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“Naturally.” The duke executed a very elegant bow, considering he was holding an ice in each hand.
“Your Grace.” Megs curtsied. She’d been acquainted with the Duke of Wakefield for years—he was a political ally of her brother Thomas—but she didn’t know him well. He’d always struck her as a rather daunting gentleman.
“You know Harte of Harte’s Folly?” Hero asked her brother curiously. She took one of the ices and placed it in Phoebe’s hands.
“Not personally, no,” His Grace replied as he offered the remaining ice to Miss Picklewood. “Actually, I’m not even sure that ‘Harte’ is but one man—the backers of the pleasure garden could be a syndicate of businessmen—but in any case it’s well known that Miss Goodfellow was lured away from her previous theater, probably for an outrageous sum of money. It was a smart business move by whoever runs Harte’s Folly, though. The pleasure garden needed a renowned actress.”
“And Miss Goodfellow is the most renowned breeches-role actress in London,” Viscount d’Arque drawled as he strolled into the box. “Your Grace.” He swept a graceful bow. “Ladies.”
“D’Arque.” The duke eyed him noncommittally.
The viscount’s gaze swept over the ladies appreciatively before landing on Megs. He stepped forward and in a swift move had her fingers in his. “Lady Margaret, you’re looking enchanting this evening.”
Megs’s eyes widened as he bent over her fingers.
Directly behind the viscount was Griffin … and Godric.
“THE INTERVAL MUST be nearly over,” Artemis Greaves murmured. “Perhaps we should return to the box?”
“Oh, pish.” Lady Penelope tossed her head, making the jeweled pins in her dark locks sparkle. “Don’t fret so. I haven’t yet greeted the Duke of Wakefield.”
Artemis sighed silently, shifting Bon Bon in her arms as they strolled the corridor behind the theater boxes. The fluffy white dog gave a groan before falling back to sleep. Artemis wished—not for the first time—that Penelope had even a pinch of sense. The little dog, while quite sweet and docile, was getting too old to be dragged everywhere. She’d yipped when Artemis had lifted her from the carriage, and Artemis suspected rheumatism in the dog’s back legs.
“I don’t see why everyone thinks her so fascinating,” Penelope muttered now, drawing Artemis’s attention.
“Who?”
“Her.” Penelope waved an irritated hand to a tall lady disappearing into a box. “That Hippolyta Royle. Silliest name I’ve ever heard. She’s as dark as a savage from Africa, nearly as tall as a man, and not even titled.”
“She’s also rumored to be fabulously wealthy,” Artemis murmured before she could think.
Penelope turned to look at her, eyes narrowed.
Oh, dear.
“I am the wealthiest heiress in England,” Penelope hissed. “Everyone knows this.”
“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.”
