Thalia rolled her eyes, but Clio could see the shadow of a smile on her grey lips. ‘I can take care of myself, thank you very much.’
Clio could tell that Marco longed to argue. Honestly, every time she saw those two together they were arguing! They seemed to take a strange delight in it. But there was no time now. She held up her hand, forestalling any quarrelsome words, and said, ‘Go practise your lines, both of you. It’s almost dark.’
She peeked around the screen again. The amphitheatre was filling up, as it had not since ancient days, and Giacomo was now with his family, fidgeting in his seat as he glanced nervously around. Ronald Frobisher was also there, holding his little court with the friends who always gathered around him and Lady Riverton. But of the lady herself, there was no sign.
Clio’s gaze swung over the audience. Servants were lighting the torches along the stone steps, and the lamps on the stage that served as footlights flickered in the soft breeze. The glow illuminated laughing faces, the sparkle of jewels.
Along the very top row of seats, half-hidden in the darkness so far from the torches, she glimpsed Edward’s bright hair. He, too, surveyed the crowd, tense and watchful.
Reassured by his presence, Clio turned back to Marco and Thalia. ‘I think it’s time,’ she said. ‘If we wait too long the audience will become restless.’
‘And perhaps throw rotten fruit at us,’ Thalia said. ‘That would quite spoil the mood, I fear.’
Clio smoothed the skirt of her amber-coloured muslin gown one more time, before she slipped around the screen and stepped to the edge of the stage. As she held up her hands, the audience shifted into expectant silence.
‘Good evening, everyone, and thank you so much for being here on such short notice,’ she announced, gaining new strength and confidence from knowing Edward was out there beyond the blinding lights. That soon this would be over, and they would have the truth at last.
‘As you know, my sister Miss Thalia Chase is very talented at amateur theatricals,’ Clio went on. ‘What you may not know is that she is also a playwright. We have not before been able to persuade her to share her work, but she has been so inspired by this beautiful place that we were able to convince her to perform this little scene. Because we know that you, too, love Santa Lucia and its intriguing history.’
Clio stepped a bit closer to the lights. ‘My sister’s tale is based on stories she has heard, true stories of a violent past, brave deeds and hidden treasures. Long ago, this Greek settlement was invaded by a Roman army, which laid all to waste and enslaved the people. What had been a prosperous, idyllic town, with a marketplace, baths, theatres and fine villas, was ruined.
‘But a few people managed to flee. They left behind them beautiful objects, sacred things. They did not, however, leave them unprotected…’
Clio stepped back behind the screen as Marco took his place on stage. He began the tale of the shepherd who finds a vase buried behind the walls of a ruined Greek farmhouse, and determines to steal it. Thalia waited in the wings, a truly fearsome sight in her make-up and draperies.
Clio stood where she could continue to watch the audience unobserved. Was Giacomo shifting even more nervously in his seat? Was Frobisher looking guilty? And where was Lady Riverton, the centre of it all?
Yet there was no time to worry now. Action was needed. The plan was in motion. As Thalia glided on to the stage, her arms raised as she crept up behind Marco, Clio reached for her own costume. It was made of cheesecloth and muslin like Thalia’s, and with a deep hood to hide behind.
Once covered, she crept out through a hole in the back wall of the amphitheatre, dashing up the hillside and around to where the main entrance led to the old agora. From there, she could peer down on all the activity with her spyglass.
Thalia was cursing Marco quite enthusiastically for taking that which belonged to the gods, the vase that had been buried so long ago and ringed round with spells to keep it safe. Marco’s tormented screams were all too convincing, quite terrifying really. Clio wondered if Thalia had pinched him under her draperies. The audience members either looked on in wide-eyed, delicious horror, or giggled nervously. Frobisher peered back over his shoulder, a handkerchief wound tightly in his hand.
And Clio found she was, strangely enough, rather enjoying herself.
As Marco’s torment went on, she was so caught up in the scene that she almost missed what she had been waiting for. Giacomo emerged from the theatre, glancing frantically both ways through the deserted old marketplace. His brow glistened nervously in the moonlight. As he took off running toward the ruins of the temple, Clio followed, glad of all the recent hill-walking that made her sure-footed and fast on the bumpy pathways. And glad of the fact that Giacomo’s fear seemed to make him clumsy, unsure of his direction.
