They stepped carefully onto the green as Artemis described the scene for Phoebe. Several footmen stood about holding various swords while others were setting down chairs for the ladies to take as they observed the demonstration. Wakefield snapped his fingers and pointed and two chairs were instantly placed at the front for him.
Phoebe sighed. “This won’t be that interesting unless someone misses and pinks their opponent.”
“Phoebe!” Artemis scolded under her breath.
“You know it’s true.” How could Phoebe look so very innocent and have such bloodthirsty thoughts? “We’ll all have to make admiring noises while the gentlemen scowl and try to look dangerous.”
Artemis’s amusement was dampened by the sight of Wakefield carefully helping Penelope to the seat he’d provided. Next to her, the footmen began to make a row of chairs. Penelope beamed up at the duke, her face quite impossibly beautiful in the autumn sun. Artemis remembered how ferocious he’d looked as he’d described the devastation gin wrought in London. Did he save his passions for the floor of Parliament? For he wore a mask of calm politeness now. No, she couldn’t imagine him letting that mask slip even in the heat of political argument.
“Who is going first?” Phoebe asked as they took their own seats two rows behind Wakefield and Penelope.
Artemis tore her gaze away from the duke, and reminded herself that she’d already decided that there was no percentage in pining after the man. “Lord Noakes and Mr. Barclay.”
Phoebe’s nose wrinkled. “Really? I wasn’t aware that Mr. Barclay did anything more strenuous than lift an eyebrow.”
Artemis snorted softly, watching the duelists. Lord Noakes was a man in his late fifties, of medium height and with a very small paunch. Mr. Barclay was at least twenty years younger, but didn’t look nearly as fit. “He seems quite serious. He’s taken off his coat and is swishing his sword about in a manly manner.” She winced at a particularly vehement move. “Oh, dear.”
“What? What?”
Artemis leaned closer to Phoebe, for Mrs. Jellett had cocked her head in front of them as if trying to hear their murmured conversation. “Mr. Barclay nearly took off one of the footmen’s noses with his sword.”
Phoebe giggled, the sound sweet and girlish, and Wakefield glanced over, his dark, cold eyes meeting Artemis’s so suddenly it was almost like plunging her hand into snow. His gaze flicked to his sister beside her and the lines that bracketed his firm lips softened. Strange that here and now they were hardly acquaintances, yet in the woods they were something very close to friends.
The duelists raised their swords.
The match was utterly without surprises. All gentlemen were taught from a young age how to duel—to use swords with elegance and grace, more a dance than any real fighting. Artemis knew that there were schools in London where aristocrats went to perfect their form, exercise, and learn the rules of sword fighting. They were all trained, either well or not, and they all used the same regimented movements. She couldn’t help comparing the two males’ lunging in precise steps that probably had flowery French names with the Ghost’s moving with deadly intent. The two gentlemen in front of her wouldn’t last a minute with the Ghost, she realized. The thought sent an elated thrill of triumph through her. She really ought to be ashamed of such a bloody bias.
But she wasn’t. She wasn’t.
The duel ended with the courteous touch of a blunted sword tip to Lord Noakes’s embroidered waistcoat, just over his heart.
Phoebe discreetly yawned behind her palm when Artemis related the scene.
Lord Oddershaw and Mr. Watts were next. By the time the Duke of Scarborough took off his coat for the third demonstration, Artemis was watching the back of Wakefield’s head as he bent politely once more to hear Penelope’s chatter and wondering if he was as bored as she was. He was attentive to her cousin, but Artemis had a hard time believing he really found her conversation very interesting.
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.
e opened her eyes wide. “Haven’t you?”
Artemis privately hid a smile as Phoebe began expounding on the St. Giles orphanage and all the good works it did for the most vulnerable of children. She glanced up as she did so and saw Wakefield, still strolling with Lady Penelope and Lord Oddershaw. His face was creased in an irritable frown.
What had Lord Oddershaw said to him?
MAXIMUS WOKE FROM dreams of work unfinished and bloody tresses shining dully in the moonlight. He’d been awake until well past two of the clock in polite argument with Oddershaw. Maximus didn’t mind the intrusion of politics into his house party, but he didn’t like the other man’s insistence on bringing up the matter when Maximus had been in the garden with Lady Penelope. But, although Oddershaw was an uncouth blowhard, he was also an important political ally in order to build a strong backing for Maximus’s newest Gin Act.
Thus the dreary duty of debating the man into the small hours.
He rose and quickly donned his old coat and boots and strode through Pelham to the back of the house. Even having slept later than usual, he met only a few servants, and they were well trained enough to simply bow or curtsy without speaking as he passed by.
Mornings were the one time of day that he kept to himself.
Outside, he strode around Pelham in the direction of the long stables. Usually the dogs were waiting for him in the stable yard, eager for their ramble, but today the yard was empty.
Maximus frowned and set off for the woods.
The sun was already up as he crossed the wide south lawn, and the sudden darkness of the canopy when he entered the woods made him blind for a moment. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again she appeared before him like some ancient goddess, calm and otherworldly, standing under the tall trees as if she owned them, his dogs at her side.
Percy broke the moment first, naturally, rushing from Miss Greaves to him, muddy and excited. A small, formerly white dog darted out from behind her skirts, barking madly as it chased after Percy.