Hero stepped gracefully forward and kissed Miss Picklewood on the cheek. “How are you, Cousin Bathilda?”
“Quite well,” Miss Picklewood said, “but I do declare it has been an age since you brought William ’round.”
As if to emphasize her words, the spaniel gave one sharp bark.
Hero smiled. “I shall correct my error as soon as possible. Tomorrow afternoon, in fact.”
“Splendid!”
“Who is that with you, Hero?” the second lady asked, and Megs felt a pang, for it was Lady Phoebe Batten.
Megs stepped closer, hoping the dim candlelight in the box would help. “It’s me, Phoebe. Megs.”
“Of course,” Phoebe said in a confused flurry. Her eyes were focused on Megs’s face now, but Megs had the sinking feeling that the other woman still couldn’t see her properly. “Are you enjoying the play?”
“Oh, yes,” Megs said, though she’d hardly paid attention. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to one, so this is quite a treat.”
“Robin Goodfellow is so clever,” Miss Picklewood said, and Megs scrambled a bit before she remembered that was the name of the actress in man’s clothing. “I believe I’ve enjoyed every play she’s been in.”
“Harte was very smart to lure Miss Goodfellow away from the Royal,” a deep voice said behind them.
Both Megs and Hero turned to see Maximus Batten, the Duke of Wakefield, standing in the entrance to the box, two ices in his hands.
He quirked an eyebrow. “Had I known you’d join us, Hero, I would’ve gotten more ices.”
“Griffin and Mr. St. John have gone to get them for us,” Hero said. “You remember Lady Margaret?”
“Naturally.” The duke executed a very elegant bow, considering he was holding an ice in each hand.
“Your Grace.” Megs curtsied. She’d been acquainted with the Duke of Wakefield for years—he was a political ally of her brother Thomas—but she didn’t know him well. He’d always struck her as a rather daunting gentleman.
“You know Harte of Harte’s Folly?” Hero asked her brother curiously. She took one of the ices and placed it in Phoebe’s hands.
“Not personally, no,” His Grace replied as he offered the remaining ice to Miss Picklewood. “Actually, I’m not even sure that ‘Harte’ is but one man—the backers of the pleasure garden could be a syndicate of businessmen—but in any case it’s well known that Miss Goodfellow was lured away from her previous theater, probably for an outrageous sum of money. It was a smart business move by whoever runs Harte’s Folly, though. The pleasure garden needed a renowned actress.”
“And Miss Goodfellow is the most renowned breeches-role actress in London,” Viscount d’Arque drawled as he strolled into the box. “Your Grace.” He swept a graceful bow. “Ladies.”
“D’Arque.” The duke eyed him noncommittally.
The viscount’s gaze swept over the ladies appreciatively before landing on Megs. He stepped forward and in a swift move had her fingers in his. “Lady Margaret, you’re looking enchanting this evening.”
Megs’s eyes widened as he bent over her fingers.
Directly behind the viscount was Griffin … and Godric.
“THE INTERVAL MUST be nearly over,” Artemis Greaves murmured. “Perhaps we should return to the box?”
“Oh, pish.” Lady Penelope tossed her head, making the jeweled pins in her dark locks sparkle. “Don’t fret so. I haven’t yet greeted the Duke of Wakefield.”
Artemis sighed silently, shifting Bon Bon in her arms as they strolled the corridor behind the theater boxes. The fluffy white dog gave a groan before falling back to sleep. Artemis wished—not for the first time—that Penelope had even a pinch of sense. The little dog, while quite sweet and docile, was getting too old to be dragged everywhere. She’d yipped when Artemis had lifted her from the carriage, and Artemis suspected rheumatism in the dog’s back legs.
“I don’t see why everyone thinks her so fascinating,” Penelope muttered now, drawing Artemis’s attention.
“Who?”
“Her.” Penelope waved an irritated hand to a tall lady disappearing into a box. “That Hippolyta Royle. Silliest name I’ve ever heard. She’s as dark as a savage from Africa, nearly as tall as a man, and not even titled.”
“She’s also rumored to be fabulously wealthy,” Artemis murmured before she could think.
