Duke of Midnight

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  She grimaced and looked away. What a sour woman she was becoming! She had a sudden awful vision of herself as a crabby old lady, shuffling along in whatever house she landed in as her cousin’s companion, faded, dusty, and forgotten.

  “Oh, that’s interesting.”

  Artemis looked up at Phoebe’s soft exclamation. “What?”

  “You said it was the Duke of Scarborough in front of Maximus and Penelope?” Phoebe nodded discreetly to where the older man stood in front of her brother and Penelope. Scarborough was grinning and bending over Penelope’s hand. “He isn’t used to that.”

  “What?” Artemis jerked her gaze away to stare at her companion. “Who?”

  “Maximus.” Phoebe had a fond smile on her face—an expression that Artemis had a hard time reconciling with the autocratic iceberg that was Wakefield. “With a rival. He usually just indicates what he wants and others rush to see that he gets it.”

  Artemis bit her lip, stifling a smile at the image of servants, family, and friends scurrying to fulfill the duke’s every whim as he strode by, oblivious.

  As if somehow he was aware of her amusement, Wakefield turned at that moment and glanced at her.

  She inhaled, lifting her head, as she met his dark eyes.

  Penelope placed her hand on his sleeve and he turned back.

  Artemis looked down and only then realized her hands were trembling. She grasped them together. “Do you really think Scarborough any sort of competition for your brother?”

  “Well…” Phoebe tilted her head, considering, as Artemis watched Scarborough somehow persuade the gentleman sitting on the other side of Penelope to vacate his seat. The duke promptly sat down himself. “In the normal way of things I wouldn’t think his chances very good at all. Maximus is young and handsome, rich and powerful. And I’ve always thought he had a certain compelling air about him, don’t you?”

  Oh, yes.

  “But,” Phoebe continued, “the Duke of Scarborough seems quite taken with Lady Penelope, and really I think that might make all the difference.”

  Artemis frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Phoebe’s plump lips folded inward, her large brown eyes looking sad. “Well, Scarborough cares, doesn’t he? Maximus doesn’t—not really. No doubt he’s a bit compelled by the chase, but if he doesn’t win”—she shrugged her shoulders—“he’ll simply find another suitable heiress. She—Lady Penelope herself—doesn’t really matter to him. And if it comes right down to it, wouldn’t you chose passion—however old—over dispassion?”

  “Yes.” Her agreement wasn’t even considered. What woman wouldn’t want interest—real interest—in her and her alone, no matter the physical attributes of the suitor? If Penelope ever stopped to consider the matter, the Duke of Scarborough would instantly win. Poor Wakefield didn’t stand a chance.

  Except… he wasn’t poor, was he? He was one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, and a man personally to be wary of, if not downright feared.

  She watched him, his broad shoulders fitted in fine dark green silk, his profile turned as he examined the woman he was courting as she flirted with another man. He might as well be observing a pair of beetles in a primitive mating dance. One would never know by looking at him that he wanted Penelope for himself.

  What would it be like to garner this man’s passion?

  Artemis felt a visceral thrill go through her at the thought. Had Wakefield ever been engaged? Was he even capable of deep interest? He was so contained, so cold, save for that one moment this morning when he’d come alive over the gin trade, of all things. It seemed almost laughable to think of him bound by obsession with a female.

  Yet she could imagine him so—intent, focused on his goal, his woman. He’d guard his chosen mate, make her both fear and long for his attention. She shivered. He would be relentless in his pursuit, unmerciful in his victory.

  And she would never see him so.

  She sighed, determinedly staring at her hands clenched in her lap. She longed for a man like the duke—the ache of want was a physical thing—but she would never have him, let alone a man more attainable. Her fate was to be alone.

  Cursed to celibacy.

  The voice of the Duke of Scarborough rose. Artemis glanced up. The latest duelists had finished, and Scarborough was saying something to Wakefield. Scarborough’s face was jovial, but his eyes were hard.

  “What’s happening?” Phoebe asked.

