Maximus ducked under a low stone arch and came to a small paved area. The candlelight behind him flickered over worn stone walls. Here and there figures were scratched in the stone: symbols and crude human representations. Maximus doubted very much that they’d been made during the age of Christianity. Directly ahead was a second door, the wood blackened by age. He unlocked this as well and pushed it open.
Behind the door was a cellar, long and with a surprisingly high ceiling, the groin vaulting picked out in smaller, decorative stone. Sturdy pillars paced along the floor, their capitals carved into crude shapes. His father and grandfather had used the space as a wine cellar, but Maximus wouldn’t have been surprised if this hidden room had originally been built as a place to worship some ancient pagan deity.
Behind him Craven shut the door, and Maximus began taking off his waistcoat. It seemed a waste of time to dress and then undress again five minutes later every morning, but a duke never appeared in dishabille—even within his own house.
Craven cleared his throat.
“Continue,” Maximus murmured without turning. He stood in only his smallclothes now and looked up. Spaced irregularly along the ceiling were iron rings he’d sunk into the stone.
“Lady Penelope is considered one of the foremost beauties of the age,” Craven intoned.
Maximus leaped and clung to a pillar. He dug his bare toes into a crack and pushed, reaching for a slim finger hold he knew lay above his head. He grunted as he pulled himself toward the ceiling and the nearest iron ring.
“Just last year she was courted by no less than two earls and a foreign princeling.”
“Is she a virgin?” The ring was just out of arm’s reach—a deliberate placing that on mornings such as this Maximus sometimes cursed. He shoved off from the pillar, arm outstretched. If his fingers missed the ring, the floor was very, very hard below.
But he caught it one-handed, the muscles on his shoulder pulling as he let his weight swing him to the next ring. And the next.
“Almost certainly, Your Grace,” Craven called from below as Maximus easily swung from ring to ring across the cavernous room and back. “Although the lady has a certain amount of high spirits, she still seems to understand the importance of prudence.”
Maximus snorted as he caught the next ring. This one was a little closer together than the last and he hung between them, his arms in a wide V above his head. He could feel the heat across his shoulders and arms now. He pointed his toes. Slowly, deliberately, he folded in half until his toes nearly touched the ceiling above his head.
He held the position, breathing deeply, his arms beginning to tremble. “I wouldn’t call last night prudent.”
“Perhaps not,” Craven conceded, the wince evident in his voice. “In that regard I must report that although Lady Penelope is proficient in needlework, dancing, playing the harpsichord, and drawing, she is not considered a great talent in any of these endeavors. Nor is Lady Penelope’s wit held in high esteem by those who know her. This is not to say that the lady’s intellect is in any way deficient. She is simply not… er…”
“She’s a ninny.”
Craven hummed noncommittally and stared at the ceiling.
Maximus straightened and let go of the iron rings, landing lightly on the balls of his feet. He crossed to a low bench where an array of different-sized cannonballs lay. He selected one that fit easily in his palm, hoisted it to his shoulder, sprinted across the length of the cellar, and heaved the cannonball at a bank of straw pallets placed against the far wall especially for that purpose. The ball flew through the straw and clanged dully against the stone wall.
“Well done, Your Grace.” Craven permitted himself a small smile as Maximus jogged back. The expression was oddly comical on his lugubrious face. “The straw bales are undoubtedly cowed.”
“Craven.” Maximus fought the twitching of his own lips. He was the Duke of Wakefield and no one was permitted to laugh at Wakefield—not even himself.
He picked up another lead ball.
“Quite. Quite.” The valet cleared his throat. “In summary then: Lady Penelope is very wealthy, very beautiful, and very fashionable and gay, but does not possess particular intelligence or, er… a sense of self-preservation. Shall I cross her off the list, Your Grace?”
“No.” Maximus repeated his previous exercise with a second cannonball. A chip of stone flew off the wall. He made a mental note to bring down more straw.
When he turned it was to find Craven staring at him in confusion. “But surely Your Grace wishes for more than an ample dowry, an aristocratic lineage, and beauty in a bride?”
Maximus looked at the valet hard. They’d had this discussion before. Craven had just listed the most important assets in a suitable wife. Common sense—or the lack thereof—wasn’t even on the ledger.
For a moment he saw clear gray eyes and a determined feminine face. Miss Greaves had brought a knife into St. Giles last night—there’d been no mistaking the gleam of metal in her boot top. And what was more, she’d appeared quite ready to use it. Then as now a spark of admiration lit within him. What other lady in his acquaintance had ever displayed such grim courage?
Then he shook the frivolous notion away and returned his mind to the business at hand. His father had died for him, and he would do nothing less than honor his memory by marrying the most suitable candidate for his duchess. “You know my thoughts on the subject. Lady Penelope is a perfect match for the Duke of Wakefield.”
Maximus picked up another cannonball and chose to pretend he didn’t hear Craven’s soft reply.
“But is she a match for the man?”
THERE WERE THOSE who compared Bedlam to hell—a writhing purgatory of torture and insanity. But Apollo Greaves, Viscount Kilbourne, knew what Bedlam really was. It was limbo.
