To Catch a Rogue Page 5

  “Is that what this is, Miss Chase? An apology?”

  Calliope sighed. “I fear so.”

  He clutched at his heart, staggering back as if in profound shock. “Never!”

  She laughed. “I would not have you think I was not properly brought up, Lord Westwood. I should not have said those things to you last night. My sister says I should blame it on the spell of the music or on the wine, but in truth I do not know why I said them. I was just rather out of sorts.”

  “I suppose I have been out of sorts with you in the past as well, Miss Chase. Perhaps we can start anew. Cry pax.”

  “Pax, then. For now.”

  “For now. Come, let me show you my favourite of these friezes.” He offered her his arm, and though she only laid her fingertips very lightly on his fine wool sleeve, she could feel the warmth of his skin, the strength of his coiled muscle beneath the layers of cloth. His arm tensed under her touch, as if he felt it, too. That strange, gossamer tie. “There, that wasn’t too hard, was it?”

  “Not at all,” Calliope answered.

  He smiled, and led her to the end of the marble procession, where it curved around to the next wall. There was etched the very reason for the procession—Athena, seated in profile as she observed her offerings. She did not wear her usual helmet on her curled hair, but held her aegis on her lap and bore a spear in her right hand.

  “She is your favourite?” Calliope asked.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Perhaps I imagined you preferred one of the Lapiths and centaurs from the metope, drunkenly breaking up the party. Or Dionysus over there with his leopard skin.”

  He laughed. “Oh, come now, Miss Chase! I do enjoy the pleasures of life, but I am hardly a centaur. Or a Dionysus. Were we not just speaking of orgies last night? His soirées tend to end so badly, with the participants tearing each other limb from limb and devouring the raw flesh. No, indeed, cannibalism is not for me.”

  Calliope felt herself blushing again, an embarrassing red heat flooding up her throat to her cheeks. “I never quite imagined cannibalism as one of your vices, Lord Westwood. But tell me why you like Athena here so very much? She seems too rational and measured for you.”

  “It is exactly those qualities—her rational calm, her dignity. My life has never held much of those qualities, pulled from pillar to post with my parents, and I crave them. I can find them right here, carved in this marble.”

  Calliope blinked in surprise. True, the two of them had declared peace only moments before, but she could never have expected such an instance of confidence from Cameron de Vere, of all people. A wistful longing was etched on his handsome face, driving out the careless mockery.

  “She is my favourite, too,” she admitted.

  “And so she should be, for you are very like her.”

  “I, like Athena?” she said, startled. “She would never have been rude to you at a musicale.”

  “No, she would have struck me down with her spear. I must feel fortunate you wield no such weapon. Your tongue is quite sharp enough.”

  Before Calliope could answer, there was a sudden commotion in the doorway, disturbing the church-like hush of the room. A ripple of comment, of tension. Calliope peered around the bulk of a headless goddess to see that the Duke of Averton had just made an entrance.

  He was a handsome enough man, Calliope thought, she would give him that much. Tall, slim, with flowing red-gold hair that fairly shimmered in the dim light, and bright green eyes that took in everything around him in one penetrating glance. The only flaw on his handsome face was a slightly crooked nose, as if it had once been broken and not healed straight. His dramatic, almost Celtic looks were emphasised by his flamboyant way of dressing—a long cape where all the other men wore wool greatcoats, a yellow satin waistcoat, tasselled boots, and jewelled rings on his fingers. Rubies and emeralds.

  The duke stood there for a moment until he was certain everyone watched him, then he swung his cloak from his shoulders in a great arc and deposited it with one of the many lackeys trailing behind him. The sweep of his arm seemed to encompass and embrace all the sculptures as if they belonged to him alone.

  “Ah, the glories of Greece, the ancient spirits—we meet again,” he said, softly but carryingly. Then he turned and made his way towards the metope section, his entourage hurrying behind him.

  Calliope almost laughed aloud. The Duke of Averton so seldom went about in town; it was part of what made his upcoming ball the talk of the ton. But when he did it was more amusing than Drury Lane.

