To Catch a Rogue

by Amanda McCabe

  Cameron shook away the cold sensation of surprise, or dawning realisation. Of the knowledge that he had been very, very foolish. There was no time for that now. He could hardly just run off and accuse her, the sister of the woman he loved! He wasn’t even fully certain. He had little to go on besides a flower and his gut instincts. He had to move softly, carefully.

  And how, blast it all, how was he to tell Calliope?

  “Yes,” he said, turning his back to the Muses. “Though Delphi is just a dusty little village called Kastri now. There is nothing of the Pythia to be found there, just some broken columns and overgrown thistle.”

  “Very sad. None the less, it must be exhilarating to stand exactly where such great prophecies arose!”

  Cameron continued his conversation with Herr Mueller, examining the paintings, the artefacts displayed in Lord Kenleigh’s glass cases. He must have made a credible job of it, too, for Herr Mueller seemed to find nothing amiss. But his thoughts were focused on that one little flower.

  Calliope sat back on the carriage seat, peering out at the road as they bounced along on their way back to the Abbey. Thalia and Emmeline chatted happily about the new bonnets they had bought in the village, while Lotty buried herself in a volume acquired from the small bookshop, occasionally exclaiming over an especially dramatic passage. Only Calliope and Clio, seated next to each other, were quiet.

  Calliope could not fathom her sister’s thoughts, but she herself remembered only the night before. Her body joined with Cameron’s, their kisses and moans in the darkness, the humid blurriness when they lost themselves completely. The confidences she had never shared with anyone

  He was—well, he was wonderful. But what would happen now?

  Calliope slumped back on the seat, having thoroughly confused herself. She had surely got no closer to answers of any sort since coming to Yorkshire! Not about the Lily Thief, about Cameron. About herself.

  They turned down a different lane and the duke’s castle came into view, pale grey and hulking against the blue sky. The first time Calliope saw it, she had thought it needed only pennants to make the picture complete, fabric snapping in the wind to welcome warriors to the joust. Those pennants were there today, bright rectangles of green, white and gold.

  “Do you think it’s meant to be a new Camelot, Cal?” Clio said.

  Calliope turned to find her sister’s gaze on the castle, opaque behind her spectacles. “Perhaps it’s to welcome us to his party. A theme gathering.”

  “Medieval days? I must find my wimple and surcoat, then, and hope torture is not among the scheduled festivities.”

  “Hmm, yes. Shall he toss us in the dungeon, do you think?”

  Clio smiled wryly. “You needn’t fear such a fate, Cal. Lord Westwood would surely ride up on his white charger and rescue you from the beast.”

  Calliope took her sister’s hand. “You needn’t fear the duke, either, Clio. You needn’t even go to the party at all! I don’t understand why he invited us. I thought he came to his fortress to shut himself and the Alabaster Goddess away from the world.”

  Clio squeezed her hand. “I don’t understand, either, yet I somehow feel I must go.”

  “To protect the goddess?”

  “Yes, to protect the goddess. And…”

  “And what?”

  Clio shrugged. “What else is there?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Camelot, indeed, Calliope thought the next night, as their carriage turned through ornate iron gates and rolled up a steep incline towards the duke’s castle. If it hadn’t actually been built in the Middle Ages, it was a superb imitation, an impenetrable keep set atop a craggy hill, surrounded by a now-dry moat. The narrow windows were ablaze with light, a vivid glow that softened the harsh edges of the stonework. Those pennants snapped from the corner towers. Calliope half expected armoured knights to come galloping out to meet them as they entered the inner courtyard.

  It was an austere, gravelled square of a space, with walls looming high all around, but torches flared in a straight line leading to the doors. An old well in the centre bubbled away, transformed into a modern fountain.

  “I told you I should have worn my wimple,” Clio said.

  Calliope laughed. Even without a wimple, Clio had a vaguely antique look about her tonight, in a dark amber-coloured gown with long, draped sleeves and a wide sash embroidered with dragons and flowers. And her eyes seemed clear for the first time in days, her laughter unforced.