Penelope turned to look at her, eyes narrowed.
Oh, dear.
“I am the wealthiest heiress in England,” Penelope hissed. “Everyone knows this.”
“Of course,” Artemis murmured placatingly, stroking the sleeping Bon Bon.
Penelope huffed one more exasperated breath and then her tone smoothed as she said, “Oh, here we are.”
And Artemis looked up to see they were at the door to the duke’s box.
Penelope swept in—or at least attempted to. The box, as it turned out, was rather crowded. Artemis squeezed in behind her cousin and glanced around. Lady Hero was here with Lady Margaret as well as Lady Phoebe, Miss Picklewood, the duke himself, Lord Griffin, and Mr. St. John, who appeared to be in a staring contest with Viscount d’Arque.
Well, at least the evening wouldn’t be boring.
Penelope was saying something—probably outrageous—to draw the gentlemen’s attention. Artemis sidled over to Lady Phoebe and sat down next to her.
Phoebe turned her face, leaning close to discreetly inhale. “Artemis?”
“Yes.” Artemis felt quite proud. She’d taken to wearing the same scent—lemons and bay leaf—when she realized that Lady Phoebe sometimes used smell to identify people. She suspected that the other woman could see very little at all when the light was dim—such as tonight at the theater. “I’ve brought Bon Bon, though she’s feeling rather low. I think she has rheumatism.”
“Oh, poor thing.” Phoebe stroked gentle fingers through the little dog’s white fur. “What is going on with the gentlemen? They seemed quite tense when Lord d’Arque entered.”
Artemis tipped her head toward the younger woman until they nearly touched. “Lord d’Arque has been flirting with Lady Margaret, and her husband, Mr. St. John, has taken exception. They made rather a scene at the Kershaw ball.”
“Really?” Phoebe raised her eyebrows, her hazel eyes dancing in her soft, round face. She might be Hero’s sister, but the women were entirely different. Where Hero was tall and willowy, Phoebe was short and plump. “I’m sorry to hear that for Lady Margaret’s sake, but … I do wish I had seen it.” Her mouth curved rather sadly. Except for events where her family carefully guarded her, Lady Phoebe did not go out in society. “I hope you don’t think the worse of me for it.”
“Oh, no, darling.” Artemis patted her knee. “If it weren’t for gentlemen behaving terribly at balls, I would’ve died of boredom long before this.”
Phoebe laughed softly. “What are they doing now?”
“Not much. Lady Penelope is dominating the conversation.” Artemis sighed. “I’m afraid she’s set her cap at your brother.”
Phoebe cocked her head. “Has she?”
“Yes, though I don’t suppose she has much chance.”
Phoebe shrugged. “As much as any lady, I suppose. My brother must marry eventually, and Lady Penelope is a fabulous heiress. He might think it a great advantage.”
“Really?” Artemis frowned, watching as the duke listened to Penelope’s chatter with his head propped on his left hand. He shifted restlessly, the red stone in his gold signet ring catching the light. His expression verged on boredom. “He doesn’t seem particularly enthralled by her.”
“Maximus is enthralled only by politics and his war against the gin trade,” Phoebe said, sounding much too wise for her years. “I don’t think he has any heart left over to give to a lady.”
Artemis shivered. “I wonder if Lady Penelope quite knows what she’s trying to ensnare?”
Phoebe turned her head slightly toward Artemis, her hazel eyes a bit sad. “Would she care? S
he seeks my brother’s title, not the man beneath.”
“No, I suppose you’re quite right,” Artemis said slowly. The realization was rather sad.
Lady Penelope leaned forward with a seductive smile, touched the duke’s sleeve lightly, and turned toward the box’s door.
Artemis recognized Penelope’s usual farewell to a handsome gentleman and began gathering Bon Bon. “I’m afraid we’re leaving now, but it was so nice to chat with you, Phoebe.”
The other woman smiled vaguely. “Enjoy the rest of the play.”
Then Artemis was making her way to the door, trotting to try to catch up with Penelope.
“Did you see the way the duke hung upon my words?” Lady Penelope hissed when Artemis was abreast of her.
