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“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…”
“Unless what?”
Calliope bit her lip. “Unless you don’t want to go to the ball. It would be completely understandable, given the duke’s deplorable behaviour! We don’t even have to talk about this any more, if you don’t care to.”
Clio slumped back in her chair, arms crossed and face set in stony lines. Calliope had seen that mutinous pose since childhood. “Cal, really. It’s not like the man tried to slit my throat in the middle of the Elgin Room. He merely said some—words to me. Nothing I cannot manage. Surely you know better than to treat me like a piece of fragile porcelain.”
Calliope smiled reluctantly. Oh, yes, she did know that. When they were children, Thalia could always outrun them all in foot races, a veritable Atalanta. But Clio was the first to climb up trees—and leap down from them as if she had wings. The first to swim streams and scramble up peaks.
The duke didn’t know what he was up against.
“Of course,” Calliope agreed. “No more porcelain.”
“So, tell me about this list. I would guess they are your candidates for the Lily Thief.”
Calliope drew the list back out, smoothing it atop the desk. “Yes. Some of them are a bit far-fetched, I know.”
“A bit? Mr Emerson couldn’t tell an amphora from a horseshoe. And Lord Mallow is shockingly myopic.”
“Hmph.” Calliope pushed the list towards her sister. “Very well, Clio, since you’re so clever, who would you put on the list?”
Clio pursed her lips as she examined the names. “Not Mr Hanson. He would be utterly paralysed at the thought of his mama’s disapproval. And not Mr Smithson—he is far too honest. What about Lord Wilmont?”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of him! That’s very good. Remember that krater he had that no one had ever seen before?” Calliope added the name to the others. Now Westwood was no longer at the bottom of the list.
“And Lord Early. Remember when he nearly fought a duel with Sir Nelson Bassington when that unfortunate man declared Early’s Old Kingdom stela was clearly Amarna Period?”
“What bacon-brains the two of them are. I think they should both be on this list.”
They sat there long into the night, debating the merits of each suspect. Names were added; others erased. The only one that stayed in place, black and solid, was Lord Westwood.
Chapter Six (#ulink_05aacf97-33ba-5dca-805d-e4b42e6d364c)
“I call this meeting of the Ladies Artistic Society to order,” Calliope announced. “Miss Clio Chase will take the minutes.”
The chatter and rustling among the members slowly ceased, as they put their teacups back on tabletops and faced Calliope once again. Their pretty faces were alight with curiosity.
“What is our subject today, Calliope?” Lady Emmeline Saunders asked. “It must be something very important, since this is not our regularly scheduled day to meet.”
“Oh, something truly dreadful must have happened!” moaned Lotty Price. “A murder. An illness. A poisoning!”
“Someone needs to take away that girl’s novels,” Clio muttered under her breath.
“Do let Calliope talk, Lotty,” said Emmeline.
“Indeed there hasn’t been a murder, by poisoning or any other method,” Calliope said. “And I hope that we may prevent one from ever happening.”
Emmeline gave her a sharp glance. “You suspect a murder is about to occur?”
“I knew it!” Lotty cried. “There is a dreadful plot afoot.”
Calliope sighed. “I fear Lotty is not far wrong this time.”
“Whatever do you mean?” asked Thalia. “Who is to be killed? Should we not arm ourselves?”
“No, no, I don’t mean it in that way,” Calliope said quickly, trying to stem the rising tide of panic she sensed among her friends. “I have no knowledge of any human murder being planned.” Yet. “The plot I refer to concerns the Alabaster Goddess.”
The ladies subsided back into their seats, yet there was still a distinctly unsettled feeling in the air. “So, you still think the Lily Thief intends to steal her?” Emmeline said.
“Yes, probably from the duke’s masquerade ball, as we discussed at our last meeting,” Calliope answered. “We must formulate a plan to prevent it.”
“I am ready to defend her at any moment!” Thalia cried. She leaped up from her chair, eyes aglow as she no doubt imagined herself wielding a sword against any would-be thief. “Only give me the signal and I shall do battle.”
“Thalia, dear, do sit down,” Clio said, shaking her head. “We don’t need Boadicea and the Iceni hordes to keep an eye on one little statue.”
“You never know,” Thalia said, plopping back into her seat. “What if the Lily Thief has a partner? An army?”
