Thalia shook her head. ‘Oh, Clio. Do you not know?’
Before Clio could answer, Thalia rose and strolled over to the pianoforte. Soon the tempestuous notes of Beethoven filled the room, and the other ladies gathered around the instrument. Lured, as people always were, by the siren song of Thalia’s music.
Clio put down her own teacup and went to the window, gazing out at the garden beyond their little terrace. Thalia meant, presumably, that Marco was in love with her, Clio, but that was simply absurd. They were friends, allies, that was all. Despite his unearthly good looks, despite the ideals they shared, there had never been the spark of passion between them. Never a physical awareness, such as that which flowed between her and Edward whenever they saw each other.
No, if Marco was falling for anyone, it was surely Thalia. Clio saw the way he looked at her sister, so fascinated despite himself. She could not say she liked it. She knew what Marco was like, knew his hidden life, and she also knew that her beautiful, impulsive sister needed someone steady and calm. Not a wildly patriotic Italian count.
Likely it would come to naught, just like Clio’s own passion for Edward. Clio was going to keep an eye on the situation, though. Starting, apparently, right now. Marco had appeared on the terrace, his chiselled features illuminated for an instant by the flare of a match as he lit a cigar. He seemed to be alone, having escaped from the dining room by one of the tall windows leading outside.
Clio glanced over her shoulder. The ladies were still gathered around Thalia as she moved into a Mozart sonata. Thalia loved an audience, and would thus surely keep everyone entertained for quite a while. Clio wouldn’t be missed for a few minutes.
She slipped quietly out the door to the terrace, joining Marco where he stood by the steps leading into the garden.
‘Cara!’ he said with a wide smile. ‘How very scandalous of you to join me out here, all alone.’
Clio grinned. ‘Save your charm, Marco. It does not work on me, you know.’
He gave a dramatic sigh. ‘Alas, I know it only too well.’
‘Nor do my charms, such as they are, work on you. My sister suspects you are in love.’
Marco took a long draw on his cigar, wreathed in a disguising cloud of silvery smoke. ‘Ah, yes, the beautiful Thalia, Muse of Comedy. She is indeed delightful. But also quite imaginative. I do not know why she would think such a thing.’
‘Perhaps I am also overly imaginative. For I have been hearing such wild tales of late. Ghosts, curses, looted pieces of ancient temple silver.’
Marco smiled wryly through the smoke. ‘That does sound like a novel, cara. Are you a writer now, like Mr Darby?’
‘Are you? Otherwise I cannot quite account for your presence here. I am sure it cannot be on “business”.’
‘Your doubts wound me. Of course it is business, of the most vital kind.’
‘Antiquities business?’
Marco nodded. ‘I think so. What do you know of this silver?’
‘Not very much. I know our cook’s son is involved, I overheard him talking with someone at the feste. They spoke of a bowl, of finding the rest of the hoard to sell to some “English” collector. This buyer has apparently offered a great deal of money, if the pieces can be found soon.’
‘So, they have not yet found them all,’ Marco murmured. ‘They must be getting desperate.’
Just like her! Clio felt quite desperate to know what was happening. She clutched at Marco’s coat sleeve. ‘So you do know! Tell me, I can help.’
Marco covered her hand with his. ‘I know you can. There was none better than the Lily Thief. Yet I fear at present I know little more than you do. There have been some rather unusual pieces appearing on the market recently, and some of my—friends have traced them here. Enna is full of sites, both discovered and still buried.’
‘What sort of pieces?’
‘Coins, jewellery, finely carved grave steles. Silver.’
‘Libation bowls, maybe? Incense burners?’
‘Bowls, yes, but not yet anything like an incense holder. Have you seen one?’
‘Just a sketch. Giacomo, our cook’s son, dropped it at his meeting. Where—?’
She was interrupted by a sudden burst of fireworks, a shower of red and green and white that lit up the night sky in a crack of noise and fire. More celebrations in the village.
