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“Continue,” Maximus murmured without turning. He stood in only his smallclothes now and looked up. Spaced irregularly along the ceiling were iron rings he’d sunk into the stone.
“Lady Penelope is considered one of the foremost beauties of the age,” Craven intoned.
Maximus leaped and clung to a pillar. He dug his bare toes into a crack and pushed, reaching for a slim finger hold he knew lay above his head. He grunted as he pulled himself toward the ceiling and the nearest iron ring.
“Just last year she was courted by no less than two earls and a foreign princeling.”
“Is she a virgin?” The ring was just out of arm’s reach—a deliberate placing that on mornings such as this Maximus sometimes cursed. He shoved off from the pillar, arm outstretched. If his fingers missed the ring, the floor was very, very hard below.
But he caught it one-handed, the muscles on his shoulder pulling as he let his weight swing him to the next ring. And the next.
“Almost certainly, Your Grace,” Craven called from below as Maximus easily swung from ring to ring across the cavernous room and back. “Although the lady has a certain amount of high spirits, she still seems to understand the importance of prudence.”
Maximus snorted as he caught the next ring. This one was a little closer together than the last and he hung between them, his arms in a wide V above his head. He could feel the heat across his shoulders and arms now. He pointed his toes. Slowly, deliberately, he folded in half until his toes nearly touched the ceiling above his head.
He held the position, breathing deeply, his arms beginning to tremble. “I wouldn’t call last night prudent.”
“Perhaps not,” Craven conceded, the wince evident in his voice. “In that regard I must report that although Lady Penelope is proficient in needlework, dancing, playing the harpsichord, and drawing, she is not considered a great talent in any of these endeavors. Nor is Lady Penelope’s wit held in high esteem by those who know her. This is not to say that the lady’s intellect is in any way deficient. She is simply not… er…”
“She’s a ninny.”
Craven hummed noncommittally and stared at the ceiling.
Maximus straightened and let go of the iron rings, landing lightly on the balls of his feet. He crossed to a low bench where an array of different-sized cannonballs lay. He selected one that fit easily in his palm, hoisted it to his shoulder, sprinted across the length of the cellar, and heaved the cannonball at a bank of straw pallets placed against the far wall especially for that purpose. The ball flew through the straw and clanged dully against the stone wall.
“Well done, Your Grace.” Craven permitted himself a small smile as Maximus jogged back. The expression was oddly comical on his lugubrious face. “The straw bales are undoubtedly cowed.”
“Craven.” Maximus fought the twitching of his own lips. He was the Duke of Wakefield and no one was permitted to laugh at Wakefield—not even himself.
He picked up another lead ball.
“Quite. Quite.” The valet cleared his throat. “In summary then: Lady Penelope is very wealthy, very beautiful, and very fashionable and gay, but does not possess particular intelligence or, er… a sense of self-preservation. Shall I cross her off the list, Your Grace?”
“No.” Maximus repeated his previous exercise with a second cannonball. A chip of stone flew off the wall. He made a mental note to bring down more straw.
When he turned it was to find Craven staring at him in confusion. “But surely Your Grace wishes for more than an ample dowry, an aristocratic lineage, and beauty in a bride?”
Maximus looked at the valet hard. They’d had this discussion before. Craven had just listed the most important assets in a suitable wife. Common sense—or the lack thereof—wasn’t even on the ledger.
For a moment he saw clear gray eyes and a determined feminine face. Miss Greaves had brought a knife into St. Giles last night—there’d been no mistaking the gleam of metal in her boot top. And what was more, she’d appeared quite ready to use it. Then as now a spark of admiration lit within him. What other lady in his acquaintance had ever displayed such grim courage?
Then he shook the frivolous notion away and returned his mind to the business at hand. His father had died for him, and he would do nothing less than honor his memory by marrying the most suitable candidate for his duchess. “You know my thoughts on the subject. Lady Penelope is a perfect match for the Duke of Wakefield.”
Maximus picked up another cannonball and chose to pretend he didn’t hear Craven’s soft reply.
“But is she a match for the man?”
THERE WERE THOSE who compared Bedlam to hell—a writhing purgatory of torture and insanity. But Apollo Greaves, Viscount Kilbourne, knew what Bedlam really was. It was limbo.
A place of interminable waiting.
Waiting for the restless moaning in the night to be over. Waiting for the scrape of heel on stone that heralded a stale piece of bread to break his fast. Waiting for the chilly splash of water that was called a bath. Waiting for the stink of the bucket that served as his commode to be emptied. Waiting for food. Waiting for drink. Waiting for fresh air. Waiting for something—anything—to prove that he still lived and was, in fact, not mad at all.
At least not yet.
Above all, Apollo waited for his sister, Artemis, to visit him in limbo.
She came when she could, which was usually once a week. Just often enough for him to keep his sanity, really. Without her he would’ve lost it long, long ago.