“Oh, yes,” Artemis said, not entirely truthfully.
“I think that went very well,” Penelope said with evident satisfaction.
“I am so glad.” Penelope in a good mood might just be amenable to granting a favor. She cleared her throat delicately. “I wonder if I might have the morning off this Friday?”
Penelope’s brows drew together in irritation. “Whatever for?”
Artemis swallowed. “It’s visiting day.”
“I’ve already told you that you need to simply forget him,” Penelope scolded.
Artemis kept silent, for there wasn’t anything she could say that would help her cause—she knew because she’d already tried in the past.
Her cousin heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Very well.”
“Thank you—”
But Penelope’s thoughts were already back with her own affairs. “I saw His Grace’s gaze observe my décolletage at least once. That, in any case, is something that Miss Royle cannot compete with. She’s as flat as a boy.”
Artemis’s brows drew together. “I wasn’t aware Miss Royle was competing.”
“Don’t be naïve, Cousin,” Penelope said as they made their box again. “Any lady with the possibility of success vies for the Duke of Wakefield’s attention. Fortunately, that group is very small indeed.”
Penelope sank into a red velvet chair just as the curtain rose again, and Artemis took the chair next to her. The first part of the play had been quite diverting—not to mention very risqué—and she was looking forward to watching Miss Goodfellow match wits with the male actors.
Penelope shifted next to her, glancing down at the floor and then to the table between the chairs. “Drat.”
“What is it?” Artemis whispered. The orchestra had launched into a lively tune.
“I’ve misplaced my fan.” She looked up, her brow furrowed. “I must’ve left it in the duke’s box. Too bad, because if the play had not already started, I could go back and spend more time with the duke.” She shrugged. “But you’ll have to get it now.”
“Of course.” Artemis sighed silently.
She placed Bon Bon gently on her seat before leaving the box. No one was in the corridor now, and Artemis gathered her skirts to run lightly down the hall. She paused outside the duke’s box to catch her breath and pat at her hair, and as she did so, she couldn’t help but hear the voices within, for the door was not shut fully.
“… must belong to Lady Penelope. It’s far too expensive to be Artemis’s,” Miss Picklewood was saying.
“Who?” came the duke’s bored drawl.
“Artemis Greaves,” Miss Picklewood said. “Come, Maximus, you must’ve noticed that Lady Penelope has a companion.”
Artemis put her hand up to push the door open.
“You mean that invisible little woman who trails her everywhere like a pale wraith?”
The duke’s deep, masculine voice seemed to cut straight through Artemis. In the back of her mind, she noticed absently that her fingers were trembling on the door. Quietly, she balled her fist and let it drop.
“Maximus!” Miss Picklewood’s tone was shocked.
“You must admit it’s an apt description,” the duke replied impatiently. “And I don’t think I can be faulted for not knowing the woman’s name when she does everything she can to blend into the woodwork.”
“Artemis is my friend,” Phoebe said, her tone very firm for one so young.
Artemis took a deep breath and carefully, silently, backed away from the door. She had a sudden horrific image of the door opening by itself and those within finding her there, listening.
She whirled and ran back the way she came. Phoebe’s kind words should’ve healed any hurt the duke had inflicted so carelessly. He didn’t know her, didn’t care to know her. What a man like him thought of a woman like her should make no difference at all to her.
But no matter how many times she repeated this to herself, the arrow of his words still stuck in her bleeding breast.
And she still quivered with rage.
* * *
FOR A MAN who prided himself on his intelligence, it had taken Godric a ridiculously long time to figure out why Megs really wanted to talk to d’Arque. It wasn’t until they were in the duke’s box and she leaned close to d’Arque when she thought Godric wasn’t looking and said, “You must miss Roger Fraser-Burnsby terribly,” that the light had dawned.
D’Arque had been Fraser-Burnsby’s best friend. It was at the viscount’s ball, in fact, that the news had been first brought that Fraser-Burnsby had been murdered. Megs wanted the man as an informant, not as a lover.
And with that realization, all his male jealousy had calmed, letting Godric think again. Not only was d’Arque Fraser-Burnsby’s friend, but he was also one of the men mentioned by Winter Makepeace.
