To Catch a Rogue

by Amanda McCabe

  There was a thin line of light beneath Clio’s bedchamber door, flickering and shifting like flames. Calliope didn’t even knock, just gently eased that door open, holding her breath as she paused on the threshold.

  And Clio was there. After all the searching through the labyrinth of the duke’s house, she was in her own chamber. The room was in darkness except for the blazing fire in the grate. Clio knelt beside the flames, wrapped in a white dressing gown, her auburn hair loose down her back. The red-orange glow reflected on her spectacles as she fed scraps of green silk into the fire. Her face was utterly expressionless.

  “Clio,” Calliope called softly.

  Clio jumped, spinning around on her heels, crouched for battle. “Calliope!” she cried. “Don’t creep up on me like that. I nearly had apoplexy.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t even sure you were here or just a mirage.” Calliope slowly moved to Clio’s side, hands held out as if in surrender. She knelt beside her sister, studying the torn remains of the Medusa costume.

  “What happened tonight, Clio?” she said. She reached out to touch the ragged edge of a gold sleeve. It was stiff with smeared blood.

  Clio stared straight ahead into the flames. “What do you mean?”

  “Lord Westwood and I found him. The duke. He held a scrap of this very silk in his hand.”

  “Was he—dead?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He was unconscious. Lord Westwood went for help, and when they carried the duke away I came home. To find you.” Calliope couldn’t hold herself back any longer. She seized Clio, drawing her into a fierce hug. “Oh, Clio, I was so frightened!”

  Clio held herself stiff for a second, then she gave a great shudder and fell against Calliope’s shoulder, clutching at her. “Cal! It was—was horrible.”

  “My dear, you’re safe now. We’re all safe, I promise,” Calliope said, struggling to convince herself as much as Clio. “Why were you alone with him?”

  “I was a fool.” Clio drew away, wiping her cheeks with her dressing gown sleeve. “I wanted to see the Alabaster Goddess without all the gawking crowds. I got one of the footmen to tell me where she was, and I slipped away for a peek. But he must have been watching me. He followed me to that gallery, and just as I saw the goddess, he…”

  “He what?”

  Clio shook her head fiercely. “I don’t want to say. I swear he did not get very far, though, Cal. He just kissed me. Artemis saved me.”

  Calliope gave her a gentle smile. “You mean she leaped off her pedestal and coshed him on the head?”

  Clio laughed. It was a strained, choked sound, but very welcome none the less. “Well, she did need a bit of mortal help. I grabbed her by that wooden base and swung it towards him. I just wanted to scare him, make him back away. I thought for a moment he was dead, and I didn’t mean to kill him! I wouldn’t mind if he was dead, but I don’t want his blood on my hands.” She held out one trembling hand, palm up. “Of course, it’s there anyway.”

  “No!” Calliope took that hand, holding it tightly. “He is alive, and will probably recover, more is the pity. Hopefully his wits will be scrambled enough, though, that he won’t hurt anyone else.”

  “And so he won’t talk of this to anyone?”

  “Why would he? Being known as an attacker of women—and being so weak a woman could attack him and bring him low—could hardly be what he wants.”

  “For a normal man, perhaps. I don’t have any idea what a man like the duke could want.”

  They sat there for a long moment, clinging together, the only sound the snap of the fire. Outside the window the sky was beginning to lighten, a lark twittering in the trees. London coming to life again for one more day.

  “There is something I want to show you, Cal,” Clio said. She rose unsteadily to her feet and crossed the room to her bed. From under the mattress she drew a folded, rumpled sheet of paper, covered with a spidery black hand. One corner was ripped away.

  “What is it?” Calliope asked, as Clio came back to the fireside.

  “I’m not sure. When I—well, when Artemis made contact with the duke’s head, the wooden base split and this paper came out.”

  “Oh, yes!” Calliope exclaimed, remembering that broken base, the tiny scrap of parchment. “I saw that it was broken. But what is the paper?”

  “A list of some sort.” Clio smoothed it out on the hearth rug. “I can’t quite figure it out, though.”

