It was like one of Lotty’s beloved novels, turned farce rather than Gothic tragedy. The Folly of Calliope. At least it was folly with a purpose.
“Very well,” she admitted. “Sometimes we do talk about hats, and sometimes suitors. Mostly we talk about art and history. And books.” No need to mention that once in a while the books were things like Lady Rosamund’s Tragedy.
“I knew it. Did I not say you cared only for the benefit of art?”
“You did. And that, Lord Westwood—Cameron—is why I need your help.”
He glanced at her, his brow arched. “My help? Dear me, Miss Chase, I fear I shall swoon!”
Calliope lightly slapped his arm. “Don’t tease! I’m serious.”
“As am I. Who would have thought this day would come? I’m quite dizzy with surprise.”
“Hmph.” She snapped her parasol closed, just in case she was required to rap him over the head with it. “Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?”
“Always.”
“Very well, then. I think we both agree the duke is an odious man, yes?”
His smile melted, the corners of his beautiful, Greek god-ish lips turning down. “Of course.”
“You know that better than I, I’m sure. You went to university with him. I only have his behaviour towards my sister to judge by. And his rapacious collecting habits. Those are quite vile enough.”
“Believe me, my dear Miss Chase, you don’t want to see what the man is like outside of polite society,” he said darkly.
My dear? Calliope peered closer at him, trying to read his face under the shadowed brim of his hat. It was as smooth as a statue, as Hermes. Only an obsidian glint in his eyes betrayed the depths of emotion roiling inside.
“No, I don’t,” she said softly. “But I will, if that’s what it takes.”
“If that is what what takes?”
“To protect my sister. And the Alabaster Goddess.”
“The Alabaster Goddess?”
“Of course. It is too much to think I could protect all those objects in that dreadful house. The lioness, the sarcophagus, Daphne. But I think Artemis is in the most immediate danger. Both from the duke and from whoever might think to take her from him.”
“The Lily Thief again?”
“Perhaps. He is not the only petty criminal about, you know. She could be in danger from any number of people.”
“You think some pickpocket from Whitechapel is likely to break into Acropolis House and steal a Greek statue? Maybe some of those cat mummies while he’s at it?”
Calliope sighed. “Put like that, it does sound silly. No, I don’t think some cutpurse is going to haul the goddess away. There are plenty of criminals with more sophistication who could carry off such a crime, though. She is a prime target. Not too large, in beautiful condition…”
“Too famous to sell on the open market.”
“That wouldn’t stop a collector who wants only to gloat over her in private.”
“As the duke has done?”
“Yes, just so.”
He turned the phaeton on to yet another lane, this one more crowded. Their progress slowed even further, caught in a knot of vehicles. “Say the Lily Thief—or someone else—does steal the Alabaster Goddess. How is she worse off than she was in Averton’s possession?”
“At least with him we know where she is. There is a chance she could pass to a museum or a respectable scholar one day. If she is stolen, she would likely never see the light again. Never be studied properly.”
Cameron shook his head. “Calliope, she has been studied, as much as can be. Taken from her original context, most of her lessons are lost for ever anyway. The duke does not deserve her.”
“I won’t argue with you about that. He doesn’t deserve any of those antiquities in his house! But he does own them, for good or ill, at least for now.”
“And so you think that gives him the right…”
Calliope reached out and pressed her fingers to his tense arm, stilling his angry growl. This was that old quarrel of theirs, and there was just no time for it now. She needed him. “Please, Cameron. I need your help. Let’s not argue.”
He stared down at her intently, perfectly still under her touch. “My help with what exactly?”
“I told you—to keep Artemis safe. No matter what our disagreements are, we both want that, yes?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then can we declare a truce? A new alliance, to save the Alabaster Goddess?”
