There was not much point in answering that question, so he merely said, “The grass begins here.”
She nodded, keeping her head high as he led her toward the gardeners. “A pity that Artemis couldn’t stay to help me.”
“Yes, my lady.” He glanced down at her, eyes narrowing. “Strange that you were unaware of where she went this morning.”
She frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” he asked softly. “I’ve noticed the duchess often makes mysterious errands.”
“Whatever you’re implying, Captain Trevillion, I don’t think I like it.”
He sighed silently as they made the gardeners and she pointedly turned her attention to them and the rose canes.
He watched, leaning heavily on his walking stick, and wondered if she really had no idea. Lady Phoebe was close to her sister-in-law—very close. She must know that the duchess had a twin brother, Apollo Greaves, Lord Kilbourne, who had recently escaped from Bedlam—and was still on the run from the King’s men.
Did she know, however, why Lord Kilbourne had been committed to Bedlam? Did she know about the bloody triple murder that had been hushed up when the aristocrat was locked away? Perhaps she’d never heard—she was a sheltered lady, after all. Or perhaps she knew and had chosen to forget the four-year-old scandal.
Trevillion found it impossible to forget. Four years ago he’d arrested Lord Kilbourne.
And Kilbourne had been drenched in the blood of his friends.
HE COULD NEVER claim the title if he was wanted for a murder he hadn’t committed.
The next day Apollo hacked savagely at a small tree with his curved pruning knife, welcoming the stretch and burn of his muscles. Why should it matter? The title had never been important to him. If anything, it had meant separation from his sister—his family—when he was a schoolboy. Apollo snorted. The earl hadn’t cared if his son’s family ate or had proper clothes, but by damnation his son’s heir—and thus his own—would be expensively educated.
He paused to wipe away the sweat on his brow. There was no logical reason for him to care about the title. Except…
Except that it was one more thing stolen from him because of the murders.
He grunted and had lifted his arm to attack the tree again when he heard it: a gruff voice mumbling.
Apollo raised his head, glancing around. He was on the far side of the pond, in quite a deserted area of the garden. The other gardeners had been set the task of clearing dead trees near the musician’s gallery. He’d been half expecting Indio and Daffodil to find him today, but so far they hadn’t.
And the voice didn’t sound at all like Indio’s.
Curious, he stuck the pruning knife into the wide belt at his waist and crept around the tree he’d been assaulting. He and the other gardeners had made some headway on the area of the garden between the pond and the theater, but here, on the far side of the pond, all was still wild chaos. Clumps of burned trees stood here and there, with the remains of hedges trailing throughout. The voice was growing louder as he neared, and appeared to be coming from behind one of the few hedges still growing.
Cautiously he ventured nearer, peering around the remains of a big tree.
“ ‘… Or consider yourself a knave, my lord,’ ” Miss Stump was muttering to herself in an artificially low voice. She paced before a fallen tree on which a flat board had been laid. On top of the board were paper, a small bottle of ink, and a quill—obviously a makeshift desk.
“Bollocks,” she muttered to herself in her own voice. “Knave. Knave. Knave. Completely the wrong word. Oh, of course!”
She bent to the paper and scribbled furiously for a few minutes, and then stood. All at once her demeanor changed. Her shoulders squared, she widened her stance, put her fists on her hips, and Lily Stump became a broad-shouldered man. “You’ll pay your chits, if you’re a gentleman at all, Wastrel.”
“Shall I, my lord?” Her voice was still low, but it had a sort of fey quality to it now, her head tipped coquettishly to the side. “Do you judge a gentleman by his bits, my lord?”
He realized suddenly that though she was playacting a man, she was doing it as a woman. No wonder she was known for her acting. She wore none of the trappings of the theater—neither wig nor costume nor paint on her face, and yet as she strutted around her writing log he knew immediately which character she played.
Apollo must’ve made some sound, for Miss Stump spun, staring in his direction with wide green eyes. “Who’s there?”
o;Phoebe,” Lady Hero Reading whispered, chiding. She was the middle Wakefield sibling—younger sister of the duke, elder of Lady Phoebe—but the two women looked nothing alike. Lady Hero was taller than her sister, with a willowy figure and flame-colored hair. No doubt she thought he couldn’t hear her undertone, but alas, he could. Not that it mattered. He was fully aware of what his charge thought of him and his duties.
“Won’t you have a seat?” the third member of the tea party asked kindly. Her Grace the Duchess of Wakefield, Artemis Batten, was an ordinary-looking woman—excepting her rather fine dark-gray eyes—but she held herself with all the command of a duchess. If one were unaware of her history, one would never guess that she’d served as an impoverished lady’s companion to her distant cousin until her marriage to the duke.
A formidable lady indeed.
“Thank you, my lady.” Trevillion nodded and chose a chair a discreet distance from the trio. However much she hated it, it was his job to watch over and protect Lady Phoebe. Obviously he wasn’t needed when she was with her sister and sister-in-law—or indeed anywhere in Wakefield House—but should she wish to go out after tea, he was bound to accompany her.