Surely the illuminations would quickly draw the other guests to the windows. She didn’t have much time left. She squeezed Marco’s arm and said, ‘Send me a message saying where we can meet. I want to hear more about this.’
He grinned at her. ‘And would you bring your lovely sister to our meeting? I have seldom seen such beauty and such spirit in one lady.’
Clio smacked his arm with the flat of her hand. ‘Don’t you dare turn your Florentine charm on Thalia! I don’t want her involved in anything at all dangerous.’
‘Oh, cara, I doubt you could stop her getting involved in anything she chose. She seems quite as stubborn as her sister. Perhaps more so.’
‘That is all too true. And all the more reason for me to protect her. Promise me you will not embroil her in any of this!’
Marco sighed. ‘I promise. And we will meet very soon. Perhaps I will have more to tell you then.’
Clio impulsively kissed his cheek, and spun around to hurry away. Another burst of sparkling light showed her they were not entirely unobserved. Edward stood at the dining room window, watching her. His expression was like a Roman marble statue, perfectly still and calm.
They stared at each other for one long, frozen moment before Edward turned away. Suddenly freezing cold, Clio dashed into the house. She drew her Indian shawl closer about her bare shoulders, but even its warmth could not ward off the chill that had invaded her world.
Clio paced the length of her bedchamber floor, first one way then back again. Books on the Punic War era were open on her desk, along with a new volume on late Hellenistic silver, but she could not concentrate on studies. Her mind was racing, her pulse thrumming with the need to do something. To move to action.
She stopped at her window, staring out over the rooftops of Santa Lucia. All seemed quiet enough now; even Etna was muffled in sleepy clouds. What seethed beneath such a surface?
The Picini palazzo was also silent, except for one lighted window beckoning in the gloom. Was the Duke awake, too?
Clio took in a deep breath. She had to think now, to be calm, not go off on a shower of emotions as brilliant as tonight’s fireworks. That was what always happened when she was with Edward, and it would not help her now. Where was the silver, if it was indeed real? Where had it come from? And who sought it with such intensity? What meaning did it have?
She stared at that distant lighted window. There were many ‘English’ in Sicily, most of them collectors who vied to outdo each other. Surely any one of them would love to find a rare collection of temple silver.
Yet none of them cared about the art itself, about the history it represented, quite as passionately as the Duke of Averton. Once she had thought him the most rapacious of collectors. His holdings of antiquities were vast, and he did not seem to care from where he obtained them. The Duke of ‘Avarice’, some called him, and she had assumed it to be the truth.
Then she had found out that his guise of insatiable collector was a ruse. He actually worked for the highly respectable Antiquities Society, a group his revered scholar father helped found. And his task was to stop the Lily Thief, which he did—with the unwitting help of her sister Calliope.
What was his game now? Was he the thief-hunter, or the thief? If the silver was real, it could be a great temptation to anyone. But then, Edward was not just anyone.
Clio frowned in thought. Giacomo and his cohort had mentioned a bowl. If she could just find that one piece…
She shivered in her thin muslin nightdress, trying to calmly list her options. She could confront Giacomo, of course, lecture him about his loyalty to his parents, to his homeland. If she could f
ind him, and if he didn’t stab her through with his rabbit-poaching knife. Men like Giacomo, lower-level tombarolo, were usually desperate and unpredictable. She was good with a dagger and a pistol herself, but no match for such desperation. She might be a fool in truth, but hopefully not as big a fool as all that.
She could ask Rosa what she and Paolo knew. Yet Clio could see they would not tell the truth about their son’s activities. They liked her, but that was nothing to the iron strength of their family loyalty. Not only would they tell her naught, they would warn Giacomo. That was the code of their village.
She could also confront Edward directly. No one was a better actor than he was, though, not even Marco or Thalia. He played the spoiled, eccentric duke and collector to perfection, fooling everyone, even herself.
No, she had to find that bowl. If it was in Edward’s house, she would make her move. If not, then she would need yet another plan.
