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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.”
They stepped carefully onto the green as Artemis described the scene for Phoebe. Several footmen stood about holding various swords while others were setting down chairs for the ladies to take as they observed the demonstration. Wakefield snapped his fingers and pointed and two chairs were instantly placed at the front for him.
Phoebe sighed. “This won’t be that interesting unless someone misses and pinks their opponent.”
“Phoebe!” Artemis scolded under her breath.
“You know it’s true.” How could Phoebe look so very innocent and have such bloodthirsty thoughts? “We’ll all have to make admiring noises while the gentlemen scowl and try to look dangerous.”
Artemis’s amusement was dampened by the sight of Wakefield carefully helping Penelope to the seat he’d provided. Next to her, the footmen began to make a row of chairs. Penelope beamed up at the duke, her face quite impossibly beautiful in the autumn sun. Artemis remembered how ferocious he’d looked as he’d described the devastation gin wrought in London. Did he save his passions for the floor of Parliament? For he wore a mask of calm politeness now. No, she couldn’t imagine him letting that mask slip even in the heat of political argument.
“Who is going first?” Phoebe asked as they took their own seats two rows behind Wakefield and Penelope.
Artemis tore her gaze away from the duke, and reminded herself that she’d already decided that there was no percentage in pining after the man. “Lord Noakes and Mr. Barclay.”
Phoebe’s nose wrinkled. “Really? I wasn’t aware that Mr. Barclay did anything more strenuous than lift an eyebrow.”
Artemis snorted softly, watching the duelists. Lord Noakes was a man in his late fifties, of medium height and with a very small paunch. Mr. Barclay was at least twenty years younger, but didn’t look nearly as fit. “He seems quite serious. He’s taken off his coat and is swishing his sword about in a manly manner.” She winced at a particularly vehement move. “Oh, dear.”
“What? What?”
Artemis leaned closer to Phoebe, for Mrs. Jellett had cocked her head in front of them as if trying to hear their murmured conversation. “Mr. Barclay nearly took off one of the footmen’s noses with his sword.”
Phoebe giggled, the sound sweet and girlish, and Wakefield glanced over, his dark, cold eyes meeting Artemis’s so suddenly it was almost like plunging her hand into snow. His gaze flicked to his sister beside her and the lines that bracketed his firm lips softened. Strange that here and now they were hardly acquaintances, yet in the woods they were something very close to friends.
The duelists raised their swords.
The match was utterly without surprises. All gentlemen were taught from a young age how to duel—to use swords with elegance and grace, more a dance than any real fighting. Artemis knew that there were schools in London where aristocrats went to perfect their form, exercise, and learn the rules of sword fighting. They were all trained, either well or not, and they all used the same regimented movements. She couldn’t help comparing the two males’ lunging in precise steps that probably had flowery French names with the Ghost’s moving with deadly intent. The two gentlemen in front of her wouldn’t last a minute with the Ghost, she realized. The thought sent an elated thrill of triumph through her. She really ought to be ashamed of such a bloody bias.
But she wasn’t. She wasn’t.
The duel ended with the courteous touch of a blunted sword tip to Lord Noakes’s embroidered waistcoat, just over his heart.
Phoebe discreetly yawned behind her palm when Artemis related the scene.
Lord Oddershaw and Mr. Watts were next. By the time the Duke of Scarborough took off his coat for the third demonstration, Artemis was watching the back of Wakefield’s head as he bent politely once more to hear Penelope’s chatter and wondering if he was as bored as she was. He was attentive to her cousin, but Artemis had a hard time believing he really found her conversation very interesting.
She grimaced and looked away. What a sour woman she was becoming! She had a sudden awful vision of herself as a crabby old lady, shuffling along in whatever house she landed in as her cousin’s companion, faded, dusty, and forgotten.
“Oh, that’s interesting.”
Artemis looked up at Phoebe’s soft exclamation. “What?”
“You said it was the Duke of Scarborough in front of Maximus and Penelope?” Phoebe nodded discreetly to where the older man stood in front of her brother and Penelope. Scarborough was grinning and bending over Penelope’s hand. “He isn’t used to that.”
“What?” Artemis jerked her gaze away to stare at her companion. “Who?”
“Maximus.” Phoebe had a fond smile on her face—an expression that Artemis had a hard time reconciling with the autocratic iceberg that was Wakefield. “With a rival. He usually just indicates what he wants and others rush to see that he gets it.”
Artemis bit her lip, stifling a smile at the image of servants, family, and friends scurrying to fulfill the duke’s every whim as he strode by, oblivious.
As if somehow he was aware of her amusement, Wakefield turned at that moment and glanced at her.
She inhaled, lifting her head, as she met his dark eyes.
Penelope placed her hand on his sleeve and he turned back.
Artemis looked down and only then realized her hands were trembling. She grasped them together. “Do you really think Scarborough any sort of competition for your brother?”
