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Then she looked around.
She hadn’t the time to examine his rooms last night—she’d been otherwise distracted. Artemis went to the connecting door through which Maximus had emerged the night before. It led to a sitting room-cum-study. Percy stood from where he’d been lying before the banked fire and stretched before coming over to greet both her and Bon Bon.
Artemis patted his head absently as she examined Maximus’s sitting room. Books lined the walls and overflowed into neat stacks on the floor; an enormous desk was completely covered with papers, also in neat, cornered stacks. The only thing, in fact, that looked at all out of order was a globe on a stand, which appeared to be draped with Maximus’s banyan. Artemis bit her lip to quell their upward curve at the sight. She wandered to the globe, giving it a gentle spin, banyan and all, before setting her candlestick on the desk and trailing her fingers across the papers. She saw a news sheet, a letter from an earl mentioning a bill before parliament, a letter in a much less refined hand pleading for monies to send a boy to school, and a scrap of paper with what looked like the beginnings of a speech in a bold hand—Maximus’s, presumably. For a moment Artemis studied the speech, tracing the words and feeling warm as she followed the clear points he laid out in making his argument.
She laid aside the paper and saw the corner of a thin book peeking out from under one pile. Carefully, she pulled it out and looked at the title. It was a treatise on fishing. Artemis raised her brows. No doubt Maximus had scores of streams on his properties, but did he ever have time to fish? The thought sent a pang of melancholy through her. Did he sneak peeks at his fishing book in between all his duties? If so, it shed a curiously vulnerable light upon the Duke of Wakefield.
Artemis picked up the fishing book and, curling into one of the deep chairs before the fireplace, began to read. Both dogs came to settle at her feet, curled together, and then quiet descended on the room.
The book was surprisingly entertaining and she lost track of the time. When next she looked up and saw Maximus lounging in the doorway to his bedroom watching her, she didn’t know whether it had been five minutes or half an hour.
She stuck a finger in the book to save her place. “What time is it?”
He tilted his head to the side, peering at the fireplace, and she saw that a clock sat on the mantelpiece. “One in the morning.”
“You were out late.”
He shrugged and pushed away from the doorway. “I often am.”
He turned to walk back into his bedroom and she set aside the book, rose, and followed him, leaving the sleeping dogs behind in the sitting room. He wore the same coat and waistcoat that he’d worn to the supper at home with Phoebe.
She found another chair and sat to watch as he peeled off the coat. “Were you out as the Ghost?”
“What?”
She nearly rolled her eyes. As if she couldn’t guess where he’d been all this time. “Were you running about as the Ghost of St. Giles?”
He doffed his wig and placed it on a stand. “Yes.”
He took a small dagger from his boot and set it on the dresser.
Her eyebrows rose. “Do you always carry that?”
“No.” He hesitated. “It’s a souvenir from tonight.”
Had he fought then? Rescued some other poor woman attacked in St. Giles?
Had he killed tonight?
She examined his expression, but she found him impossible to read at the moment. His face was closed as tight as a locked room.
The waistcoat came off next and was thrown carelessly over a chair opposite to where Artemis sat. She wondered if he usually had Craven help him undress—most aristocrats did, but then he seemed very comfortable in his movements. She remained silent and at last he glanced over at her.
He sighed. “I was hunting a particular footpad—the one who killed my parents. I thought I might’ve finally found him…” He trailed off, shaking his head bitterly. “But I failed. I failed as I have every other night I’ve hunted. I wasn’t even able to get close enough to see if it was the right man.”
Artemis watched as he stripped his shirt off with a violent movement, revealing those broad shoulders. How many nights had he returned to his house alone, having lost what had seemed a promising trail to his parents’ murderer?
He picked up a pitcher of water from his dressing table and poured into a wash basin. “No words of sympathy?”
She watched him splash water on his face and neck. “Would anything I say make a difference?”
He froze, water dripping from his chin as he leaned over the basin, his back still toward her. “What do you mean?”
She shivered and tucked her feet into the chair beside her, pulling the edge of her wrap over her bare ankles. “You’ve hunted for years now, in secret and alone. Done so without praise or censure. You are a force unto yourself, Your Grace. I doubt anything I said or do would move you.”
He shifted finally, swiveling his head to look at her over his shoulder. “Don’t call me that.”
“What?”