  Calliope leaned closer, peering at the tiny words. “Cicero. The Grey Dove. The Sicilian. The Purple Hyacinth. Nicknames?”

  “Perhaps. There are ten of them in all, and they’re each so strange. I wouldn’t have thought the duke was one for secret societies, he seems so solitary, but after seeing his Gothic horror of a house I know anything is possible. What could they be nicknames for?”

  Calliope ran her finger down the baffling list. “Charlemagne. The Golden Falcon. I have no idea. It must be very important, though, to hide it in the Alabaster Goddess like that.”

  “Important—and illegal, no doubt. Immoral goes without saying.”

  Illegal contacts? “Oh, Clio,” Calliope breathed. “Do you suppose the duke is the Lily Thief?”

  Cameron splashed cold water over his face, hoping the icy drops would finally wake him from the bizarre dream this whole evening had been. It didn’t work, though. When he opened his eyes, slicking back the wet strands of his hair, his rumpled Hermes costume was still tossed over a chair. And he faced himself—eyes bloodshot, face strained—in the mirror.

  In his travels to Greece, he and his companions were chased by bandits and rebels on occasion, running through the rocky hills with bullets zinging at their heels. That was surely dangerous, but also exhilarating. Life-affirming. After a narrow escape, they would drink and sing around campfires until dawn, when they would run again.

  Why, then, did he feel so weary now? So—old, almost. Was it because bandits and bullets had a strange honesty to them? Unlike whatever it was that had happened at Averton’s house tonight. That had a murky, corrupt air, a mystery he didn’t care for.

  Would he have left Averton to die, if Calliope Chase’s solemn dark eyes weren’t watching every move he made? He was surely tempted to, and the world would be better off. In the end he couldn’t. He couldn’t even let a man he detested die. Because of some weakness in himself? Because he didn’t want to seem less than good, seem the flawed man he was, in front of Calliope?

  Cameron shook his head, droplets flying, and reached for his dressing gown. He drew the warm brocade over his chilled nakedness, watching as the first light of day, grey-pink and fuzzy, peeked through the window. Now wasn’t the time for agonised self-examination. He had never been good at that, anyway; he was no poet. Now was the time for action, for solving whatever it was that had happened last night. Someone had tried to kill the duke. Perhaps they had tried to steal the Alabaster Goddess.

  The duke himself was always up to something. What did he want with Clio Chase? What did she have to do with last night’s events? What was going on with the Chase sisters?

  Cameron went to the window, staring down at the street coming to life for the day. Milkmaids and greengrocers hurried along on their errands; a maid scrubbed at the white steps next door. She yawned as she worked, but Cameron, despite his long night, was suddenly wide awake, his earlier weariness quite forgotten.

  Something had happened between him and Calliope Chase, as they made their way through those dark, mouldering rooms. He had always thought her beautiful, of course. And sharply intelligent, sure of herself as only a truly clever person could be. But also stubborn and maddening!

  Last night there was a new connection, a new spark that intrigued him, drew him in, even as his suspicions grew. He would find out what was going on with her, with his deep Athena who hid so much. It wouldn’t be easy to gain her trust, her confidence. In fact, he had the feeling it would be the most difficult thing he would ever
do. But something was afoot in the small world of antiquities collecting, in the world of the Chases, and he was determined to find out what that was.

  Even if he had to spend time—lots of time—with Calliope Chase. Not that that would be a terrible hardship, he thought, remembering the way her Athena costume clung to her bare, white shoulders. But someone had to solve this riddle, before more artefacts like the Alabaster Goddess fell victim to its spell.

  And he was just the person to do it.

  Chapter Ten

  Calliope tied the ribbons of her bonnet into a jaunty bow just under her left ear and examined herself in the mirror. Did it really look well on her? It was her favourite hat, chip straw trimmed with blue satin ribbons. But was it too—plain?

  And why was she so very worried about hats, when there were so many other more important things to be concerned about? Clio and the duke, the Lily Thief, the Ladies Society.