He was silent for a long moment, until Calliope half-feared he meant to reject her truce, to set her down here in the park and drive away, laughing at her folly. Finally, though, he pressed his hand atop hers. “Very well. A truce. Now, how do your propose we protect our divine charge? Put surveillance on the duke’s house? Follow him around town—once he is conscious, of course.”
Calliope laughed in sheer relief. “I’m afraid I haven’t thought that far ahead. That is one reason why I need your help.”
“I thought strategy was Athena’s strong point.”
“I fear I had to put my helmet and shield away and don this bonnet instead. But I am sure we will soon think of something. Come to my house tomorrow evening. My father is having a small card party, and we can talk more there.”
“Strategise over a game of astralasi, eh?”
“Perhaps if the Trojans had done so rather than make war, things might have ended better for them.” Calliope sat back in her seat, opening her parasol again. She felt a new, warm glow of satisfaction. The truce was begun; a new game was afoot. “Thank you, Cameron. You won’t be sorry, I promise.”
You won’t be sorry.
Cameron laughed aloud as he bounded up the steps of his house. That was where Calliope Chase was wrong, for he was already beginning to be sorry. If he joined forces with her, allied with her to protect the Alabaster Goddess, he would have to spend time with her. And then how would he ever stop himself from kissing her?
When he looked at her today, the sun dusting her fair skin with glistening gold, her cheeks flushed with the excitement of her mission, her lips parted on a breath, it took everything in his power, every ounce of self-control, not to grab her. Not to pull her close and kiss those pink lips, feel their softness, their warm yielding. He was so hot to kiss her, embrace her—her, Calliope Chase of all women! A woman who always seemed to regard him with suspicion and disapproval. A woman who was beautiful, but oh so stubborn.
Until that blasted masquerade ball, anyway. The drama and danger, the strange nightmare quality of that evening, had changed something between them. The old distrust cracked and broke, but hadn’t yet reformed into something he could identify.
Except lust. And he’d always had that for her.
Now they were to be allies in some scheme she had to “save” the Alabaster Goddess from the Lily Thief, the duke, and who knew what else.
Cameron opened the door to the library and found Athena’s painted image, her solemn grey-eyed stare. Aside from the fact that Calliope’s eyes were brown—a deep, melting chocolate brown that a person could drown in, happily unable to extricate himself—they were the mirror image of each other. He wondered if Athena had been a member of a Ladies Society, too.
They were certainly up to something, Calliope and her Ladies Society friends. He knew that even before they found the duke in his gallery, when they were dancing and she and Emmeline Saunders kept exchanging glances and whispers. Everyone thought they were some sort of harmless study group, a way for ladies to occupy themselves before they married, yet Cameron had always suspected otherwise. Any society with the Chase sisters as members could hardly be called “harmless”. And now he was somehow a part of it all, God help him.
If he was truly wise, he would stay far away from Calliope and her plans, would pack his bags and retreat to the countryside. Retreat, though, was never his way. Nor was running away from an intriguing puzzle. His curiosity had always got the better of him, especially since life wa
s so dull since he had returned from his travels.
Cameron remembered the way his father would look at him, puzzled, taken aback, as if this son wasn’t what he bargained for. He would shake his head, and say, “You are Greek, aren’t you?” And he was. That insatiable curiosity, that temper that so often got the better of him—that weakness for a pair of dark eyes.
He laughed ruefully, as the painted Athena gave him a scolding stare. He was her acolyte now, a soldier in her adventure. Perhaps it was foolish of him. The last thing he wanted was to be involved in the Duke of Averton’s sphere again, in any way. Perhaps he would be sorry. It was obvious Calliope and her sisters trailed trouble in their beautiful wake.
But he very much looked forward to it. He had been rather bored lately, floundering in his new English life. Unsure of his place, even though he was brought up to it. He was far from bored now.
Yes. He would not be sorry.
Chapter Eleven
Calliope surveyed the tables set up in the drawing room for the card games. All seemed to be in tidy readiness: the neat white cloths, the new decks of cards, the tea table for refreshments. Through the half-closed doors of the dining room she could hear the servants setting the table for a late supper. The clink of silver and china, the soft murmur of voices.
