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  Then the veil fell again, and she turned away so that he saw only her black curls, the pale curve of her neck and bare shoulder. But the magic was still there, a shimmering web of connection that urged him to press his lips to that white hollow at the nape of her neck, to trail kisses along her spine, breathing in the warm scent of her. Feeling her tremble under his touch until she cried out and that maddening veil vanished for ever, and he could see her true self.

  Yet what would that true self be? A beautiful muse in truth—or a gorgon of destruction? Only a madman would take on one of the Chase Muses, and Cameron wanted to hold on to his tenuous sanity for as long as he could.

  Suddenly, the music, the overheated room, the strange allure of Calliope Chase were too much for that thread of sanity. The old wildness was rising up in him like a fever. He spun around and left the room, the strains of music trailing behind him. In the foyer, the servants were placing the krater on a high pedestal where it could be viewed in distant safety after the performance.

  It was too high to be touched without the stepstool the servants took when they left, yet from his vantage point Cam could clearly see the lyre player. The jewels in her headband, the delicate sandal peeking from the hem of her robe. From here she was even more like Calliope Chase. Beautiful and untouchable.

  “Are you trying to decide how to steal it?” Calliope asked.

  Cameron glanced back to find her standing in the drawing-room doorway, watching him with those steady brown eyes. Her face was a smooth and unreadable piece of marble, yet he could feel her tense wariness.

  He should not be surprised at her suspicion. They had been at odds ever since that reception at his house, when she found Hermes missing from his niche. Their arguments only grew with every meeting after that. Yet still it hurt, like the sharp pinpricks of a tiny but fatal poisoned arrow. As he listened to the ancient music, as those strange, intimate thoughts of her neck and skin bombarded his mind, he felt so bound to her. So close to discovering the mystery of her.

  But she seemed to think him a thief. The connection was not there for her. Not a muse then, or a gorgon either. Just a cold judge. The cool Athena he had once thought her.

  He buried that hurt, shoving it down deep and piling other emotions on top of it—carelessness, insouciance. A chill to match her own.

  “Perhaps you would care to come closer, Miss Chase, and ascertain for yourself if I carry a fresh lily in my pocket,” he said lightly, as if he did not care one whit for her suspicions. He stepped forward, holding out the edges of his coat so she saw the smoothness of the silk lining.

  She did not move away, but her shoulders stiffened. “I am not a fool, Lord Westwood.”

  “Indeed not, Miss Chase. ‘Foolish’ is the last word anyone could use to describe you. ‘Misguided’, perhaps.”

  Something flared deep in those unreadable eyes, a flash of some black fire. But still she did not rise to his bait. She seldom did. “I am not the one so misguided as to turn to crime in order to prove a point! I am not the one who holds the honour of my family or the claims of scholarship so cheap. Those of us with the advantages of education and travel have a duty—”

  “And who are you, Calliope Chase, to lecture me on duty? Or honour?” His temper, tamped down so carefully for so long, burst out in a veritable Catherine wheel of sparks. His desire for her, her beauty and stubbornness, his frustration—it would all drive him mad, in truth!

  He stalked closer to her, so close he could smell the summer scent of the roses in her hair, see the delicate blue tracery of veins under her ivory skin, the throb of her life pulse at the base of her throat. That wild urge to grab her and kiss her until her chilly frostiness thawed and flowed away, leaving only her, them, was nigh undeniable.

  She did not turn away, just stared up at him, still and wide-eyed, that pulse beating until he swore he could hear it. Hear her heartbeat. He even reached for her, his fingers aching to clasp the smooth, bare inch of skin above her kid gloves, but some last flicker of sanity made him drop his hands, back away from her.

  “How can you know me so little, Miss Chase?” he said hoarsely.

  Her lips parted, yet she said nothing. For a second, a whisper of doubt floated across her face. A hint of puzzlement. Then it was gone, hidden again.

  “What else am I to think?” she said. “How can I know you at all?”