She scrambled up atop a large boulder that lay by his meandering path, and held her arms up. The breeze stirred her draped sleeves in a gratifyingly eerie manner.
‘Halt! Thief!’ she cried, in as deep a voice as she could summon. ‘You have stolen what belongs to the gods.’
Distracted and frightened by her shout, Giacomo stumbled just long enough for Edward to tackle him from the shadows. The timing on this part of the plan, on the entire plan really, was so delicately balanced. But this bit came off just right. Clio watched in satisfaction as Edward leaped up, dragging Giacomo to his feet and holding him fast even as Giacomo struggled desperately to escape.
Clio clambered down from her perch, crouching behind the boulder to keep a watch on the distant theatre entrance. Surely the other players would soon make their appearance, if all went well.
And if Giacomo’s thieving cohorts didn’t interfere.
She pressed her palm to her leg, feeling the reassuring weight of the dagger strapped there beneath the muslin and cheesecloth.
‘It’s very rude to leave the theatre before the final curtain,’ Edward said calmly, almost conversationally. Clio peeked around the rough corner of the boulder to see him holding the frantically twisting Giacomo as if the thief was naught but a rag doll.
Surely no one would recognise the indolent Duke of ‘Avarice’ now!
‘Why were you running?’ Edward said. ‘Did Miss Thalia’s play strike a chord with you, perhaps? Remind you of some previous obligation?’
Giacomo babbled something in quick, rough Italian. Clio couldn’t catch it all, something about warnings and how he had ‘told them’ it was not safe. She could hear the raw edge of cold fear, though. The panicked sense of the line between reality and dream blurred.
Good. Maybe it would keep him away from tomb-robbing in the future, and reassure Rosa at last. But in the meantime they still had to find the silver. And stay out of danger themselves.
‘I know you found part of that silver hoard,’ Edward said, also in Italian. ‘Did you find the rest? Where is it?’
‘The altar set, sí. We found it.’
‘And sold it?’ Edward said, his voice tight with fury. Clio certainly did not envy Giacomo his current predicament. ‘Illegally?’
‘I should not have! I know the legend, the curse. My mother warned me…’
‘But ancient ghosts were nothing to modern coin, eh?’
‘It said it belonged to the gods, and I should have listened! Like the Count.’
‘Count di Fabrizzi? Is he part of this?’
Clio tensed as she waited for the answer.
‘No, no,’ Giacomo said. ‘He knew better. You saw him tonight.’
‘Then who did pay you?’ Edward demanded. ‘Who is your English customer? Frobisher?’
‘Of course. He is the one who first approached us. Yet the money does not come from him. He’s hired, just as we are. He pretends he is not, but we all know the truth.’
‘Lady Riverton,’ Edward said slowly. ‘She is the one who hires you and Frobisher, then, just as we suspected.’
Before Giacomo could answer, could give them the confirmation they sought, Clio saw Ronald Frobisher himself emerge
from the theatre. The play was not yet over; she could hear the echo of Thalia’s voice. Yet Frobisher seemed intent on his own errand, hurrying toward the pathway to Santa Lucia. He didn’t run or babble, like poor, frightened Giacomo, but he was obviously in a great rush all the same.
Clio cast off her robes, shoving them into a crevice at the base of the boulder before she darted out and grabbed Edward’s arm.
‘There he is,’ she urged him. ‘We have to go!’
Edward nodded brusquely. He let go of Giacomo, who sank to the ground with his hands over his face.
‘Shame on you, Giacomo!’ Clio shouted back at him, as she and Edward ran off after Frobisher. ‘What would your parents say?’
‘And what would your parent say, my dear, if he could see you now?’ Edward said. She marvelled that he could go from menacing to teasing in an instant. She was so very excited she was sure she would scream at any moment! ‘Running off with a man into the night?’
‘He would say we have to save the antiquities, of course. He is Sir Walter Chase. Now hurry!’
