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It was chilly with the fire dead and she shivered as she wrapped her arms about her knees. “Room.”

He paused in whatever he was doing at her dresser and his head turned, the mask a menacing profile. “What?”

She shrugged, though his back was to her and she at least could hardly see in the dim light. “There’s only the one room.”

He turned back to the dresser. “You’re a servant, then.”

Hard to tell from a whisper, but she rather thought he meant to provoke her.

“I’m Lady Penelope’s cousin. Well,” she amended, “first cousin twice removed, strictly speaking.”

“Then why do they put you here, away at the back of the house?” He crouched and pulled out the bottom drawer of her dresser.

“Haven’t you heard of a poor relation?” She craned her neck, trying to see what he was doing. He appeared to be pawing through her stockings. “You’re a fair distance from St. Giles tonight.”

He grunted and shoved the drawer in, moving to the one above it. That one held her chemises, all two of them; she wore the third.

She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

He stilled at that, his head still bent over her drawer. “What?”

“You saved my life the other night.” She pursed her lips, considering. “Or at the very least my virtue. And that of my cousin’s. I can’t think of why you might have done it, but thank you.”

He turned at that. “Why I might have done it? You were imperiled. Wouldn’t any man help?”

She smiled ruefully—and a little sadly. “In my experience, no.”

She thought he’d simply go back to searching her room, but he paused. “Then I’m sorry for your experience.”

And the odd thing was that she thought he meant it. She pleated the coverlet between her fingers. “Why do you do it?”

“Do what?” He rose and began on the top drawer.

That held her few personal possessions: old letters from Apollo from when he’d been sent away to school, a miniature of Papa, Mama’s earbobs, the gilt flaking off and one of the wires broken. Nothing of interest, except to her. She supposed she should feel resentment that a stranger was laying hands on her meager possessions, but really, in the larger scope of all the things that had happened in her life, this was quite a small indignity.

He stilled. “You’ve half a loaf of bread in here and two apples. Do they not feed you that you must steal food?”

She stiffened. “It’s not for me. And it’s not stealing—not really. Cook knows I took them.”

He grunted and resumed searching.

“Why do you don the disguise of a harlequin actor and run about St. Giles?” She cocked her head, watching him. His movements were economical. Precise. Yet, strangely graceful for a man. “You know, there are those who think you a ravisher of women—and worse.”

“I’m not.” He shut the drawer and glanced about her room. Had years spent hunting in the night made him able to see in the dark? She could hardly make out the outlines of her room and it was her own. He chose the old wardrobe next, a piece that had been replaced with something newer and finer in one of Brightmore House’s guest rooms. He opened the door, peering in. “I’ve never violated any woman.”

lanced at him quickly, startled. “Do I?”

He bowed his head, murmuring quietly, “You seem an intelligent woman. You know I’m courting your cousin. Therefore, my offer is but a way to gracefully meet her again tonight.”

There didn’t seem much to say to that, so Artemis remained quiet as they gathered the three glasses of punch.

“Tell me, Miss Greaves,” the duke said as they began the trek back across the ballroom. “Do you approve of my courtship of your cousin?”

“I can’t imagine that my approval matters one way or the other, Your Grace,” Artemis clipped out, unaccountably irritated. Was he patronizing her?

“Can’t you?” One corner of his mouth flicked up. “But you see I grew up in a house full of women. I don’t discount the weight of a whispered confidence in a feminine boudoir. Several judicious words from you in your cousin’s ear could scupper my suit.”

She looked at him in astonishment. “Your Grace assigns me more power than in truth I have.”

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