  Cameron could bear it no longer. He spun away from her and left the house, storming past the startled footman who appeared at the front door. The night air was chilly and clammy as he strode along the quiet street, leaving the lights and music of Lady Russell’s house behind him. He could not quite leave Calliope Chase behind, though. Her quiet, accusing ghost seemed to follow him as he turned the corner.

  “Infernal woman,” he muttered. There was only one place he could exorcise her—the most raucous, most disreputable gaming hell he knew, far from these genteel squares and solemn prosperity. The Devil’s Dice. There not even Calliope Chase’s ghost could survive.

  As Lady Russell’s front door slammed behind Lord Westwood, Calliope sagged against the base of the krater’s pillar. Every ounce of willpower that held her upright, that kept her from fleeing, flooded away in a cold rush, leaving her weak and trembling. Why did she feel this way every time she saw him? Why did they always quarrel so?

  Behind her, she heard the click of the drawing room door opening and closing, the rise and fall of music, the patter of slippers against the parquet floor.

  “Cal?” Clio whispered. Her steady arm went around Calliope’s waist, and Calliope turned into her gratefully. “What is wrong? Are you ill?”

  “No, no. I just—needed some air,” Calliope answered.

  “So you came out here alone?”

  “I was not quite alone. But then I said something wrong, as I always do with him, and he left. Just ran out the front door into the street rather than be here with me!” Calliope realised she was not making any sense. She hardly understood herself! Why did she care at all if Cameron de Vere, a reckless probable-thief, ran away from her? She didn’t want to be with him, either.

  Did she?

  Clio glanced towards the door, frowning. “Who ran out into the street?”

  “Lord Westwood, of course.”

  “You mean you were speaking with Lord Westwood out here, and he became so angry he just ran off…” Clio’s stare shifted to the krater above their heads, and her green eyes hardened, turning oddly intent. “Oh, no, Cal. You surely did not accuse Lord Westwood of being the Lily Thief!”

  Calliope covered her hot cheeks with her gloved hands, trying to blot out the memory of his anger. Of her own impulsive ridiculousness. “I—may have.”

  “Cal…” Clio groaned “…whatever has come over you? I could see Thalia doing such a thing. She would challenge the devil himself to a duel! Not you. Are you ill? Do you have a fever?”

  “I wish I did, then I would have some excuse.”

  Clio shook her head. “Poor Cal. I am sure he will not speak of it to anyone, since his father and ours were such friends.”

  “No, he won’t speak of it. Except maybe to the governors of Bedlam.”

  Clio laughed. “There, you see! You made a joke. All is not lost. Perhaps next time you see him you can say you were simply overcome by the power of the music.”

  “Or drunk on the wine,” Calliope muttered. She smoothed her hair and shook out her skirts, feeling herself slowly coming back to her usual calm presence. “I wish we never had to see him again at all.”

  “That’s not likely, is it? Our world is so very small.” Clio looked again to the krater. “But tell me, Cal, what made you suspect Lord Westwood of being the Lily Thief?”

  Calliope shrugged. “It seems the sort of hot-headed thing he would do, does it not? He sent his own antiquities back to Greece; perhaps he thinks others should do the same, willy-nilly. I don’t know. It was just a—a feeling.”

  “Now I know you have a fever! Calliope Chase, going by a mere fee
ling? Never.”

  Calliope laughed. “Tease all you like, Clio. I know that I usually have to carefully study a thing before I make my point…”

  “Study it to death,” Clio muttered.

  Calliope ignored her. “I like to be certain of things. But don’t the exploits of the Lily Thief just seem like something he would do? A person must be clever to get in and out of such fine houses undetected. They must be knowledgeable about art and antiquities, for only the finest and most historically important pieces are taken. They have to be sure of their cause, as Lord Westwood is. And they must be very misguided. As Lord Westwood also is.”

  “Why, Cal,” Clio said softly. “It sounds as if you admire the Lily Thief.”

  Calliope considered this. Admire the Lily Thief? The most dangerous of criminals, for he stole not only objects but history itself? Absurd! “I admire his taste, perhaps, but certainly not his goals. I abhor the disappearance of such treasures. You know that.”

