Duke of Midnight

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “Oh, I think I do,” Maximus growled. They were at the end of the long ground floor corridor now. “Put him down by the door.”

  Sully looked at him warily, while Ridley was puzzled. “ ’Ere? ’Ow’re you going to get ’im out the door?”

  “Don’t worry your head about it,” Maximus said gently, and smashed him on the temple with the butt of his sword.

  Ridley slumped to the floor.

  Sully threw up his arms. “Please, sir!”

  “Did you take part in this?”

  “No!”

  Sully might’ve been lying, but Maximus hadn’t the heart to hit him in any case. The gore on Kilbourne made him sick. He bent, took Kilbourne’s right arm, and hauled the big man over his shoulder with a grunt. The man was heavy, but not as heavy as his stature should make him. Maximus could feel the bones of Kilbourne’s wrist, stark and hard. No doubt he’d lost weight in this place.

  The thought made Maximus’s mood darker. “Open the door for me.”

  Sully ran to do his bidding.

  Maximus stepped out, but paused to look over his shoulder at Sully. “Tell Ridley and all the other guards: I’ll be back. At night, when you’re sleeping, when you least expect it. And if I find any more inmates treated as Lord Kilbourne was, then I’ll not ask questions. I’ll simply deal justice with the point of my sword. Understand?”

  “Aye, sir.” Sully looked absolutely terrified.

  Maximus stepped into the night.

  He trotted to the gates with his burden, and slipped through. Outside lay the gardens of Moorfields and, a little way down from the main gates, a waiting horse and cart.

  “Go,” Maximus muttered as he heaved Kilbourne into the bed of the cart and climbed in after.

  “Are we being followed?” Craven asked as he slapped the reins.

  “No, not yet, at any rate.” Maximus panted, trying to catch his breath while watching for pursuers.

  “A successful job then.”

  Maximus grunted, glancing at the madman. He still breathed at least. What in hell was he going to do with a fugitive from Bedlam?

  Maximus shook his head at the thought and replied to Craven, “Only if Kilbourne lives.”

  ARTEMIS WOKE TO a soft tap at her door. She blinked and looked around the room, for a moment, confused, until she remembered that she was in her guest room at Pelham House.

  The tapping came again.

  She struggled out of the warm bedcovers and shrugged into a wrapper. A glance at the window showed that it was just dawn.

  Artemis cracked the door open to find a maid, already dressed for the day. “Yes?”

  “Beg pardon, Miss, but there’s a messenger for you at the back door. Says he’s to speak to you and no other.”

  Apollo. It must be. Trembling, Artemis found her slippers and followed the maid down the stairs and back toward the kitchens. Had Maximus found her brother? Did he still live?

  The kitchens were already abustle with preparations for the day. Cooks and maids were rolling out pastry, footmen carrying silver, and a young girl carefully tended the hearth. A great table lay in the middle of the kitchens, the center of much of the food preparation, but at one end a lad sat, a cup of tea and a plate of freshly buttered bread before him. He stood as she neared, and Artemis saw that his clothes were still dusty from the road.

  “Miss Greaves?”

  “Yes?”

  He fumbled in his coat pocket before drawing out a letter. “His Grace said I was to place this in your hands and no other’s.”

  “Thank you.” Artemis took the letter, staring for a moment at the embossed seal.

  “Here, Miss,” the lad said, holding out his butter knife. He had a fresh, country face, though he must’ve come from London. “To break the seal.”

  She smiled her thanks—rather tremulously, she was afraid—and hastily broke the seal. The letter held only one sentence, but it meant the world:

  He is alive at my house.

  —M

  Artemis exhaled a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. Oh, thank God. Alive.

  She must go to him at once.

  About to leave the kitchen, the letter clutched in her fist, she remembered the messenger with a pang. She turned back to him. “I’m afraid I forgot to bring my purse down, but if you’ll wait here, I’m sure I have a shilling for you.”

  “No need, Miss.” The lad grinned in a friendly way. “His Grace is a generous master. He said as how I wasn’t to accept coin from you.”

  “Oh.” Artemis said. That Maximus had thought to spare her the embarrassment of having no money for the messenger made her heart warm. “Well, I thank you, then.”

  The lad nodded cheerfully and went back to his breakfast.

  Artemis hurried back to the stairs. She’d half-convinced Penelope yesterday that there wasn’t much point in staying if their host had left for “business” in London. Perhaps she could get her cousin to arise a bit earlier than usual.

  The upper hall was dim when she made her door, but she could hear a footman hurrying away further down the corridor. Artemis pushed open the door and went to the dresser to begin a hasty toilet. She’d learned long ago how to dress herself without help, as Papa had been able to afford a maidservant only irregularly. So she dressed in her usual brown serge and sat to put up her hair, and only then noticed something odd: her hairbrush had been placed bristle side down. She always left it up—the back was made of common wood, and the boar’s bristles were the most delicate part of the brush.