  “Ridiculous toad,” Lord Westwood muttered darkly. “What is the purpose of such a preening display?”

  Calliope glanced up at him to find him glowering towards the duke, his long fingers curled into fists. Where was the lighthearted Apollo now? Westwood resembled no one so much as the ill-tempered Hades, lurking in his black underworld, wishing he could feed the duke limb by limb to his snarling Cerberus.

  Calliope had to admit she rather liked that image herself. Of all the selfish collectors in London, all the people who hoarded their treasures while denying scholars all access, Averton was the worst. He never scrupled about where or from whom he bought his treasures, and the precious objects always disappeared into his Yorkshire fortress. But she had not known that Westwood had a quarrel with him. Indeed, Westwood seldom seemed to dislike anyone—except her, of course.

  Yet it was more than mere dislike she saw on his face now. It was dark, unadulterated hatred, raw and primitive. And very frightening.

  Calliope shivered despite the warmth of the close-packed room, and edged away from him until she felt the hard edge of a stone base against her hips. He seemed to notice her wide-eyed regard, and that glimpse of jagged emotion was quickly concealed behind his usual smile.

  “I did not realise you knew the duke well,” she murmured.

  “Not well,” Lord Westwood answered. “Certainly better than I would like. We were at Cambridge together, and the Duke of Avarice has certainly not changed much since those days. Except to grow even more vicious and brainless.”

  Vicious and brainless? The duke was a menace, certainly, and had a reputation for eccentricity and rapaciousness. But vicious? Calliope waited, full of anticipation, for Westwood to elaborate, but of course he did not. Their brief moment of confidence was gone, and Calliope was soon distracted by the sight of the duke drawing close to Clio.

  Clio did not even seem to notice the man’s theatrical entrance, or his stately parade around the room as everyone cleared a path for him. She was leaning close to a goddess sculpture, frowning as she examined it through her spectacles. The duke, much to the consternation of his followers, suddenly veered from his trail to stop at her side.

  As Calliope watched, puzzled and concerned, he edged closer to Clio until his bejewelled hand brushed her arm. Clio spun around, startled, bumping into the goddess.

  “Your sister should have a care around that man,” Westwood muttered.

  “I have no idea what he could be saying to her. We hardly know him.”

  “That won’t stop him when it comes to ladies. Even respectable ones like your sister.”

  Calliope saw Clio’s hand edging back and up, towards the sharp pin that skewered her silk bonnet. Clio’s frozen expression and demeanour never altered, yet Calliope knew she would have no compunction about driving that pin into the duke’s arm. Or more sensitive areas.

  Calliope took a step forward, intending to intervene, but Lord Westwood was there before her. He strode across the room, reaching out to practically shove the duke away from Clio. As the duke smirked at him, Westwood leaned in to mutter low, harsh-sounding words that carried to Calliope’s ears as only the rushing noise of a stormy sea. Clio eased away from the men, her hand dropping to her side, as everyone else in the room edged closer. A quarrel between a duke and an earl in the middle of the British Museum was not something to be seen every day! This was certain to be much talked of for days to come.

  If on
ly she and her sister were not in the midst of it, Calliope thought, perturbed. Yet even she could not help but stare at the two men, Westwood so full of barely leashed anger, Averton still smirking but growing in agitation, if the spasmodic opening and closing of his fists was any indication. It was a scene that hardly belonged in civilised London. More like those Lapiths and centaurs, wrestling in ancient stone.

  Calliope shook off the strange spell that urged her just to stare at the growing fight, and hurried to Clio’s side. She took her sister’s arm and whispered, “We should take Cory out of here, don’t you think?”

  Clio shuddered, as if she too were bound by some strange, wicked enchantment and only Calliope’s voice shook her out of it. “Of course,” she said, and rushed over to where Cory still sat sketching. Clio overcame her protests with renewed promises of mummies, and ushered her out of the Elgin Room.

