero said thoughtfully, “I think some shade of blue, or perhaps green, would be quite interesting.”

Phoebe looked startled, then thoughtful. “Not a light pink?”

“Definitely not.” Lady Hero shook her head decisively. “Mind, I saw a lovely cream with red, pink, and dark green embroidered flowers we might look at, but no pastel colors overall. Her own coloring is too delicate. Light shades would simply wash her out. Dark and really rather dramatic, I think.”

Both ladies swiveled to examine her, and Artemis suddenly realized what a lump of dough might feel like under the scrutiny of a master baker. She knew from this morning that though Phoebe had trouble discerning shapes, she had no trouble with colors if the object were large enough.

“I see what you mean,” Phoebe said, squinting.

For just a second, Lady Hero’s face revealed a deep sadness, then she straightened with determination. “Yes, well, I do think we ought to get started, then.”

Nodding, Phoebe sipped the last of her tea and set her teacup down.

Artemis watched the ladies as they rose. They thought they were simply giving her a present as friends, but the money for the dresses would come from Maximus, that much was clear.

She’d slept with Maximus.

Her mind caught on the thought, here in this respectable tea shop. She’d run her hands over his bare back, wound her legs over his hips, and clenched deep inside when he’d thrust his penis into her.

He was her lover.

To take a gift from him now was to make her no better than a bought woman. A bought woman was the lowest of the low. Little more than a whore. For a moment the breath stopped in her throat in panic. She’d become everything she’d been warned against. Everything she’d struggled not to be in the last four years. She’d succumbed both to her own weakness and the perils of her position.

She’d fallen.

And then she drew breath again, almost in a gasp. Because there was something liberating in reaching the depths. It was a strange place, true, new and foreign, the way murky with hidden perils, but she found she could breathe here. They’d been wrong all along, all those who’d warned her of this place. She could live here well enough.

Perhaps even flourish.

Artemis lifted her chin and rose from her seat, meeting the curious stares of her friends. “Yes, please, I would like a new dress. Or even three.”

The full moon lounged in the black velvet sky as Maximus crept into St. Giles that night disguised as the Ghost. He glanced up and watched as she draped herself in the wisps of white clouds, mysterious and coy and everything he could never have.

He snorted derisively to himself and stole into a dark alley, ears and eyes alert to danger. What kind of fool longed for the moon? The kind that forgot his duty, his obligations, the things that he
must
do if he were to continue to call himself a man.

No, not just a man, but the Duke of Wakefield. Romantic fools didn’t qualify for the job.

Better to concern himself with the present. Which was why he was haunting St. Giles tonight. It had been far too long since he’d seen to his duty: the hunt for the man who had killed his parents. Night after night, year after year, he’d stalked these stinking alleys, hoping to find some trail, some clue to the identity of the footpad who had robbed and killed them. The man was probably dead by now, yet Maximus couldn’t give up the chase.

It was the least he could do for the parents he’d failed so fatally.

Maximus froze as the scent of gin hit his nostrils. He’d emerged from the alley. A man lay in the channel of the larger street the alley emptied into. Broken barrels gushed the nauseous liquid as the man groaned next to his weary nag, an overturned cart still hitched to the horse.

Maximus’s lip curled. A gin seller—or perhaps even a distiller. He started forward, pushing down the roiling of his stomach at the stench of gin, when he saw the second man. He sat a great black horse just inside an alley kitty-corner to Maximus’s own, which was why Maximus hadn’t seen him at once. His coat was a dark blue, gilt or silver buttons glinting in the dark, and in both hands he held pistols. As Maximus emerged, his head turned, and Maximus could see he wore a black cloth over the lower part of his face, his tricorne hiding the upper part.

The highwayman cocked his head, and somehow Maximus knew he was grinning beneath the black cloth. “The Ghost of St. Giles, as I live and breathe. I’m surprised we haven’t met before, sir.” He shrugged indolently. “But
then I suppose I’ve only just returned to these parts. No matter—even if I’ve been gone for decades, you should know I still rule this patch of London.”

“And who might you be?” Maximus kept his voice to a whispered rasp—as did the highwayman.

They might disguise their voices, but the cadence of a gentleman was impossible to conceal.

“Don’t you recognize me?” The highwayman’s tone was mocking. “I’m Old Scratch.”

And he fired one of his pistols.

Maximus ducked, the brick beside his head exploded, and the gin cart horse bolted up the street, dragging the broken cart behind.

