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Thomas Doverspike agreed, as if their disjointed conversation about wild beasts made perfect sense. “But to do that, I need the key.”
    The key to what? Artemisia wondered. The manor house? The duke’s strongbox? Good Lord, was the man intending to rob them while they slept?
    “Didn’t ye get my message? I don’t have it.” Angus scratched to top of his freckled bare head. “Ye want Mr. Beddington. That’s the ticket.”
    Beddington? The last thing she wanted was for her father to steer this stranger even more toward Mr. Beddington. And what was this nonsense about a message? She’d only met Thomas Doverspike yesterday herself. Her father couldn’t have sent a message to a man none of them knew. Angus Dalrymple was sliding further into the dementia the doctor warned them was only going to worsen with the passage of time.
    And he certainly didn’t need someone like Thomas Doverspike giving him a push down that dark road by playing along with his delusional games.
    “Mr. Doverspike, a word with you.” Artemisia pushed through the decorative grass like a lioness springing on an unsuspecting gazelle.
    Her father turned his pale blue gaze on her and smiled, his face a wreath of wrinkles. Constance had wanted to confine him to Bedlam, but Artemisia wouldn’t hear of it. The conditions at the hospital for the insane were deplorable. As long as her father didn’t do himself or others any harm, she would see him cared for at home.
    “Larla, me heart. Give the auld man a kiss, then.” His Scottish accent always deepened when he was feeling sentimental.
    She gave him a dutiful peck on the cheek and continued to glare at Mr. Doverspike.
    “So ye already know Tommy-boy, here, do ye? Weel, that’s grand, then, isn’t it?” Angus said genially, then turned back to Doverspike. “How did ye happen to meet me Larla?”
    ‘Tommy-boy’ dipped in that infuriatingly smooth bow of his, one brow arched in amusement. Artemisia’s face felt so hot, she wondered why steam wasn’t leaking from her ears.
    “Larla?” Mr. Doverspike said quizzically. “That name is a   right puzzlement, guv. I only know the lady as Her Grace, the Duchess of Southwycke.”
    “Weel, we can fix that right now. Doverspike, this is me firstborn and the apple of me eye, Larla Dalrymple. Her mother gave her the name Artemisia-after her father Artie Campbell, ye ken—and old Theodore Pelham-Smythe pitched in the duchess part . . . haven’t seen him around much of late, have I?” Angus paused and worried his bottom lip for a moment. Then he shrugged off the mystery. “But to me she’ll always be me Larla. Won’t ye, sweeting?”
    Her father slipped his arm around her waist and tugged her close to plant a dry kiss on her temple. Gently, she disengaged herself. Her family relationships were not fodder for the likes of Thomas Doverspike. Especially since now she was convinced he must be a reporter of some ilk trying to learn more of the family’s intimate secrets. To trade on her father’s misfortune—truly, members of the press had no shame.
    “Father, Naresh will be back to help you momentarily. Mr. Doverspike and I have some business to discuss,” she said with a pointed glance that dared him to dispute her word. “We haven’t time for pleasantries just now.”
    “Och, and more’s the pity.” Angus shook his balding head. “If ye haven’t time, ye haven’t anything.”
    “Very wise,” Mr. Doverspike said with a mischievous glance at Artemisia. Did the man just wink at her? “I suspect you are a philosopher of sorts, Mr. Dalrymple.”
    “Angus, son. I’m too old to stand on ceremony. Call me Angus.” He waved them off. “Hurry on with yourselves then. Only mind the python on the path as ye go.”
    Python, indeed. Artemisia shook her head. The only snake in this garden was the unconscious Felix.
    And possibly the mysterious Mr. Doverspike.
    Artemisia was relieved to see that Naresh had collected her stepson and bundled him off