  “I don’t know,” Artemis replied. “I think Scarborough is asking something of your brother. Oh. Oh, my. He’s challenged Wakefield.”

  “Has he?” Phoebe looked interested.

  Artemis’s brows rose. “Is your brother a good swordsman?”

  “I don’t know.” Phoebe shrugged. “He’s never been much interested in fashionable pursuits—he prefers politics—but it hardly matters, does it? Scarborough must be thirty years his senior.”

  Penelope threw back her head in a sharp laugh that they could hear easily even three rows back. Artemis couldn’t help but lean forward. Wakefield was so rigid. So proud.

  Scarborough said something else and Wakefield abruptly stood.

  “He’s accepting.”

  “Oh, dear,” Phoebe said with much satisfaction.

  “He can’t win,” Artemis muttered in distress. “If he beats Scarborough, he looks a bully, if he loses—”

  “He’ll be humiliated,” Phoebe said serenely.

  Artemis felt a sudden sharp irritation with her good friend. The younger woman should be at least a little upset at the prospect of her brother’s downfall.

  Wakefield’s valet, a tall, thin man, was helping the duke remove his coat. The servant appeared to murmur something in Wakefield’s ear before the duke shook his head abruptly and walked away. His waistcoat was black, overworked in gold thread that sparkled in the sunshine, the full sleeves of his snowy white shirt rippling slightly in the breeze. Scarborough already had a sword and was swishing it about importantly. The older man seemed to handle the weapon expertly and Artemis’s heart clenched.

  Better to be thought a bully than for such a proud man to be defeated.

  The duelists stood facing each other, their swords raised. Lord Noakes stood between them and held aloft a handkerchief. For a moment all was still, as if everyone had realized that there was much more to this duel than a simple demonstration of skill.

  Then the handkerchief fluttered to the ground.

  Scarborough lunged forward, astoundingly agile for a man his age. Wakefield caught his first thrust and retreated, moving carefully. It was evident at once that he either was a much less practiced swordsman… or he was holding back.

  “Scarborough is pressing him,” Artemis said anxiously. “Your brother is only defending.”

  Scarborough smirked as he said something so low only his opponent could hear.

  Wakefield’s face went completely blank.

  “Your Grace,” Wakefield’s valet called in warning.

  Wakefield blinked and cautiously stepped backward.

  Scarborough’s lips moved again.

  And then something unexpected happened. The Duke of Wakefield transformed. He crouched low, his body flowing into an elegant threat as he attacked the older man with a kind of brutal grace. Scarborough’s eyes widened, his own sword parrying blow after blow as he backed hastily. Wakefield’s sword flashed in the sunlight, his movements too fast to interpret, his lean body dangerous, and controlled, and Artemis had the sudden realization that he was toying with Scarborough.

  She was standing now, unaware of having left her seat, her heart beating unnaturally fast.

  “What’s happening?” Phoebe stood as well, pulling frantically at her arm.

  Wakefield lunged without fear, without hesitation, at the older man using a flurry of precise, deadly blows that, had the swords been sharp…

  “He’s…” Artemis choked, her mouth hanging open.

  She’d seen this before.

  Wakefield didn’t move
like a dancer. He moved like a great jungle cat. Like a man who knew how to kill.

  Like a man who had killed.

  Scarborough stumbled, his face shining with sweat. Wakefield was on him in seconds, a tiger pouncing for the kill, his lip curled into almost languid dismissal of the other man as his sword descended toward—

  “Your Grace!”

  The valet’s shout seemed to loop about Wakefield’s neck and jerk him back like a noose. He froze, his great chest heaving, his snow-white sleeves fluttering in the breeze. Scarborough stared at him, gape-mouthed, his sword still half-raised in defense.

  Wakefield deliberately touched his sword to the ground.

  “What is it?” Phoebe asked. “What is it?”

  “I…” Artemis blinked. “I don’t know. Your brother has lowered his sword.”

  Scarborough wiped his brow, then he moved toward Wakefield gingerly as if not quite believing that he was no longer under attack. Scarborough’s blunted sword tip hit Wakefield on the throat, a blow strong enough that it would bruise. The smaller man stood there for a moment, panting, almost as if he were surprised by his victory.