The highwayman wheeled his own horse and galloped away down the alley. Maximus hurdled the gushing barrels and raced after Old Scratch, his heart banging against his chest as his boot heels rang on the filthy cobblestones. The alley was darker than the street they’d left. He might be running headlong into a trap, but he wouldn’t have been able to
not
give chase even if the real Old Scratch had stood in his way.

There’d been a glint at the highwayman’s throat. Something pinned to his neck cloth. It had almost looked—

A shout, then the clear boom of a gunshot.

Maximus hit the end of the alley at a dead run, nearly barreling into the flank of Captain Trevillion’s mount. The captain was fighting as his horse attempted to rear. One of his dragoons was down on the ground, blood welling from a wound on his stomach. The wounded man gasped, eyes wide and uncomprehending. Another dragoon, a pale young lad, was still mounted, his face white and shocked.

“Stay with him, Elders!” Trevillion shouted at the boy. “Do you hear me, Elders?”

The young soldier’s head snapped up at the tone of command. “Yes, sir! But the Ghost—”

“Let me worry about the Ghost.” Trevillion had control of his horse now and Maximus braced himself for his attack.

Instead, Trevillion gave him a sharp look and said, “He was heading north, in the direction of Arnold’s Yard.”

With that he wheeled his horse and set spurs to the beast’s sides.

Maximus leaped to a crumbling house, swarming up the side. The way to Arnold’s Yard was a maze of twisting, narrow lanes, and if Old Scratch was truly headed in that direction, then Maximus could move more quickly over the rooftops.

Above, the moon had deigned to reveal her pale face, casting his shadow ahead of him as he scrambled over tiles and rotting wooden shingles, while below…

Maximus caught his breath. Below, Trevillion was riding like a demon, skillfully guiding his horse around obstacles and leaping the ones he couldn’t avoid. It had been so long since Maximus had hunted like this, in tandem with another. Once, long, long ago there had been the others, young men, one just a boy. They’d sparred and fought, joked and wrestled. But somehow he’d grown apart, forever stalking the stinking streets of St. Giles alone. His quest hadn’t room for others.

It was good, he realized as he panted and ran. Good to have someone at his back.

He heard a shout from below and slid to the edge of the roof to peer over. Trevillion had come to an alley entirely blocked by an empty cart.

The dragoon captain looked up, a shaft of moonlight catching the gleam of metal on his tall hat and illuminating the pale oval of his face. “I’ll have to find a way around. Can you go ahead?”

“Yes,” Maximus shouted down.

Trevillion nodded curtly without another word and backed his horse.

Maximus ran. The rooftops were jumbled here. The buildings were from before the Great Fire. They listed, tired and crumbling, waiting for another fire or merely a strong wind to send them crashing to the ground. He leaped between two buildings so close that a grown man would have to turn sideways to sidle between them. He made the second roof, but his boot slipped. He fell, sliding on his hip nearly off the edge. He caught himself just as his boots flew into space. He could hear the clatter of hoofbeats now. Trevillion couldn’t have found a way around so fast.

It must be Old Scratch.

Maximus twisted, peering beyond his dangling feet, and saw as the shadow entered the alley below. He didn’t give himself time to think.

He let go.

Whether by instinctive timing or simple good luck, he landed on Old Scratch. The highwayman just had warning enough to raise his arm in defense. Maximus caught an elbow to the side of his face, and then he fell to the horse’s haunches as the horse reared beneath both of them. Maximus slid, his booted toes brushing the ground before he kicked back up to straddle the horse. His weight pulling on the highwayman’s upper body, combined with the horse’s movement, should have dragged Old Scratch
from the saddle. Somehow, the highwayman hung on with unnatural strength and skill. The horse’s front hooves met the cobblestones again with a teeth-crunching jolt, nearly throwing Maximus from his prey. Maximus punched at the man’s head, missing as the highwayman twisted like a snake. Maximus grabbed for his hat, trying to reach the scarf. If he could only see Old Scratch’s features.

The highwayman turned almost all the way around in the saddle, gold and green glinting at his throat. A knife flashed. Maximus hit out with a gloved hand, felt a tug, and the knife clanged against the bricks on the nearby building. But he’d had to let go to defend himself. The horse lurched forward as the highwayman put spurs to its side and at the same time Maximus felt a hard shove.

He tumbled to the ground, heavy hooves flying close to his head. Instinctively, he ducked and rolled as the sound of hoofbeats retreated.

For a moment he lay against a wall gulping air.

“You let him get away.” The voice was Trevillion’s and slightly out of breath.

Maximus looked up with a glare. “Not on purpose, I assure you.”