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“Ladies such as we?”
“Of course, dear,” Miss Picklewood said comfortably. “Do you imagine I was born with gray hair and wrinkles? I once was a comely young girl like you. My dear papa loved to play at cards. Unfortunately he was never very good at it. I did have several offers from gentlemen, but I felt we wouldn’t get on well, so I went to live with my Aunt Florence. Quite a persnickety old lady, I’m sad to report, but a good heart underneath it all. After Aunt Florence I went to my brother’s house. You would think the closeness of blood would make the connection dearer, but such was not the case between my brother and me. Possibly our mutual antagonism was made worse by my sister-in-law, a dreadful penny-pincher who resented another mouth to feed in their household. I was forced to return to my aunt. And then…”
They were within sight of Pelham House, and here Miss Picklewood stopped and looked wistfully up at the magnificent mansion. “Then you know the rest. Poor Mary died along with the duke, her husband. Well. Our relation was distant, you know. Quite distant. But Mary and I were bosom bows as girls, and when I heard about the tragedy I came at once. There was a time at the beginning when the lawyers and men of business were swarming ’round, when I thought someone would throw me out. Find another to bring up Hero and Phoebe. But then Maximus started speaking again and that was that. Even at fourteen he had the bearing of a duke. I showed him the letters his mother and I had exchanged, and he made up his mind that I should raise his sisters.”
Miss Picklewood stopped to draw breath and for a moment both ladies stood staring up at Pelham House.
Artemis turned to the older lady. “You said he ‘started speaking again’?”
“Hmm?” Miss Picklewood blinked. “Oh, yes. I suppose not many remember now, but Maximus was so shattered by the deaths of his parents that he went mute for a full fortnight. Why, some of the quacks that came to look at him said his brain was addled by the tragedy. That he’d never speak again. Rubbish, of course. It simply took him time to come to rights again. He was quite sane. Just a sensitive boy.”
A boy who, when he came to himself again, was no longer a boy but the Duke of Wakefield, Artemis thought. “It must have been horrible for him.”
“Yes, it was,” Miss Picklewood said simply. “He witnessed their murders, you know. A terrible shock for such an emotional lad.”
Artemis looked thoughtfully at the older lady. Emotional wasn’t a word she’d ever use to describe the duke.
But perhaps he’d been a different person before the tragedy.
“Goodness!” Miss Picklewood exclaimed. “I have gone off track. Your pardon, my dear. I’m afraid sometimes my words run away from me. I simply wanted to let you know that you and I aren’t that different, after all—we’re merely at dissimilar stages of life. I, too, can understand the temptations of our position. But you must learn to resist them—for your own good.”
“Thank you,” Artemis said gravely, for she knew the advice was meant kindly.
Miss Picklewood cleared her throat. “I do hope this little talk won’t come between us?”
“Not on my part,” Artemis assured her.
The elder lady nodded, evidently satisfied. “Then let us see if refreshments have been laid out for us.”
Artemis nodded. Tea sounded good, and after that she meant to run Penelope to ground.
She needed to return to London and Apollo. And Maximus.
For though Miss Picklewood’s advice was wise, she had no intention of following it.
BETHLEM ROYAL HOSPITAL—OR, as it was more commonly called, Bedlam—was a monolithic monument to charity. Newly built since the Great Fire, its long, low silhouette was all that was modern and grand. Almost as if the governors meant to put icing on the rot within.
Or advertise their wares, Maximus thought cynically as he slipped through the magnificent front gates just as the clock struck midnight. He wore his Ghost of St. Giles costume tonight, for though he had no doubt he could affect Lord Kilbourne’s release as the Duke of Wakefield, it would take time.
Time the madman evidently didn’t have.
Over his head, twin stone figures writhed on the arched gate, one representing Melancholia and the other Raving Madness. Before him was a vast, open courtyard, made monochrome in the moonlight. On holidays the courtyard and building within was flooded with sightseers—all of whom paid a tithe to see the amusements of deranged madmen and madwomen. Maximus had never been himself, but he’d sat listening distastefully often enough as some fashionable lady described the titillating horrors she’d seen with her bosom bows. Over one hundred poor souls were incarcerated here—which meant that if he were to find Kilbourne amongst them, he’d need a guide.
Maximus glided toward the massive front doors and found them, not surprisingly, locked. All the windows were barred to keep the patients safely inside, but there were several side doors for the delivery of food—and perhaps the inmates themselves. He selected one and tried the handle. It, too, was locked. So he tried the next obvious choice.
He knocked.
There was an interminable period of waiting before shuffling could be heard and the door swung open.
Inside, staring at him with wide eyes, was a guard.
Maximus immediately thrust his short sword against the guard’s throat. “Hush.”
The attendant’s mouth opened in an oval of surprise, but he didn’t make a sound. The man was dressed in breeches, waistcoat, and a very ragged coat, his head covered by a soft hat. He’d probably been asleep. No doubt Bedlam was not used to receiving visitors in the middle of the night.
“I wish to see Lord Kilbourne,” Maximus whispered. He was unlikely to ever meet this man again, but it never hurt to be cautious.
The attendant blinked. “ ’E’s in th’ Incurables ward.”
