Duke of Midnight

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  She had his attention.

  “That’s quite brave of you, Your Grace,” Artemis said, raising her voice as she turned to the Duke of Scarborough, “offering to fight the Ghost of St. Giles. For I noted at the time that the Ghost was a rather large man. Why, he was almost exactly the same height as—” She glanced about the assembled party as if searching for a gentleman of suitable height. When her eyes landed on Wakefield, he already had a wry expression. “Why, our host, the Duke of Wakefield, in fact.”

  There was a fraught pause as Artemis held Wakefield’s narrowed gaze, before it was broken rather prosaically by Penelope. “Don’t be silly, Artemis. The Ghost was at least a foot taller than His Grace. Although I’m quite sure the Duke of Scarborough would have been able to defeat him.”

  The last was a lie so obvious that Artemis didn’t even bother rolling her eyes.

  “Certainly, His Grace would’ve been of better help than my brother,” Phoebe said, uncaring of her treachery.

  “Phoebe,” Wakefield growled low in warning.

  “Yes, brother dear?” Phoebe turned her blithely bright face to the duke, who was lurking like a tiger with indigestion in the corner. “You must admit that you did not show well with Scarborough yesterday.”

  “His Grace, the Duke of Scarborough, obviously has many more years than I practicing his fencing.” Wakefield bowed to the other duke so gracefully that Artemis wondered if he’d really meant the insult to Scarborough’s age. “And you, brat, should show more respect to your elders.”

  The teasing tone caught Artemis off guard. He truly did care for his sister, she reminded herself. He might be overprotective, but he loved Phoebe. The thought unsettled her. She was blackmailing this man. She didn’t want to think about the softer, more human parts of him.

  She girded her loins and readied another salvo. “Did you really find the Ghost so monstrously tall? Truly, I thought he had the height and the physical bearing of His Grace. Indeed, were the duke a better swordsman, it might’ve been he we met in St. Giles.”

  “But whyever would His Grace traipse about St. Giles?” Penelope asked in honest confusion. “Only ruffians and the poor go there.”

  “Well, we were there, weren’t we?” Artemis retorted.

  Penelope waved a dismissive hand. “That’s different. I was on a grand adventure.”

  “Which nearly got you both killed, by the sound of it,” Phoebe whispered in Artemis’s ear.

  “Come, my lady,” Scarborough said jovially. “Enough of this talk of scoundrels. You promised to sing for us, I remember. Will you do it now?”

  “Oh, yes.” Penelope immediately brightened at the prospect of being at the center of attention. “I just need an accompanist.”

  “I can play,” Phoebe said, “if I know the piece you’ll be singing.”

  Artemis helped her navigate across the room to the clavichord.

  “What would you like to perform?” Phoebe asked as she settled gracefully at her instrument.

  Penelope smiled. “Do you know ‘The Shepherdess’s Lament?’ ”

  Artemis stifled a sigh and found a seat. Penelope had a very small repertoire that consisted of rather sentimental and treacly songs.

  Wakefield lowered himself beside her and she couldn’t help but stiffen a little.

  “A miss, I think,” he murmured out of the side of his mouth as they watched Penelope tilt her chin very high and extend one hand. “You can do much better than that.”

  “Are you challenging me, Your Grace?”

  A corner of his mouth curled up, though he didn’t look at her. “Only a fool would provoke his nemesis. What in hell is she doing?”

  Artemis glanced back to the musician and singer. Penelope had laid one hand on her stomach, her other still extended unnaturally, and assumed a tragic look. “That’s her performing stance, Your Grace. I’m sure you’ll become quite accustomed to it when you marry my cousin.”

  The duke winced. “Touché.”

  Phoebe began playing with a skill and dash beyond her years.

  Artemis raised her brows in delight, whispering to the duke, “Your sister is a wonderful player.”

  “That she is,” he said softly.

  And then Penelope sang. It wasn’t that she was a bad songstress, per se, but her soprano voice was thin and on certain notes, quite sharp.

