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“Panders,” Miss Picklewood addressed the butler, “can you leave His Grace’s brandy? We shan’t have need of you for the next half hour, I think.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Panders said without a speck of curiosity.
“Oh, and Panders? I do know you’ll make sure we’re not overheard.”
At that subtle hint about the eavesdropping of servants, Panders stiffened imperceptibly. “Of course, ma’am.”
And then, he, too was gone.
Maximus sat back in his chair, looking like a particularly dangerous cat lounging. “What is this about, Bathilda?”
Artemis was rather admiring of Miss Picklewood’s courage. She didn’t even hesitate as she looked at her powerful relative. “You’ve seduced Miss Greaves.”
Maximus didn’t move. “Where did you hear that?”
Miss Picklewood waved a hand and reached over to take the decanter of brandy. She spoke as she poured herself a slight inch into the empty wineglass before her. “Where I heard it from doesn’t matter. What matters is that it is true and it is now, or very soon will be, public knowledge.”
“What I do in the privacy of my own home is no business of anyone’s but mine,” Maximus said with all the arrogance of a man with a thousand years of aristocratic ancestors.
Miss Bathilda took a delicate sip of her brandy. “I’m sorry, but I must disagree, Your Grace. What you do, even in the privacy of your own home, affects many other people, including Phoebe.” She set down her glass firmly. “You cannot keep your mistress in the same house as your maiden sister. Even you must bow to the dictates of society.”
Artemis’s gaze dropped to the table. She noticed absently that her hands, laid sedately on the wood before her, were trembling. Carefully, she balled her fingers and let her hands drop to her lap.
Maximus waved his hand as if he were swatting a fly. “Artemis won’t corrupt Phoebe, you’re aware of that.”
“You know as well as I that a reputation is based purely upon what is perceived rather than any reality. You’ve made Miss Greaves a fallen woman. By her very presence she soils all ladies around her.”
“Bathilda!” Maximus’s warning was a growl.
Artemis couldn’t help a small gasp at the same time. She’d known what she was now, but to have it so bluntly stated by someone she’d considered a friend was still shocking.
Miss Picklewood turned to Artemis for the first time. Her face was determined, but her eyes were sympathetic. “I’m sorry, but I did warn you, my dear.”
Artemis nodded, ignoring Maximus’s glower. “So you did.”
“You need to leave.”
Artemis held the other woman’s gaze. “And I will. But tomorrow night Phoebe has her heart set on seeing the opera at Harte’s Folly with the other ladies from the Ladies’ Syndicate. She’ll be upset if I don’t attend.”
Miss Picklewood frowned.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Bathilda,” Maximus ground out. “One day more won’t taint Phoebe.”
Alderney was a thin man with wide blue eyes and a nervous blink that seemed to be made worse by the presence of the Duke of Wakefield in his London sitting room.
“I’ve sent for tea,” Alderney said, beginning to lower himself to a chair before popping back up again. “That’s all right, isn’t it? Tea? Or… or there’s brandy about somewhere, I think.” He peered around his little sitting room as if expecting the brandy to appear of its own accord. “French, of course, but then I suppose most brandy is.”
He blinked rapidly at Maximus.
Maximus fought back a sigh and sat. “It’s ten of the clock.”
“Oh, er?”
They were both saved by the arrival of the tea. An awestruck maid stared at Maximus the entire time she was pouring, and he couldn’t help but think it was a miracle she didn’t spill the tea on the carpet. She backed from the room, revealing as she opened the sitting room door a bevy of servants and Alderney’s pink little wife gawking in the hallway before reluctantly closing it.
Clutching a steaming cup in both hands seemed to settle Alderney enough that he was at least able to sit and form a coherent thought. “Quite the honor, of course—don’t have dukes comin’ to visit before noon all that often—and I can’t say enough how… how grateful we are, but I… I was wonderin’…”
But that seemed to be as far as Alderney’s courage took him. He broke off to gulp half his dish of tea and then winced as he apparently burned his mouth.
