Sir Abstrupus was slipping.
Except his smile had slipped not a hair.
“Win or lose, whatever the outcome,” said Sir Abstrupus, “I’ll grant you permission to observe Radish’s training.”
A scowl thundered across Bran’s face. Of a sudden, the stakes of the night had shifted. “Pardon?” he asked very quietly so as not to shout. Sir Abstrupus tended to excite the compulsion.
Before the old scoundrel could explain himself, a strangled sound came from the opposite side of the table. “Oh,” said Lady Artemis, her cheeks flaming, “that is low.”
Bran’s brow trenched so deeply one could plant carrots. Lady Artemis had the look of a woman who wanted nothing more than to reject Sir Abstrupus’s offer—yet she couldn’t.
Not for the first time in his life Bran understood he’d been ambushed.
A midnight supper in the Yorkshire countryside with a nonagenarian?
No good ever came of suppers taken after midnight.
A lesson learned in young manhood.
And the woman seated across from him—the one he couldn’t ignore or will into nonexistence—she’d been ambushed, too.
The evidence was writ clear upon her face.
Sir Abstrupus’s mischievous smile broadened, giving him the appearance of an outright rapscallion. “Make no mistake, my lady, Radish will run the St. Leger,” he said. “Wouldn’t you like to see him safely through?”
Those expressive dark eyes of Lady Artemis blinked. “You’re manipulating me.”
Even Bran could see that.
Still, she hadn’t yet spoken an outrightno.
Wouldn’t you like to see him safely through?
Those were the words Sir Abstrupus was using to manipulate her. Bran cast his mind back to yesterday morning—the kittens.
She hadn’t been stealing them.
She’d been saving them.
And Sir Abstrupus was twisting her instinct to his own ends.
Bran’s hand tightened around his cutlery. He’d never been able to abide those who used another’s better self against them.
Lady Artemis contemplated the fork in her hand, as if she were counting the tines.
Except she wasn’t.
She was considering matters known only to her and Sir Abstrupus, calculating the weight ofnoagainstyes.
At last, she lifted her gaze, neatly avoiding Bran’s. “What is the friendly contest?”
The question was a reasonable one, but Bran saw it for what it truly was—the first step toward her becoming seduced into Sir Abstrupus’s game.
“Three rounds of feats,” said the old rascal. “Best two of three wins.”
“Whom would I be competing against?” Her head tipped to the side. “You?” She didn’t bother hiding her skepticism.
“Why, Lord Branwell, of course.”