“Even if he had a battalion—which he does not, for how could a battalion sneak into Lady Tenbray’s library?—he could not get by us,” Calliope said.
“What is the plan?” asked Emmeline. “What are we to do?”
“I made up a list of anyone who might even remotely be suspected of being the Lily Thief,” Calliope said, holding up her list from last night’s sleepless hours. “Everyone in the ton received an invitation to the ball, so they are sure to be there. You will each be assigned one or two names. Your task will be to ascertain what each man’s costume is, and then keep an eye on them, make certain they do not try to slip away.”
“I hope you do not want me to trail Freddie Mountbank,” Emmeline said. “He’s already made himself a nuisance in my life!”
“Mr Mountbank is not even on the list,” Calliope answered, remembering the quarrel Mountbank got into with Lord Westwood right in view of these very windows. “And we must not be at all obvious about our observations. We wouldn’t want to give the wrong idea.”
“Perhaps we should work in pairs,” Lotty suggested. “That would make it easier for us to trail anyone who might try to slip away.”
“Oh, very good idea, Lotty,” Calliope said. She reached for Clio’s pen and quickly made the amendments to the list. “All right, then, ladies, here are your assignments.”
Thalia handed out the papers to the Society members. They bent over them eagerly, laughing and exclaiming.
“Mr Emerson!” Lotty said. “It would certainly be no hardship to watch him. He is so handsome.”
“Nor Lord Mallow,” said Emmeline. “But what of Mr Hanson? I wouldn’t have thought he could plot a stroll to the end of the street, let alone a theft.”
Calliope rapped her gavel against the table, bringing order back to the gathering. “Now that you have your assignments, this is how we shall proceed on the night of the ball…”
“Do you think it will work?” Emmeline asked quietly, coming up next to Calliope, who stood staring out the window.
Calliope glanced back at the others, gathered around the pianoforte as Thalia played them a Beethoven nocturne. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “The ball is sure to be a dreadful crush. How can we watch just a few people? People in disguise, no less. Yet I can’t just stand here and let that statue be stolen without at least trying to do something.”
“I know. We all care so very much, we want to save them all. Make sure they are all properly looked after and studied,” Emmeline said. “There are only five of us, though. But we will do our very best to save the Alabaster Goddess, Calliope, never fear. She never had more devoted acolytes, even in her temple in Greece.”
They were quiet for a moment, listening to Thalia’s beautiful music, watching the traffic on the street below. Emmeline leaned closer to murmur, “Did you assign yourself Lord Westwood to watch, Calliope?”
Calliope looked to her, startled. “I thought Clio could do that.”
“Oh, no, I really think it should be you. The two of you are always circling each other like wary hawks anyway.”
“We do not!” Calliope cried. The others glanced towards them, and she hastily lowered her voice. “I do not circle Lord Westwood, Emmeline. Whatever do you mean?”
“Oh, Calliope dear. Everyone sees it. Whenever you are in a room together smoke practically billows. My brother even tells me you are in the books at his club.”
“The books! People are wagering on me?” Calliope felt a sick, sour pang deep in her stomach, an ache of sinking embarrassment. “How dare they! What—what are they saying?”
“Are you sure you want to know?” Emmeline said, her eyes full of concern. “I should never have brought it up.”
“Of course you should. If people are talking about me, I want to know.”
“Well, half of them wager you will be married by the end of the Season. The other half wagers one of you will be in Newgate for murdering the other.”
Calliope pressed her hand against her stomach. “What does your brother wager?”
“Calliope! He would never do that to a friend.”
“Come now, Emmeline. He is a man. Wagering seems to be in their very veins. They cannot help themselves.”
“Well, if he does he doesn’t tell me about it. I was much too angry with him for not putting a stop to it.”
“People are always full of such tittle-tattle. They must be desperate for gossip indeed to make up Banbury tales about such a dullard as me! Where do they find that kind of nonsense?”
Emmeline eyed her closely. “It is not entirely made of whole cloth, you know. You and Lord Westwood snap and quarrel every time you meet, or if you don’t speak you glower at each other from across the room. What are people to think?”
Calliope now felt ill in earnest. She sat down heavily in the nearest chair, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.
“Calliope, dear, you really didn’t know?” Emmeline asked.
