“No.” Maximus repeated his previous exercise with a second cannonball. A chip of stone flew off the wall. He made a mental note to bring down more straw.
When he turned it was to find Craven staring at him in confusion. “But surely Your Grace wishes for more than an ample dowry, an aristocratic lineage, and beauty in a bride?”
Maximus looked at the valet hard. They’d had this discussion before. Craven had just listed the most important assets in a suitable wife. Common sense—or the lack thereof—wasn’t even on the ledger.
For a moment he saw clear gray eyes and a determined feminine face. Miss Greaves had brought a knife into St. Giles last night—there’d been no mistaking the gleam of metal in her boot top. And what was more, she’d appeared quite ready to use it. Then as now a spark of admiration lit within him. What other lady in his acquaintance had ever displayed such grim courage?
Then he shook the frivolous notion away and returned his mind to the business at hand. His father had died for him, and he would do nothing less than honor his memory by marrying the most suitable candidate for his duchess. “You know my thoughts on the subject. Lady Penelope is a perfect match for the Duke of Wakefield.”
Maximus picked up another cannonball and chose to pretend he didn’t hear Craven’s soft reply.
“But is she a match for the man?”
THERE WERE THOSE who compared Bedlam to hell—a writhing purgatory of torture and insanity. But Apollo Greaves, Viscount Kilbourne, knew what Bedlam really was. It was limbo.
A place of interminable waiting.
Waiting for the restless moaning in the night to be over. Waiting for the scrape of heel on stone that heralded a stale piece of bread to break his fast. Waiting for the chilly splash of water that was called a bath. Waiting for the stink of the bucket that served as his commode to be emptied. Waiting for food. Waiting for drink. Waiting for fresh air. Waiting for something—anything—to prove that he still lived and was, in fact, not mad at all.
At least not yet.
Above all, Apollo waited for his sister, Artemis, to visit him in limbo.
She came when she could, which was usually once a week. Just often enough for him to keep his sanity, really. Without her he would’ve lost it long, long ago.
So when he heard the light tap of a woman’s shoes on the filthy stone in the corridor outside his cell, he leaned his head back against the wall and found a smile to paste on his blasted face.
She appeared a moment later, peering around the corner, her sweet, grave face brightening at the sight of him. Artemis wore a worn but clean brown gown, and a straw bonnet she’d had for at least five years, the straw mended in small, neat stitches over her right ear. Her gray eyes were lit with warmth and worry for him, and she seemed to bring a waft of clear air with her, which was impossible: how could one smell the absence of stink?
“Brother,” she murmured in her low, quiet voice. She advanced into his cell without any sign of the disgust she must feel at the uncovered slop bucket in the corner or his own damnable state—the fleas and lice had long ago made a feast out of his hide. “How are you?”
It was a silly question—he was now, and had been for the last four years, wretched—but she asked it earnestly, for she truly worried that his state might someday grow worse than it already was. In that, at least, she was correct: there was always death, after all.
Not that he would ever let her know how close to death he’d come in the past.
“Oh, I’m just divine,” he said, grinning, hoping she didn’t notice that his gums bled at the smallest motion these days. “The buttered kidneys were excellent this morning as were the shirred eggs and gammon steak. I must compliment the cook, but I find myself somewhat detained.”
He gestured with his manacled feet. A long chain led from the manacles to a great iron ring on the wall. The chain was long enough for him to stand and take two steps in either direction, but no more.
“Apollo,” she said, and her voice was gently chiding, but her lips curved so he considered his clowning a victory. She set down the small, soft sack she’d been holding in her hand. “I’m sorry to hear you’ve already dined since I brought some roast chicken. I do hope you’re not too full to enjoy it.”
“Oh, I think I’ll manage,” he said.
His nose caught the aroma of the chicken and his mouth began to water helplessly. There’d been a time when he’d never thought much about his next meal—beyond wishing vaguely that cherry pie might be served every day. It wasn’t that their family had been rich—far from it, in fact—but they’d never lacked for food. Bread and cheese and joints of roast and buttered peas and peaches stewed in honey and wine. Fish pie and those little muffins his mother had sometimes made. Dear God, the first slurp of oxtail soup, the bits of meat so tender they melted on his tongue. Juicy oranges, roasted walnuts, gingered carrots, and that sweet made from sugared rose petals. Sometimes he spent days simply thinking about food—no matter how much he tried to drive the thoughts from his mind.
He’d never again take food for granted.
Apollo looked away, trying to distract himself as she took out the chicken. He would put it off as long as possible, the inevitable descent into becoming a ravening, mindless animal.
He shifted awkwardly, the chains clinking. They gave him straw for both settee and dainty bed, and if he rummaged a bit he might find some cleanish spot for his sister to sit on. Such were the only comforts he could offer a guest to his cell.
“There’s cheese and half an apple tart I wheedled from Penelope’s cook.” Artemis’s expression was gentle and a little worried, as if she knew how close he was to falling on her present and swallowing it all in one maddened gulp.
“Sit here,” he said gruffly.
She sank gracefully, her legs folded to the side as if they were on some pastoral picnic rather than a stinking madhouse. “Here.”
She’d placed a chicken leg and a slab of the tart on a clean cloth and held it out to him. He took the treasure carefully, trying to breathe through his mouth without seeming to. He clenched his jaw and inhaled slowly, staring at the food. Self-control was the only thing he had left.
“Please, Apollo, eat.” Her whisper was almost pained, and he reminded himself that he was not the only one being punished for one night of youthful folly.
He’d destroyed his sister that night as well.
So he raised the leg of chicken to his lips and took one delicate bite, placing it back on the cloth, chewing carefully, keeping the madness at bay. The taste was wonderful, filling his mouth, making him want to howl with eager hunger.