  Had the maid moved it?

  But the fire hadn’t yet been made. The maid hadn’t been to her room this morning.

  Artemis pulled out the top drawer of her dresser. Her paltry collection of stockings lay inside and seemed as usual. But the next drawer…

  The corner of one of her chemises was caught in the drawer, the edge sticking out. She couldn’t be entirely certain—perhaps she had shut the drawer hastily herself—but she thought not.

  Someone had been in her room. Someone had gone through her things.

  Artemis recalled the sound of retreating footsteps as she’d neared her door. Had Maximus sent orders for one of his footmen to search her room whilst she was called to the kitchen to see his messenger? It seemed an odd thing for him to do, and she couldn’t think why he’d do it. Perhaps to get back his ring without asking for it?

  She drew out the chain from the fichu she’d donned and examined again the ring and pendant. They winked silently in her palm. She shook her head and tucked the pendant and ring back into her bodice. The ring belonged to Maximus, and she would give it to him as soon as she saw him in London.

  As soon as she saw Apollo.

  The rest of her toilet took minutes, and then she was hurrying to Penelope’s room.

  Her cousin was naturally still abed, but after an interminable two-hour wait, Penelope was ready to go down for breakfast.

  “I don’t know why we must rise so early,” Penelope grumbled. “After all, if Wakefield has flown off to London, there’s no one to see me, is there?”

  “What about Scarborough?” Artemis asked absently and then felt like groaning. The last thing she needed was to encourage Penelope to stay for the elderly duke.

  “Scarborough is charming enough.” Penelope’s cheeks actually pinkened despite her casual words. “But he’s not as rich as Wakefield, nor as powerful.”

  “He’s a duke,” Artemis said softly as they entered the long room at the back of the house where breakfast was served. “And he likes you.”

  “Oh, do you think so?” Penelope stopped and glanced at her, her expression shy.

  “Of course.” Artemis nodded to where the elderly duke had stood at their entrance. “Just look at his expression.”

  Scarborough was smiling so widely, Artemis was afraid something might crack in his face. It was odd, really, but the duke did seem to like her cousin—not just her youth or beauty, but Penelope herself.

  “But he’s so old,”
Penelope said, for once lowering her voice. She had a slight frown between her brows as if honestly distressed.

  “Does that really matter?” Artemis said softly. “He’s the type of man who will shower his wife with all manner of expensive gifts. It’s said that his first wife had a veritable treasure chest of jewels. Think how nice that would be.”

  “Humph.” Penelope bit her lip, looking indecisive. “We’ll be returning to London in any case.”

  They’d neared Scarborough as they spoke and his face fell almost comically as he heard Penelope’s last words. “Never say you’re deserting me, Lady Penelope?”

  Penelope made a moue as she sat in the chair Scarborough held for her. “Since it seems our host has deserted us, I think it the thing to do.”

  “Ah, yes.” Scarborough frowned down at the gammon steak on the plate before him. “Wakefield did take off yesterday like a startled hare. I’ve never seen the like. I do hope,” he said jovially, glancing at Artemis, “that he didn’t take your teasing about the Ghost of St. Giles badly, Miss Greaves.”

  “I do not think the duke is so easily frightened,” Artemis replied.

  Scarborough raised his eyebrows and spread wide his hands. “And yet Wakefield has fled his own country home.”

  Artemis’s heartbeat picked up. The last thing she wanted was suspicion being cast Maximus’s way now.

  “But the duke said he had urgent business in London,” Penelope said, her brows drawn together in a puzzled frown. “I don’t see how that can have anything to do with something Artemis said.”

  “No doubt you’re right,” Scarborough said at once. “Yet his abrupt departure has left his younger sister to travel alone to London.”

  “But surely Miss Picklewood will be accompanying her?” Artemis pointed out.

  “Not as I understand it,” Scarborough said to her. “Apparently Miss Picklewood received news this morning of a friend in Bath who has been struck by a sudden illness. She’s already left to go to her side.”

  “Then Lady Phoebe will simply have to make do with her lady’s maid on the trip to London,” Penelope said dismissively.

  “A servant is hardly the same as a companion, especially for a lady in Lady Phoebe’s condition,” Scarborough mused. “As I said, it’s a pity that Wakefield found his business more urgent than his blind sister.”

  Artemis winced at the blunt words. Yet, the duke’s insistence on the subject might be used to her advantage. Penelope usually only gave her a half day once a week to do as she pleased. Even if Apollo were gravely injured, Artemis very much doubted that Penelope would let her go to the Duke of Wakefield’s London home for more than a couple of hours. But if she thought it was her own idea…

  Artemis 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.”

  Penelope looked horrified.

  “… Or I could go.”

  “You?” Penelope squinted, but it was a calculating squint. “But you’re my lady’s companion.”