  “Scarborough’s won,” Artemis murmured absently.

  Wakefield spread wide his arms in surrender and opened his right hand so that his sword fell to the ground.

  He turned his head to meet Artemis’s gaze.

  His eyes were dark, dangerous, and not at all cold. He burned with an internal inferno she wanted to touch. She stared into the gaze of a tiger and knew, even as she watched the cat retreat into the camouflage of a gentleman:

  The Duke of Wakefield was the Ghost of St. Giles.

  Chapter Six

  A fortnight later it was King Herla’s turn to attend the Dwarf King’s wedding. He took the strongest and best of his men and, entering a dark cavern, rode into the depths of the earth itself, for the land of the dwarves is deep underground. They journeyed for a day and a night, traveling ever lower, until they came to a vast, open plain. Above, rock curved, craggy and jagged, like an ominous sky, and below lay the cottages, lanes, and town squares of Dwarfland.…

  —from The Legend of the Herla King

  Maximus woke just before dawn with a gasp, the image of his mother’s white face burned into the darkness behind his eyelids, the emeralds ripped from her lifeless neck. The stink of gin seemed to linger in the air, but he knew that was merely a phantom from the dream.

  Percy nosed his hand as he lay in the ancient Wakefield ducal bed. Above him, dark green drapes surrounded a gilded coronet carved into the canopy. Had any of his ancestors been plagued by dreams and doubts? Judging by the proud faces lining his gallery, he thought not. Each of those men had attained their title by the peaceful death of their father or grandfather. Not by violent murder unavenged.

  He deserved his nightmares.

  Percy licked his fingers with disgusting dog sympathy, and Maximus sighed and rose. The spaniel backed a step and sat, wagging his tail enthusiastically as he dressed. Percy, like the other dogs, was supposed to spend the night in the stables, but despite the fact that he wasn’t nearly as clever as Belle or Starling, he somehow usually found a way past innumerable footmen and Craven into Maximus’s bedroom at night. It was rather a mystery how he managed it. Perhaps providence had granted luck where it hadn’t graced intelligence.

  “Come.” Maximus slapped his thigh and strode from the room, the spaniel trotting after.

  He nodded to a sleepy maid before trekking to the stables to pick up the greyhounds. Both pushed their soft, silky heads into his palms while Percy yipped and ran a wide circle around them, skittering on the dew-damp cobblestones. Greetings done, they headed for the woods.

  The sun was just rising, its pale rays lighting the leaves. It would be a beautiful day, perfect for the afternoon picnic and frivolities. Yesterday had been a success, if he judged rightly, in his planned courtship of Lady Penelope. She’d hung on his arm and giggled—sometimes at the oddest moments—and seemed altogether enthralled. If her enchantment was for his title and money rather than for his person, well, that was how it was naturally done at their rank and to be expected. The thought shouldn’t bring a darkening of his mood.

  Percy flushed a hare and the dogs were off, crashing through the underbrush with all the subtlety of a regiment of soldiers. Two birds were startled by the chase and he looked up, watching their flight.

  And then he was aware that he was no longer alone.

  His heart certainly did not leap at her presence.

  “Good morning, Your Grace.” Miss Greaves was bareheaded, wearing her usual mud-brown costume. Her cheeks were pink from her morning walk, her lips a deep rose.

  He glanced down and saw with irritation that her feet were bare again. “You ought to wear shoes in these woods. You could cut your feet.”

  Her lips curved in that not-smile and his irritation grew. Everyone else leaped to comply with his wishes, but not her.

  Percy ran up, flush with the excitement of his hunt, and made to jump up on her.

  “Down,” Miss Greaves calmly commanded, and the spaniel nearly tripped over his own filthy paws to obey.

  Maximus sighed.

  “Did you catch that poor bunny?” she murmured sweetly to Percy as he wriggled madly with delight. “Did you tear it to shreds?”