Drawing her shawl over her shoulders, she stopped to straighten some of the teacups, twitch a crooked cloth into place. There was nothing left to do in here. She should go up and dress, get ready for the guests’ arrival. She was too restless, though. She wanted to keep moving, keep adjusting cloths and fidgeting with cards, not sit down to have her hair dressed!
Calliope stopped at the window, peering down at the darkened street. It was quiet now, a calm lull between the bustle of the day and the flow of evening partygoers. She should feel calm, too. There was surely no need for nervousness. She had played hostess for her father since her mother died, and while they certainly did not entertain as much as they once did, she could manage a small card party.
Perhaps it was not the party itself, but the guest list. Or one guest in particular.
Cameron de Vere was coming to the party tonight. And, what was more, he was going to help her in her schemes to save the Alabaster Goddess. Of course, she didn’t yet know what the scheme would be, but surely with his help things would soon be figured out. He disliked the duke as much as she did. He wanted to see Artemis safe.
A lone carriage rattled down the street, a phaeton hurrying homeward. It was not bright yellow, yet for a moment she remembered staring down from here to see Cameron’s equipage in that very spot, his laughing face turned towards the sun, hair tossed in the breeze. Free. He was always so very free, so careless of what others thought of him. So secure in who he was.
How she envied that.
Calliope sighed, and drew the curtains closed. Free or not, she had a job to do and not much time to do it. She was wasting precious minutes, reflecting on Cameron’s handsome face, his self-confident ways. She just couldn’t seem to help it, though! Thoughts of him crept up on her at the oddest moments. Perhaps she was infected by Lotty’s novel-reading habits, after all.
But then, maybe in a situation like this—stolen antiquities, wicked dukes, mysterious thieves—horrid novels could be more help than Plato or Aristotle. Too bad those novel heroines always seemed to be such fainting cabbage-heads.
“Calliope? Are you not dressed yet?” she heard her father say. She turned to find him in the doorway, leaning on the walking stick he seemed to employ more and more these days. He glanced around with a puzzled air, as if surprised to find himself in his own quiet drawing room, and not the bustling Athenian agora of his studies.
Calliope gazed at him with concern. How frail he looked since her mother died! How distracted and distant. As if he was not of this world, but living more and more in the ancient past. Who could blame him, really, with so many daughters to worry over? So many wild Muses. At least his distraction gave them lots of free time. Time to track down thieves.
“I just wanted to be sure everything is in readiness,” she said. She hurried to his side, taking his arm to lead him to his favourite armchair. “We want our guests to be comfortable, do we not?”
“Ah, Calliope. So much like your mother,” he said with a sigh, patting her cheek.
“Am I, Father?”
“Certainly. Oh, Clio looks the most like her, with that red hair, but you have her spirit. Always thinking of other people, always wanting things to be right for them.” He chuckled. “Whatever you think right is. You and your mother—always so certain of everything. How I always relied on her sureness…”
Calliope gently took his hand in hers. “You miss her very much. Just as I do.”
“Indeed. She was an excellent companion, your mother, so intelligent and steady. Practical, as you are. And beautiful, of course. I can’t seem to find my way without her.” He covered her hand with his, holding her close. “But she left me you and your sisters. I’ll always have a part of her. I tell you, Calliope, my dearest wish for you, for all my Muses, is that you find such a partner in life.”
“Oh, Father,” Calliope said carefully, fearful she might start to cry, “you and Mother were so fortunate to find each other. I fear I’ve never met anyone I could be so compatible with. Could love that way.”
“No one? What of young Westwood?”
Calliope stared at her father, startled. Had he, too, heard those rumours? She thought he noticed nothing that hadn’t happened thousands of years ago! “Lord Westwood? Of course not him, Father. We argue too much.”