  She knew why the sudden preoccupation with fashion, though, and she didn’t like it. She was worried because she was to wear the bonnet to go driving in the park with Lord Westwood.

  Cameron.

  With a frustrated sigh, Calliope pulled off the bonnet, completely disarranging Mary’s careful construction of curls, and reached for the note that had arrived over breakfast.

  “Miss Chase, would you do me the honour of driving with me in the park this afternoon? I think that there, surrounded by hundreds of people, would be the only place where we could really talk. If you are agreeable, I will call for you at half past three.”

  If she was agreeable. The gossips would certainly have a splendid time to see them together in Cameron’s yellow phaeton. Calliope idly wondered what the betting books would say. She didn’t want to be talked about, especially now, when she needed to move as unobtrusively as possible in society to discover the Lily Thief. Was it the duke? Westwood? The mysterious Minotaur from the ball? Or someone she had not yet even thought of? She could never find out if everyone was watching her, laughing behind their fans.

  But she did need to talk to Westwood. He was the only one, besides Clio and the duke, who knew what really had happened in that dark gallery. Perhaps he could help her now, but she had to be careful. It was possible he was also her biggest obstacle.

  Calliope pushed the bonnet aside and reached for the newspapers from that morning. The more disreputable ones were full of news from the masquerade ball, nearly all erroneous. One had the duke’s head split completely open, blood and brains spilling forth on to the floor. It didn’t mention how the man still lived after such carnage. One had jewels stolen from the house, ladies fainting, masked thieves brandishing pistols. Or swords. Or daggers.

  None of the accounts were as bad as her own memories, though. Of the smell of coppery blood mingling with dust. Of that scrap of silk in the duke’s hand.

  Calliope shuddered and shoved the papers away. Under all those black headlines, under her own confused memories, there lurked the truth. And she intended to find it. Surely it was the only way to stop the Lily Thief, and keep Clio safe.

  Yet she couldn’t do it alone. She was no Athena. She needed as many allies as she could find. Her sisters, the Ladies Society. Cameron de Vere?

  Could she trust him? Last night he had been like a rock amid chaos and confusion. But that did not erase his old attitudes towards antiquities, their old quarrels.

  There was only one way to find out. Talk to the man. Try to see beneath his light, charming façade to the truth beneath.

  Calliope reached again for her bonnet and popped it on her head. She wished it had some flirtatious feathers or bright fruit and flowers, or that she herself possessed Thalia’s blue eyes or Emmeline’s fine figure. Brown eyes and skinny limbs, clad in classical white plainness, weren’t likely to coax secrets out of any man, let alone one as admired by the ladies as Westwood.

  It was no use worrying about it, though. She was who she was, and there was nothing to be done about it. And she was going to be late if she didn’t hurry.

  Calliope retied the bow under her ear and reached for her blue spencer. Maybe she didn’t have flirtatious azure eyes, but she did have one thing she shared with Cameron—a knowledge of history and antiquities. They could speak the same language, if they just tried.

  As she pinned a tiny brooch, a golden owl of Athena, to her collar, a knock sounded at her chamber door.

  “The Earl of Westwood is waiting for you in the morning room, Miss Chase,” the footman announced.

  “Thank you,” Calliope called. “I will be down directly.” She touched the owl and whispered, “Courage.”

  The fashionable hour was just beginning as Calliope and Cameron turned into the gates of Hyde Park, his dashing yellow-and-black phaeton rolling smoothly along the lane, joining in the bright parade. Calliope opened her parasol, turning it over her shoulder to block the afternoon sunlight—and some of the stares of the curious.

  “Are you quite well today, Miss Chase?” Cameron asked, steering his horses down a slightly quieter pathway. She had been right about his driving skills. His gloved hands were featherlight on the reins, his horses perfectly responsive to his slightest touch. Just as she had been responsive when they danced.

  “A good night’s sleep and a strong pot of tea can do wonders,” Calliope answered, nodding at Emmeline as they passed her and her mother in their carriage.

  “Did you sleep well, then?”

  Calliope laughed ruefully, and shook her head. “Hardly at all. I had such dreams!”

