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

As he stood there, leaning against the cold metal gates, the doors of the museum opened and Calliope and Clio Chase emerged, their younger sister between them, holding their hands. She chattered brightly, but the two older Muses seemed silent and serious, as if their thoughts were far away from the windswept courtyard. Calliope kept shooting Clio concerned little glances.

Cameron ducked behind a large stone planter as they passed by. He could not speak to Calliope now; she had been taken aback by his violent behaviour, and he could not explain it to her. He could not even explain it to himself. But he fell into step several feet behind them, watching carefully until they climbed safely into their carriage and set off for home, without being accosted by the duke or any of his minions.

If Averton thought he could get away with meddling with any of the Chases, he was very much mistaken.

“Lord Mallow. Mr Wright-Helmsley. Mr Lakesly.”

Calliope stared down at her list, biting the end of her pencil as she examined each name by the light of her candle. They were certainly all men of means and some intelligence, as well as collectors of antiquities. Could they really be candidates for the Lily Thief?

She tapped her chin, running through all the men of her acquaintance who were not children or infirm. Or who showed not a speck of ingenuity, like poor Freddie Mountbank. “Lord Deering. Sir Miles Gibson. Mr Smithson.”

Yet, in the end, she always came back to one name. Lord Westwood.

She had begun by being so very certain it was him! He had all the necessary qualities—intelligence, interest, plus a certain recklessness, probably born of his years in Italy and Greece. He had the courage of his convictions, as misguided as those convictions were. But now something bothered her, some irritating little voice at the back of her mind that whispered doubts. Could it be—was it—that she was growing to like him?

“Piffle!” Calliope cried, tossing down her pencil. Of course she did not like him. How could she? That very recklessness went against all she believed was important. That voice was surely just her inborn female weakness, lured by a smile and a pair of handsome eyes.

He was still the most likely candidate for the Lily Thief. His dark, sizzling anger towards the Duke of Averton only emphasised that fact. Westwood had an edge to him, like the fire-honed blade of a dagger that was usually hidden in its velvet sheath, but could flash out and wreak destruction in only an instant. Lady Tenbray’s diadem had already fallen victim to its slice. Was the Alabaster Goddess next?

Calliope stared down at her list, and slowly reached for her pencil. Lord Westwood, she wrote.

Her bedchamber door creaked, warning that she was no longer alone. Calliope hastily shoved the list under a pile of books and drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“Are you working, Cal?” Clio said quietly, slipping into a chair next to the desk.

“Just reading a bit before I retire. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me, neither.” Clio fiddled with the edge of one of Calliope’s notebooks. She seemed rather pale tonight, her green eyes shadowed and large without the shield of her spectacles. Calliope had noticed she didn’t eat much of her dinner, either.

Blast Averton, anyway! Why did the man have to go parading through the museum today, upsetting their outing, pestering her sister? Why did he choose Clio? And why couldn’t he just stay hidden away at home with his ill-gotten Alabaster Goddess?

Yet if he did that, she wouldn’t have the chance to catch the Lily Thief once and for all. The Alabaster Goddess was an alluring bait like no other. If only Clio didn’t have to be caught in the middle of it all.

“What did he say to you this afternoon, Clio?” Calliope asked.

Clio stared down at the notebook. “Who?”

“Averton, of course. You have been so quiet tonight. You didn’t even seem to be listening when Father read from the Aeneid after dinner.”

Clio shrugged. “I am just tired, I think. As for Averton, he is of no importance.”

“But his behaviour this afternoon—”

“Is of no consequence! He is like so many men of his exalted ilk, he thinks all women are his for the asking. No, not even asking, just taking. Like an ivory box, or an alabaster statue from a Delian temple. When he meets one who wants nothing to do with him, it only makes him more determined. But I have twice the determination he does.”

That Calliope knew to be true. No one was more determined, more single-minded than Clio. Expect perhaps Lord Westwood. “I did not realise you even knew the duke.”

“I don’t. Or about as much as I want to know him. I have encountered him once or twice at galleries and shops. He seems to have taken a ridiculous fancy to me of some sort.”

Calliope stared at her sister in astonishment. She always thought they were as close as two sisters could be, yet she had no idea of this “fancy”. “Clio, why didn’t you say something?”

“I told you, Cal, it is of no importance!” Clio cried, slapping her hand down on a pile of books. The volumes toppled, revealing the list beneath. Clio reached for it. “What is this?”

“Nothing, of course,” Calliope said, trying to snatch it away.

Clio held it out of her reach. “Lord Deering, Mr Smithson, Mr Lakesly. Is this a list of your suitors?”

“Certainly not!” Calliope finally succeeded in retrieving the list. She folded it in half and stuck it inside one of the books. “I would never consider a suitor like Mr Lakesly. He gambles too much.”

“I noticed Lord Westwood’s name on there, too. Certainly you would not call him a suitor, though I did notice you two were having quite a coze at the museum.”

“We were discussing Greek mythology, that is all. And this list is merely something for our Ladies Society meeting tomorrow.”

“Ah, yes, the meeting. What is it really all about, Cal?”

“I told you. To make plans for Averton’s ball. We must all be extra-vigilant that night, so there is no repeat of Lady Tenbray’s rout. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

Calliope bit her lip. “Unless you don’t want to go to the ball. It would be completely understandable, given the duke’s deplorable behaviour! We don’t even have to talk about this any more, if you don’t care to.”

Clio slumped back in her chair, arms crossed and face set in stony lines. Calliope had seen that mutinous pose since childhood. “Cal, really. It’s not like the man tried to slit my throat in the middle of the Elgin Room. He merely said some—words to me. Nothing I cannot manage. Surely you know better than to treat me like a piece of fragile porcelain.”

Calliope smiled reluctantly. Oh, yes, she did know that. When they were children, Thalia could always outrun them all in foot races, a veritable Atalanta. But Clio was the first to climb up trees—and leap down from them as if she had wings. The first to swim streams and scramble up peaks.

The duke didn’t know what he was up against.

“Of course,” Calliope agreed. “No more porcelain.”

“So, tell me about this list. I would guess they are your candidates for the Lily Thief.”

Calliope drew the list back out, smoothing it atop the desk. “Yes. Some of them are a bit far-fetched, I know.”

“A bit? Mr Emerson couldn’t tell an amphora from a horseshoe. And Lord Mallow is shockingly myopic.”

“Hmph.” Calliope pushed the list towards her sister. “Very well, Clio, since you’re so clever, who would you put on the list?”

Clio pursed her lips as she examined the names. “Not Mr Hanson. He would be utterly paralysed at the thought of his mama’s disapproval. And not Mr Smithson—he is far too honest. What about Lord Wilmont?”