The Lily Thief would have to rise again, just this one last time. Clio felt a bitter pang at the thought. She had promised Calliope she would not do that any longer, but surely this was different. She would take nothing but the bowl, if it was found, and that only for evidence.
Even as she justified her plan, she shivered again in trepidation. Something was happening out there in the quiet town, something that sizzled and bubbled deep inside the tranquil surface. And she intended to discover exactly what it was.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Shall we go the Manning-Smythes’ waltzing party tonight?’ Thalia asked over the breakfast table, as she shuffled through the stack of new invitations.
‘Hmm?’ Clio said, distracted. She had a book open beside her plate, but had not read more than two words together. Dances were as far from her thoughts as a subject could be.
‘It is last minute, I know, but Mrs Manning-Smythe says in her note it will all be quite informal,’ Thalia said. ‘Just some dancing, a few hands of cards. You would enjoy the cards, Father, even if Lady Rushworth could not persuade you to waltz!’
Their father chuckled. ‘Perhaps she could not get me to waltz, yet she will no doubt insist I be there. She says I need to get out in society more often. Live in the present sometimes, not always in the ancient past.’
‘That is excellent advice, Father,’ Thalia said.
‘If only the present didn’t move so very fast.’ Sir Walter sighed. ‘Always changes, changes. You can’t rely on it, like you can the past. It won’t stand still to be studied.’
Just like certain people, Clio thought. Just as she imagined she had a grasp on them, on their essence and motives, they changed on her.
‘A waltzing party is not a mathematical equation, Father,’ Thalia said. ‘It will be most diverting. Everyone will be there, I’m sure.’
Everyone? Clio took a thoughtful bite of her toast. Surely that included the Duke. And while he was dancing at the Manning-Smythes’, his palazzo would be empty.
‘I think I must cry off,’ Clio said. ‘All these parties of late have made me neglect my studies.’
‘Quite right, my dear. We cannot forget why we are here,’ Sir Walter replied, his tone wistful.
‘But you must come, Father,’ Thalia reminded him. ‘I need your escort.’
‘Of course. It will be an early evening, though?’
‘We shall see,’ Thalia teased. ‘I have so many people I must speak to.’
‘People you must dance with,’ said Clio, pushing her chair back. ‘Excuse me, Father, Thalia. I’m off to work at the farmhouse today.’
‘Do be careful, Clio,’ her father said.
‘I’m always careful, Father, I promise.’ Clio quickly collected her shawl and knapsack, changing her slippers for her work boots before leaving the house.
The village was quiet so early in the morning, just a few shops and stalls opening their doors, a few merchants sweeping out their doorways as they yawned. The tattered remains of the feste littered the square, bits of faded confetti and torn ribbon, empty and abandoned bottles. The smell of smoke from the fireworks still clung to the breeze, but there was no one lurking in the shadows today.
Clio hurried along the path to the valley, following the well-known trail only by memory as her thoughts were far away. She had not planned to make her move so soon, but the Manning-Smythes’ party was too good an opportunity to miss. She would find out if the Duke was attending, and if he was she would do what she had to do. A swift raid, a search for only the one item, and then she would be gone. She wouldn’t be distracted by the Alabaster Goddess again.
Edward would never know she had been there.
The only problem was, what would she do if she did find the bowl? How could she fight against him?
She glimpsed the farmhouse walls with relief. This she understood. This was rational, open to study. It was knowable, if she just worked hard enough. She climbed the steps down to the old cellar and took her spade out of the knapsack. Work was all she had right now.
Another blasted party.
Edward tossed the Manning-Smythes’ invitation on to the desk along with all the others, rubbing his hand over his scarred brow. It was almost as bad as London. Everyone wanted to lure a duke to their gathering, to write to their friends of his presence there. Everyone wanted something from him.
Except for Clio. She seemed to want nothing at all from him, except in the dark of a masked ball. Yet she was becoming the only one whose presence he craved. Whose opinion he cared about.
