“He’s a man grown, dearest, and must be about his job. But perhaps”—she cleared her throat, peeking at him beneath her lashes—“we could take Caliban a picnic luncheon?”
“Yes!” Indio was so excited he knelt up on his chair as he turned to Apollo. “Say yes, pleeeease?”
Apollo’s lips twitched as he inclined his head.
“Huzzah!” Indio cried, making Daffodil leap and twirl in excitement. “Huzzah!”
“Sit down afore you spill your tea, lad,” Maude said gruffly, but even she had a smile upon her face.
Apollo walked out into the garden feeling better than he had in months—even with the headache. He could hear chopping coming from somewhere in the garden, so at least some work was being done—whether it was the correct work might be another matter. He hurried to the musician’s gallery.
It was as he was buttoning his waistcoat—sadly he’d only the one, and that was now stained and slightly damp from lying on the ground all night—that he heard the distinctive sound of Makepeace’s voice raised in ire.
Hastily he finished his crude toilet and jogged in the direction of the yelling, which became comprehensible as he got nearer.
“If you think I’ll take on some wet-behind-the-ears, overeducated, dilettante architect to design and rebuild my bloody garden just because you met him at some aristocratic ball in Sweden—”
“Switzerland,” drawled an obnoxious, familiar voice.
“Bloody Switzerland,” Makepeace amended without even taking breath, “than you’ve lost your blasted ducal mind. This garden is going to be the most wondrous pleasure garden in all of London, which might as well be the world, and to do that we need an experienced, working architect, not some silly aristocrat who’s decided that he’d play with blocks and see if he could build something that wouldn’t fall down after three damned minutes.”
By the time Makepeace had come to the end of his loud and foul objections, Apollo had rounded a corner and caught sight of him.
Makepeace was standing in the middle of the ruined path that led to the dock, hair on end, hands on hips, glowering thunderously at the Duke of Montgomery, who didn’t seem to realize the mortal peril he was in.
Indeed, as Apollo came to a stop beside the two men, the duke flicked open a jeweled snuffbox and smiled slyly at him. “Why, Mr. Makepeace, I’m surprised you have such objections to the blood of my architect, considering you’re such good friends with Viscount Kilbourne.”
Apollo froze. They’d never made mention of his real name or rank in front of Montgomery. The man was supposed to have been out of the country for years until last summer. How in hell had he figured out who Apollo was?
His gaze met Makepeace’s and he saw equal baffled fury there.
Montgomery sneezed into an enormous lace-edged handkerchief. “Now then, gentlemen,” he said after he’d stowed both the snuffbox and the handkerchief in his pocket. “Let us begin this discussion again on a more congenial note, shall we?”
ing sat in his golden castle and brooded. He fathered no more children, and as he aged he grew bitter that others might have lovely offspring but he, the ruler of the island, had sired only a monster. So he made an awful commandment: every year the people must send into the labyrinth the most beautiful youth and the most beautiful maiden on the island as sacrifice to his terrible son…
—From The Minotaur
Apollo woke in the dark the next morning to two immediate realizations: one, he was in a bed—a real bed—for the first time since before Bedlam, and two, he hadn’t written and set out the day’s instructions for the gardeners. He groaned silently at the last thought. The fellows Asa had hired were a competent enough lot, but with no instruction they had a tendency to mill around without doing any useful work.
But the bed—the lovely, lovely bed—made it hard to feel put out by the matter. The bed wasn’t big, but it was soft and clean with a proper mattress—not stuffed with scratchy straw—and it was comfortable. He was tempted to go back to sleep.
Except the thought hit him of whose bed he must be in: Miss Stump’s.
He sat up, jostling his head, which promptly began to complain about the matter. The room was dark—it had no windows—but he knew from the internal clock his body had kept since he was a boy that it was morning, probably six or seven of the clock.
Where was Miss Stump?
Cautiously he lowered his foot to the floor and only then realized he was missing both shoes and gaiters. His brows shot up. Had elegant Miss Stump removed them? It took a few minutes of feeling about, but he eventually discovered his shoes under the bed and donned them.
He felt his way to the door and cracked it.
Immediately he was set upon by Daffodil, who appeared to be the only one of the household awake. She spun at his feet, yipping excitedly.
Apollo bent and picked up the little dog to keep her from waking everyone.
When he straightened he saw Indio, sitting up from a nest of blankets on the floor. He and his mother appeared to be bedded down together, while Maude was in the cot. Both women still slept.
Apollo had only a moment to sneak a glimpse of Miss Stump’s mahogany hair, down and spread like a silken skein over her pillow, before the boy yawned and rose. “Daff says she has to go out an’ so do I.”