They ran up the path, trying to keep Ronald Frobisher in sight, but he was surprisingly quick for someone who professed complete indolence. Clio’s lungs burned, her legs ached, yet she did not slow down. She held tightly to Edward’s hand as they dashed through the village gates into Santa Lucia.
The town was quiet, as almost everyone was gathered at the theatre. The evening breeze blew clouds of dust across the square, bits of paper and leaves over the cathedral steps. Frobisher was nowhere to be seen.
‘Have we lost him?’ Clio panted, dismayed.
‘I’m sure we can guess where he’s gone,’ Edward answered.
‘Lady Riverton’s palazzo?’
‘Where else? I have a guard on his lodgings, though, just in case.’ He squeezed her hand, leading her down the street toward the grand palazzos. ‘Well, my dear, shall we pay a call on Lady Riverton? A rather unorthodox hour, I know.’
‘Somehow, I think we will be expected anyway.’
The house, like the rest of Santa Lucia, was quiet and dark. No sound escaped from the shuttered windows. Without the life and noise of one of her parties, it seemed a gloomy and ominous place. Clio half-expected to see more ghosts, flitting in and out on their ethereal, sinister errands.
‘Servants’ entrance, I think,’ Edward said, as they studied the courtyard. ‘Those doors are usually unlocked, and people like Lady Riverton don’t think of securing belowstairs.’
They found the servants’ door at the side of the palazzo, down a short flight of steps. Clio cracked open the door and peered carefully inside, in case some stray footman or maid was not enjoying their evening off at the play. It was as silent as the rest of the house, though, the stone floors cold with no fire in the kitchen grate.
Hand in hand, they hurried up the steep stairs and through a doorway into Lady Riverton’s realm. They stood there for a moment, Clio hardly daring to breathe as she listened for any sound at all. Any clue as to where Frobisher might have gone.
Then, at last, it came. A faint, faraway crash. They immediately followed it, running along a corridor and down more steps to the grand drawing room.
It was far from the lavish, welcoming space where Clio had sipped tea and applauded Thalia’s Antigone. Only one branch of candles was lit, perched on the marble fireplace mantel and casting a circle of light that didn’t reach the corners and high ceilings. But Clio’s eyes were used to the dimness now, and she quickly saw Ronald Frobisher.
He stood by a table, its hinged top hanging open, broken and fallen on its side. The large, velvet-upholstered chair Lady Riverton had used to preside over her gatherings also lay toppled on the floor. Its rich cushions were viciously torn open, no doubt by the wickedly sharp dagger now in Frobisher’s hand.
He swung toward them, the blade held aloft. ‘Don’t come any closer!’ he shouted. All signs of the foppish, fawning Frobisher had vanished. His entire being fairly vibrated with anger and desperation.
For the first time, Clio thought he might really be descended from the Elizabethan pirate. She reached slowly for a fold of her skirt, ready to draw it up and pull out her own dagger.
But Edward clasped her arm, pushing her partly behind him so that he alone faced that blade.
‘We only want to find Lady Riverton,’ Edward said slowly, softly. ‘We know that she is the one behind this whole scheme.’
Frobisher laughed bitterly. He gave the fallen table a venomous kick. ‘I would certainly like to talk to her myself. But she isn’t here. She’s gone.’
‘Gone?’ Clio said sharply. ‘To the theatre?’
‘She sent me to your ridiculous play, told me she would meet me there. But she’s taken her jewels and several of those wretched bonnets,’ Frobisher answered. ‘So, I dare say she has gone somewhere rather further away. The witch! She said we were partners, she promised me…’
‘Promised you what?’ Clio said, peering over Edward’s tense shoulder.
For a moment, Frobisher was mutinously silent. But then he shook his head, and said, ‘I might as well tell you now. She’s gone, and I will be the one who pays. She said we would take that silver and go away together, to Naples or Rome. There would be plenty of money then, an easy life for both of us. “Just help me, Ronald,” she said. “You’re my only friend.” And I believed her. Fool!’ He kicked again at the poor table, reducing one carved wooden leg to splinters.
