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Maximus bent to read the bold, scrawled hand:
When can I leave?
APOLLO WAS ALIVE. That was the main thing, Artemis reminded herself late that afternoon as she trailed Phoebe from shop to shop. Even if he still—distressingly—couldn’t talk, even if Maximus seemed to think her darling brother mad—despite her protests and Apollo’s own quite sane manner this morning—at least he was safe.
Everything else could be managed as long as he was alive and safe. Apollo would heal and speak again, and she would somehow persuade Maximus of what an idiot he was being.
Apollo would be all right.
“Artemis, come see.”
She brought herself back to the present at Phoebe’s eager urging. Shopping with Phoebe was nothing like shopping with Penelope. Penelope shopped like a general planning a major campaign: she had objectives, strategies for assault and retreats—though she hardly ever retreated—and the ruthless eye of a woman ready to slaughter her enemy—in this case the shopkeepers of Bond Street. Despite Penelope’s great wealth, she seemed to consider it her duty to bargain down the price on everything she bought.
Artemis had once witnessed a shopkeeper acquire a tic under his eye after two hours of waiting upon Lady Penelope Chadwicke.
In contrast, Phoebe shopped like a honeybee in a field of wildflowers: erratically and with no clear purpose in mind. So far they’d stopped at a stationer’s, where Phoebe had flitted from bound books to blank sheets of foolscap, caressing the papers and bindings with sensitive fingers. She’d finally alighted on a darling little blank notebook bound in dyed green calfskin and embossed in gold bumblebees—rather fitting, that. Afterward they’d wandered into a perfume shop, where Phoebe had sniffed delicately at a bottle and sneezed for the next ten minutes, complaining under her breath about the overuse of ambergris. That had been a relatively short stop. Phoebe had tried another few bottles and then left, whispering that the proprietor hadn’t the proper nose for perfumes.
Now they stood in a tobacconist’s as Phoebe poked into different jars. Behind the jars of finely ground tobacco were twists of leaf tobacco for smoking.
Artemis wrinkled her nose—she’d never particularly cared for the aroma of tobacco smoke. “Does your brother imbibe from a pipe?”
“Oh, Maximus never smokes a pipe,” Phoebe said absently. “Claims it makes his throat dry.”
Artemis blinked. “Who are you buying the tobacco for, then?”
“No one,” Phoebe said dreamily, inhaling. “Did you know that even the unscented tobacco has different, distinct odors?”
“Erm, no.” Artemis hesitantly peered over the smaller woman’s shoulders. Although she could see a slight variation in the color of the tobacco powder in the rows of open jars, they all looked virtually the same to her.
The proprietor of the shop, a man with a long, sloping face and a belly to match, beamed. “My lady has a wonderful sense for the leaves.”
Phoebe’s cheeks pinkened. “You flatter me.”
“Not at all,” the man said. “Would you like to sample the snuff? I just received a new shipment from Amsterdam. Would you believe it’s scented with lavender?”
“No!” Apparently lavender was an unusual scent. Phoebe looked quite excited.
Half an hour later they exited the shop with Phoebe clutching a small pouch of the precious snuff. Artemis eyed it doubtfully. Many fashionable ladies took snuff, but Phoebe seemed a little young for such a sophisticated hobby.
“Artemis!”
She looked up at the call, in time to see Penelope hurrying toward them, a beleaguered maid trailing behind, laden with packages.
“There you are,” her cousin exclaimed as she drew close, rather as if she’d somehow misplaced Artemis. “Hullo, Phoebe. Are you shopping?” Phoebe opened her mouth, but Penelope continued on without pause. “You wouldn’t believe the dreariness of my journey back to London. Nothing to do but embroider, and I pricked my thumb three times. I did try to have Blackbourne read to me, but her voice is quite sputtery, not at all like yours, Artemis, dear.”
“That must’ve been very trying for you.” Artemis hid a smile, feeling quite fond of her cousin suddenly.
“Well, of course I don’t mind lending you to Phoebe at all,” Penelope said carefully, and then rather spoiled the intent of her statement by adding, “Did the duke notice my generosity?”
Artemis’s lips parted, but no sound emerged, for her mind had come to a halt. The duke. Maximus. Penelope was still determined to have him as husband—of course she was! She didn’t know—nothing had changed for Penelope in the last two days.
While everything had changed for Artemis.
She’d lain with the man her cousin wanted as a husband, and she had a sudden urge to weep. It wasn’t fair—either to Penelope or herself. Life shouldn’t be this complicated. She should’ve stayed far, far away from the duke. Except that while she might’ve been able to hold the duke at length, Maximus the man was another matter entirely.
And despite the guilt that seeped through her veins like poison, she couldn’t help but feel that Maximus, if not the duke, belonged to her, not Penelope.
At least that was the way the world should be.
