And she pulled his head down and gave him the first of many kisses as a mortal man.
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
THREE MONTHS LATER…
As Lady Penelope Chadwicke’s companion, Artemis had witnessed many ill-advised ideas. There had been the time Penelope had decided to take over the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children—and had been pelted with cherry pits. Once Penelope had tried to start a fashionable craze by using a live swan as an accessory—who knew how irritable swans were? Then there had been the debacle involving the shepherdess costume and the sheep. A year later the scent of wet wool still made Artemis flinch.
But—hissing swans notwithstanding—Penelope’s ideas weren’t usually dangerous.
This one, however, might very well get them killed.
“We’re in St. Giles and it’s dark,” Artemis pointed out with what she hoped was a persuasive tone. The street they were on was deserted, the tall houses on either side looming in a rather sinister manner. “I do think that fulfills the letter of your wager with Lord Featherstone, don’t you? Why don’t we go home and have some of those lovely lemon curd tarts that Cook made this morning?”
“Oh, Artemis,” Penelope said with that disparaging tone that Artemis had really come to loathe, “the problem with you is that you have no sense of adventure. Lord Featherstone won’t hand over his jeweled snuffbox unless I buy one of those awful tin cups of gin at precisely midnight and drink it in St. Giles, and so I shall!”
And she went tripping off down a dark lane in the most violent section of London.
Artemis shivered and followed. She had the lantern, after all—and while Penelope was a vain, silly ninny, Artemis was rather fond of her. Perhaps if they found a gin shop very soon, this would all end happily and Artemis would have another amusing tale to tell Apollo when next she visited him.
This was all Miss Hippolyta Royle’s fault, Artemis thought darkly as she glanced warily around the awful lane. Miss Royle had captured the imagination of most of aristocratic society—the male half, in fact—and for the first time in her life, Penelope had a rival. Her response—to Artemis’s deep dismay—was to decide to become “dashing,” hence this foolish wager with Lord Featherstone.
“That looks promising,” Penelope called gaily, pointing to a wretched hovel at the end of the lane.
Artemis briefly wondered what Penelope considered promising.
Three large men reeled out of the hovel and started their way.
“Penelope,” Artemis hissed. “Turn around. Turn around right now.”
“Whyever should I turn—” Penelope began, but it was already too late.
One of the men raised his head, saw them, and stilled. Artemis had once watched an old tomcat freeze in the exact same way.
Right before the cat tore apart a sparrow.
The men started for them, shoulders bunched, strides bold.
The lane was closed. There were only two ways in or out, and the men advancing on them blocked one.
“Run!” Artemis muttered to her cousin, gesturing with an outstretched arm for Penelope to come with her. She couldn’t leave Penelope alone. She simply couldn’t.
Penelope screamed, loud and shrill.
The men were almost on them. Running would buy them only seconds.
Dear God, dear God, dear God.
Artemis began to reach for her boot.
And then salvation fell from above.
Salvation was a big, frightening man, who landed in a crouch. He stood, an easy, athletic uncoiling of muscle, and as he straightened she saw his mask: it was black, covering his face from upper lip to hairline, the nose horribly huge, lines of scars twisting along the cheeks. Dark eyes glittered behind the eyeholes, intelligent and alive.
Before her stood the Ghost of St. Giles.
Turn the page for a special preview of the next enthralling book in Elizabeth Hoyt’s Maiden Lane series
Duke of Midnight
Coming soon from Piatkus
JULY 1740
LONDON, ENGLAND
Artemis Greaves did not like to think herself a cynical person, but when the masked figure dropped into the alley to confront the three toughs already menacing her and her cousin, she reached for the knife in her boot.
It seemed only prudent.
He was big and wore a harlequin’s motley—black-and-red diamond leggings and tunic, black jackboots, a hat with a wide, floppy brim, and a black half-mask with a grotesquely outsized nose. Harlequins were meant to be clowns—a silly entertainment—but no one in the dark alley was laughing. The harlequin uncoiled from his crouch with a lethal movement so elegant Artemis’s breath caught in her throat. He was like a jungle cat—wild and without a trace of compassion—and like a jungle cat his attack held