Mischief in Regency Society: To Catch a Rogue

Calliope nodded. Surely no one knew that better than herself, after all her studies of the ancient world. The ancient Greeks had such an appearance now of rationality, of cool, pale beauty. Yet in truth their statues and temples, which were so slavishly recreated now in Adam foyers and white muslin gowns, had been brightly painted. Their ideas of order, their great philosophy and tragedy, concealed a love for madness, ecstasy, the paranormal that was distinctly irrational.

People were like that, too, in modern London or ancient Athens and Sparta. Layer upon layer, concealing whatever truly lurked at their core. A mystery.

And the greatest mystery of all was strolling into her view. Lord Westwood himself, of course. No wonder people gossiped about the two of them, Calliope mused, for he so often appeared just where she happened to be!

Unlike when he stormed out of the British Museum, all Hadean fire and anger, he was back to sunny Apollonian charm. A small parcel was tucked under his arm, half-hidden by the folds of his greatcoat. He smiled at the people he passed, pausing to kiss giggling ladies’ hands or chat with friends.

Layer upon layer. Where was the real man?

Calliope’s steps froze as he moved nearer, bringing Emmeline up short.

“What is amiss?” Her eyes widened as she followed Calliope’s gaze. “Oh. The man himself, I see. And so handsome today!”

“Perhaps we should turn back,” Calliope said. “We’ve left the others so far behind….”

“Nonsense!” Emmeline said, continuing on their path so resolutely that Calliope had no choice but to follow. “It would only fuel the gossip if you were seen avoiding Lord Westwood, Calliope. We must be polite and say hello.”

When Lord Westwood saw them, Calliope thought she saw a frown between his eyes, a whisper of solemnity. But whatever it was quickly vanished, replaced by a sunny smile, a flourishing bow.

“Miss Chase, Lady Emmeline,” he greeted. “A lovely day for a walk, is it not?”

“Indeed it is. We were just discussing our costumes for the Duke of Averton’s ball, weren’t we, Calliope?” Emmeline arched her brow at Calliope so she had no choice but to nod, even though they had been discussing no such thing. “A Grecian theme, of course, so we were hoping some of the park’s statuary would inspire us.”

Westwood’s lips tightened. “I am sure that whatever you two ladies wear you will be the loveliest in the room.”

Emmeline laughed. “Miss Chase might. She looks like a Greek statue all the time!”

He glanced at Calliope, but she could read nothing in his eyes. They were as opaque as the waters of the Serpentine. “That she does.”

“Oh!” Emmeline suddenly exclaimed, detaching her arm from Calliope’s. “I see someone over there I absolutely must speak to. Excuse me for a moment, Calliope. Lord Westwood.”

What on earth was her friend up to? Calliope tried to catch Emmeline’s hand, but she was off, dashing away like the traitor she was. Leaving Calliope alone with Lord Westwood.

Well, not entirely alone, of course. Not with half of London around them, and Clio and the rest of the Ladies Society not far away. Yet it felt as if they were alone. Calliope felt dizzy, her vision blurring until she saw only him, not the crowds.

She clasped her hands together, reminding herself of her purpose. Cause no scenes; act perfectly calm and normal. No scandal broth.

“So, you plan to attend Averton’s ball?” he said. His voice was as unreadable as his face.

“Of course. Isn’t everybody? I do long to see the Artemis again. Unless…”

“Unless?”

Calliope remembered how murderous he looked at the museum, when the duke edged so close to Clio. “Unless there is a reason it might be unsafe.”

“And you think I might know that reason?”

“Perhaps. Better than some. And I would hope, Lord Westwood, that you would tell me if you know of any reason why my sister or I should not go. I know that you and I are not exactly friends…”

At last there was a glimmer of emotion, a tiny smile like the sun peeking through grey clouds. “Are we not, Miss Chase? Friends, that is.”

“I—well,” Calliope said, flustered. “Perhaps we could be.”

“If we were not both such stubborn spirits?”