A place of interminable waiting.
Waiting for the restless moaning in the night to be over. Waiting for the scrape of heel on stone that heralded a stale piece of bread to break his fast. Waiting for the chilly splash of water that was called a bath. Waiting for the stink of the bucket that served as his commode to be emptied. Waiting for food. Waiting for drink. Waiting for fresh air. Waiting for something—anything—to prove that he still lived and was, in fact, not mad at all.
At least not yet.
Above all, Apollo waited for his sister, Artemis, to visit him in limbo.
She came when she could, which was usually once a week. Just often enough for him to keep his sanity, really. Without her he would’ve lost it long, long ago.
So when he heard the light tap of a woman’s shoes on the filthy stone in the corridor outside his cell, he leaned his head back against the wall and found a smile to paste on his blasted face.
She appeared a moment later, peering around the corner, her sweet, grave face brightening at the sight of him. Artemis wore a worn but clean brown gown, and a straw bonnet she’d had for at least five years, the straw mended in small, neat stitches over her right ear. Her gray eyes were lit with warmth and worry for him, and she seemed to bring a waft of clear air with her, which was impossible: how could one smell the absence of stink?
“Brother,” she murmured in her low, quiet voice. She advanced into his cell without any sign of the disgust she must feel at the uncovered slop bucket in the corner or his own damnable state—the fleas and lice had long ago made a feast out of his hide. “How are you?”
It was a silly question—he was now, and had been for the last four years, wretched—but she asked it earnestly, for she truly worried that his state might someday grow worse than it already was. In that, at least, she was correct: there was always death, after all.
Not that he would ever let her know how close to death he’d come in the past.
“Oh, I’m just divine,” he said, grinning, hoping she didn’t notice that his gums bled at the smallest motion these days. “The buttered kidneys were excellent this morning as were the shirred eggs and gammon steak. I must compliment the cook, but I
find myself somewhat detained.”
He gestured with his manacled feet. A long chain led from the manacles to a great iron ring on the wall. The chain was long enough for him to stand and take two steps in either direction, but no more.
“Apollo,” she said, and her voice was gently chiding, but her lips curved so he considered his clowning a victory. She set down the small, soft sack she’d been holding in her hand. “I’m sorry to hear you’ve already dined since I brought some roast chicken. I do hope you’re not too full to enjoy it.”
“Oh, I think I’ll manage,” he said.
His nose caught the aroma of the chicken and his mouth began to water helplessly. There’d been a time when he’d never thought much about his next meal—beyond wishing vaguely that cherry pie might be served every day. It wasn’t that their family had been rich—far from it, in fact—but they’d never lacked for food. Bread and cheese and joints of roast and buttered peas and peaches stewed in honey and wine. Fish pie and those little muffins his mother had sometimes made. Dear God, the first slurp of oxtail soup, the bits of meat so tender they melted on his tongue. Juicy oranges, roasted walnuts, gingered carrots, and that sweet made from sugared rose petals. Sometimes he spent days simply thinking about food—no matter how much he tried to drive the thoughts from his mind.
He’d never again take food for granted.
Apollo looked away, trying to distract himself as she took out the chicken. He would put it off as long as possible, the inevitable descent into becoming a ravening, mindless animal.
He shifted awkwardly, the chains clinking. They gave him straw for both settee and dainty bed, and if he rummaged a bit he might find some cleanish spot for his sister to sit on. Such were the only comforts he could offer a guest to his cell.
“There’s cheese and half an apple tart I wheedled from Penelope’s cook.” Artemis’s expression was gentle and a little worried, as if she knew how close he was to falling on her present and swallowing it all in one maddened gulp.
“Sit here,” he said gruffly.
She sank gracefully, her legs folded to the side as if they were on some pastoral picnic rather than a stinking madhouse. “Here.”
She’d placed a chicken leg and a slab of the tart on a clean cloth and held it out to him. He took the treasure carefully, trying to breathe through his mouth without seeming to. He clenched his jaw and inhaled slowly, staring at the food. Self-control was the only thing he had left.
“Please, Apollo, eat.” Her whisper was almost pained, and he reminded himself that he was not the only one being punished for one night of youthful folly.
He’d destroyed his sister that night as well.
So he raised the leg of chicken to his lips and took one delicate bite, placing it back on the cloth, chewing carefully, keeping the madness at bay. The taste was wonderful, filling his mouth, making him want to howl with eager hunger.
He swallowed, lowering the cloth with its contents to his lap. He was a gentleman, not an animal. “How is my cousin?”
If Artemis were less a lady she would’ve rolled her eyes. “She’s up in the boughs this morning over a ball we’re attending tonight at Viscount d’Arque’s town house. Do you remember him?”
Apollo took another bite. He’d never moved in the most elite circles—hadn’t the money for that—but the name tweaked a memory.
“Tall, dark fellow with a bit of a manner? Witty and knows it?” And a devil with the ladies, he thought but did not say aloud to his sister.
She nodded. “That’s him. He lives with his grandmother, Lady Whimple, which seems a little odd, considering his reputation. The ball I’m sure is completely planned by her, but it’s usually in his name.”
