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Artemis meandered for a bit, not worrying about their destination, she and the dogs, and then, suddenly, the trees parted. Ahead was a pond, the morning sun shining off the dappled water. At the far side of the pond was a clever rustic bridge that led to a small, artfully tumbling tower at the other end.
The two greyhounds went immediately to the pond’s edge to drink while the spaniel decided simply to wade in until he could lap the water without bending his head.
Artemis stood at the tree line, watching the dogs, tilting her face to scent the woods.
A shrill whistle broke the tranquility.
All three dogs lifted their heads. The taller greyhound—a brindled brown-and-gold female—took off toward the bridge, the other greyhound—a red female—right behind. The spaniel bounded to shore in a shower of water, shaking vigorously before barking and following.
There was a figure on the other side of the bridge, drawing closer. A man in worn boots and an aged coat that once had been of exquisite cut. He was tall, with broad shoulders, and he moved like a great cat. A floppy hat covered his head, obscuring his features. For a moment Artemis inhaled in shocked recognition.
But then he stepped into the light and she saw that she’d been mistaken.
It was the Duke of Wakefield.
MAXIMUS SAW MISS Greaves standing at the edge of the woods like a suspicious dryad and thought, Naturally. What other lady would be up and about so scandalously early? What other lady would make his dogs desert him?
Those same dogs ran to him as if to share with him their new friend. Belle and Starling milled around his feet while Percy planted muddy paws on his thigh and drooled upon his coat.
“Traitors,” Maximus murmured to the greyhounds, not bothering to reprimand the disheveled spaniel. He glanced across the pond, half expecting Miss Greaves to have disappeared, but she was still watching him.
“Good morning,” he called.
He approached her as he would a wild, woodland creature: gingerly and with an attempt to appear harmless, but she didn’t start. He amended the analogy as he drew closer: a wild animal would show fear.
uke of Scarborough nodded vigorously as though she’d imparted some wonderful wisdom. “Indeed, indeed, my dear Miss Greaves. Lady Penelope should be showered with all that is most lovely. But is there anything else you might tell me? Anything at all?”
They were nearly to the portico and on impulse Artemis ducked her head to murmur, “What Penelope really adores is attention. Pure, undivided attention.”
The Duke of Scarborough just had time to wink and say, “You’re a marvel, Miss Greaves, truly you are.”
And then they were climbing the steps to where the Duke of Wakefield stood with Penelope beside him.
“Your Grace.” Wakefield’s bow was curt enough to nearly be insulting. His cold eyes flicked between Scarborough and Artemis and one corner of his mouth crimped. “Welcome to Pelham House.” He merely glanced at a waiting footman and the man promptly stepped forward. “Henry will show you to your rooms.”
“Thank you, sir!” The Duke of Scarborough grinned. “A nice little house you have here, Wakefield. I confess it quite puts my own country seat, Clareton, to shame. Of course I’ve recently built a music room at Clareton.” Scarborough’s eyes widened innocently. “Pelham hasn’t been updated since your dear father’s time, has it?”
If Wakefield was bothered by the rather obvious jab, he didn’t show it. “My father had the south facade on the opposite side of the building rebuilt, as I’m sure you remember, Scarborough.”
Artemis realized with a start that Scarborough was of an age to have been a contemporary of Wakefield’s father. What did Wakefield feel, welcoming his father’s friend to his home? Seeing what his father might’ve looked like had he lived? She examined Wakefield’s face. Nothing at all, if one were to go by his expression.
For a moment the Duke of Scarborough’s face softened. “Had all those windows put in to overlook the garden for your mother, didn’t he? Mary always did like her gardens.”
It was slight, but Artemis thought she saw a muscle tic underneath the Duke of Wakefield’s left eye. For some reason the small reaction prompted her into speech. “What sort of instruments have you in your new music room, Your Grace?”
“I confess, none at all.”
Artemis blinked. “You haven’t any musical instruments in your music room?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the point in it?” Penelope asked rather irritably, joining the conversation for the first time. “ ’Tisn’t a music room without musical instruments.”
Scarborough looked suspiciously crestfallen. “Oh, dear, I hadn’t thought of that, my lady. I confess I was so interested in hiring the most talented Italian artist to paint the murals on the ceiling, finding the best imported pink marble, and making sure that the workmen used enough gold to gild the walls and ceiling that I forgot all about the musical instruments themselves.”
Lady Penelope turned, almost as if against her will, to the Duke of Scarborough. “Gold…”
“Oh, quite.” Scarborough leaned forward earnestly. “I do think one shouldn’t stint on gilding, don’t you? Makes one look so damnably frugal.”