  Clio nodded. “I do know how passionate you are in your own cause, sister. But pray do not let it overcome you again when it comes to Lord Westwood! We have no proof he is the thief.”

  “No proof yet.” Behind the closed drawing room door, the strains of music faded, replaced by the ring of applause. “It seems the concert is ending. Shall we fetch Thalia and go home? It grows late.”

  Chapter Four

  “Good morning, Miss Calliope!” Mary sang as she drew back the bedchamber curtains, letting the greyish-yellow light of late morning flood across the room.

  Calliope squeezed her eyes tighter shut, resisting the urge to draw the bedclothes over her head. How could it be time to wake up? She had only just fallen asleep. The long hours of the night she had spent tossing and turning, going over and over her hasty words to Lord Westwood. The anger she saw in his eyes.

  Clio was surely right. She was fevered. It was the only explanation for showing her hand so early. She would never catch him now.

  She needed to regroup. Strategise. It would surely all come back together at the Duke of Averton’s Artemis ball. The Ladies Society would see to that.

  “Did you enjoy the musicale last night, Miss Calliope?” Mary asked, arranging a tray of chocolate and buttered rolls on the bedside table.

  “Yes, thank you, Mary,” Calliope answered. She propped the pillows up against the carved headboard, pushing herself upright to face the day. No one ever won a battle lolling around! “Tell me, are my sisters up yet?”

  “Miss Thalia has already departed for her music lesson,” Mary said, rifling through the wardrobe. “And Miss Clio is at breakfast with your father and Miss Terpsichore. She left you a note on the tray.”

  As Mary organised the day’s attire, Calliope munched on a roll and reached for Clio’s message.

  Cal, it read in Clio’s bold, slashing hand. I think we need an outing to clear our heads. Shall we take Cory to see the Elgin Marbles? She loves them so much, and we can talk there without Father overhearing.

  Calliope sighed. Perhaps Father would not overhear them at the British Museum, but the rest of London would. Still, Clio was right. They needed to clear their heads after last night, and where better than among the glorious beauties of the Parthenon sculptures? Terpsichore—Cory—was a delightful girl, just turned thirteen now and wanting so much to be a young lady, and she deserved a treat after being separated from their younger sisters, who stayed in the country with their various nurses and governesses.

  And surely they wouldn’t run into Lord Westwood there. The man probably didn’t rise until two at the earliest, and the Elgin Marbles must represent all he abhorred: treasures taken from Greece and displayed for Londoners.

  “Mary, I shall need a walking dress and warm pelisse,” she said, swallowing the last of her chocolate. “And my lap desk. I need to send notes to the Ladies Society.”

  They had battle plans to draw up.

  The Chases’ de facto second home when in town was always the British Museum. They had been brought there since earliest childhood, escorted from artefact to artefact by their parents, instilled with a love for the past by the beauty of the pieces and by their father’s vivid tales. Many of their favourites—Greek vases, Egyptian sculptures, Viking helmets—were immortalised for them in their mother’s sketchbooks, kept by Clio since Lady Chase’s death in birthing the youngest Muse, Polyhymnia, three years ago.

  But their mother had never seen the sisters’ favourite room of all, the Temporary Elgin Room—which was showing signs of becoming rather more permanent. This was where they went now, after climbing up the wide stone steps and passing through the massive pillars into the sacred hush of the museum.

  “May we visit the mummies after we see the Marbles?” Cory asked eagerly.

  Clio laughed. “Morbid child! You only want to scare your little sisters with gruesome tales of them in your next letter. But we can visit them, if there is time.”

  Cory wrinkled her nose. “There won’t be. You two always spend hours with the Marbles.”

  “You enjoy them, too, silly monkey, and you know it,” Calliope said. “Perhaps after the Marbles and the mummies we can have an ice at the shop across the way.”

  Smiling happily with the promise of dead Egyptians and a sweet, Cory went off to sketch her favourite sculpture yet again, the head of a horse from the chariot of the Moon, his mane and jaw drooping after an exhausting journey across the heavens. Calliope and Clio strolled over to the back wall, where the frieze depicting the procession of a Panathenaic festival was mounted. It was quiet there for the moment, despite the milling crowds, tucked behind the massive carved figures of Theseus and a draped, headless goddess.

