Amanda McCabe - Mischief in Regency Society - To Catch a Rogue

Calliope almost laughed aloud. The Duke of Averton so seldom went about in town; it was part of what made his upcoming ball the talk of the ton. But when he did it was more amusing than Drury Lane.

“Ridiculous toad,” Lord Westwood muttered darkly. “What is the purpose of such a preening display?”

Calliope glanced up at him to find him glowering towards the duke, his long fingers curled into fists. Where was the lighthearted Apollo now? Westwood resembled no one so much as the ill-tempered Hades, lurking in his black underworld, wishing he could feed the duke limb by limb to his snarling Cerberus.

Calliope had to admit she rather liked that image herself. Of all the selfish collectors in London, all the people who hoarded their treasures while denying scholars all access, Averton was the worst. He never scrupled about where or from whom he bought his treasures, and the precious objects always disappeared into his Yorkshire fortress. But she had not known that Westwood had a quarrel with him. Indeed, Westwood seldom seemed to dislike anyone—except her, of course.

Yet it was more than mere dislike she saw on his face now. It was dark, unadulterated hatred, raw and primitive. And very frightening.

Calliope shivered despite the warmth of the close-packed room, and edged away from him until she felt the hard edge of a stone base against her hips. He seemed to notice her wide-eyed regard, and that glimpse of jagged emotion was quickly concealed behind his usual smile.

“I did not realise you knew the duke well,” she murmured.

“Not well,” Lord Westwood answered. “Certainly better than I would like. We were at Cambridge together, and the Duke of Avarice has certainly not changed much since those days. Except to grow even more vicious and brainless.”

Vicious and brainless? The duke was a menace, certainly, and had a reputation for eccentricity and rapaciousness. But vicious? Calliope waited, full of anticipation, for Westwood to elaborate, but of course he did not. Their brief moment of confidence was gone, and Calliope was soon distracted by the sight of the duke drawing close to Clio.

Clio did not even seem to notice the man’s theatrical entrance, or his stately parade around the room as everyone cleared a path for him. She was leaning close to a goddess sculpture, frowning as she examined it through her spectacles. The duke, much to the consternation of his followers, suddenly veered from his trail to stop at her side.

As Calliope watched, puzzled and concerned, he edged closer to Clio until his bejewelled hand brushed her arm. Clio spun around, startled, bumping into the goddess.

“Your sister should have a care around that man,” Westwood muttered.

“I have no idea what he could be saying to her. We hardly know him.”

“That won’t stop him when it comes to ladies. Even respectable ones like your sister.”

Calliope saw Clio’s hand edging back and up, towards the sharp pin that skewered her silk bonnet. Clio’s frozen expression and demeanour never altered, yet Calliope knew she would have no compunction about driving that pin into the duke’s arm. Or more sensitive areas.

Calliope took a step forward, intending to intervene, but Lord Westwood was there before her. He strode across the room, reaching out to practically shove the duke away from Clio. As the duke smirked at him, Westwood leaned in to mutter low, harsh-sounding words that carried to Calliope’s ears as only the rushing noise of a stormy sea. Clio eased away from the men, her hand dropping to her side, as everyone else in the room edged closer. A quarrel between a duke and an earl in the middle of the British Museum was not something to be seen every day! This was certain to be much talked of for days to come.

If only she and her sister were not in the midst of it, Calliope thought, perturbed. Yet even she could not help but stare at the two men, Westwood so full of barely leashed anger, Averton still smirking but growing in agitation, if the spasmodic opening and closing of his fists was any indication. It was a scene that hardly belonged in civilised London. More like those Lapiths and centaurs, wrestling in ancient stone.

Calliope shook off the strange spell that urged her just to stare at the growing fight, and hurried to Clio’s side. She took her sister’s arm and whispered, “We should take Cory out of here, don’t you think?”

Clio shuddered, as if she too were bound by some strange, wicked enchantment and only Calliope’s voice shook her out of it. “Of course,” she said, and rushed over to where Cory still sat sketching. Clio overcame her protests with renewed promises of mummies, and ushered her out of the Elgin Room.

As soon as they departed, Westwood and Averton broke apart, Westwood striding from the room without a glance backward. The duke straightened his waistcoat and returned to his friends, laughing as if nothing had happened.

Puzzled, Calliope stared after Westwood. How very angry he seemed! And to think, for a moment there, when they smiled and talked together so easily, she had thought herself silly for imagining him the Lily Thief.

Now, after witnessing that strange scene with Averton, she was more convinced than ever that he had to be the thief. And she was determined to prove it. One way or another.

What does it matter, de Vere? The girl is a tavern wench, free for the taking!

Cameron heard the echo of Averton’s voice in his mind, the laughing, mocking words from many years ago. He saw the man’s smile, that knowing smirk of smug entitlement, that only vanished when Cameron had planted his fist in Averton’s face, bloodying that aristocratic nose. It had been small comfort indeed to the girl, no more than sixteen years old, who had run away sobbing, her dress torn. And it was hardly a balm to Cameron’s white-hot fury, for he knew he would not be there to rescue the next girl. Or the next purloined vase or sculpture.

As Cameron’s friends had dragged him away, he had been able to hear Averton mutter, “Let him go. What do you expect from the son of a Greek street mouse?”

It had taken ten men to pull Cameron out of there that day, and he had soon left the suffocating confines of Cambridge to begin his travels anew. To find himself among the “street mice” of Italy and his mother’s beloved Greece. Those years of wandering had erased the memories of Averton’s words, of the feeling of his fist meeting bone and flesh. Until today.

The sight of Averton hovering so close to Clio Chase, of Calliope’s helpless concern, had brought back that day in the dingy tavern, that girl in the torn dress. Brought it back with a vicious immediacy that frightened him.

Averton was known as an eccentric now, a semi-recluse who only came out to show off his ancient treasures. His Alabaster Goddess. Cameron had not even seen the man since he returned to town. Yet surely the duke’s vices were only hidden now, tucked away behind his stolen antiquities. Who would dare challenge him? Who would even seek out the crimes of a rich and powerful duke?

Cameron stopped at the museum gates, roughly raking his fingers through his hair until he felt his anger ebb. Cold thought was needed now, not the impulsive fisticuffs of his youth. No Dionysus. Athena was the god he required.

He stood there for a long time, the wind catching at his hair and his coat, ignoring the flow of London life around him. He thought of his mother, of her tales of great warriors like Achilles, Ajax, Hector. Their downfalls always seemed to be their tempers, their rush to battle without planning, without forethought, driven by their passions.

“You are too much like them, my son, and it will get you into trouble one day,” she would say. “There are better ways to win your fights.”