Mrs. Jellett was still curious about the original topic of conversation. She addressed George Greaves. “Tell me, Mr. Greaves, was your cousin always mad? Did he do anything bizarre or cruel as a boy?”
Mr. William Greaves spoke up from the head of the table, his voice grim. “I fear, madam, that that side of the family has always had strange turns. My brother, alas, was prone to overexcitement followed by melancholies from which he could hardly rouse himself. A pity”—he took a sip of his wine—“that as eldest the title naturally falls to his side.”
“ ’Twould be better,” his son joined in, “if our English great families could set aside the titles from those members who, because of some disease or defect of the brain, are rendered feeble or otherwise weaken the lineages of the aristocracy.”
“If that were done,” drawled the Duke of Montgomery, “half the titles of England would go obsolete due to brain weakness. I know my own grandfather fancied himself a cowherd at times.”
“Really, Your Grace?” John leaned forward to see down the table. “Not a shepherd or goatherd?”
“I’m told he was quite specific in his mania and only cows would do,” His Grace replied. “Of course there were those who said his affliction was the direct result of a certain type of disease, which I won’t mention in the present company as it is of an indelicate nature.”
“And yet you already have,” Miss Royle observed in her husky voice. “Mentioned it, that is, Your Grace.”
“Touché, ma’am,” the duke replied, a thread of irritation in his voice. “I hadn’t thought to encounter such pedantry amongst a lighthearted gathering.”
Miss Royle shrugged. “I don’t find madness amusing—whether caused by disease or birth.”
“My cousin doesn’t even have the excuse of disease, I’m afraid,” Mr. George Greaves said, abrupt and hard. “He was born with whatever ails him—and because of it, three good men are dead—his own friends, mind. I’m sorry that he was ever sent to Bedlam instead of being tried before the magistrates as he should’ve been.”
“But a titled gentleman, sir!” his father objected. “Surely such a thing would tear apart the very fabric of our great nation?”
“Then before the House of Lords, if it came to that,” his son replied. “Better a lord tried and found guilty of murder, than a madman loosed upon the countryside with the whispers that the only reason he is free is because of his rank. It sets the common people to thinking—and that is something none of us want.”
“Perhaps you are correct,” his father said slowly, obviously troubled by the argument.
“I know I am,” Mr. George Greaves returned. “Think what ignominy he has already brought our family. What more will he bring if he murders more innocents?”
For a moment the mood at the table turned somber at this image, but then the duke spoke up. “Surely no more ignominy than my own great-uncle brought upon my own house when he attempted to have, er, marital relations with a horse.”
That comment certainly lightened the conversation.
Lily glanced covertly at Apollo. He was eating his meal, his expression blank. How did he feel, hearing his father discussed so dismissively? His own history laid bare for others to titter over? This was his family, the one he’d said he was estranged from, and it was obvious not only that they believed him guilty of the crimes he’d been charged with, but that they would make every effort to have him imprisoned or hanged should they discover his ruse.
What in God’s name was he doing here?
She turned and found the duke eyeing her, and she remembered that she had a role to play tonight—and the duke, for once, might not be the most dangerous person at the table.
So she threw herself into the conversation, making sure never to glance in Apollo’s direction again. Whatever he was about, it was certainly no business of hers. How could it be, after all, when he was an aristocrat and she a mere actress?
When, hours later, she finally climbed the stairs to the room she shared with Moll, she was weary to the bone with trying to appear carefree and witty. Witty! There was a word she never wanted to hear again, she thought darkly as she made her way down the hallway. Wittiness was terribly exhausting.
It would be nice to let down her guard, alone with Moll.
But when she opened the door to their room she found herself very much mistaken. Moll was nowhere to be seen.
And Viscount Kilbourne lounged upon the bed.
Chapter Thirteen
The skeleton was small and sad, lying in a heap of frayed blue robes. Pink beads lay scattered over the remains. The girl driven into the labyrinth the year before had worn a necklace of pink beads. Ariadne knelt by the skeleton’s side and, saying an old prayer her mother had taught her, sprinkled dust on the remains. Then, rising, she continued deeper into the labyrinth…
—From The Minotaur
Lily stopped dead in the doorway to her room and then took a step back.
Apollo cocked his head. It’d been a very long day full of trepidation mixed with tediousness and he’d used up all his patience. “If you leave, I’ll follow you out and we’ll have this discussion in the hallway where everyone can hear.”
She scowled ferociously at him, but came all the way in the room and shut the door. “What do you want to talk about?”