  Then, too, the piece she’d chosen was unfortunate.

  “ ‘Venture not to pet my woolly lamb,’ ” Penelope warbled, not quite hitting the right note on “lamb.” “ ‘For she is shy and too gentle for a man’s wicked hand.’ ”

  “Do you know,” Mrs. Jellett said thoughtfully from behind them, “I do believe this song may have a double meaning.”

  Artemis caught the duke’s sardonic gaze and felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

  “Behave, Miss Greaves,” he murmured under his breath, his voice husky and deep.

  “Fine words for a man who runs about St. Giles at night in a mask,” she whispered.

  He frowned, glancing around. “Hush.”

  She arched one eyebrow. “Why?”

  The look he gave her was somehow disappointed. “That’s the way of it, then?”

  There was absolutely no reason to feel shame. Artemis lifted her chin. “Yes. Unless you wish to do as I asked you this morn?”

  “You know that’s impossible.” He stared at Penelope and Phoebe, though she certainly hoped he wasn’t paying attention to them since his upper lip was lifted in a curl of disdain. “Your brother killed three men.”

  “No,” she said, leaning a little closer to him so that their words would not be overheard. She could smell the woods on him, incongruous in this overly ornamented room. “He was accused of killing three men. He didn’t do it.”

  His face softened then in an expression she’d seen before—seen and loathed. “Your loyalty to your brother is to be commended, but the evidence was quite damning. He had blood on his person and the carving knife in his hand when found.”

  She sat back, eyeing him. The blood part was well known as was the knife—but that it had been a carving knife was not. “I see your investigations were quite detailed.”

  “Naturally. Did you think they would be otherwise?” He finally turned to look at her, and his face was hard and cold, as if they’d never wandered together at early dawn in a secluded wood. “Perhaps you ought to remember, Miss Greaves, that I make it my business to obtain what I set my sights on.”

  She couldn’t very well get up and leave him without causing a scene, but she dearly wanted to. “Well, then, in the interests of fairness, perhaps you ought to know, Your Grace, that I have no intention of yielding the field to you.”

  Beside her he inclined his head a fraction of an inch. “Then en garde, Miss Greaves.”

  Fortunately at that moment the end of Penelope’s ballad was signaled by a long, rather screeching, drawn-out high note that so stunned the audience it was a moment before anyone started clapping.

  “How lovely,” Artemis said loudly. “Perhaps an encore—”

  “Oh, but my brother has such a wonderful voice,” Phoebe interrupted, shooting Artemis an incredulous glance. “Will you sing for us, Maximus?”

  Penelope looked a bit sulky at having the light taken away from her.

  “No one needs to hear me,” Wakefield demurred.

  “I do like a sweet feminine voice better than a deep masculine one,” Scarborough said.

  Wakefield’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps a duet. I believe Phoebe knows several of the songs on the sheet music in the cabinet.”

  He stood and went to a tall, intricately carved cabinet and started drawing out music, reading each title aloud as he did so Phoebe could choose the ones she knew by heart.

  But when Maximus held out a song, Penelope sniffed and pointed out the female voice was for an alto and she sang only soprano.

  For a moment there was a stir of alarm in the audience at the prospect of another solo by Penelope.

  Then P
hoebe piped up. “Well, then, I’ll just have to take the lady’s part. Really, it won’t do to miss out on Maximus singing, now that he’s agreed.” And before the duke could escape she was beginning the opening bars on the clavichord.

  Artemis clasped her hands together in her lap. No doubt Phoebe had wrangled her brother into singing merely to forestall another performance from Penelope. She had no expectations of any great talent, and by the restlessness of those about her, neither did anyone else. When this duet was over she meant to corner him and make—

  The first notes rang out.

  The masculine voice was low but clear, capturing the senses, running along the back of her neck like a caress, making her shiver in delight. Artemis very much feared she was gaping. The Duke of Wakefield had a voice to make angels—or devils—weep. It wasn’t the type of male voice currently admired—for the high, unnatural voice of the musico was the rage of London at the moment—but his was the sort of voice that would always seduce the ear. Sure and strong, with a vibrating masculinity on the low notes. She could sit and listen to a voice like this for hours.