  Maximus’s brows rose. “You voice a bloody sentiment for a lady, Miss Greaves.”

  She shrugged. “I doubt he could ever catch a rabbit, Your Grace. Besides”—she added as she straightened—“I am named for the goddess of the hunt.”

  He looked at her oddly. She was in a strange mood this morning. She’d never been deferential to him, but today she seemed almost confrontational.

  The greyhounds returned, panting, along with Lady Penelope’s white lapdog, and all three greeted Miss Greaves.

  He glanced at Miss Greaves in questions and she shrugged. “Bon Bon seems to like the morning rambles, and I know he loves your Percy. It’s almost as if he’s found a second life.”

  She started forward. Starling, Bon Bon, and Percy ranged into the woods, but Belle fell into step with them, nosing along the path. They walked together wordlessly in what might be deemed a companionable silence if it weren’t for the tense set of her shoulders.

  Maximus glanced at her sideways. “I take it your parents were of a classical mind?”

  “My mother.” She nodded. “Artemis and Apollo. The Olympian twins.”

  “Ah.”

  She took a deep breath, her inhalation making the bodice of her dress expand distractingly. “My brother was committed to Bedlam four years ago.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  He caught her look and didn’t much like the cynical tilt of her lips. “Of course you do. Tell me, Your Grace, do you have all the ladies you’re interested in investigated before you decided to court them?”

  “Yes.” There was no point in denying it. “I owe it to my title to ensure I marry the best lady possible.”

  She hummed noncommittally in response, which irritated him. “Your brother killed three men in a crazed, drunken rage.”

  She stiffened. “I’m surprised that you wish to continue courting Penelope, if you know about it. Madness is said to run in families.”

  It was obviously a sore point with her. Still, she proudly wore a goddess’s name. One didn’t coddle such as she. “Your line isn’t directly connected to Lady Penelope’s. Besides, murder doesn’t necessarily mean madness. If your brother hadn’t been the grandson of an earl, he’d have been hanged instead of committed to a hospital for the insane. No doubt it was better for all concerned—rather a member of the nobility be mad than executed.”

  He was watching her so he saw the pained grimace cross her face before she schooled her expression. “You’re right. The scandal was awful. I’m sure it was the final straw that killed my mother. For weeks we thought he might be arrested and executed. If it weren’t for Penelope’s father…”

  They’d come to the clearing and
she stopped, turning toward him. He had an odd impulse to take her into his arms. To tell her that he’d keep the world and all its gossips at bay.

  But she squared her shoulders, looking at him frankly and without fear. Perhaps she didn’t need a champion. Perhaps she was well enough without him. “He isn’t mad, you know, and he didn’t kill those men.”

  He watched her. The loved ones of monsters were sometimes blind to their sins. No point in saying that fact aloud.

  She inhaled. “You could get him out.”

  He raised his brows. “I’m a duke, not the king.”

  “You could,” she said stubbornly. “You could free him.”

  He looked away, sighing. “Even if I were wont to do so, I do not think I would. Your brother was judged insane, Miss Greaves, though I’m sure it hurts you to admit it. He was found with the bodies of three men, terribly murdered. Surely—”

  “He didn’t do it.” She was directly in front of him, one small palm placed on his chest, and though he knew it wasn’t so, he seemed to feel the heat of her skin burning through his clothes. “Don’t you understand? Apollo is innocent. He’s been locked away in that hellish place for four years and he will never get out. You must help him. You must—”

  “No,” he said as gently as he was able, “I do not have to do anything.”

  For a moment her mask fell and her emotions showed through, devastating and real: rage, hurt, and a grief so deep it rivaled his own.

  Stunned, he opened his mouth to speak.

  But before he could, she struck, as precisely and mercilessly as her namesake.

  “You do have to save my brother,” she said, “because if you do not I will tell everyone in England that you are the Ghost of St. Giles.”

  ARTEMIS HELD HER breath. She’d dared to slip a bridle over a tiger’s head and now she waited to see if he’d do her bidding or bat her aside with one powerful paw.