  As soon as they departed, Westwood and Averton broke apart, Westwood striding from the room without a glance backward. The duke straightened his waistcoat and returned to his friends, laughing as if nothing had happened.

  Puzzled, Calliope stared after Westwood. How very angry he seemed! And to think, for a moment there, when they smiled and talked together so easily, she had thought herself silly for imagining him the Lily Thief.

  Now, after witnessing that strange scene with Averton, she was more convinced than ever that he had to be the thief. And she was determined to prove it. One way or another.

  Chapter Five

  What does it matter, de Vere? The girl is a tavern wench, free for the taking!

  Cameron heard the echo of Averton’s voice in his mind, the laughing, mocking words from many years ago. He saw the man’s smile, that knowing smirk of smug entitlement, that only vanished when Cameron had planted his fist in Averton’s face, bloodying that aristocratic nose. It had been small comfort indeed to the girl, no more than sixteen years old, who had run away sobbing, her dress torn. And it was hardly a balm to Cameron’s white-hot fury, for he knew he would not be there to rescue the next girl. Or the next purloined vase or sculpture.

  As Cameron’s friends had dragged him away, he had been able to hear Averton mutter, “Let him go. What do you expect from the son of a Greek street mouse?”

  It had taken ten men to pull Cameron out of there that day, and he had soon left the suffocating confines of Cambridge to begin his travels anew. To find himself among the “street mice” of Italy and his mother’s beloved Greece. Those years of wandering had erased the memories of Averton’s words, of the feeling of his fist meeting bone and flesh. Until today.

  The sight of Averton hovering so close to Clio Chase, of Calliope’s helpless concern, had brought back that day in the dingy tavern, that girl in the torn dress. Brought it back with a vicious immediacy that frightened him.

  Averton was known as an eccentric now, a semi-recluse who only came out to show off his ancient treasures. His Alabaster Goddess. Cameron had not even seen the man since he returned to town. Yet surely the duke’s vices were only hidden now, tucked away behind his stolen antiquities. Who would dare challenge him? Who would even seek out the crimes of a rich and powerful duke?

  Cameron stopped at the museum gates, roughly raking his fingers through his hair until he felt his anger ebb. Cold thought was needed now, not the impulsive fisticuffs of his youth. No Dionysus. Athena was the god he required.

  He stood there for a long time, the wind catching at his hair and his coat, ignoring the flow of London life around him. He thought of his mother, of her tales of great warriors like Achilles, Ajax, Hector. Their downfalls always seemed to be their tempers, their rush to battle without planning, without forethought, driven by their passions.

  “You are too much like them, my son, and it will get you into trouble one day,” she would say. “There are better ways to win your fights.”

  As he stood there, leaning against the cold metal gates, the doors of the museum opened and Calliope and Clio Chase emerged, their younger sister between them, holding their hands. She chattered brightly, but the two older Muses seemed silent and serious, as if their thoughts were far away from the windswept courtyard. Calliope kept shooting Clio concerned little glances.

  Cameron ducked behind a large stone planter as they passed by. He could not speak to Calliope now; she had been taken aback by his violent behaviour, and he could not explain it to her. He could not even explain it to himself. But he fell into step several feet behind them, watching carefully until they climbed safely into their carriage and set off for home, without being accosted by the duke or any of his minions.

  If Averton thought he could get away with meddling with any of the Chases, he was very much mistaken.

  “Lord Mallow. Mr Wright-Helmsley. Mr Lakesly.”

  Calliope stared down at her list, biting the end of her pencil as she examined each name by the light of her candle. They were certainly all men of means and some intelligence, as well as collectors of antiquities. Could they really be candidates for the Lily Thief?

  She tapped her chin, running through all the men of her acquaintance who were not children or infirm. Or who showed not a speck of ingenuity, like poor Freddie Mountbank. “Lord Deering. Sir Miles Gibson. Mr Smithson.”

  Yet, in the end, she always came back to one name. Lord Westwood.

