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

Calliope now felt ill in earnest. She sat down heavily in the nearest chair, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.

“Calliope, dear, you really didn’t know?” Emmeline asked.

“I have been so engrossed in my own studies,” Calliope murmured. “Worrying about the Lily Thief. I suppose I was just oblivious. My mother always did say that living in my own little world would get me into trouble one day.”

“It is hardly trouble,” Emmeline said. “It’s not as if you were caught kissing him! You’re right, it’s just silly gossip from people who have nothing better to do. It will soon be gone, replaced by something else and forgotten. My brother says they also wager on whether or not Prinny is the Lily Thief, so you see how serious their betting books are!”

Calliope laughed reluctantly. The vision of the prince, fat, red-faced and encased in a creaking corset climbing in windows and picking locks was so absurd it nearly drove out those sick feelings.

“Just ignore them, Calliope,” Emmeline said. “Their ignorance deserves no response. In the meantime, why don’t we go for a stroll in the park? It is too fine a day to stay indoors, and we all need time to think over our plan for the ball.”

“I would like some fresh air,” Calliope admitted.

“Excellent! I will tell the others.”

Calliope caught Emmeline’s arm as she turned away, staying her for a moment. “Emmeline, what do you think of Lord Westwood and me?”

Emmeline gave her a gentle smile. “How can I say? I’m just an unmarried lady like you, with Freddie Mountbank my most serious suitor. I know little of romance. You say you dislike him. Very well. But are you sure that’s all there is to the matter? Maybe you should ask Lotty what would happen in one of her novels.”

Calliope watched Emmeline walk away, more confused than ever. Antiquities she knew about; they could be studied, classified. Men never could. Especially Westwood.

Maybe she really should take up reading horrid novels, and not so much Aristotle and Thucydides. It was obvious that her powers of observation, her knowledge of modern life, of what passed for romance, was sadly lacking. Would The Prince’s Tragic Secret fill that gap? Surely everything could be learned, with the right tools. Herodotus was no help here. Perhaps By An Anonymous Lady could be.

Calliope pushed herself up from her chair and made her way resolutely towards her friends, who were gathering up their shawls and bonnets in preparation for their walk.

“Lotty,” she called. “Could I speak to you for a moment?”

As it was a fair day, cool and dry after the morning’s rains ceased, Hyde Park was quite crowded. Riders cantered along Rotten Row, stopping by the barriers to chat with each other, or with friends who rolled past in their open carriages, showing off their newest fashions. Nannies in starched caps and cloaks watched their charges as they sailed tiny boats on the calm, murky waters of the Serpentine or rolled hoops along the gravel pathways.

Calliope smiled as she watched them, their laughing faces turned like smooth-petaled flowers to the sun. She remembered days when her own nannies, or sometimes even her mother, would bring her and her sisters here. They would pretend the Serpentine was the Mediterranean, the trees and rocks the grove of Apollo’s Oracle at Delphi, and they were Muses in truth. The fount of all art and wisdom.

Suddenly, she felt a sharp pang, a yearning for that innocence that seemed so far away now. The days when she thought any dream was possible, that she could attain any goal she longed for. Even the wisdom of the Muses. Now—well, now she wondered if somehow their father had cursed them by giving them their names!

Yes, she did wish now for childhood’s blissful oblivion. For as she walked the pathways now, she imagined every person, every polite greeting, concealed smirking laughter. There is Calliope Chase! You know, the one who is pursuing Lord Westwood.

Emmeline linked arms with her, smiling in her cheerfully determined way. “There now! Is the fresh air not bracing?”

“Yes, indeed,” Calliope answered. She could be cheerful, too. After all, Emmeline was quite right. Any rumours about herself and Westwood were merely the product of idle minds and sure to pass soon. Especially if she gave them no more heat for their scandal broth.

“Oh, look! There is Mr Smithson. Was he not on your list of suspects?” Emmeline said.

“Hmm,” Calliope said, watching the gentleman in question as he strolled past, politely doffing his hat. “I will admit he is a bit of a long shot. He’s so slender, one can hardly envision him pulling himself through a window.”

“And not Lord Deering over there! They do say the dowager Lady Deering is such a dragon. She would incinerate her poor son if he disgraced the family name.”

Calliope laughed. “Quite so. But I think we must examine every possibility, no matter how farfetched.”

“Yes. Appearances can be so deceiving.”

Calliope nodded. Surely no one knew that better than herself, after all her studies of the ancient world. The ancient Greeks had such an appearance now of rationality, of cool, pale beauty. Yet in truth their statues and temples, which were so slavishly recreated now in Adam foyers and white muslin gowns, had been brightly painted. Their ideas of order, their great philosophy and tragedy, concealed a love for madness, ecstasy, the paranormal that was distinctly irrational.

People were like that, too, in modern London or ancient Athens and Sparta. Layer upon layer, concealing whatever truly lurked at their core. A mystery.

And the greatest mystery of all was strolling into her view. Lord Westwood himself, of course. No wonder people gossiped about the two of them, Calliope mused, for he so often appeared just where she happened to be!

Unlike when he stormed out of the British Museum, all Hadean fire and anger, he was back to sunny Apollonian charm. A small parcel was tucked under his arm, half-hidden by the folds of his greatcoat. He smiled at the people he passed, pausing to kiss giggling ladies’ hands or chat with friends.

Layer upon layer. Where was the real man?

Calliope’s steps froze as he moved nearer, bringing Emmeline up short.

“What is amiss?” Her eyes widened as she followed Calliope’s gaze. “Oh. The man himself, I see. And so handsome today!”

“Perhaps we should turn back,” Calliope said. “We’ve left the others so far behind….”

“Nonsense!” Emmeline said, continuing on their path so resolutely that Calliope had no choice but to follow. “It would only fuel the gossip if you were seen avoiding Lord Westwood, Calliope. We must be polite and say hello.”

When Lord Westwood saw them, Calliope thought she saw a frown between his eyes, a whisper of solemnity. But whatever it was quickly vanished, replaced by a sunny smile, a flourishing bow.

“Miss Chase, Lady Emmeline,” he greeted. “A lovely day for a walk, is it not?”

“Indeed it is. We were just discussing our costumes for the Duke of Averton’s ball, weren’t we, Calliope?” Emmeline arched her brow at Calliope so she had no choice but to nod, even though they had been discussing no such thing. “A Grecian theme, of course, so we were hoping some of the park’s statuary would inspire us.”

Westwood’s lips tightened. “I am sure that whatever you two ladies wear you will be the loveliest in the room.”

Emmeline laughed. “Miss Chase might. She looks like a Greek statue all the time!”

He glanced at Calliope, but she could read nothing in his eyes. They were as opaque as the waters of the Serpentine. “That she does.”

“Oh!” Emmeline suddenly exclaimed, detaching her arm from Calliope’s. “I see someone over there I absolutely must speak to. Excuse me for a moment, Calliope. Lord Westwood.”