He glanced at the card. He would go, of course. His task would never be completed if he followed his own inclination and stayed home by the fire. An alluring vision suddenly flashed across his mind—he and Clio sitting by the fire in his chamber, laughing companionably over their books. Her smile warm as she reached for his hand. You see, she said. Staying home together is so much better than any party…
Edward laughed wryly at his own daydream. Erotic visions of Clio naked were one thing; dreams of domestic bliss with her were even more impossible. More insidiously attractive.
Even if Clio would care to sit with him by the fire, there was no time for such things now. The robbers who gathered at the secret house were growing more desperate, which meant their foreign customers were, too. The only way to find out who those customers were was to mingle in society. If they all thought him just an indolent, extravagant duke, they might be careless around him. They might even infer that he, too, was looking for stolen antiquities to buy.
And if he had the chance to waltz with Clio Chase in the moonlight—well, that would be a perk indeed.
Chapter Sixteen
It was a perfect night. Completely black, with just the waning moon for light, covered and then revealed by the drift of lacy clouds. Any passer-by would attribute a flicker of movement to those shifting shadows.
Everyone was dancing at the Manning-Smythes’, but Clio knew she did not have much time. Soirées in Santa Lucia did not spin on until dawn, as they sometimes did in London, and the Duke was not the unobservant looby some of the Lily Thief’s previous ‘victims’ had been. They had not missed their treasures for days, in a few cases. He would know something was missing immediately, and who was responsible.
But then, she didn’t really intend to steal anything, unless it proved necessary. She just wanted to know.
Clio crouched low in the hedges outside Edward’s palazzo, clad in black breeches and shirt, her hair covered by a black cap. She stared up at the façade, studying the windows, their narrow ledges, the loops of old ivy. Where would he stash a piece of ancient silver? Where would he hide something so valuable and dangerous?
Many of his antiquities were held in his own bedchamber, according to Rosa via her son Lorenzo, who was a footman here. Clio would have to start there, and hope she found quick success.
She crept around the side of the house to the back garden, which sloped down to a dramatic cliff and soared out to the sea far beyond. Her soft boots were silent on the overgrown lawn, and she saw to her relief a tall old tree ne
ar the house. Its gnarled limbs spread to balconies and darkened windows. No light or noise disturbed the silence, so hopefully that meant the servants were congregated belowstairs with their supper and gossip.
With a master like Edward, gossip and speculation would surely keep them busy for hours.
Clio caught hold of a low-hanging limb and swung herself up into the tree, climbing lightly, higher and higher, concealed by the fresh spring leaves. Despite the danger, and her own trepidation, she felt a new exhilaration as she left the earth far behind. It was like a cool, crisp wind after being locked in a stuffy room too long.
She hadn’t realised until this moment that she had been chafing so at her respectable, polite life. She felt like the eagles who sometimes flew out over the valley, her wings spread as she leaped into freedom.
She knew it could not last long. When she found what she sought and climbed back down again, this freedom would be lost and for ever. She had to make the most of this fleeting moment, this one last breath of air.
And, strangely, the one person she wanted to share this rare joy with, the one who would understand its intoxicating transcendence, was Edward. For was he, too, not bound with plush ducal chains? Being subversive was sometimes the only way to break them.
Yet that understanding, that bizarre kinship, was also what made him her enemy tonight.
Clio finally reached a balcony she could catch on to from the tree, and she leaped over its wrought-iron railing, landing softly on the tiled floor. Once she caught her breath, she tried the latch on the tall, narrow door. It was unlocked, of course. Who would bother with security so high up, in such a quiet town? But Edward of all people should know better.
The room was indeed a bedchamber, probably the grandest one in the palazzo. It was dark, but Clio could make out a vast bed, swathed in elaborate draperies, the looming hulks of oversize dressing tables and chairs. An elaborate fireplace gleamed pale as ice. Yet as her vision adjusted to the gloom, she saw the room was not inhabited, for most of the furniture was still draped in holland covers. There were no trunks or cases, no personal objects.
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