One of the men who might be behind the lassie snatchers.
So, as they’d all left Wakefield’s box, Godric had turned to d’Arque and, ignoring Megs’s expression of apprehension and Reading’s narrowed eyes, invited the man back to their box.
He’d had the pleasure of seeing swiftly masked surprise on the viscount’s face before the man had accepted the invitation.
Which was how Godric came to find himself sitting between the two men he liked least in the world.
The play began again and Megs and Lady Hero, sitting in front of the men, turned rapt faces toward the stage.
D’Arque waited a beat before murmuring under his breath, “Your courtesy astounds me, St. John. Should I beware a dagger ’tween my ribs?”
Godric turned his head very slightly toward the other man, his face expressionless. He might understand that Megs wanted nothing more than information from this fop, but that didn’t forgive the viscount’s flirtation with his wife. “Do you deserve one?”
On his other side, Griffin sighed heavily before muttering between his teeth, “No doubt he does, St. John, but it might disturb the ladies should the box suddenly flood with blood.”
A wave of laughter rose through the theater as evidently the actors did something amusing onstage.
Godric cleared his throat. “Actually, I wanted to know what you’ve told my wife about Fraser-Burnsby.”
D’Arque stiffened. “I told her the truth: Roger was a very good friend of mine.”
Godric nodded. “Do you know anything about his death?”
The viscount’s eyes narrowed. He was a notorious rake, a man who seemed to spend his days—and nights—chasing women, but Godric had never thought him stupid. For a moment he waited for the question—why was he asking about Fraser-Burnsby’s death in the first place?—then d’Arque shrugged. “All the world knows that the Ghost of St. Giles killed my friend.”
Godric felt Lord Griffin’s swift glance. “But he didn’t.”
“And how do you know this?” The viscount’s words were scoffing, but his expression was reluctantly interested.
“I just do,” Godric said low. “Someone murdered Roger Fraser-Burnsby and blamed it on a convenient culprit: the Ghost of St. Giles.”
“Even if that was so,” d’Arque whispered, “what has that to do with your wife?”
Reading inhaled as if to interject something, but Godric was faster. “She wa
s fond of Fraser-Burnsby and has taken up the cause of finding his murderer, I’m afraid.”
“What?” Reading’s exclamation was overloud, and both the ladies in front moved as if to turn and see what the commotion was about. Fortunately, something happened onstage at that moment, eliciting a gasp from the audience.
Godric waited until he was certain that the ladies’ attention was on the play. Then he sent a look to Reading. “I have no doubt you’d know this yourself had you asked your sister about her return to London.”
A dull flush lit Reading’s face. “My relationship with Megs is none of your business—”
“False,” Godric clipped out. “You made certain of that the day you signed the marriage settlement.”
“Fascinating as this discussion is, gentlemen,” d’Arque broke in quietly, “I’m more interested in the death of my friend. Who killed Roger if not the Ghost?”
“I don’t know,” Godric said.
The viscount leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his jaw. In the silence a feminine voice rose onstage in a bawdy song.
At last d’Arque looked at Godric. “If your assertion is true—which, I am not yet ready to entirely concede—then Roger’s murder wasn’t a mere robbery or matter of happenstance. Someone killed him and then attempted to cover up the crime.”
Godric nodded.
“But that can’t be,” d’Arque said slowly as if talking to himself. “Roger had no enemies. Everyone liked him—they had ever since we were both schoolboys. He’d smile at the most misanthropic bully and suddenly they were a jolly bosom-bow. I truly can’t think of anyone who would’ve wanted to kill him.”
“There were no witnesses?” Reading asked.
D’Arque’s eyes flicked to him. “There was a footman. He was the one who came to tell us of the news during a ball at my home.”
“Did you question him?” Godric asked.
“Only briefly.” The viscount hesitated. “His name was Harris. He disappeared in the weeks following Roger’s death. I remember a note came later asking that his things be sent to the One Horned Goat in St. Giles.”
“This footman, he was the one who reported that the Ghost was the murderer?” Reading asked.