Maiden Lane [6] Duke of Midnight by Elizabeth Hoyt Page A

on St. Giles before—at least not as the Duke of Wakefield.
    The Ghost had.
    Maximus squared his shoulders carefully and turnedback to the path. “You mistake me, Miss Greaves. It’s the gin and its ungodly trade I care about—not where it’s plied. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to ready myself for the morning so that I might attend to my guests.”
    He whistled for the dogs and strode away, but as he did so, he was very aware of one fact:
    Miss Greaves was a dangerous woman.
    T HAT AFTERNOON FOUND Artemis once again arm in arm with Phoebe as they strolled out the south doors of Pelham. Luncheon had been a rather tiresome affair, as she’d been seated next to Mr. Watts, who was interested only in argument and his own opinion. She was glad to spend a moment with Phoebe, not least because she
wasn’t
in the habit of shouting in Artemis’s ear.
    Phoebe squinted at the green beyond the formal garden. “What are they doing?”
    Artemis looked to the green where the guests were already gathering. “They’ve set up an exercise yard, I think. Your brother mentioned something about games earlier—I believe the gentlemen will be demonstrating their dueling skills. Here’s where the gravel turns to grass.”
    They stepped carefully onto the green as Artemis described the scene for Phoebe. Several footmen stood about holding various swords while others were setting down chairs for the ladies to take as they observed the demonstration. Wakefield snapped his fingers and pointed and two chairs were instantly placed at the front for him.
    Phoebe sighed. “This won’t be that interesting unless someone misses and pinks their opponent.”
    “Phoebe!” Artemis scolded under her breath.
    “You know it’s true.” How could Phoebe look so very innocent and have such bloodthirsty thoughts? “We’ll all have to make admiring noises while the gentlemen scowl and try to look dangerous.”
    Artemis’s amusement was dampened by the sight of Wakefield carefully helping Penelope to the seat he’d provided. Next to her, the footmen began to make a row of chairs. Penelope beamed up at the duke, her face quite impossibly beautiful in the autumn sun. Artemis remembered how ferocious he’d looked as he’d described the devastation gin wrought in London. Did he save his passions for the floor of Parliament? For he wore a mask of calm politeness now. No, she couldn’t imagine him letting that mask slip even in the heat of political argument.
    “Who is going first?” Phoebe asked as they took their own seats two rows behind Wakefield and Penelope.
    Artemis tore her gaze away from the duke, and reminded herself that she’d already decided that there was no percentage in pining after the man. “Lord Noakes and Mr. Barclay.”
    Phoebe’s nose wrinkled. “Really? I wasn’t aware that Mr. Barclay did anything more strenuous than lift an eyebrow.”
    Artemis snorted softly, watching the duelists. Lord Noakes was a man in his late fifties, of medium height and with a very small paunch. Mr. Barclay was at least twenty years younger, but didn’t look nearly as fit. “He seems quite serious. He’s taken off his coat and is swishing his sword about in a manly manner.” She winced at a particularly vehement move. “Oh, dear.”
    “What? What?”
    Artemis leaned closer to Phoebe, for Mrs. Jellett hadcocked her head in front of them as if trying to hear their murmured conversation. “Mr. Barclay nearly took off one of the footmen’s noses with his sword.”
    Phoebe giggled, the sound sweet and girlish, and Wakefield glanced over, his dark, cold eyes meeting Artemis’s so suddenly it was almost like plunging her hand into snow. His gaze flicked to his sister beside her and the lines that bracketed his firm lips softened. Strange that here and now they were hardly acquaintances, yet in the woods they were something very close to friends.
    The duelists raised their swords.
    The match was utterly without surprises. All gentlemen were