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“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.”
“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.”
