“Do you mean my animal sanctuary?”
“If that’s what you’re calling it.”
“I’m considering hiring on an animal surgeon, actually.”
“Oh, my dear,” said Mother, on a little laugh that could delight a room. “Youarethe daughter of a duke, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Aristocratic eccentric tendencies.” She flicked a dismissive wrist. “You’ll tire of it soon enough.”
Artemis understood Mother meant well, but … “This isn’t a passing childhood fancy. I’m twenty-nine years old.”
Mother remained utterly serene and unaffected. “How was yesterday’s horse race?” she asked. “So much gauche bombast, yes?”
“Hannibal won.”
“Hannibal?”
“Rake’s horse.”
Mother nodded. “Naturally,” she said, her view of the world not only intact, but reinforced. “Rake’s horse would win.”
Artemis happened to agree—which irritated her.
But she had no time for annoyance. She was here with an agenda, and now she saw an opportunity to broach the topic she’d intruded into Mother’s day of shopping to discuss. She cleared her throat. “Lord Branwell Mallory had a horse in the race.”
Mother’s teacup froze mid-air in a lift to her mouth. “A horse in the race? Lord Branwell?” Her skepticism was clear. “Rumor has it his family doesn’t have two pennies to rub together.”
“The horse—Radish—belongs to my neighbor, Sir Abstrupus Bottomley.”
Mother returned the teacup to the table, unsipped. “An eccentric, if England has one, I dare say.” Steely interest entered her eyes. “In what capacity did Lord Branwell attend the race?”
“He was Radish’s trainer.” Artemis didn’t understand why she should feel defensive, but she did. It was there in the tone of her voice for anyone to hear.
Mother certainly had, indicated her mildly lifted eyebrows. “Well.”
Thatwellwas all she needed to say for Artemis to hear what she wasn’t saying.
In some way, a validation of ten years ago—confirmation of who Bran was.
Except that narrative wasn’t precisely true, was it?
So, what was it confirmation of?
Well.
Wasn’t she here to find out?
“You know, Artemis,” said Mother, “there is no good reason you haven’t yet become a duchess.”
Artemis’s brow furrowed at this apparent non sequitur. “There were no eligible dukes in my come-out season. Well, other than Rake, and he’s my brother.”
Mother shrugged a shoulder. “Different times.”
“I’m fairly certain no one has married their brother to maintain family appearances and bloodlines in a few millennia.”
Again, a shrug of Mother’s shoulder. She wasn’t convinced.
