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Foolish notion. “I talked long into the night with Lord Oddershaw,” he said. “Is that Lady Penelope’s dog?” He looked down at the dog sniffing around his ankles. He didn’t remember ever seeing the animal so muddy—or so active.
“Yes.” She fell into step with him as easily as if they’d been doing this for years. “What were you talking to Lord Oddershaw about?”
He glanced at her. She wore a brown dress he’d seen innumerable times on her before and he remembered her wardrobe with its three dresses: two for day and one for evening balls. “We discussed politics. I doubt a lady such as yourself would be interested.”
“Why?”
He frowned. “Why what?”
“Why wouldn’t a lady such as myself be interested in your political discussion, Your Grace?” Her tone was perfectly correct and yet somehow he thought she was mocking him.
As a result his voice might’ve been a trifle brusque. “It had to do with canals and a proposed act of my own to eradicate the gin trade in London amongst the poor. Fascinating stuff, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”
She didn’t rise to the bait. “What do canals have to do with the gin trade?”
“Nothing.” He picked up a stick and threw it rather overhard for Percy, not that the silly spaniel minded. The dog took off, barking joyfully, as Lady Penelope’s pet tried gallantly to keep up. Apparently the odd pair had become friends. “Oddershaw is angling for me to back his act opening a canal in Yorkshire that will benefit his mining interests before he’ll throw his support behind my Gin Act.”
“And you don’t want to support his canal?” She picked up her skirts to step over a tree root and he saw the flash of her white ankle. She’d taken off her shoes again.
“It’s not that.” Maximus frowned. The intricacies of parliamentarian politics were so twisted that he didn’t often like to discuss them with ladies or men uninterested in politics. Everything built upon another thing, and it was rather hard to explain the entire tangled mess. He glanced again at Miss Greaves.
She was watching the path, but she looked up as if she felt his gaze and met his eyes, her own impatient. “Well? What is it, then?”
He found himself smiling. “This is the third canal act Oddershaw has proposed. He’s using Parliament to line his pockets. Not”—he shook his head wryly—“that he’s the only one doing it. Most, I suppose, want laws that’ll help themselves. But Oddershaw is rather egregiously open about it.”
“So you won’t do as he wishes?”
“Oh, no,” he said softly. Grimly. “I’ll back his damned act. I need his vote and, more important, the votes of his cronies.”
“Why?” She stopped and faced him, her brows knit faintly as if she truly wanted to know about his political mechanisms. Or perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps she wanted to know his mind.
Or his soul.
“You’ve been in St. Giles,” he said, turning to her. “You’ve seen the desolation, the… the disease that gin causes there.” He took a step closer to her without conscious thought. “There are women who sell their babies in St. Giles for a sip of gin. Men who rob and kill just to have another cup. Gin’s the rot that lies at the heart of London, and it will bring her down if it’s not stopped. That damned drink must be cauterized like a festering wound, cut clean out, or the entire body will fail, don’t you see?” He stopped and stared at her, realizing that his voice was too loud, his tone too heated. He swallowed. “Don’t you see?”
He stood over her almost threateningly, yet Miss Greaves merely watched him, her head slightly cocked. “You’re very passionate on the matter.”
He looked away, taking a careful step back. “It’s my business—my duty as a member of the House of Lords—to be passionate on the matter.”
“Yet men such as Lord Oddershaw aren’t. You just said so.” She moved closer to him, peering into his face as if all his hidden secrets were somehow made plain to her there. “I wonder why you might care so much for St. Giles?”
He swung on her, a snarl at his lips. Care for St. Giles? Hadn’t he already made it plain to her that he hated the place?
It was as if icy water poured over him. His head snapped back. No. He hadn’t told her his feelings on St. Giles before—at least not as the Duke of Wakefield.
The Ghost had.
Maximus squared his shoulders carefully and turned back to the path. “You mistake me, Miss Greaves. It’s the gin and its ungodly trade I care about—not where it’s plied. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to ready myself for the morning so that I might attend to my guests.”
He whistled for the dogs and strode away, but as he did so, he was very aware of one fact:
Miss Greaves was a dangerous woman.
THAT AFTERNOON FOUND Artemis once again arm in arm with Phoebe as they strolled out the south doors of Pelham. Luncheon had been a rather tiresome affair, as she’d been seated next to Mr. Watts, who was interested only in argument and his own opinion. She was glad to spend a moment with Phoebe, not least because she wasn’t in the habit of shouting in Artemis’s ear.
Phoebe squinted at the green beyond the formal garden. “What are they doing?”
Artemis looked to the green where the guests were already gathering. “They’ve set up an exercise yard, I think. Your brother mentioned something about games earlier—I believe the gentlemen will be demonstrating their dueling skills. Here’s where the gravel turns to grass.”