Clio nearly kicked out herself, in sheer frustration. Why had she not thought of that, of Lady Riverton fleeing while they were all distracted by their own scheme? She should have set someone to watching this house days ago.
‘Now she is gone, and left me nothing but this,’ Frobisher growled. He held up a small silver bowl, the twin of Edward’s with its fine etchings and embossing, but more battered, its edges dented. ‘She took all the rest: the incense burner, the ladles, the other bowls. The witch! I hope she burns in hell, I hope…’
Clio watched, appalled, as he raised the bowl above his head, prepared to dash it to the marble floor. She cried out, breaking away from Edward and lunging towards Frobisher, grasping for the precious bowl. All they had left now. She caught it, falling into Frobisher and knocking him back against the wall. His arm came down, the dagger in his hand nicking her in the shoulder.
But she barely felt the sting as she crashed to the floor, clutching the bowl tightly in her numb hand.
Then the pain flooded down her arm, her whole side. She stared down at her torn sleeve, the blood on her shoulder, in hazy shock. She barely heard Edward’s frantic shout, the clatter of Frobisher’s boots as he fled. She felt Edward’s strong arms around her, helping her sit up.
‘Clio,’ he cried, his voice full of fear and panic. Strange—she hadn’t known Edward could be afraid. ‘Clio, darling, don’t faint. Stay with me.’
‘Did he open a vein, then? Am I going to bleed to death?’ she murmured. She felt the sticky, warm, disgusting trickle of blood along her arm. Her head swam, and she could barely focus on his face above her. Who knew she, the Lily Thief, was afraid of blood?
‘Never,’ he answered. She heard a ripping noise, then he wrapped a length of soft linen around her shoulder. He had removed his coat and torn a piece of his shirt hem off for a makeshift bandage. ‘I won’t let you.’
‘I’ve never been wounded before,’ she said, bemused.
‘Then you are profoundly fortunate, with the damn foolish risks you take,’ he said fiercely, tying off the end of the linen. ‘What possessed you to leap at a man holding a knife?’
‘I was afraid he would damage the bowl. It’s all we have now, to help us find the rest.’ She gazed down at the bowl in her lap. So tiny to cause so much trouble. ‘But he’ll get away! What if he does know where Lady Riverton and the rest of the hoard is?’
‘He won’t get far, don’t worry.’ Edward cradled her gently in his arms, rocking her gently as the sting faded and she felt only weary. Weary—and safe, with him. �
�We have to get you home, where you can be nursed properly.’
‘And where you can lock me up so I don’t get into any more trouble.’
He laughed, and kissed the top of her head. ‘My dear, I don’t think there are any locks strong enough.’
‘But the silver is gone!’
‘Clio.’ Edward drew back, gazing down solemnly into her eyes. For that moment, there was only the two of them. ‘Don’t you know? I would never, ever leave you bleeding on the floor to chase after any criminal, any antiquity. I would never leave you at all.’
Clio curled against his chest, inordinately content. She should not be—Frobisher, Lady Riverton and the silver were gone. She was wounded, lying on a cold floor in an abandoned house. But she was wildly happy.
Edward would not leave her. And, for that night, that was all she ever wanted.
Chapter Thirty
‘I vow, England is going to be dull after all this!’ Thalia declared. Clio sat with her on their terrace, sipping tea and enjoying the sunny afternoon with her arm bound up in a sling.
She stared out over the garden, at the bright spring green turning dry at the edges. Soon it would be summer, and the intense southern sun would blast everything to brown. Days would grow long, drowsing in the heat. But they wouldn’t be here to see it.
‘I fear you’re right,’ Clio said. ‘Our work here is almost done. Even Father thinks so.’ At breakfast that morning, Sir Walter, appalled that his own daughter had been set upon by ‘footpads’ walking home after the play, declared that they would head to Geneva for the summer. ‘But we can look forward to boating on the lake, and perhaps a spot of mountain climbing in Switzerland.’
‘Mountain climbing!’ Thalia pulled a face. ‘That’s all right for you, you’re half-mountain goat anyway. But what will I do?’
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