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She appeared a moment later, peering around the corner, her sweet, grave face brightening at the sight of him. Artemis wore a worn but clean brown gown, and a straw bonnet she’d had for at least five years, the straw mended in small, neat stitches over her right ear. Her gray eyes were lit with warmth and worry for him, and she seemed to bring a waft of clear air with her, which was impossible: how could one smell the absence of stink?

“Brother,” she murmured in her low, quiet voice. She advanced into his cell without any sign of the disgust she must feel at the uncovered slop bucket in the corner or his own damnable state—the fleas and lice had long ago made a feast out of his hide. “How are you?”

It was a silly question—he was now, and had been for the last four years, wretched—but she asked it earnestly, for she truly worried that his state might someday grow worse than it already was. In that, at least, she was correct: there was always death, after all.

Not that he would ever let her know how close to death he’d come in the past.

“Oh, I’m just divine,” he said, grinning, hoping she didn’t notice that his gums bled at the smallest motion these days. “The buttered kidneys were excellent this morning as were the shirred eggs and gammon steak. I must compliment the cook, but I find myself somewhat detained.”

He gestured with his manacled feet. A long chain led from the manacles to a great iron ring on the wall. The chain was long enough for him to stand and take two steps in either direction, but no more.

“Apollo,” she said, and her voice was gently chiding, but her lips curved so he considered his clowning a victory. She set down the small, soft sack she’d been holding in her hand. “I’m sorry to hear you’ve already dined since I brought some roast chicken. I do hope you’re not too full to enjoy it.”

orted to himself as he tapped the razor against a porcelain bowl, shaking soap froth and whiskers from the blade. Behind him Craven began laying out smallclothes, stockings, a black shirt, waistcoat, and breeches. Maximus turned his head, scraping the last bit of lather from his jaw, and used a dampened cloth to wipe his face.

“Did you find the information?” he asked as he donned smallclothes.

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Craven rinsed the razor and carefully dried the fine blade. He laid it in a fitted velvet-lined box as reverently as if the razor had been the relic of some dead saint.

“And?”

Craven cleared his throat as if preparing to recite poetry before the king. “The Earl of Brightmore’s finances are, as far as I’ve been able to ascertain, quite happy. In addition to his two estates in Yorkshire, both with arable land, he is in possession of three producing coal mines in the West Riding, an ironworks in Sheffield, and has recently bought interest in the East India Company. At the beginning of the year he opened a fourth coal mine, and in so doing accrued some debt, but the reports from the mine are quite favorable. The debt in my estimation is negligible.”

Maximus grunted as he pulled on his breeches.

Craven continued, “As to the earl’s daughter, Lady Penelope Chadwicke, it’s well known that Lord Brightmore plans to offer a very nice sum when she is wed.”

Maximus lifted a cynical eyebrow. “Do we have an actual number?”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Craven pulled a small notebook from his pocket and, licking his thumb, paged through it. Peering down at the notebook, he read off a sum so large Maximus came close to doubting Craven’s research skills.

“Good God. You’re sure?”

Craven gave him a faintly chiding look. “I have it on the authority of the earl’s lawyer’s chief secretary, a rather bitter gentleman who cannot hold his liquor.”

“Ah.” Maximus arranged his neck cloth and shrugged on his waistcoat. “Then that leaves only Lady Penelope herself.”

“Quite.” Craven tucked his notebook away and pursed his lips, staring at the ceiling. “Lady Penelope Chadwicke is four and twenty years of age and her father’s sole living offspring. Despite her rather advanced maiden status, she does not lack for suitors, and indeed appears to be only unwed because of her own… ah… unusually high standards in choosing a gentleman.”

“She’s finicky.”

Craven winced at the blunt assessment. “It would appear so, Your Grace.”

Maximus nodded as he opened his bedroom door. “We’ll continue downstairs.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Craven picked up a candle and lit it at the fireplace.

A wide corridor lay outside his bedroom. To the left was the front of the house and the grand staircase that led to the public rooms of Wakefield House.

Maximus turned to the right, Craven trotting at his heels. This way led to the servants’ stairs and other less public rooms. Maximus opened a door paneled to look like the wainscoting in the hall and clattered down the uncarpeted stairs. He passed the entrance to the kitchens and continued down another level. The stairs ended abruptly, blocked by a plain wooden door. Maximus took a key from his waistcoat pocket and unlocked the door. Beyond was another set of stairs, but these were stone, so ancient the treads dipped in the middle, worn away by long-dead feet. Maximus followed them down as Craven lit candles tucked into the nooks in the stone walls.

Maximus ducked under a low stone arch and came to a small paved area. The candlelight behind him flickered over worn stone walls. Here and there figures were scratched in the stone: symbols and crude human representations. Maximus doubted very much that they’d been made during the age of Christianity. Directly ahead was a second door, the wood blackened by age. He unlocked this as well and pushed it open.

Behind the door was a cellar, long and with a surprisingly high ceiling, the groin vaulting picked out in smaller, decorative stone. Sturdy pillars paced along the floor, their capitals carved into crude shapes. His father and grandfather had used the space as a wine cellar, but Maximus wouldn’t have been surprised if this hidden room had originally been built as a place to worship some ancient pagan deity.

Behind him Craven shut the door, and Maximus began taking off his waistcoat. It seemed a waste of time to dress and then undress again five minutes later every morning, but a duke never appeared in dishabille—even within his own house.

Craven cleared his throat.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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