  The Duke of Wakefield seemed unaware of the stir his singing made in his guests. He leaned casually over Phoebe as he read the music he held in one hand, the other placed affectionately on her shoulder. And when they negotiated a particularly intricate passage together, he caught the grin Phoebe threw at him and smiled in return. Naturally, unself-consciously.

  Almost joyfully.

  If he’d never been the Duke of Wakefield, was this how he would have been? A strong man without coldness or the driving need to dominate and control? Loving and happy?

  The thought of such a man was strangely alluring, but even as she considered this phantom being, she caught the duke’s gaze and knew: it was the man as he was now—flawed as he was now—that she longed for. She wanted to clash with his dominating nature, wanted to run with him in the forest, wanted to challenge him, mentally and physically, to games of their own making.

  And the coldness?

  Staring into his autocratic eyes, Artemis wished with all her heart. If she could, she’d take his coldness and make it her own.

  Transform it into a heat to engulf them both.

  APOLLO LAY IN his filthy straw and listened to the boot heels of the approaching guards. It was too late for them to be making the rounds. The inmates of this dismal place had already been served a delicate meal of moldy bread and brackish water. The lights had been dimmed. There was no earthly reason for the guards to be here save in the name of mischief.

  He sighed, his chains clinking as he shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. A new inmate had been brought in yesterday, a young woman, he thought. Due to the construction of the cells, he couldn’t see any of his neighbors, except for the cell across the way from his own. That was occupied by a man whose diseased skin bore a striking resemblance to lichen on a rock.

  Last night the new female inmate had sung well into the wee hours, the words of her song quite vulgar, yet her voice had been beautiful and somehow lost. Whether she was truly mad or simply the victim of relatives or a husband grown tired of her, he had no idea.

  Not that it mattered here.

  Light glowed in the corridor and the boot heels stopped.

  “Ave ye something for me, pretty?” It was Ridley, a man both muscled and mean.

  “Give us a kiss, then.” And that was Leech, Ridley’s favored henchman.

  The woman moaned, low and hurt. Whatever they intended for her was probably quite grim. A chain rattled, as if she were trying to scurry out of their reach.

  “Oi!” Apollo shouted. “Oi, Ridley!”

  “Shut it, Kilbourne,” the guard yelled. He sounded distracted.

  “You’ve hurt my feelings, Ridley,” Apollo shot back. “Why don’t you come over here to kiss it better?”

  No reply this time, save for a sob from the woman. There was the sound of rending cloth.

  Damn it.

  Once upon a time Apollo had thought himself a man of the world. A gentleman inured to the black sin that lurked in the depths of London. He’d drank and gambled and even purchased the favors of pretty women once in a while, for such were the pursuits of boys fresh from university and full of themselves. He’d been so innocent. So naïve. Then he’d come to Bedlam and found what true venality was. Here things that called themselves men preyed upon those weaker than they solely for the sport of it. Solely to laugh in the despairing faces of their victims.

  He’d lain through too many nights unable to do anything about it.

  But perhaps today he could divert the jackals from their chosen prey.

  “Oi, Leech, are you sucking upon Ridley’s prick for him?” Apollo made rude smacking sounds with his lips, leaning as far forward as his chains allowed. “That’s what you get up to when you’re lazing about instead of working, isn’t it? Do you like drinking his spunk? Bet he can’t get enough of your pretty tongue, Leech.”

  “Shut his lordship’s mouth for him,” Ridley growled.

  On cue Leech’s stubby form appeared at the mouth to Apollo’s cave, holding a short cudgel over his shoulder.

  Apollo grinned and crossed his legs, as if lounging at some society lady’s salon instead of laying on reeking filth. “A good day to you, Mr. Leech. How kind of you to stop by. Will you be taking tea with me? Or is chocolate to your better liking?”