“I have been so engrossed in my own studies,” Calliope murmured. “Worrying about the Lily Thief. I suppose I was just oblivious. My mother always did say that living in my own little world would get me into trouble one day.”
“It is hardly trouble,” Emmeline said. “It’s not as if you were caught kissing him! You’re right, it’s just silly gossip from people who have nothing better to do. It will soon be gone, replaced by something else and forgotten. My brother says they also wager on whether or not Prinny is the Lily Thief, so you see how serious their betting books are!”
Calliope laughed reluctantly. The vision of the prince, fat, red-faced and encased in a creaking corset climbing in windows and picking locks was so absurd it nearly drove out those sick feelings.
“Just ignore them, Calliope,” Emmeline said. “Their ignorance deserves no response. In the meantime, why don’t we go for a stroll in the park? It is too fine a day to stay indoors, and we all need time to think over our plan for the ball.”
“I would like some fresh air,” Calliope admitted.
“Excellent! I will tell the others.”
Calliope caught Emmeline’s arm as she turned away, staying her for a moment. “Emmeline, what do you think of Lord Westwood and me?”
Emmeline gave her a gentle smile. “How can I say? I’m just an unmarried lady like you, with Freddie Mountbank my most serious suitor. I know little of romance. You say you dislike him. Very well. But are you sure that’s all there is to the matter? Maybe you should ask Lotty what would happen in one of her novels.”
Calliope watched Emmeline walk away, more confused than ever. Antiquities she knew about; they could be studied, classified. Men never could. Especially Westwood.
Maybe she really should take up reading horrid novels, and not so much Aristotle and Thucydides. It was obvious that her powers of observation, her knowledge of modern life, of what passed for romance, was sadly lacking. Would The Prince’s Tragic Secret fill that gap? Surely everything could be learned, with the right tools. Herodotus was no help here. Perhaps By An Anonymous Lady could be.
Calliope pushed herself up from her chair and made her way resolutely towards her friends, who were gathering up their shawls and bonnets in preparation for their walk.
“Lotty,” she called. “Could I speak to you for a moment?”
As it was a fair day, cool and dry after the morning’s rains ceased, Hyde Park was quite crowded. Riders cantered along Rotten Row, stopping by the barriers to chat with each other, or with friends who rolled past in their open carriages, showing off their newest fashions. Nannies in starched caps and cloaks watched their charges as they sailed tiny boats on the calm, murky waters of the Serpentine or rolled hoops along the gravel pathways.
Calliope smiled as she watched them, their laughing faces turned like smooth-petaled flowers to the sun. She remembered days when her own nannies, or sometimes even her mother, would bring her and her sisters here. They would pretend the Serpentine was the Mediterranean, the trees and rocks the grove of Apollo’s Oracle at Delphi, and they were Muses in truth. The fount of all art and wisdom.
Suddenly, she felt a sharp pang, a yearning for that innocence that seemed so far away now. The days when she thought any dream was possible, that she could attain any goal she longed for. Even the wisdom of the Muses. Now—well, now she wondered if somehow their father had cursed them by giving them their names!
Yes, she did wish now for childhood’s blissful oblivion. For as she walked the pathways now, she imagined every person, every polite greeting, concealed smirking laughter. There is Calliope Chase! You know, the one who is pursuing Lord Westwood.
Emmeline linked arms with her, smiling in her cheerfully determined way. “There now! Is the fresh air not bracing?”
“Yes, indeed,” Calliope answered. She could be cheerful, too. After all, Emmeline was quite right. Any rumours about herself and Westwood were merely the product of idle minds and sure to pass soon. Especially if she gave them no more heat for their scandal broth.
“Oh, look! There is Mr Smithson. Was he not on your list of suspects?” Emmeline said.
“Hmm,” Calliope said, watching the gentleman in question as he strolled past, politely doffing his hat. “I will admit he is a bit of a long shot. He’s so slender, one can hardly envision him pulling himself through a window.”
“And not Lord Deering over there! They do say the dowager Lady Deering is such a dragon. She would incinerate her poor son if he disgraced the family name.”
Calliope laughed. “Quite so. But I think we must examine every possibility, no matter how farfetched.”
“Yes. Appearances can be so deceiving.”
