“Really, sometimes I think my cousin should be locked up for her own good,” Miss Greaves muttered. “But that isn’t likely to happen, is it?”
No, it wasn’t. Nor was it likely that Miss Greaves herself would find some other source of livelihood—somewhere away from her dangerously feckless cousin.
That simply wasn’t the way the world worked, and even if it was, it was no concern of his.
“Your tale makes it even more imperative that you find a way to persuade Lady Penelope out of the more dangerous of her ideas.”
“I have tried—I do try,” she said in a low voice. “But I am simply her companion, after all.”
He stopped and looked at her, this woman more self-possessed than her lot in life gave her any right to be. “Not her friend?”
She turned to glance up at him, that nearly invisible smile at the corner of her lips again, tiny and discreet, almost as if she’d learned not to smile very widely, not to acknowledge strong emotion too soon. “Yes, I am her friend. Her relative and her friend. I care for Penelope quite a bit—and I think she loves me as well. But first and foremost I am her lady’s companion. We will never be equals, because my position will always be lesser to hers. So, although I may suggest we not enter St. Giles at night, I can never order her.”
“And whither she goes, so do you?”
She inclined her head. “Yes, Your Grace.”
His jaw tightened. He knew all this, yet still he found the information… irritating. He looked away. “When Lady Penelope marries, her husband will rein her in. Keep her safe.” Keep you safe.
“Perhaps.” She tilted her head, gazing at him. She was an intelligent woman. Surely she knew his intentions toward her cousin.
He looked at her hard. “He will.”
She shrugged. “That would be for the best, I suppose. Of course if Penelope were reined in, we wouldn’t meet such interesting people as the Ghost of St. Giles.”
“You make light of the danger.”
“Maybe I do, Your Grace,” she said gently, as if he were the one who should be reassured, “but I must admit it was exciting to see the Ghost.”
“That ruffian.”
“Actually, I’m not sure he is.” They had started strolling again and he finally realized that she’d been making for the refreshments room. “May I tell you a secret, Your Grace?”
Usually when ladies offered such a thing to him, they did it in the interest of flirtation, yet Miss Greaves’s expression was straightforward. He found himself curious. “Please.”
“I believe the Ghost might be of high birth.”
He was careful to keep his face blank even as his heartbeat began to speed. What could he possibly have let slip? “Why?”
“He left something with me last night.”
Dread wrapped itself about his chest. “What?”
That hidden smile played about her lips again. Mysterious. Captivating. Utterly feminine.
“A signet ring.”
THE DUKE OF Wakefield’s face was as still as stone. Artemis wondered what he thought and, rather disconcertingly, what he thought of her. Did he disapprove of her levity regarding the Ghost of St. Giles? Or did he find it offensive that she thought a costumed footpad might be an aristocrat?
She searched his face for a second more and then faced forward again. She supposed it hardly mattered what he thought of her—besides being an adequate lady’s companion for Penelope. He’d never before sought her out specifically to talk to her. She doubted he would ever do so again. They, simply put, didn’t move in the same orbits. She smiled wryly to herself. They didn’t even move in the same universe.
“Are you going to fetch refreshment for Lady Penelope?” he asked, his voice rumbling pleasantly at her shoulder.
“Yes.”
She saw him nod out of the corner of her eye. “I’ll help you bring it back.” He turned to the footman ladling glasses of punch and snapped his fingers. “Three.”
To her amusement, the man leaped to provide three glasses of punch while the duke simply stood there.