  Calliope had her doubts about coming here tonight. Look what happened the last time they accepted an invitation from the duke! Strangely, though, it seemed to have done Clio some good.

  “You would have ruined your coiffure with a wimple,” she said, alighting from the carriage.

  “Perhaps I would have felt less out of place.” Clio stepped down beside Calliope, straightening her spectacles on her nose. “One almost expects William the Conqueror to come riding in. Do you think we will be served roast boar, to be eaten with our fingers?”

  “Nothing so amusing as that, I fear,” Thalia said, joining them as they went up the steps and through the open doors. “Just more lectures from Herr Mueller.”

  “Oh, I doubt his Grace will allow himself to be upstaged in his own house, especially by a mere scholar,” Clio said. “But I don’t think you need to be worried about being bored, Thalia.”

  “If I am, I’ll just go and search for dungeons and secret passages,” Thalia answered airily. “There are bound to be some. How else could one escape the siege?”

  “How else, indeed?” Clio murmured. They followed the rest of the party out of the tiny, cold foyer into the drawing room.

  If it could be called a “drawing room”, Calliope thought. “Solar” was more like it. A long, rectangular space with fireplaces at each end, massive enough to roast oxen for the feast. Their great, crackling flames banished every bit of chill even from this room made of stone—stone floor, stone walls soaring up to timber rafters. The furnishings, too, seemed ancient, large, dark pieces carved with forest scenes and gargoyle faces. The chairs were strewn with gold velvet cushions; tapestries of knights and their ladies hung on the rough walls.

  “His Grace will be with you shortly,” the footman announced. Then he left them, closing the door behind him as if to shut them all up in this medieval prison. Laughter and conversation burst out as soon as the portal closed, exclamations over the house, over this chair or that painting.

  “They do say Averton is a great eccentric, even worse than his grandfather. And they called him The Mad Duke!” Lady Kenleigh said, seating herself by one of the fires. “I certainly do believe it. Did you see his house in town? A veritable warehouse…”

  Calliope watched as Thalia found an old set of virginals in the corner, and Clio wandered off to examine a tapestry. Her father was conversing with Lady Rushworth. Assured that her family was fully occupied, she looked around for Cameron.

  They had not been able to talk alone since their tryst in the woods. It was probably just as well, since her cheeks turned hot every time she remembered how boldly she had lured him into lovemaking! Could she talk about such serious matters as thieves and codes without grabbing him, kissing him?

  Yet she always seemed to know where he was in every room. Always sensed when he was near. Things just always seemed brighter when he walked in. As if he brought the Greek sun wherever he went.

  Now he stood by a glass case near the other fireplace, far down the vast chamber, studying a cluster of Greek vases. With one more glance to be sure her family and friends were all busy, Calliope slipped to his side.

  He didn’t look at her, but he also seemed to know when she was near. A smile touched the corner of his lips as the fringe of her shawl brushed his hand.

  “Extraordinary, are they not?” he said, gesturing to the vases.

  Calliope stared at them. They were a surprisingly small collection for a man as rapacious as the duke. No doubt the rest were stored elsewhere, and these
were just the choice bits. And “choice” they were, glossy and perfect. She recognised a red-figure piece by the Andokides Painter, coppery red against velvety black. And an amphora depicting a party scene, drunken dancers turning and twisting in a way that suggested extraordinary mobility.

  Calliope leaned closer to see an inscription in Greek, etched near the bottom of the amphora. “‘Euphronios never did anything like it,’” she read aloud. “These pieces are incredible. They look like new! Wherever did the duke find them?”

  “Straight from the ground in Greece, or maybe Italy,” Cameron said tightly. “They must have been buried for centuries in their original homes to be in such condition.”

  Standing close to him, Calliope could feel the coiled tension of his muscles, the curl of his fists. She knew his body well now. That anger was there again, the white-hot glow she sensed when they saw the duke’s gallery in London. When he spoke of the women Averton had taken cruel advantage of in his youth. She didn’t think a fight here, tonight, would do any good. Not when they were so close to their goal of finding the thief, and yet still so far away! She laughed and tugged at his arm, turning him towards another krater.

