Long, long ago when Britain was young, there lived the best of rulers. His name was King Herla. His mien was wise and brave, his arm was strong and swift, and he loved nothing better than to go a-hunting in the dark, wild wood.…
—from The Legend of the Herla King
The Earl of Brightmore was many things, Artemis thought that night: a respected peer, a man very aware of his wealth, and—in his best moments—a Christian capable of adhering to the letter, if not the spirit, of compassion, but what he was not was an attentive father.
“Papa, I told you yesterday at luncheon that I was to attend the Viscount of d’Arque’s ball this eve,” Penelope said as her lady’s maid, Blackbourne, fussed with the bow of her half cloak. They were in the grand entrance hall to Brightmore House waiting for the carriage to pull around from the mews.
“Thought you were there last night,” the earl said vaguely. He was a big man with bulbous blue eyes and a commanding nose that rather overtook his chin. He’d just arrived home with his secretary—a withered little man with a frightening head for numbers—and was doffing his tricorne and cape.
“No, darling,” Penelope said, rolling her eyes. “Last night I was dining with Lady Waters at her house.”
Artemis felt like rolling her eyes but refrained, because of course last night they’d been busy being nearly killed in St. Giles and hadn’t been anywhere near Lady Waters’s dining room. Actually, she rather thought Lady Waters might not even be in town at the moment. Penelope lied with a breathtaking virtuosity.
“Eh,” the earl grunted. “Well, you look exquisite, Penny.”
Penelope beamed and twirled to show off her new gown, a brocaded satin primrose gown overembroidered with bunches of flowers in blue, red, and green. The gown had taken a month to put together and cost more than what ninety percent of Londoners made in a year.
“And you, too, of course, Artemis,” the earl said absently. “Quite lovely indeed.”
Artemis curtsied. “Thank you, Uncle.”
For a moment Artemis was struck by how very different this life was from the one she’d known growing up. They’d lived in the country, then, just she, Apollo, Papa, and Mama. Papa had been estranged from his own father, and their household was meager. There had been no parties, let alone balls. Strange to think that she’d become used to attending grand soirees—that she was actually bored by the prospect of yet another one.
Artemis smiled wryly to herself. She was grateful to the earl—who was really a distant cousin, not her uncle. She’d never met either him or Penelope while Papa and Mama still lived, and yet he’d taken her into his house when she’d become a social pariah. Between her lack of dowry and the stigma of familial madness, she had no hope of marrying and having a household of her own. Still, she couldn’t quite forget that the earl had refused—absolutely and without opportunity for appeal—to help Apollo as well. The most he’d done was make sure that Apollo was hastily committed to Bedlam instead of going to trial. That had been an easy enough job for the Earl of Brightmore: no one wanted an aristocrat hanged for murder. The elite of society wouldn’t stand for such a thing—even if the aristocrat in question had never moved much in society.
“You’ll turn every young gentleman’s head at that dance.” The earl was already talking to his daughter again, his eyes narrowing for a moment. “Just make sure yours isn’t turned as well.”
Perhaps he was more aware of Penelope than Artemis gave him credit for.
“Never fear, Papa.” Penelope bussed her sire’s cheek. “I only collect hearts—I don’t give them away.”
“Ha,” her father replied rather absently—his secretary was whispering something in his ear. “See you tomorrow, shall I?”
“Yes, darling.”
And with a last flurry of curtsies and bows from the gaggle of lady’s maids and footmen, Penelope and Artemis were out the door.
“I don’t know why we didn’t bring Bon Bon,” her cousin said as the carriage pulled away. “His fur would’ve quite set off this gown.”
Bon Bon was Penelope’s small, white, and quite elderly dog. Artemis wasn’t sure how he would “set off” Penelope’s gown. Besides, she hadn’t had the heart to disturb the poor thing when she’d seen him curled up in the silly green-and-pink dog bed Penelope’d had made for him.
“Perhaps,” Artemis murmured, “but his white fur would’ve stuck to your skirts as well.”
“Oh.” Penelope frowned quite becomingly, her small rosebud mouth pouting. “I wonder if I should get a pug. But everyone has one—they’re almost common—and the fawn isn’t nearly so striking as Bon Bon’s white.”
Artemis sighed silently and kept her opinions about choosing a dog by the color of its fur to herself.
Penelope began prattling about dogs and dresses and fashion and the house party at the Duke of Wakefield’s country residence they would soon attend. Artemis merely had to nod here and there to help with the conversation. She thought about Apollo and how thin he’d appeared this morning. He was a big man—or had been. Bedlam had caved in his cheeks, hollowed his eyes, and made the bones at his wrists protrude. She had to find more money to pay the guards, more food to bring him, more clothes to give him. But all that was just a temporary fix. If she didn’t discover some way to get her brother out of Bedlam, she very much feared he wouldn’t live another year there.
She sighed softly as Penelope kept talking about Belgium lace.
Half an hour later they were descending the carriage steps in front of a grand mansion ablaze with lights.
“It’s a pity, really,” Penelope said, shaking out her skirts.
“What is?” Artemis bent to straighten the hem at the back.
“Lord d’Arque.” Her cousin gestured vaguely at the stunning town house. “Such a beautiful man and rich as well—he’s nearly perfect.”
Artemis wrinkled her forehead, trying to follow her cousin’s sometimes mazelike thought process. “But he’s not?”
“No, of course not, silly,” Penelope said as she sailed toward the front doors. “He’s not a duke, is he? Oh, I say, there’s Lord Featherstone!”
Artemis trailed after Penelope as she flitted up to the young lordling. George Featherstone, Baron Featherstone, had large blue eyes with luxuriant curling lashes and a red, full-lipped mouth, and had it not been for the strength of his jawline and the length of his nose, he might’ve been mistaken for a girl. He was considered very comely by most of the ladies in London society, although Artemis personally found the nasty glint in those pretty blue eyes distasteful.