Calliope took a deep breath. Infernal man! Just when she thought she had him figured out, he fooled her. Revealed another layer. He lured her from her resolve to be cool and polite. “Lord Westwood, tell me! Is there a reason Clio and I should not go to the ball?” A reason such as that he was planning to snatch the Alabaster Goddess while everyone else danced in oblivion?

He shrugged. “As you say, everyone will be there. Averton won’t try anything in front of the entire ton. You should be safe enough. As long as you don’t do anything rash.”

“Rash?” Calliope cried. “What do you think I would do? Rashness is much more your style than mine, Lord Westwood. I merely plan to examine the statue, have a glass of the duke’s fine champagne, and depart. In peace.”

“Of course. As befits a Muse,” he said. His smile was now that maddening full-fledged grin.

Cool and polite! Calliope berated herself. “Will you be there?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it. I always enjoy fine—champagne.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Calliope asked doubtfully.

“I never overly imbibe, Miss Chase. Not in polite company.”

She had to resist the urge to childishly stamp her half-boot on the walkway. “You know what I mean.”

“Oh, yes. You are remembering our scene in the Elgin Room. I do so often seem to show myself at my worst to you, Miss Chase, and then I have to apologise. It’s true that I have no liking for the duke, or he for me. But I do know better than to cause a scene at a ball, though I’ve given you little cause to trust my word on that.”

“I don’t believe you would cause a scene at a ball,” Calliope admitted, bemused. “It doesn’t seem your way to turn a grand ballroom into Gentleman Jackson’s parlour.”

“Just a museum, eh? Well, you and your sister may attend the ball in peace. We’ll all be masked, won’t we? Averton himself won’t even know I’m there. Neither will you.” He bowed to her again, the paper of the parcel under his arm rustling. “Good day, Miss Chase. Enjoy the rest of your walk.”

Calliope turned to watch him leave, to watch him greet Clio and the others, then hurry on his way, obviously a man with an errand on this fine afternoon.

Oh, but you are wrong, Lord Westwood, she thought. For I will certainly know if you’re there.

Cameron leaned back in his chair, surveying his library. At least nominally it was “his” library, but ever since he returned from his travels to take his place as Earl of Westwood it felt like his father’s library. His father’s house. Everywhere Cameron looked he saw his father’s furniture and carpets, the niches where his collections once resided. Their country seat was one thing; the furnishings there were old family pieces and not personal. This townhouse had been his father’s, the place where he indulged his love of Greece, his passion for collecting.

But that was about to change. For too long now Cameron had lived with someone else’s life. It was time to begin his own. One piece at a time.

He stood up and reached for the parcel on the desk. It was small, flat, carefully wrapped in brown paper. Cameron carried it over to the carved fireplace mantel, gazing up at the painting that hung there. It was one his father had acquired on his own Grand Tour many decades ago, an indifferently executed murky scene of Egyptian pyramids. Cameron had never much liked it, even though it hung there through his childhood. The perspective was all wrong, the colours dim, conveying no sense of the desert brightness, the mystery of the Egyptians.

He reached up and unhooked it from the picture rail, lifting it down at last. It left a pale square on the topaz-coloured silk wallpaper. Then he tore the wrapping from his new package and lifted the pyramid’s replacement into its place.

Cameron stepped back to survey the image. He had seen it in that gallery window and knew it was meant to be his. Meant to hang just here, where he could see it every day as he worked at the desk.

It was an image of Athena, standing framed between the shining white pillars of her temple. The sacred fire burned behind her, outlining her slim figure in pleated white silk. One arm was outstretched, holding her grey owl, while the other hand rested on the shield propped beside her. Her golden helmet rested at her feet, and her hair, a river of glossy raven-black, flowed over her shoulders.

Her beautiful face, a pale oval set with wide-spaced grey eyes, was solemn and knowing. She was beautiful, oh so serious, set on her own course come what may.

She was, in short, Calliope Chase. Or very, very like her.