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And he made himself turn and stride away.
ARTEMIS COULD FEEL Miss Picklewood’s worried gaze on her as the house party tramped across a field toward the ruins of the old abbey. The older lady had made sure to pair Artemis with Lady Phoebe on the walk. Ahead of them, Lady Penelope was bracketed by the Duke of Wakefield on her right and the Duke of Scarborough on her left. Artemis squinted in the sunshine, watching Wakefield’s broad back. She sympathized with Miss Picklewood’s attempt to deflect a potential scandal, but she couldn’t let the other woman’s unease dissuade her from her own mission.
Apollo was dying.
The thought vibrated through her limbs with every casual step. She wanted to run to him. To hold her brother in her arms and reassure herself that she’d have at least one more moment with him.
She couldn’t. She had to hold to her purpose.
Penelope tossed her head and laughed, the ribbons on her bonnet fluttering in the wind.
“She’s got them both on a string, hasn’t she?” Phoebe said quietly.
Artemis blinked, brought back from her own dark thoughts. “Do you think so? I’ve always thought Wakefield a man to himself. If he wants to walk away, he’ll do so without a backward glance.”
“Perhaps,” Phoebe said, “but at the moment what my brother wants is her. I wish sometimes that he’d pause a while and truly consider what it is he’s pursuing.”
“What makes you think he hasn’t?” Artemis said.
Phoebe glanced at her. “If he had, wouldn’t he have realized how ill-matched he and Penelope are?”
“You make the assumption that he cares.”
For a moment Artemis thought she’d caused insult with her blunt words. Then Phoebe slowly shook her head. “You forget. He may have a crusty exterior, but truly my brother isn’t as cold as the world thinks him.”
Artemis already knew that. She’d seen his face as he’d looked at Phoebe, watched his mouth as he’d sung with that beautiful voice. Let him show her his mother’s folly, walked with him in his woods accompanied by his sweet dogs. She knew he was a living, breathing man beneath the ice.
But she couldn’t think of him that way now. She must push aside the affinity she felt for him and sway him to her goal.
If she could only find a way.
She quickened her pace just enough that she and Phoebe began to overtake the trio in front of them. They were almost at the abbey ruins now—a row of gray stone arches that held up empty sky.
“Do you know,” she said to Phoebe as they got within earshot of the three, “I met another such cold man the other day. The Ghost of St. Giles struck me as a man with a heart like an icicle. Very like your brother, in point of fact. I’m surprised that the comparison has never been made before, for they are quite similar. Well, nearly. The duke seems rather cowardly next to the Ghost of St. Giles.”
Wakefield’s back stiffened in front of them.
“Artemis…,” Phoebe began, her voice both puzzled and horrified.
“Ah! Here we are, then,” Miss Picklewood boomed.
Artemis turned to find Miss Picklewood right behind them. Her eyes narrowed. The lady moved very quietly for her age.
“Now, Your Grace,” Miss Picklewood said brightly, speaking to Scarborough. “I believe I once overheard you telling my dear cousin, the late duchess, some terribly interesting ghost stories about the abbey. Perhaps you’ll refresh my memory.”
“Your memory, Miss Picklewood,” Scarborough said, bowing gallantly, “is as sharp as a razor.”
“Oh, but do tell us a story,” Penelope said, clapping her hands.
“Very well, but my tale is a long one, my lady,” the duke said. He drew out a large handkerchief from a pocket and dusted off one of the big tumbled stones that must have at one time made up the abbey’s walls. He laid the square of linen down and gestured. “Please. Take a seat.”
All the ladies found places to sit—save Artemis, who preferred to stand—and the footmen who had trailed the party began serving wine and minuscule cakes pulled from wicker baskets.
“Now then,” Scarborough began, assuming a dramatic pose—feet braced wide apart, one hand comfortably tucked between the buttons of his waistcoat, his other hand gesturing toward the ruins. “Once this was a grand and mighty abbey, erected and inhabited by monks who had taken a vow of silence…”
Artemis paid little attention to Scarborough’s words. She watched the assembled group dispassionately, and then began slowly moving around the outer edge of the guests. She slipped behind Mrs. Jellett, paused a moment, then moved again. Her object was to circle around to where Wakefield stood beside Penelope.
“… and when the maiden woke up, she was served a most wonderful meal by the monks, but of course none of them spoke because they’d all taken their vow of silence…”
