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Then the handkerchief fluttered to the ground.
Scarborough lunged forward, astoundingly agile for a man his age. Wakefield caught his first thrust and retreated, moving carefully. It was evident at once that he either was a much less practiced swordsman… or he was holding back.
“Scarborough is pressing him,” Artemis said anxiously. “Your brother is only defending.”
Scarborough smirked as he said something so low only his opponent could hear.
Wakefield’s face went completely blank.
“Your Grace,” Wakefield’s valet called in warning.
Wakefield blinked and cautiously stepped backward.
Scarborough’s lips moved again.
And then something unexpected happened. The Duke of Wakefield transformed. He crouched low, his body flowing into an elegant threat as he attacked the older man with a kind of brutal grace. Scarborough’s eyes widened, his own sword parrying blow after blow as he backed hastily. Wakefield’s sword flashed in the sunlight, his movements too fast to interpret, his lean body dangerous, and controlled, and Artemis had the sudden realization that he was toying with Scarborough.
She was standing now, unaware of having left her seat, her heart beating unnaturally fast.
“What’s happening?” Phoebe stood as well, pulling frantically at her arm.
Wakefield lunged without fear, without hesitation, at the older man using a flurry of precise, deadly blows that, had the swords been sharp…
“He’s…” Artemis choked, her mouth hanging open.
She’d seen this before.
Wakefield didn’t move like a dancer. He moved like a great jungle cat. Like a man who knew how to kill.
Like a man who had killed.
Scarborough stumbled, his face shining with sweat. Wakefield was on him in seconds, a tiger pouncing for the kill, his lip curled into almost languid dismissal of the other man as his sword descended toward—
“Your Grace!”
The valet’s shout seemed to loop about Wakefield’s neck and jerk him back like a noose. He froze, his great chest heaving, his snow-white sleeves fluttering in the breeze. Scarborough stared at him, gape-mouthed, his sword still half-raised in defense.
Wakefield deliberately touched his sword to the ground.
“What is it?” Phoebe asked. “What is it?”
“I…” Artemis blinked. “I don’t know. Your brother has lowered his sword.”
Scarborough wiped his brow, then he moved toward Wakefield gingerly as if not quite believing that he was no longer under attack. Scarborough’s blunted sword tip hit Wakefield on the throat, a blow strong enough that it would bruise. The smaller man stood there for a moment, panting, almost as if he were surprised by his victory.
“Scarborough’s won,” Artemis murmured absently.
Wakefield spread wide his arms in surrender and opened his right hand so that his sword fell to the ground.
He turned his head to meet Artemis’s gaze.
His eyes were dark, dangerous, and not at all cold. He burned with an internal inferno she wanted to touch. She stared into the gaze of a tiger and knew, even as she watched the cat retreat into the camouflage of a gentleman:
The Duke of Wakefield was the Ghost of St. Giles.
Chapter Six
A fortnight later it was King Herla’s turn to attend the Dwarf King’s wedding. He took the strongest and best of his men and, entering a dark cavern, rode into the depths of the earth itself, for the land of the dwarves is deep underground. They journeyed for a day and a night, traveling ever lower, until they came to a vast, open plain. Above, rock curved, craggy and jagged, like an ominous sky, and below lay the cottages, lanes, and town squares of Dwarfland.…