  Calliope stared up at the line of young women, all of them gracefully poised and beautifully dressed in chitons and cloaks, bearing vessels and libation bowls as offerings to the gods. They were not as well displayed as they deserved; the room was cramped and ill lit, the walls dark. But Calliope always loved to see them, to revel in their classical beauty, in the procession that never ended. And today she was glad of the dim light, for it hid the purplish circles of her sleepless night.

  “I have called for a meeting of the Ladies Society tomorrow afternoon,” she told Clio.

  Clio’s gaze did not turn from the figure of the head girl in the procession, the one that held aloft an incense stand, but her lips curved down. “So soon? We usually only convene once a week.”

  “This is an emergency. The Duke of Averton’s ball is coming up soon. We must be prepared for whatever might happen there.”

  “Do you still think you-know-who plans to snatch the Alabaster Goddess away that night?”

  “I’m not sure. That is why I said we need to be prepared for anything. Even nothing. The ball might pass off quite peacefully—or as peacefully as anything could at Averton’s house. The sculpture will stay in place…”

  “But it will not stay in place!” Clio hissed. Her hand tightened on the head of her furled parasol, and for a moment Calliope feared she might stab it into the air, or at an unwary passerby. “Averton is sending it off to his infernal fortress in Yorkshire, where no one will ever see it again! He is a vile, selfish man with no care for his collections. Do you think that is a better fate for poor Artemis than to fall into the hands of the Lily Thief?”

  Calliope bit her lip. “It’s true that he is well named the Duke of ‘Avarice’. I like him no better than you, Clio. He is a very—strange man. But at least we would know where the statue is, and one day a museum or legitimate antiquarian could acquire her. If the Lily Thief took her, she would vanish utterly! We would learn nothing from her then.”

  “Honestly, Cal! I do love you, but sometimes you don’t seem to understand.” Clio stalked away, her parasol swinging, and left Calliope standing alone.

  Calliope stared up again at the carved procession, swallowing hard against her pricked feelings. She and Clio were as close as two sisters could be, drawn together by their love of history, by the need to be “mothers” to
their younger sisters in the wake of their own mother’s death. And she knew Clio had a temper that subsided as quickly as it flared. That did not make their little quarrels any easier, though.

  What was it lately, Calliope wondered, that caused such arguments? First Lord Westwood, now her sister. Her eyes itched with unshed tears, and she rubbed at them hard. When she looked up again, she feared she was hallucinating. Lord Westwood stood right beside her, staring down at her solemnly, his glossy curls brushed carelessly from the sharp, shadowed planes of his face so that he seemed one of the sculptures himself.

  She blinked—and found he was still there. She drew in a steadying breath, and offered him a tentative smile. “Lord Westwood.”

  “Miss Chase,” he answered. “I trust you are enjoying your outing?”

  “Yes, very much. My sisters and I visit the museum whenever we can.” She gestured towards Cory, who was still sketching the horse’s head with Clio leaning over her.

  “I come here often, as well,” he said.

  “Do you? I—I imagine it reminds you of your mother’s homeland,” she said carefully, wary of yet another quarrel. How could one speak of these controversial carvings without starting a fuss, though?

  But he simply answered, “Yes. Her tales when I was a child were always of gods and goddesses, and even muses.”

  Calliope smiled. “Perhaps then you have an understanding of how changeable a muse can be?”

  He smiled in return, a quick grin that seemed to light up their dim corner of the room. “I have heard tell of such things. One day the muse will smile on you, the next she has vanished. Perhaps that is simply part of her allure.”

  Allure? Did he then find her—alluring? She would have thought “prickly” or “annoying” more likely adjectives he would use. But then, did she not think the same of him? Annoying, and yet strangely alluring. She shrugged away these distracting thoughts and said, “Sometimes, too, a muse forgets her manners. Says things she should not. Then she must apologise.”