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“Wrong and wrong again.” Old Scratch shook his head mockingly. “I grow weary, Your Grace. Don’t be such a coward. Come out, come out to play!”
Maximus stepped from the shadows. He was no longer a cowering boy. “I have all of them but that one, you know.”
Old Scratch clucked as his big black horse shifted from one foot to another. “The emerald drops like this?” He touched his gloved fingers to the emerald pin at his throat. “That must’ve cost a pretty penny, for I know I sold them for such. Your mother’s necklace kept me in wine and wenches for many years.”
Maximus felt his ire rise and tempered it. He wouldn’t be drawn out so easily. “I only need that one to have it remade.”
Old Scratch crooked one finger. “Come and take it.”
“I intend to,” Maximus said as he circled the horse and man. “I’ll take it and your life as well.”
The highwayman threw back his head and laughed. “Am I the reason for that?” He gestured to Maximus’s costume. “La, sir, I confess myself flattered. To’ve driven the Duke of Wakefield into madness so deep that he donned the guise of a common actor and runs the streets of St. Giles. Why, I—”
It happened so fast Maximus had no time to think, let alone act. He heard the clatter of hoofbeats behind him, saw the glint of metal as Old Scratch raised his left hand from where he’d kept it hidden in his coat.
And then there was the flash and the bang.
The terrible, terrible bang.
An equine scream. Maximus jerked and whirled. Behind him, a horse was falling, writhing on the ground. He turned back to Old Scratch. The highwayman was spurring his horse into one of the seven radiating streets.
Maximus started after him.
The horse screamed again.
This time when he looked he saw the man trapped beneath the horse. Christ. The horse had fallen on its rider.
He ran back to the wounded horse. The horse’s legs were stiffened and the entire big body shuddered.
A dragoon rode up and stopped, simply gaping.
“Help me get him out!” Maximus shouted.
He glanced into the bloodied face of the man on the ground and saw it was Trevillion. Beneath the blood, his skin was bone-white. The dragoon captain was silent, his teeth clenched, his lips pulled back in a grimace of agony.
“Take his other hand,” Maximus ordered the young soldier. The man grasped his captain’s arm and together they heaved.
Trevillion gave a deep, awful groan as his legs came free of his horse. Maximus saw that the dragoon captain’s lip was bloody from where he’d bitten it through. He knelt by Trevillion and winced when he looked at his right leg—the same leg that Trevillion limped on from some previous injury. It was bent in an unnatural angle, the bone quite obviously broken—and broken badly.
Trevillion reached up and grasped Maximus’s tunic front with surprising strength, pulling him down close enough that the other soldier couldn’t hear. “Don’t let her suffer, Wakefield.”
Maximus glanced at the mare—Cowslip, he remembered now. A silly name for a soldier’s horse. He looked back at Trevillion, his chin bloody with his attempt to silence his own pain.
“Do it,” the captain grunted, his eyes shimmering. “God damn it, just do it.”
Picklewood’s lips pursed. “Very well. I expect one day won’t make any difference. Attend Harte’s Folly and then, my dear, it must be over.”
Artemis glanced at Maximus. He had his face turned, his teeth clenched so tightly she could see the muscle flex in his jaw. Their affair wouldn’t be over—he’d offered her a house—but she supposed as far as Miss Picklewood was concerned it didn’t matter as long as she was hidden away.
Artemis rose from the table, not looking at Maximus again. “You needn’t say anything more, Miss Picklewood, for you’re quite right. I can’t stay here with Phoebe. If you’ll both excuse me, I’ll go begin packing.”
She walked to the door of the dining room with her head held high, but she still couldn’t help the small sob when she closed the door without anyone protesting.
IT WAS LATE when the door to the cellar opened. Apollo didn’t bother turning. He’d already been served his supper by the valet. Now he simply lay on his back, his arm thrown across his eyes and dozed.
But the footsteps that approached his bed were lighter than a man’s.
“Apollo.”
