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“Do you see she’s here?”
Artemis started at the hiss at her shoulder, nearly dropping poor Bon Bon, asleep in her arms. She juggled the little dog, a shawl, and Penelope’s nécessaire box before turning to her cousin. “Who?”
There were three other carriages in the drive beside their own, and “she” could’ve been any number of ladies.
Still Penelope widened her eyes as if Artemis had become suddenly dimwitted. “Her. Hippolyta Royale. Whyever would Wakefield invite her?”
Because Miss Royale was one of the most popular ladies of the last year, Artemis thought but of course did not say out loud—she wasn’t actually dimwitted. She glanced to where Penelope indicated and saw the lady descending from her carriage. She was tall and slim, dark haired and dark eyed, a quite striking figure, really, especially in the dull gold-and-purple traveling costume she wore. Artemis noted that Miss Royale appeared to be arriving unaccompanied, and it occurred to her that unlike most ladies, she’d never seen the heiress with a particular friend. She was friendly—or at least she seemed so, for Artemis had never been introduced—but she didn’t link arms with a bosom bow, didn’t lean close and giggle over gossip. Miss Royale appeared eternally alone.
“I knew I should’ve brought the swan,” Penelope said.
Artemis shuddered at the memory of the hissing fowl and hoped she didn’t look too wild-eyed at her cousin. “Er… the swan?”
Penelope pouted. “I have to find some way to make him notice me instead of her.”
Artemis felt a pang of protectiveness toward her cousin. “You’re beautiful and vivacious, Penelope, dear. I can’t imagine any gentleman not noticing you.”
She forbore pointing out that even had Penelope been plain and retiring, she would still have been the center of attention at all times. Her cousin was the richest heiress in England, after all.
Penelope blinked at her words and almost looked shy.
Miss Royale murmured a “good afternoon” as she crossed in front of them on the way to the portico entrance of Pelham.
Penelope’s eyes narrowed determinedly. “I’ll not let that upstart steal my duke away from me.”
And so saying, she marched off, evidently with the idea of reaching the Duke of Wakefield ahead of Miss Royale.
Artemis sighed. This was going to be a very long fortnight. She crossed to the side of the gravel drive, almost in back of one of the long colonnaded arms, and set Bon Bon gently down on the grass. The elderly dog stretched and then toddled, stiff-legged, to a nearby bush.
“Ah, Miss Greaves.”
She turned to see the Duke of Scarborough striding toward her, looking rather dapper in a scarlet riding habit. “I hope your journey was a comfortable one?”
“Your Grace.” Artemis dipped into a low curtsy, a little confused. Dukes—or indeed any gentlemen—rarely sought her out. “Our journey was quite pleasant. And yours, sir?”
The duke beamed. “Rode my gelding, Samson, with my carriage behind, don’t you know.”
She couldn’t help smiling just a bit. He was such a jovial gentleman—and so pleased with himself. “All the way from London?”
“Yes, indeed.” He puffed out his chest. “I like the exercise. Keeps me youthful. And where is Lady Penelope, if I might enquire?”
“She’s gone ahead to greet the Duke of Wakefield.”
Artemis bent to lift up Bon Bon and the little dog sighed as if in gratitude. When she rose the Duke of Scarborough’s eyes were narrowed. She turned to look where he was gazing. Penelope was leaning close to Wakefield and smiling up at him as she let him kiss her hand.
Scarborough caught Artemis’s curious stare and his expression relaxed into another cheery smile. “Always did like a challenge. May I?”
He took the nécessaire from her hand and offered his arm.
“Thank you.” She laid her fingertips on his arm, reminded again of why she rather liked the elderly duke. In her other arm, Bon Bon laid his little chin on her shoulder.
“Now Miss Greaves,” he said as he led her slowly toward the front doors, “I’m afraid I have an ulterior motive in seeking you out.”
“Do you, Your Grace?”
“Oh, yes.” His eyes twinkled at her merrily. “And I think you’re a bright enough lass to have an inkling of what it is. I wonder if you might tell me the sort of things your cousin likes most in the world.”
“Well…” Artemis glanced at her cousin as she thought about the matter. Penelope was laughing prettily at something the Duke of Wakefield had said, though Artemis noted that the gentleman himself wasn’t smiling. “I suppose she likes the same sort of things most ladies do: jewels, flowers, and beautiful objects of all kinds.” She hesitated, biting her lip, then shrugged. It wasn’t as if it were a secret, after all. “Beautiful, expensive objects.”
