“Of course,” Artemis murmured placatingly, stroking the sleeping Bon Bon.
Penelope huffed one more exasperated breath and then her tone smoothed as she said, “Oh, here we are.”
And Artemis looked up to see they were at the door to the duke’s box.
Penelope swept in—or at least attempted to. The box, as it turned out, was rather crowded. Artemis squeezed in behind her cousin and glanced around. Lady Hero was here with Lady Margaret as well as Lady Phoebe, Miss Picklewood, the duke himself, Lord Griffin, and Mr. St. John, who appeared to be in a staring contest with Viscount d’Arque.
Well, at least the evening wouldn’t be boring.
Penelope was saying something—probably outrageous—to draw the gentlemen’s attention. Artemis sidled over to Lady Phoebe and sat down next to her.
Phoebe turned her face, leaning close to discreetly inhale. “Artemis?”
“Yes.” Artemis felt quite proud. She’d taken to wearing the same scent—lemons and bay leaf—when she realized that Lady Phoebe sometimes used smell to identify people. She suspected that the other woman could see very little at all when the light was dim—such as tonight at the theater. “I’ve brought Bon Bon, though she’s feeling rather low. I think she has rheumatism.”
“Oh, poor thing.” Phoebe stroked gentle fingers through the little dog’s white fur. “What is going on with the gentlemen? They seemed quite tense when Lord d’Arque entered.”
Artemis tipped her head toward the younger woman until they nearly touched. “Lord d’Arque has been flirting with Lady Margaret, and her husband, Mr. St. John, has taken exception. They made rather a scene at the Kershaw ball.”
“Really?” Phoebe raised her eyebrows, her hazel eyes dancing in her soft, round face. She might be Hero’s sister, but the women were entirely different. Where Hero was tall and willowy, Phoebe was short and plump. “I’m sorry to hear that for Lady Margaret’s sake, but … I do wish I had seen it.” Her mouth curved rather sadly. Except for events where her family carefully guarded her, Lady Phoebe did not go out in society. “I hope you don’t think the worse of me for it.”
“Oh, no, darling.” Artemis patted her knee. “If it weren’t for gentlemen behaving terribly at balls, I would’ve died of boredom long before this.”
Phoebe laughed softly. “What are they doing now?”
“Not much. Lady Penelope is dominating the conversation.” Artemis sighed. “I’m afraid she’s set her cap at your brother.”
Phoebe cocked her head. “Has she?”
“Yes, though I don’t suppose she has much chance.”
Phoebe shrugged. “As much as any lady, I suppose. My brother must marry eventually, and Lady Penelope is a fabulous heiress. He might think it a great advantage.”
“Really?” Artemis frowned, watching as the duke listened to Penelope’s chatter with his head propped on his left hand. He shifted restlessly, the red stone in his gold signet ring catching the light. His expression verged on boredom. “He doesn’t seem particularly enthralled by her.”
“Maximus is enthralled only by politics and his war against the gin trade,” Phoebe said, sounding much too wise for her years. “I don’t think he has any heart left over to give to a lady.”
Artemis shivered. “I wonder if Lady Penelope quite knows what she’s trying to ensnare?”
Phoebe turned her head slightly toward Artemis, her hazel eyes a bit sad. “Would she care? She seeks my brother’s title, not the man beneath.”
“No, I suppose you’re quite right,” Artemis said slowly. The realization was rather sad.
Lady Penelope leaned forward with a seductive smile, touched the duke’s sleeve lightly, and turned toward the box’s door.
Artemis recognized Penelope’s usual farewell to a handsome gentleman and began gathering Bon Bon. “I’m afraid we’re leaving now, but it was so nice to chat with you, Phoebe.”
The other woman smiled vaguely. “Enjoy the rest of the play.”
Then Artemis was making her way to the door, trotting to try to catch up with Penelope.
“Did you see the way the duke hung upon my words?” Lady Penelope hissed when Artemis was abreast of her.
“Oh, yes,” Artemis said, not entirely truthfully.
“I think that went very well,” Penelope said with evident satisfaction.
“I am so glad.” Penelope in a good mood might just be amenable to granting a favor. She cleared her throat delicately. “I wonder if I might have the morning off this Friday?”
Penelope’s brows drew together in irritation. “Whatever for?”
Artemis swallowed. “It’s visiting day.”
“I’ve already told you that you need to simply forget him,” Penelope scolded.
Artemis kept silent, for there wasn’t anything she could say that would help her cause—she knew because she’d already tried in the past.
Her cousin heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Very well.”
“Thank you—”
But Penelope’s thoughts were already back with her own affairs. “I saw His Grace’s gaze observe my décolletage at least once. That, in any case, is something that Miss Royle cannot compete with. She’s as flat as a boy.”
Artemis’s brows drew together. “I wasn’t aware Miss Royle was competing.”
“Don’t be naïve, Cousin,” Penelope said as they made their box again. “Any lady with the possibility of success vies for the Duke of Wakefield’s attention. Fortunately, that group is very small indeed.”
Penelope sank into a red velvet chair just as the curtain rose again, and Artemis took the chair next to her. The first part of the play had been quite diverting—not to mention very risqué—and she was looking forward to watching Miss Goodfellow match wits with the male actors.
Penelope shifted next to her, glancing down at the floor and then to the table between the chairs. “Drat.”
“What is it?” Artemis whispered. The orchestra had launched into a lively tune.
“I’ve misplaced my fan.” She looked up, her brow furrowed. “I must’ve left it in the duke’s box. Too bad, because if the play had not already started, I could go back and spend more time with the duke.” She shrugged. “But you’ll have to get it now.”