Captain James Trevillion turned as Maximus opened the door to his study. The dragoon officer was tall with a long, lined face that lent him an air of austerity, even though he was much the same age as Maximus.
“Your Grace.” Trevillion’s nod was so curt that in any other man Maximus might have taken insult. Fortunately he was long used to the dragoon’s lack of obsequiousness.
“Trevillion.” Maximus murmured and took a seat behind his massive mahogany desk. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? We met just a fortnight ago. Surely you haven’t managed to stop the gin trade in London in that short a space of time?”
If the dragoon captain felt any resentment at Maximus’s sarcasm, he hid it well. “No, Your Grace. I have news regarding the Ghost of St. Giles—”
Maximus interrupted the officer by waving an irritable hand. “I’ve told you more than once that your obsession with the Ghost of St. Giles does not interest me. Gin is the evil in St. Giles, not some lunatic in harlequin’s motley.”
“Indeed, Your Grace, I am well aware of your thoughts on the Ghost,” Trevillion said with composure.
“Yet you persist in ignoring them.”
“I do what I think best for my mission, Your Grace, and between the Ghost and this new fellow, Old Scratch—”
“Who?” Maximus knew his voice was too sharp, but he’d heard that name before: the drunken aristocrat in St. Giles who had been robbed—he’d said his attacker was Old Scratch.
“Old Scratch,” Trevillion replied. “A rather vicious highwayman who has been hunting in St. Giles. He’s much newer than the Ghost.”
Maximus clenched his jaw as he glared at the man. A little over two years ago he’d caused the 4th Dragoons to be outfitted and brought to London to assist in the veritable war on gin in London. He’d handpicked Trevillion himself, for he wanted an intelligent, brave man. A man capable of making important decisions on his own. A man resistant to both bribes and threats. But the problem was that the same qualities that made the dragoon captain excellent at his job also made him damnably stubborn when he saw what he perceived to be a lawbreaker in his territory. Trevillion had been near obsessed with the Ghost almost from the start of his mission.
The irony of having his own nemesis in his pay was not lost on Maximus.
Trevillion shifted, clasping his hands behind his back. “You may not be aware, Your Grace, that the Ghost of St. Giles broke into Bedlam last night, assaulted a guard, and effected the escape of a murderous madman.”
Ah, of course Trevillion would be interested in the matter. Maximus leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers before him. “What do you propose I do about it?”
Trevillion looked at him for a long moment, his face perfectly impassive. “Nothing, Your Grace. It is my job to capture and detain the Ghost of St. Giles so that he doesn’t do further harm in St. Giles or, indeed, the rest of London.”
“And this latest event will somehow help you capture him?”
“Naturally not, Your Grace,” the captain said with grave respect. “But I find it interesting that a footpad that usually is to be seen only in the same place he is named after ventured so far east as Moorfields.”
Maximus shrugged, feigning boredom. “The Ghost has been, I believe, sighted at the opera house near Covent Garden. That is outside St. Giles.”
“But very close to St. Giles,” Trevillion replied softly. “Moorfields is clear across London. Besides, that particular Ghost retired two years ago.”
Maximus stilled. “I beg your pardon?”
“I have made a study of the Ghost of St. Giles, Your Grace,” Trevillion said with the calmness of a man announcing that it looked like rain. “By examining the movement, actions, and minute physical dissimilarities, I have come to a conclusion. There are at least three men who play the Ghost of St. Giles.”
“How…” Maximus blinked, aware that the captain was silently watching him. The man Trevillion sought—the man who could expose Maximus’s secret—lay four floors below them at this very moment. He pulled himself together and frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Quite.” Trevillion clasped his hands behind his back. “One of the Ghosts was much deadlier than the other two. He often wore a gray wig beneath his floppy hat, and he had a tendency to not worry about his own safety—more so even than the others. I believe that man retired this summer. One Ghost never killed, as far as I am aware. His hair was his own, a dark brown, and he wore it clubbed back. I have not seen him for two years. Most probably, given his occupation, he is dead. The third is still quite active. He wears a white wig and he’s ferociously adept with the sword. I consider him the original Ghost since he was the first I ever saw—on the night that the old Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children burned to the ground, he helped with the apprehension of the madwoman known as Mother Heart’s-Ease.”
Good God. For a moment Maximus could only stare at the man. He’d been the one to capture Mother Heart’s-Ease.
Fortunately Trevillion seemed to take no note of his speechlessness and was continuing. “It is my theory that it is this last Ghost—the original Ghost—who broke into Bedlam last night. The madman the Ghost liberated must be someone very important to him.”
is cleared her throat. “I know that Wakefield is very fond of Lady Phoebe.”
“Of course, of course,” the duke rumbled.
“In fact, I suppose he would be very grateful if someone were to volunteer to travel with his sister.”
Penelope wasn’t a complete widgeon. She immediately understood Artemis’s hint—understood and didn’t much like it. “Oh, I couldn’t. Why, with you and my maids and all my luggage, we barely fit in the carriage on the way here. It’s simply impossible.”
“That is too bad,” Artemis murmured. “Of course, Phoebe could take her own carriage and only you could travel with her.”