  She had begun by being so very certain it was him! He had all the necessary qualities—intelligence, interest, plus a certain recklessness, probably born of his years in Italy and Greece. He had the courage of his convictions, as misguided as those convictions were. But now something bothered her, some irritating little voice at the back of her mind that whispered doubts. Could it be—was it—that she was growing to like him?

  “Piffle!” Calliope cried, tossing down her pencil. Of course she did not like him. How could she? That very recklessness went against all she believed was important. That voice was surely just her inborn female weakness, lured by a smile and a pair of handsome eyes.

  He was still the most likely candidate for the Lily Thief. His dark, sizzling anger towards the Duke of Averton only emphasised that fact. Westwood had an edge to him, like the fire-honed blade of a dagger that was usually hidden in its velvet sheath, but could flash out and wreak destruction in only an instant. Lady Tenbray’s diadem had already fallen victim to its slice. Was the Alabaster Goddess next?

  Calliope stared down at her list, and slowly reached for her pencil. Lord Westwood, she wrote.

  Her bedchamber door creaked, warning that she was no longer alone. Calliope hastily shoved the list under a pile of books and drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

  “Are you working, Cal?” Clio said quietly, slipping into a chair next to the desk.

  “Just reading a bit before I retire. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me, neither.” Clio fiddled with the edge of one of Calliope’s notebooks. She seemed rather pale tonight, her green eyes shadowed and large without the shield of her spectacles. Calliope had noticed she didn’t eat much of her dinner, either.

  Blast Averton, anyway! Why did the man have to go parading through the museum today, upsetting their outing, pestering her sister? Why did he choose Clio? And why couldn’t he just stay hidden away at home with his ill-gotten Alabaster Goddess?

  Yet if he did that, she wouldn’t have the chance to catch the Lily Thief once and for all. The Alabaster Goddess was an alluring bait like no other. If only Clio didn’t have to be caught in the middle of it all.

  “What did he say to you this afternoon, Clio?” Calliope asked.

  Clio stared down at the notebook. “Who?”

  “Averton, of course. You have been so quiet tonight. You didn’t even seem to be listening when Father read from the Aeneid after dinner.”

  Clio shrugged. “I am just tired, I think. As for Averton, he is of no importance.”

  “But his behaviour this afternoon—”

  “Is of no consequence! He is like so many men of his exalted ilk, he thinks all women are his for
the asking. No, not even asking, just taking. Like an ivory box, or an alabaster statue from a Delian temple. When he meets one who wants nothing to do with him, it only makes him more determined. But I have twice the determination he does.”

  That Calliope knew to be true. No one was more determined, more single-minded than Clio. Expect perhaps Lord Westwood. “I did not realise you even knew the duke.”

  “I don’t. Or about as much as I want to know him. I have encountered him once or twice at galleries and shops. He seems to have taken a ridiculous fancy to me of some sort.”

  Calliope stared at her sister in astonishment. She always thought they were as close as two sisters could be, yet she had no idea of this “fancy”. “Clio, why didn’t you say something?”

  “I told you, Cal, it is of no importance!” Clio cried, slapping her hand down on a pile of books. The volumes toppled, revealing the list beneath. Clio reached for it. “What is this?”

  “Nothing, of course,” Calliope said, trying to snatch it away.

  Clio held it out of her reach. “Lord Deering, Mr Smithson, Mr Lakesly. Is this a list of your suitors?”

  “Certainly not!” Calliope finally succeeded in retrieving the list. She folded it in half and stuck it inside one of the books. “I would never consider a suitor like Mr Lakesly. He gambles too much.”

  “I noticed Lord Westwood’s name on there, too. Certainly you would not call him a suitor, though I did notice you two were having quite a coze at the museum.”

  “We were discussing Greek mythology, that is all. And this list is merely something for our Ladies Society meeting tomorrow.”

  “Ah, yes, the meeting. What is it really all about, Cal?”

  “I told you. To make plans for Averton’s ball. We must all be extra-vigilant that night, so there is no repeat of Lady Tenbray’s rout. Unless…”