  “This one puts me in mind of you and the duke,” she said teasingly. It was a scene of two men, Herakles and Antaios, wrestling, while two goddesses on either side watched dispassionately. The delineation of the musculature was extraordinary, two straining, powerful men locked in mortal combat. It was obvious Antaios was losing. His face was white with the pallor of impending death.

  Hmm, Calliope thought. Perhaps this particular vase was not such a fine distraction after all.

  Cameron did laugh, though. “Ah, Calliope,” he said quietly. “If only.”

  “I hope you don’t decide to recreate this scene tonight. This is meant to be a party, you know.”

  “A party with no host, it would seem.”

  “The duke does seem to enjoy being fashionably late, even to his own events,” Calliope said. “I can’t help but feel this is not just a simple dinner party, though.”

  “Not just a newfound sociability on his part? I fear you are probably right.”

  Calliope turned away from the vases, from white-faced Antaios, to look at a tapestry, a faded scene of a medieval harvest. The castle in the background was much like this one. “Have you thought more about the list?” she asked.

  A shadow seemed to pass over his face, erasing that smile. He still examined the krater, not looking at her. “I have. In fact, Calliope, I may have discovered something.”

  “You have?” Calliope cried in fresh excitement. At last! “How clever you are. I can’t decipher it at all, no matter how long I look at it.”

  “It was hardly cleverness. Just sheer luck.”

  “What is it? What did you discover?”

  Cameron glanced over his shoulder at the group crowded around the fireplace, far from them. They were all there now, except Clio, who stood on tiptoe to peer out of one of the narrow windows, as if she would fly away. “We can’t talk here.”

  “But they are so far away, surely they can’t hear,” Calliope began. Her protests faded as he shot her a sharp look. His smiles, his light humour, were all quite gone. He was as hard and unemotional as one of the duke’s statues. Whatever he had found must be terribly serious, then.

  Did she really, truly want to know?

  Suddenly, Calliope realised that this search for the thief had, up until now, been something of a game. Oh, not the antiquities part—that she cared about deeply. But the thief himself had somehow been abstract, a symbol for the evils of illegal artwork being shuffled about, not cared for, not studied. It wasn’t real people. Now it was, all too much.

  But she had come too far to give up, no matter what.

  “Do you know who it is?” she whispered.

  “I might. Or at least know what is part of it all,” he answered. “We can talk later. For now, I think we should join the others to wait for our host.”

  “Yes, of course,” Calliope said, her stomach queasy.

  “And, Calliope, I think you should keep a close eye on your Ladies Society tonight. Just to be sure.”

  “My friends?” Her stomach gave another sick lurch, and she pressed her hands tight to the pain. “Are they in some danger?”

  “Please, Calliope, just stay near them.”

  Cameron walked away towards the fireplace. Calliope took one halting step after him, determined to make him tell her what he knew. Discretion to blazes, if her friends and sisters were in danger!

  She halted suddenly as she felt a cool burst of air against her ankle. The rest of the room was so warm, so muffled; she couldn’t believe a draught would dare invade the duke’s domain. But a small breeze stirred the hem of her white muslin gown, and it seemed to come from beneath the tapestry.

  Calliope turned back the edge of the cloth, just enough to see a small crack where a door was hidden. The breeze came from just below, where the door would end, leaving a half-inch gap. A secret entrance to the outside, then? How was that possible?

  She remembered the earthen steps at the Abbey. This place was more crowded with hidden portals than any of Lotty’s novels!

  She reached out cautiously, touching the crack with her gloved fingertips. The wood fit very tightly with the wall, painted grey to match the stone, but she could feel the metallic bump of a hinge.

  The drawing-room door—the legitimate one—opened, and Calliope jumped back, letting the tapestry fall back into place. Their host appeared at last, no Dionysus or Celtic king tonight, but a stylish gentleman in dark burgundy superfine, his hair tied back. His gaze, green as sea glass, was as penetrating as ever, though, sweeping over his gathered guests. Calliope folded her hands together tightly to still their trembling, feeling like a child caught pilfering sweets.