  Leech growled. He wasn’t much for words, was Leech. Ridley had a tendency to do his talking for him. But Leech did have a sort of low intelligence, belied by his short, sloping brow. He didn’t bother coming close to Apollo, but stayed just out of the chain’s reach as he swung the cudgel viciously at Apollo’s legs.

  There were rumors among the inmates that Leech’s cudgel had broken arms and even legs, but Apollo was more than ready. He pulled back his legs at the last minute and laughed up at Leech.

  “Oh, no, no. That’s not how we play nicely.”

  The wonderful thing about Leech was that he could be depended on. He made two more abortive swings before growing enraged and charging. Apollo caught a blow on his right arm that numbed it to the shoulder, but he was able to kick the cudgel from Leech’s arm.

  The guard leaped back, scowling as he nursed his hand.

  The woman was moaning now, steady and awful. The hair stood up on the back of Apollo’s arms at the hurt animal sound.

  “Rid-ley, oh, darling Rid-ley!” Apollo sang through gritted teeth. “Leech is sulking. Come out, come out and play with me, sweet Rid-ley!”

  A foul curse came from the next cell.

  “Rid-ley! We all know how tiny your prick is—can’t you find it without Leech’s help?”

  That did it. Heavy boots stomping down the hall heralded Ridley’s approach and then the big man loomed into view, his breeches only half-buttoned. Ridley was six feet of pure nastiness: broad, heavy shoulders, thick arms, and a boulder of a head squatting between. The guard’s lip curled in what passed for a smile, and then Apollo realized his mistake, for behind him lurked a third man. Tyne wasn’t nearly as big as Ridley—few men were—but he could be just as vicious given the chance.

  Tyne and Leech spread out, circling to attack him from his sides, while Ridley smirked, waiting for his cohorts to position themselves.

  Well, that wouldn’t do.

  “Now gentlemen,” Apollo drawled, standing slowly, “you know I haven’t made myself presentable. I’m not used to so many visitors this late at night. Ridley, why not send your cronies away and you and I can settle this over a nice cup of tea.”

  Both Tyne and Leech attacked at the same time. Tyne aimed a blow at his head from the left while Leech ducked in and went for his middle from the right. Apollo caught Tyne’s fist on his upraised left arm. His right was still not working properly, but he was able to elbow Leech in the face, sending the smaller man flying into the wall. Apollo half-turned to Tyne and backhanded the man with his left fist. Tyne staggered but remained upright, and Apollo was just about to fol
low with a kick when he realized his peril.

  He’d lost track of Ridley.

  His feet were yanked out from under him. Apollo’s head smacked the stone floor and for a moment he knew nothing but ringing light. When next he looked up, he saw Ridley, still holding the chains that bound his feet.

  Leech staggered over, hand cupped over his bleeding nose, and kicked Apollo in the face. Apollo raised an arm—moving far too slowly, something was wrong—but Leech kicked him again, this time in the ribs. There was pain, but it was muffled somehow, and that should be causing him alarm, he knew. Apollo tried to curl into himself, protect his vulnerable middle, but Ridley yanked on the chains again, pulling his legs straight. Leech had his cudgel now, and was lifting it—

  Ridley grinned, his hands fumbling at the half-opened falls to his breeches. “We’ll shut your mouth good and proper this time.”

  No.

  True fear sparked at the back of Apollo’s mind and he lurched up, butting his head into Ridley’s middle. The guard fell on his arse, yelling. Apollo thrashed, kicking, hitting anything he could connect with.

  Something slammed into his head.

  He glared blearily up. Leech’s goddamned cudgel. He’d take the thing away and beat the guard with his own weapon, by God.

  Tyne stepped on his throat. Apollo’s lungs heaved. Once. Twice.

  No air.

  Thrice…

  Blackness descended.

  THE MORNING SUN dappled the forest floor beneath his feet as Maximus tramped along the next day. He’d risen early, restless without his usual exercises in the London cellar. His work was in the city and he had an itch to return to it.

  Courting a woman for marriage was a trying business.