“So did your mother and I, when we first met. It’s a sign of passion, y’know.”
“Father!” Calliope cried, feeling hot embarrassment flood her cheeks. She turned away to fuss with an arrangement of chairs.
Her father chuckled. “You don’t want some milquetoast who would just agree with everything you say, would you? Not my Calliope. You would be bored within an hour. And Westwood appreciates the same things you do. Art, history.”
“His father appreciated those things, too, and you two were great rivals.”
“So we were. And enjoyed every moment of our rivalry. One wants to be opposed at times. Life is so dull otherwise.”
“I don’t think I would want a rival as a spouse, though,” Calliope protested. “And Lord Westwood’s views are so different from mine.”
“I’m sure he would come round to a more correct way of thinking, with my Calliope’s help. One more for our cause, eh? You always did enjoy a challenge, my dear.”
Calliope had to laugh. “I do indeed. He might prove too great a challenge, though.”
“For a Chase Muse? Never!” He gave her a sly wink. “Lady Rushworth tells me Lord Westwood is considered quite handsome among the ladies. An Apollo to adorn your side?”
“Father!” Calliope said, kissing his cheek amid helpless laughter. “You should not try to matchmake, you do it ill. I will find the right gentleman, never fear.”
He patted her hand. “I just want to see you happy.”
“I am happy. But I will be even happier once I dress, so I don’t have to greet our guests in my round gown and shawl.”
“You run along, then, Calliope. I will sit here and savour the anticipation of trouncing Mr Berryman at cards. He won ten shillings off me last time.”
“Such shocking extravagance, Father,” Calliope teased. “While you sit here, make sure the servants properly arrange the cakes for the tea table.”
“I shall, my dear. You can always trust me with cakes.”
Calliope left the drawing room and went up the stairs, past servants bustling with final preparations. She should be thinking about refreshments and the guest list, too, but instead she thought only about her father’s words.
For a man with such a crowd of daughters, he seldom showed any concern for their matrimonial prospects. He lived in his own classical world, where dowries and betrothals had little place. Had he really been looking to Lord Westwo
od with an eye for an engagement? Scheming a match, along with his friend Lady Rushworth? Was everyone around her expecting her to marry Cameron, simply because they were prone to quarrels?
Calliope stepped into her bedchamber, watching as Mary prepared yet another white evening gown. Had she grown so predictable, then? She feared she had—white gowns, arguments with Lord Westwood, the evening was set. Too bad life couldn’t follow such easy patterns. It always insisted on throwing obstacles in one’s path. Things like thieves, and dukes obsessed with one’s sister.
And handsome young earls.
Calliope pushed all that away, and discarded her shawl to begin her evening toilette. A card party was not the place to suddenly become unpredictable. But if society thought they really knew Calliope Chase—well, soon, they would just have to think again.
The scene in the Chase drawing room was a distinct contrast to the one that happened in the duke’s grand ballroom. There were no fantastical costumes, no gods and monsters and nymphs, just ordinary mortals in stylish, if subdued, evening dress. No wild dancing, no crowds packed to the walls, and much less artwork. But at least their statues, Calliope thought with satisfaction, were legally obtained and properly looked after.
But one thing was the same. Lord Westwood was there. He sat across from Calliope at the card table, no Hermes with bare arms and loose curls, yet still as mysteriously alluring in a fashionable blue coat and impeccably tied cravat. Calliope peeked at him over the edge of her cards. He was obviously better at this sleuthing-subterfuge business than she was. He was his usual self, smiling and joking, calmly examining his cards, while she had to restrain herself from staring boldly into people’s faces, searching for any minute, hidden signs of villainy.
Thus far her surreptitious glances revealed nothing. No avaricious expressions when looking at her father’s antiquities. No careless words or frowns. No flush of guilt when the duke was mentioned. No ancient bibelots dropped to the floor to give irrefutable proof.
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