Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane 6)
“Hush now,” she said, bringing his attention back to the present with a squeeze of her fingers. “I admit we were accosted, but it ended all right. We were saved by the Ghost of St. Giles, of all men.”
Obviously she thought this bit of information reassuring. Apollo closed his eyes. ’Twas said the Ghost of St. Giles murdered and raped and worse. He didn’t believe the tales, if for no other reason than that no one man—even a mad one—could’ve done all that he was accused of. Still. The Ghost wasn’t exactly a harmless kitten.
Apollo opened his eyes and took both his sister’s hands in his. “Promise me you won’t follow Penelope into another of her insane schemes.”
“I…” she looked away. “You know I’m her companion, Apollo. I must do as she wishes.”
“She’s liable to break you like a pretty China shepherdess and then throw you away to find a new plaything.”
Artemis looked shocked. “She’d never—”
“Please, my darling girl,” he said, his voice hoarse, “Please.”
“I’ll do my best,” she whispered, cupping her hand against his cheek. “For you.”
He nodded, for he had no choice but to be content with that promise. And yet he couldn’t help but wonder.
When he was gone, who would worry over Artemis?
Chapter Two
Long, long ago when Britain was young, there lived the best of rulers. His name was King Herla. His mien was wise and brave, his arm was strong and swift, and he loved nothing better than to go a-hunting in the dark, wild wood.…
—from The Legend of the Herla King
The Earl of Brightmore was many things, Artemis thought that night: a respected peer, a man very aware of his wealth, and—in his best moments—a Christian capable of adhering to the letter, if not the spirit, of compassion, but what he was not was an attentive father.
“Papa, I told you yesterday at luncheon that I was to attend the Viscount of d’Arque’s ball this eve,” Penelope said as her lady’s maid, Blackbourne, fussed with the bow of her half cloak. They were in the grand entrance hall to Brightmore House waiting for the carriage to pull around from the mews.
“Thought you were there last night,” the earl said vaguely. He was a big man with bulbous blue eyes and a commanding nose that rather overtook his chin. He’d just arrived home with his secretary—a withered little man with a frightening head for numbers—and was doffing his tricorne and cape.
“No, darling,” Penelope said, rolling her eyes. “Last night I was dining with Lady Waters at her house.”
Artemis felt like rolling her eyes but refrained, because of course last night they’d been busy being nearly killed in St. Giles and hadn’t been anywhere near Lady Waters’s dining room. Actually, she rather thought Lady Waters might not even be in town at the moment. Penelope lied with a breathtaking virtuosity.
“Eh,” the earl grunted. “Well, you look exquisite, Penny.”
Penelope beamed and twirled to show off her new gown, a brocaded satin primrose gown overembroidered with bunches of flowers in blue, red, and green. The gown had taken a month to put together and cost more than what ninety percent of Londoners made in a year.
“And you, too, of course, Artemis,” the earl said absently. “Quite lovely indeed.”
Artemis curtsied. “Thank you, Uncle.”
For a moment Artemis was struck by how very different this life was from the one she’d known growing up. They’d lived in the country, then, just she, Apollo, Papa, and Mama. Papa had been estranged from his own father, and their household was meager. There had been no parties, let alone balls. Strange to think that she’d become used to attending grand soirees—that she was actually bored by the prospect of yet another one.
Artemis smiled wryly to herself. She was grateful to the earl—who was really a distant cousin, not her uncle. She’d never met either him or Penelope while Papa and Mama still lived, and yet he’d taken her into his house when she’d become a social pariah. Between her lack of dowry and the stigma of familial madness, she had no hope of marrying and having a household of her own. Still, she couldn’t quite forget that the earl had refused—absolutely and without opportunity for appeal—to help Apollo as well. The most he’d done was make sure that Apollo was hastily committed to Bedlam instead of going to trial. That had been an easy enough job for the Earl of Brightmore: no one wanted an aristocrat hanged for murder. The elite of society wouldn’t stand for such a thing—even if the aristocrat in question had never moved much in society.
“You’ll turn every young gentleman’s head at that dance.” The earl was already talking to his daughter again, his eyes narrowing for a moment. “Just make sure yours isn’t turned as well.”
Perhaps he was more aware of Penelope than Artemis gave him credit for.
“Never fear, Papa.” Penelope bussed her sire’s cheek. “I only collect hearts—I don’t give them away.”
“Ha,” her father replied rather absently—his secretary was whispering something in his ear. “See you tomorrow, shall I?”
“Yes, darling.”
And with a last flurry of curtsies and bows from the gaggle of lady’s maids and footmen, Penelope and Artemis were out the door.