“I thought Penelope went to balls almost every night of the week?”
A corner of Artemis’s mouth quirked. “Sometimes it seems like it.”
He bit into the tart, nearly moaning over the crisp-sweet apple. “Then why the excitement over d’Arque’s ball? Has she set her cap at him?”
“Oh, no.” Artemis shook her head ruefully. “A viscount would never do. She has plans for the Duke of Wakefield, and rumor has it he may attend tonight.”
“Does she?” Apollo glanced at his sister. If their cousin finally settled on a gentleman to marry, then Artemis might very well be out of a home. And he could do absolutely nothing about it. His jaw tensed and he reined in the urge to bellow his frustration. He took another deep breath and drank from the flask of beer she’d brought him. The warm, sour taste of hops settled him for a moment. “Then I wish her well in the endeavor, though perhaps I should be commiserating with His Grace—Lord knows I wouldn’t want our cousin’s sights on me.”
“Apollo,” she chided softly. “Penelope is a lovely girl, you know that.”
“Is she?” he teased. “Known for her philanthropy and good works?”
“Well, she is a member of the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children,” his sister said primly. She plucked a piece of straw and twisted it between her fingers.
“And she once wanted to put all the little boys at the orphanage in yellow coats, you told me.”
Artemis winced. “She does try, really she does.”
He took pity on his sister and rescued her from her doomed defense of their mercenary cousin. “If you believe so, then I’m sure ’tis true.” He eyed the way she was bending the piece of straw into angular shapes between her fingers. “Is there something else about tonight’s ball that you’re not telling me?”
She looked up in surprise. “No, of course not.”
He tilted his chin at the mangled straw in her hands. “Then what is disturbing you?”
“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose at the bit of straw and threw it away. “It’s nothing, really. It’s just that last night…” One hand crept up to touch the fichu that covered the center of her chest.
“Artemis.” The frustration was nearly overwhelming. Were he free he could question her, find out from servants or friends what was the matter, pursue and make right whatever troubled her.
In here he could but wait and hope that she would tell him the truth of what her life was like outside.
She looked up. “Do you remember that necklace you gave me on our fifteenth birthday?”
He remembered the little green stone well enough. To a young boy’s eyes it had looked like a real emerald and he’d been more than proud to give such a wonderful present to his sister. But that wasn’t what they’d been talking about. “You’re trying to change the subject.”
Her lips pursed in a rare expression of irritation. “No, I’m not. Apollo—”
“What happened?”
She huffed out a breath of air. “Penelope and I went to St. Giles.”
“What?” St. Giles was a veritable stew of lowlifes. Anything could happen to a gently reared lady in such a place. “God, Artemis! Are you all right? Were you accosted? What—”
She was already shaking her head. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”
“Don’t.” His head jerked back as if the blow had been physical. “Don’t keep things from me.”
“Oh.” Her expression was immediately contrite. “No, my dear, I shan’t keep anything from you. We were in St. Giles because Penelope had made a very silly wager, but I took the dagger you gave me—you remember the one?”
He nodded, keeping his anguish under wraps. When he’d gone away to school at the age of eleven, he’d thought the dagger a clever gift. After all, he’d been leaving his twin sister in the care of their half-mad father and a mother bedridden by illness.
But what had seemed a decently sized dagger to a boy was to a man a too-small weapon. Apollo shuddered at the thought of his sister trying to defend herself—in St. Giles—with that little dagger.
“Hush now,” she said, bringing his attention back to the present with a squeeze of her fingers. “I admit we were accosted, but it ended all right. We were saved by the Ghost of St
. Giles, of all men.”
Obviously she thought this bit of information reassuring. Apollo closed his eyes. ’Twas said the Ghost of St. Giles murdered and raped and worse. He didn’t believe the tales, if for no other reason than that no one man—even a mad one—could’ve done all that he was accused of. Still. The Ghost wasn’t exactly a harmless kitten.
Apollo opened his eyes and took both his sister’s hands in his. “Promise me you won’t follow Penelope into another of her insane schemes.”
“I…” she looked away. “You know I’m her companion, Apollo. I must do as she wishes.”
“She’s liable to break you like a pretty China shepherdess and then throw you away to find a new plaything.”
Artemis looked shocked. “She’d never—”
“Please, my darling girl,” he said, his voice hoarse, “Please.”
“I’ll do my best,” she whispered, cupping her hand against his cheek. “For you.”
He nodded, for he had no choice but to be content with that promise. And yet he couldn’t help but wonder.
When he was gone, who would worry over Artemis?
Chapter Two
Long, long ago when Britain was young, there lived the best of rulers. His name was King Herla. His mien was wise and brave, his arm was strong and swift, and he loved nothing better than to go a-hunting in the dark, wild wood.…
—from The Legend of the Herla King
The Earl of Brightmore was many things, Artemis thought that night: a respected peer, a man very aware of his wealth, and—in his best moments—a Christian capable of adhering to the letter, if not the spirit, of compassion, but what he was not was an attentive father.