  “Dreams of falling statues?”

  “Of being chased by hairy Minotaurs down endless corridors.”

  He gave her a sympathetic smile. “That house would be quite enough to disturb anyone’s dreams, even without other—events.”

  “Quite. I hope never to see Acropolis House again.”

  “Or its owner?”

  “Him, too. Will he live, do you think?”

  “The doctor who was summoned last night says his prognosis is quite good. Once his brain is set right. Whatever right might be for such a man.”

  Calliope swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. “And have you heard what the events of the night are supposed to be?”

  “That the duke was examining his treasure, and she fell from her unsteady base. A tragic accident.”

  “At least until the duke awakens and tells the truth.”

  “Until then. How is your sister today?”

  “Quiet, but well enough. Clio does not stay discomposed for long. But her account of events is much what you would think, I fear. The duke surprised her as she examined the Alabaster Goddess, and when he tried to do—something, she hit him with the statue.”

  “Well done for her.”

  Calliope laughed. “I think she is mostly disappointed she didn’t finish the job.”

  “Well, I’m sure one day someone will—finish the job. The duke has many enemies.”

  “Like you, Lord Westwood?”

  He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “Perhaps. One can never predict what might happen in the future. And I thought I asked you to call me Cameron.”

  “When we are alone.”

  “Aren’t we alone now?”

  Calliope looked around at the crowd of carriages and equestrians. “Hardly.”

  “No one can hear us.”

  “All right, then—Cameron. I hope that, if something does one day happen to the duke, it won’t be by your hand.”

  “You wouldn’t like to see me in Newgate, then?”

  Calliope had a vision of him locked behind stout bars, dishevelled, waiting for the noose or the ship to Botany Bay. Once it might have made her laugh; now it made her shiver. “Not for the likes of the Duke of Averton. I don’t want to see you or my sister hurt because of him.”

  “I don’t want to see such a thing, either, believe me.”

  “Then how can we prevent it?”

  “We?”

  Calliope examined the passing scenery, the neat rows of trees, fei
gning a carelessness she was far from feeling. “I think we worked together well last night, did we not?”

  “Yes,” he agreed slowly. “Certainly we prevented anyone knowing what really happened in that gallery, though I’m sure there is no power on earth that could stop speculation.”

  Calliope thought again of those rumours Emmeline told her about. The wagers on how soon she and Westwood would be betrothed—or would kill each other. “No, indeed. People do like their gossip.”

  “But not us,” he said teasingly. “We are above all that. We care only for the benefit of art.”

  Calliope laughed. “I am not so high in the instep as all that, I hope! I confess I do indulge in a spot of, shall we say, speculative conversation now and then.”

  “Never! Not Miss Calliope Chase.”

  “Sad, I know, but I must be honest.” Calliope sighed.

  “And what do you speculate about?”

  You, she almost said. She bit her lip, turning away again to peer at the passing pedestrians on the walkways. They were in a more sparsely populated part of the park now, most of the stylish gawkers behind them. Here were mostly serious strollers, nurses with their charges, footmen with dogs on leads. The phaeton rolled past them slowly, at a snail’s pace. “Oh, this and that. Bonnets, of course. Parisian fashion papers. Fans and plumes. Don’t ladies always interest themselves in the latest styles?”

  Cameron shook his head. “Some ladies perhaps, Miss Chase. Not you, nor, I dare say, your sisters, or your friends in that Ladies Society of yours all the females of the ton are so anxious to join. You can’t fool me.”

  She hoped she could fool him, at least some of the time. He couldn’t know how much they really did talk about him at Ladies Society meetings, how most of her acquaintances were half in love with him, called him their “Greek god”. He couldn’t know why she needed his help so much now. Why she had to keep an eye on him.

  And he really couldn’t know that she was beginning to like him.

  There. She said it, at least to herself. She was beginning to like him, to look forward to his conversation, his smiles. It surely wouldn’t last, though. Such silliness rarely did. She knew this from watching ladies like Lotty, who were infatuated with a different gentleman every week.