  “No, you’re right,” Artemis hastily demurred. “Such an extravagant gesture of kindness would be too much.”

  Penelope frowned. “You really believe Wakefield would think me extravagantly kind?”

  “Oh, yes,” Artemis said, wide-eyed with sincerity. “Because you will be. And if you lend me for the time that Miss Picklewood is away, why, Wakefield will hardly be able to thank you enough.”

  “Oh, my,” Penelope breathed. “What a very good idea.”

  “You are beneficence itself, my lady,” Scarborough announced as he bent over Penelope’s hand, and winked at Artemis.

  Chapter Ten

  At the peasant’s words, one of Herla’s men leaped from his horse, but when his feet touched the ground, he crumbled into a pile of dust. King Herla stared and remembered the Dwarf King’s warning: none of them could dismount before the little white dog or they, too, would turn to dust. He gave a terrible cry at the realization, and as he did so, both he and his men faded into ghostly forms. Then he spurred his horse and did the only thing left to him: he hunted.

  Thus King Herla and his retinue were doomed to ride the moonlit sky, never quite of this world or the next.…

  —from The Legend of the Herla King

  “Will he awake?” Maximus stared down at the madman later that morning.

  Viscount Kilbourne was hidden away in the cellar under Wakefield House, having been smuggled in along the secret tunnel. Maximus and Craven had set up a cot down here, close to a brazier of glowing coals to keep him warm.

  Craven frowned at his motionless patient. “ ’Tis uncertain, Your Grace. Perhaps if we were able to take him to a more salubrious place above ground…”

  Maximus shook his head impatiently. “You know we cannot risk Kilbourne being found.”

  Craven nodded. “ ’Tis said on the streets that Bedlam’s governors have already sent for soldiers to hunt down the Ghost. Apparently they are quite embarrassed at the escape of one of their inmates.”

  “They ought to be embarrassed by the entire place,” Maximus muttered.

  “Indeed, Your Grace,” Craven replied. “But I still fear for our patient. The noxious fumes from the brazier, not to mention the damp of the cellar—”

  “Aren’t the best conditions for an invalid,” Maximus cut in, “but discovery and a return to Bedlam would be much worse. He wouldn’t survive another beating.”

  “As you say, Your Grace, this is the best we can do, but I don’t like it very much. If we could but send for a physician more learned in the healing arts—”

  “The same objection applies.” Maximus paced restlessly to the opposite wall of the cellar. Damn it, he needed Kilbourne to wake for Artemis’s sake. He remembered her shining, grateful face, and he couldn’t help but think she wouldn’t be so grateful now if she could see her brother’s condition.

  “Besides,” Maximus continued, returning to Craven’s side, “you’re as good as if not better than most of the university-educated doctors I’ve seen. At least you haven’t a peculiar fondness for disgusting miracle draughts.”

  “Hmm,” Craven murmured. “While I am of course gratified by Your Grace’s confidence in me, I must point out that most of my doctoring has consisted of tending to your gashes and bruises. I’ve never had to deal with a patient with a head wound and broken ribs.”

  “Even so, I trust you.”

  Craven’s face went completely blank. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Maximus gave him a look. “Don’t let’s get maudlin, Craven.”

  Craven’s craggy face twitched. “Never, Your Grace.”

  Maximus sighed. “I must make an appearance upstairs, else the servants will begin to wonder where I’ve gone. Come at once, though, should he regain his senses.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” Craven hesitated, studying the unconscious man’s face. “I think, though, we will have to find another place to conceal Lord Kilbourne when he wakes.”

  “Don’t imagine I haven’t already thought of that problem,” Maximus grunted. “Now if I only knew where to secrete him more permanently.”

  With that dispiriting thought he turned and made his way to the upper floors. Craven would stay and nurse Kilbourne in the cellar while Maximus would return periodically as he was able throughout the day. He’d spoken only the truth: there was no one else to trust with the task save Craven.

  As Maximus made the upper hall he was waylaid by his butler, Pan
ders, who, fortunately, was too well trained to ever ask awkward questions. Panders was an imposing man of middling years with a round little belly who normally never had so much as a hair of his snowy white wig out of place, but today he was so perturbed his left eyebrow had shot up.

  “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but there is a soldier in your study who is quite insistent that he see you. I have informed him that you are not receiving, but the fellow will not be sent away. I had thought to call Bertie and John, but though they are stout lads, the soldier is naturally armed and I should not like to see blood upon your study carpet.”

  At the beginning of this recitation Maximus had felt a thrill of alarm, but by the end of it, he had begun to have an idea who his visitor was. So it was with calm aplomb that he told Panders, “Quite right. I’ll see to the man myself.”

  His study was at the back of the house—situated so that he might not be disturbed by the hubbub of the street or the frequent callers whom Panders usually dealt with quite adequately.

  Today’s visitor was another matter.

  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.