“My Lady Penelope!” Lord Featherstone crowed, halting on the marble steps and making an extravagant bow. He wore a crimson coat and breeches with a gold waistcoat embroidered in crimson, purple, and bright leaf green. “What news?”
“My lord, I am pleased to report that I have been to St. Giles,” Penelope said, extending her hand.
Lord Featherstone bowed over it, lingering a fraction of a second too long before looking up through his lush eyelashes. “And did you partake of a cup of gin?”
“Alas, no.” Penelope flipped open her fan and turned her face into it as if abashed. “Better.” She lowered the fan to reveal a grin. “I met the Ghost of St. Giles.”
Lord Featherstone eyes widened. “Say you so?”
“Indeed. My companion, Miss Greaves, can bear witness.”
Artemis curtsied.
“But this is wonderful, my lady!” Lord Featherstone threw wide his arms, the gesture making him wobble, and for a moment Artemis worried that he might overbalance on the steps, but he merely braced himself by throwing one foot on the next step up. “A masked demon vanquished by the beauty of a maiden.” He tilted his head and glanced sideways at Penelope, a sly smile on his lips. “You did vanquish him, did you not, my lady?”
Artemis frowned. Vanquish was rather a risqué word that could be taken—
“Good evening, my lady, my lord,” a calm, deep voice said.
Artemis turned. The Duke of Wakefield appeared from the darkness behind them, his footfalls making no sound. He was a tall, lean man, dressed severely in black and wearing an elegant white wig. The lights from the mansion cast faintly ominous shadows across his countenance, emphasizing the right angles of his face: the stern, dark shelf of his eyebrows, the prominent nose positioned vertically underneath, which led straight to the thin, almost cruel line of his lips. The Duke of Wakefield was not considered as beautiful as Lord Featherstone by the ladies of society, but if one could look at his features apart from the man beneath, it was possible to see that he was in fact a handsome man.
Coldly, sternly handsome, with nary a trace of softness to relieve the harsh masculine planes of his face.
Artemis repressed a shiver. No, the Duke of Wakefield would never be a darling of the feminine members of society. Something about him was so opposite to female that he almost repelled the softer sex. This was not a man to be swayed by gentleness, beauty, or sweet words. He would bend—assuming he was even capable of bending—only for reasons of his own.
“Your Grace.” Penelope made a flirtatious curtsy while Artemis dipped more sedately beside her. Not that anyone noticed. “How lovely to see you this evening.”
“Lady Penelope.” The duke bowed over her hand and straightened. His dark eyes betrayed no emotion, either positive or negative. “What’s this I heard about the Ghost of St. Giles?”
Penelope licked her lips in what might have been a seductive movement, but Artemis thought her cousin was probably nervous. The duke was rather daunting at the best of times. “A grand adventure, Your Grace. I met the Ghost himself last night in St. Giles!”
The duke simply looked at her.
Artemis stirred uneasily. Penelope didn’t seem to be aware that her lark might not be taken as an accomplishment by the duke. “Cousin, perhaps we should—”
“Lady Penelope has the wonderful courage of Britannia herself,” Lord Featherstone trumpeted. “A sweetly brave bearing embraced by the beauty of her form and face, resulting in perfection of manner and grace. My lady, please, accept this bauble as a token of my admiration.”
Lord Featherstone dropped to one knee and held out his jeweled snuffbox. Artemis snorted under her breath. She couldn’t help thinking that Penelope had won the wager fair and square, at risk of both life and limb. Lord Featherstone’s snuffbox wasn’t the simple offering he was trying to make it seem.
Male ninny.
Penelope reached for the snuffbox, but strong fingers were ahead of hers. The duke plucked the thing from Lord Featherstone’s hand—making the younger man flinch—and held it up to the light. It was oval, gold, and there was a tiny, round painting of a girl was on the top, bordered by pearls.
“Very pretty,” His Grace drawled. He palmed the box and turned to Lady Penelope. “But hardly worth your life, my lady. I hope you’ll not risk something so precious for such a mundane trinket again.”
He tossed the box to Penelope, who simply blinked, forcing Artemis to dive rather ungracefully for the thing. She caught the snuffbox before it could hit either the ground or Penelope, and straightened to see the duke’s eyes upon her.
For a moment she froze. She’d never looked into his eyes before—she was a creature relegated to the sides of ballrooms and the back of sitting rooms. Gentlemen rarely noticed a lady’s companion. If she’d been quizzed as to His Grace’s eye color, she would’ve had to reply simply that they were dark. Which they were. Very dark, nearly black, but not quite. The Duke of Wakefield’s eyes were a deep, rich brown, like coffee newly brewed, like walnut wood oiled and polished, like seal fur shining in the light, and even though they were rather lovely to look at, they were as cold as iron in winter. One touch and her very soul might freeze.
“An adept catch, Miss Greaves,” the duke said, breaking the spell.
He turned and mounted the stairs.
Artemis blinked after him. When had he learned her name?
“Pompous ass,” Lord Featherstone said so loudly the duke must’ve heard, though he gave no sign as he disappeared into the mansion. Lord Featherstone turned to Lady Penelope. “I must give apology, my lady, for the ungentlemanly actions of the duke. I can only assume he has lost all sense of play or fun and has ossified into an old man before the age of forty. Or is it fifty? I vow, the duke might well be as old as my father.”
“Surely not.” Lady Penelope’s brows drew together as if she were truly worried that the duke had suddenly aged overnight. “He can’t be over forty years of age, can he?”
Her appeal was to Artemis, who sighed and slipped the snuffbox into her pocket to give back to Penelope later. If she did not take care of it, Penelope was sure to leave it at the mansion or in the carriage. “I believe His Grace is but three and thirty.”
“Is he?” Penelope brightened before blinking suspiciously. “How do you know?”
“His sisters have mentioned it in passing,” Artemis said drily. Penelope was friends—or at least acquaintances—with both Lady Hero and Lady Phoebe herself, but Penelope was not in the habit of listening, let alone remembering, what her friends said in conversation.