AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“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.…
—from The Legend of the Herla King
Maximus woke just before dawn with a gasp, the image of his mother’s white face burned into the darkness behind his eyelids, the emeralds ripped from her lifeless neck. The stink of gin seemed to linger in the air, but he knew that was merely a phantom from the dream.
Percy nosed his hand as he lay in the ancient Wakefield ducal bed. Above him, dark green drapes surrounded a gilded coronet carved into the canopy. Had any of his ancestors been plagued by dreams and doubts? Judging by the proud faces lining his gallery, he thought not. Each of those men had attained their title by the peaceful death of their father or grandfather. Not by violent murder unavenged.
He deserved his nightmares.
Percy licked his fingers with disgusting dog sympathy, and Maximus sighed and rose. The spaniel backed a step and sat, wagging his tail enthusiastically as he dressed. Percy, like the other dogs, was supposed to spend the night in the stables, but despite the fact that he wasn’t nearly as clever as Belle or Starling, he somehow usually found a way past innumerable footmen and Craven into Maximus’s bedroom at night. It was rather a mystery how he managed it. Perhaps providence had granted luck where it hadn’t graced intelligence.
“Come.” Maximus slapped his thigh and strode from the room, the spaniel trotting after.
He nodded to a sleepy maid before trekking to the stables to pick up the greyhounds. Both pushed their soft, silky heads into his palms while Percy yipped and ran a wide circle around them, skittering on the dew-damp cobblestones. Greetings done, they headed for the woods.
The sun was just rising, its pale rays lighting the leaves. It would be a beautiful day, perfect for the afternoon picnic and frivolities. Yesterday had been a success, if he judged rightly, in his planned courtship of Lady Penelope. She’d hung on his arm and giggled—sometimes at the oddest moments—and seemed altogether enthralled. If her enchantment was for his title and money rather than for his person, well, that was how it was naturally done at their rank and to be expected. The thought shouldn’t bring a darkening of his mood.
Percy flushed a hare and the dogs were off, crashing through the underbrush with all the subtlety of a regiment of soldiers. Two birds were startled by the chase and he looked up, watching their flight.
And then he was aware that he was no longer alone.
His heart certainly did not leap at her presence.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” Miss Greaves was bareheaded, wearing her usual mud-brown costume. Her cheeks were pink from her morning walk, her lips a deep rose.
