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.