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“Well, we were there, weren’t we?” Artemis retorted.

Penelope waved a dismissive hand. “That’s different. I was on a grand adventure.”

“Which nearly got you both killed, by the sound of it,” Phoebe whispered in Artemis’s ear.

“Come, my lady,” Scarborough said jovially. “Enough of this talk of scoundrels. You promised to sing for us, I remember. Will you do it now?”

“Oh, yes.” Penelope immediately brightened at the prospect of being at the center of attention. “I just need an accompanist.”

“I can play,” Phoebe said, “if I know the piece you’ll be singing.”

Artemis helped her navigate across the room to the clavichord.

“What would you like to perform?” Phoebe asked as she settled gracefully at her instrument.

Penelope smiled. “Do you know ‘The Shepherdess’s Lament?’ ”

Artemis stifled a sigh and found a seat. Penelope had a very small repertoire that consisted of rather sentimental and treacly songs.

Wakefield lowered himself beside her and she couldn’t help but stiffen a little.

“A miss, I think,” he murmured out of the side of his mouth as they watched Penelope tilt her chin very high and extend one hand. “You can do much better than that.”

“Are you challenging me, Your Grace?”

A corner of his mouth curled up, though he didn’t look at her. “Only a fool would provoke his nemesis. What in hell is she doing?”

Artemis glanced back to the musician and singer. Penelope had laid one hand on her stomach, her other still extended unnaturally, and assumed a tragic look. “That’s her performing stance, Your Grace. I’m sure you’ll become quite accustomed to it when you marry my cousin.”

The duke winced. “Touché.”

Phoebe began playing with a skill and dash beyond her years.

Artemis raised her brows in delight, whispering to the duke, “Your sister is a wonderful player.”

“That she is,” he said softly.

And then Penelope sang. It wasn’t that she was a bad songstress, per se, but her soprano voice was thin and on certain notes, quite sharp.

Then, too, the piece she’d chosen was unfortunate.

“ ‘Venture not to pet my woolly lamb,’ ” Penelope warbled, not quite hitting the right note on “lamb.” “ ‘For she is shy and too gentle for a man’s wicked hand.’ ”

“Do you know,” Mrs. Jellett said thoughtfully from behind them, “I do believe this song may have a double meaning.”

Artemis caught the duke’s sardonic gaze and felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

“Behave, Miss Greaves,” he murmured under his breath, his voice husky and deep.

“Fine words for a man who runs about St. Giles at night in a mask,” she whispered.

He frowned, glancing around. “Hush.”

She arched one eyebrow. “Why?”

The look he gave her was somehow disappointed. “That’s the way of it, then?”

There was absolutely no reason to feel shame. Artemis lifted her chin. “Yes. Unless you wish to do as I asked you this morn?”

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