  “Good evening, everyone,” Averton said. “Forgive my lack of punctuality, there was business that could not wait.”

  “Not at all, your Grace,” Lady Kenleigh answered. “We were just admiring your very unusual arrangements.”

  “Ah, yes, my medieval castle.” The duke strolled into the room to stand beside the fireplace, resting one hand on the massive mantelpiece. The rings he wore, emeralds and rubies, gleamed in the flames. “A weakness, I fear, stemming from the King Arthur tales I relished as a boy. The round table, the tournaments, the holy quests…”

  “The code of chivalry?” Clio said. “Knights paying gentle court to their ladies fair?”

  The duke turned towards her, his face expressionless. Calliope edged closer, mindful of Cameron’s request that she stay close to her friends. Averton just smiled. “You have been reading The Romance of the Rose in addition to Plato, Miss Chase?”

  “I am not a medieval scholar,” Clio said. “But surely every lady must know the benefits—and the drawbacks—of being the object of chivalrous intentions.”

  “Is The Romance of the Rose like Lady Edwina’s Destiny?” Lotty interrupted. “There is this curse, you see, and it can only be broken by true love’s gift. A magical rose, of course…”

  “Miss Price is a true romantic,” Clio said, giving Lotty a gentle smile.

  “How fortunate you are, then, Miss Price,” the duke said. “Most of us no longer have that luxury, and must balance the romance of Arthur with the pragmatism of Charlemagne.” Charlemagne.

  A bell rang in the distance, cutting through the tension that hung in the firelit air. “Dinner is ready. Lady Kenleigh, may I escort you into the dining room? I fear I go against the convention with no hostess tonight, but my cook has been hard at work all day preparing a fine repast. I seldom entertain, you see, and the servants feel their talents go to waste.”

  Calliope looked about for Cameron, only to find that he had quite vanished in the crowd.

  They were not served boar to be eaten by hand, of course, but a sumptuous feast that would put any London house to shame. Vol-au-vents, mackeral à la Stewart, duck and chicken pie, stewed vegetables, raspberry Charlot
te. All of it perfectly prepared and delicious.

  The conversation naturally turned on the duke’s collections, descriptions of his favourite pieces, questions from Herr Mueller, everyone’s travel narratives.

  Calliope listened to it with half an ear, nibbling at the delicacies on her plate as she watched Clio, seated across the table from Calliope and fortunately far from the duke. Clio’s face showed no reaction as she listened to tales of statues rescued from crumbling temples, fished out of the sea. Calliope noticed, though, that Clio ate little and seemed to imbibe more wine than usual.

  Cameron, too, behaved oddly, slipping into the dining room as the soup was being served. He shot Calliope a quick smile, but was quiet. Most unusual indeed.

  Calliope sipped at her own wine, wondering if she had tumbled into another dream. A strange blend of ancient, medieval, and modern where familiar faces were suspect and she suddenly understood nothing at all. The names on that list could surely apply to all of them, for they were not themselves any more. They were falcons, flowers, doves. Cicero. Charlemagne.

  Calliope finally set her wineglass back down on the table. She had surely had enough! The conversation, the laughter, was like a clamour in her ears, the delicious food tasteless. She longed to jump up from her velvet chair and run away! To run all the way home to London and pull the bedclothes up over her head. To turn the clock back before she ever heard of the Lily Thief. Ever made love with Cameron.

  But that could never be. The Calliope of that time was gone, everything was different. Her family, her feelings for Cameron, her whole way of seeing the world. She couldn’t go back. Did she even want to? No.

  She looked down the table towards Cameron, who was chatting with Lotty as if he hadn’t a care in the world. How beautiful he was, her reckless Greek god. How she longed for him, despite how easily he could shatter her world.

  He was loathe to tell her whatever it was he had found, because he didn’t seem to want to hurt her. She knew him quite well now, knew his real kindness and compassion, and she could see it in his eyes. She loved that, but feared it, too. If the duke was the Lily Thief, or some stranger, or someone like Mr Smithson or Freddie Mountbank, it would not hurt her. So, it must mean it was not one of them. It must mean…