Mischief in Regency Society: To Catch a Rogue

“How odd,” she whispered. A secret compartment? To conceal—what?

Before she could investigate further, she heard the echo of voices and footsteps coming up the staircase. Gripping the silk and beads, she ducked back behind the sarcophagus, lying on her side. It was even darker, colder back there, the floor hard on her hip. She pressed herself tight against the carved, painted hieroglyphs, holding her breath as she listened to the shouts and exclamations.

She had never felt more alone in her life.

Chapter Nine (#ulink_3c7f3890-4e86-5f90-9f85-bb631a133b68)

Calliope crept up the stairs of her own home, her steps weary and slow. The house was quiet; no one expected them back for hours yet, and the servants were tucked away in their own quarters. Her father and Thalia were still at the duke’s, her father to observe all the excitement, and Thalia to look for Clio. Calliope had come home to see if Clio had returned, but she had also come for herself. For the comfort only her own surroundings, her own well-ordered space, could provide.

After such a long, bizarre night, there was something in her that craved the sight of home.

“Perhaps I will write my own horrid novel,” she muttered, catching up a warm shawl draped over a chair and wrapping it tightly around her bare shoulders. Wouldn’t Lotty enjoy that?

She would call it The Duke’s Revenge. Or perhaps Vengeance against the Duke. Yes, that would be more fitting.

Calliope shuddered. It would be a very long time before she forgot the way Averton looked, so pale except for that crimson gash. The confused clamour when the crowd burst into the gallery and carried him away, while she huddled behind that sarcophagus.

“Oh, Clio,” she whispered. “What has happened to you?”

And what had happened between Calliope and Westwood—or Cameron? For those brief moments it seemed they were allies, united in one cause. That was something she never thought to see happen. Never thought to be so affected by. But his humour, his kindness, the quick, cool way he dealt with the duke…

No. She couldn’t think about that right now. It was too baffling, too dizzying. And she had to find her sister. Find out what had happened in that gallery.

There was a thin line of light beneath Clio’s bedchamber door, flickering and shifting like flames. Calliope didn’t even knock, just gently eased that door open, holding her breath as she paused on the threshold.

And Clio was there. After all the searching through the labyrinth of the duke’s house, she was in her own chamber. The room was in darkness except for the blazing fire in the grate. Clio knelt beside the flames, wrapped in a white dressing gown, her auburn hair loose down her back. The red-orange glow reflected on her spectacles as she fed scraps of green silk into the fire. Her face was utterly expressionless.

“Clio,” Calliope called softly.

Clio jumped, spinning around on her heels, crouched for battle. “Calliope!” she cried. “Don’t creep up on me like that. I nearly had apoplexy.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t even sure you were here or just a mirage.” Calliope slowly moved to Clio’s side, hands held out as if in surrender. She knelt beside her sister, studying the torn remains of the Medusa costume.

“What happened tonight, Clio?” she said. She reached out to touch the ragged edge of a gold sleeve. It was stiff with smeared blood.

Clio stared straight ahead into the flames. “What do you mean?”

“Lord Westwood and I found him. The duke. He held a scrap of this very silk in his hand.”

“Was he—dead?”

“No, not yet.”

“And what did he say?”

“He was unconscious. Lord Westwood went for help, and when they carried the duke away I came home. To find you.” Calliope couldn’t hold herself back any longer. She seized Clio, drawing her into a fierce hug. “Oh, Clio, I was so frightened!”

Clio held herself stiff for a second, then she gave a great shudder and fell against Calliope’s shoulder, clutching at her. “Cal! It was—was horrible.”

“My dear, you’re safe now. We’re all safe, I promise,” Calliope said, struggling to convince herself as much as Clio. “Why were you alone with him?”

“I was a fool.” Clio drew away, wiping her cheeks with her dressing gown sleeve. “I wanted to see the Alabaster Goddess without all the gawking crowds. I got one of the footmen to tell me where she was, and I slipped away for a peek. But he must have been watching me. He followed me to that gallery, and just as I saw the goddess, he…”

“He what?”

Clio shook her head fiercely. “I don’t want to say. I swear he did not get very far, though, Cal. He just kissed me. Artemis saved me.”

Calliope gave her a gentle smile. “You mean she leaped off her pedestal and coshed him on the head?”

Clio laughed. It was a strained, choked sound, but very welcome none the less. “Well, she did need a bit of mortal help. I grabbed her by that wooden base and swung it towards him. I just wanted to scare him, make him back away. I thought for a moment he was dead, and I didn’t mean to kill him! I wouldn’t mind if he was dead, but I don’t want his blood on my hands.” She held out one trembling hand, palm up. “Of course, it’s there anyway.”

“No!” Calliope took that hand, holding it tightly. “He is alive, and will probably recover, more is the pity. Hopefully his wits will be scrambled enough, though, that he won’t hurt anyone else.”

“And so he won’t talk of this to anyone?”

“Why would he? Being known as an attacker of women—and being so weak a woman could attack him and bring him low—could hardly be what he wants.”

“For a normal man, perhaps. I don’t have any idea what a man like the duke could want.”

They sat there for a long moment, clinging together, the only sound the snap of the fire. Outside the window the sky was beginning to lighten, a lark twittering in the trees. London coming to life again for one more day.

“There is something I want to show you, Cal,” Clio said. She rose unsteadily to her feet and crossed the room to her bed. From under the mattress she drew a folded, rumpled sheet of paper, covered with a spidery black hand. One corner was ripped away.

“What is it?” Calliope asked, as Clio came back to the fireside.

“I’m not sure. When I—well, when Artemis made contact with the duke’s head, the wooden base split and this paper came out.”

“Oh, yes!” Calliope exclaimed, remembering that broken base, the tiny scrap of parchment. “I saw that it was broken. But what is the paper?”

“A list of some sort.” Clio smoothed it out on the hearth rug. “I can’t quite figure it out, though.”

Calliope leaned closer, peering at the tiny words. “Cicero. The Grey Dove. The Sicilian. The Purple Hyacinth. Nicknames?”

“Perhaps. There are ten of them in all, and they’re each so strange. I wouldn’t have thought the duke was one for secret societies, he seems so solitary, but after seeing his Gothic horror of a house I know anything is possible. What could they be nicknames for?”

Calliope ran her finger down the baffling list. “Charlemagne. The Golden Falcon. I have no idea. It must be very important, though, to hide it in the Alabaster Goddess like that.”

“Important—and illegal, no doubt. Immoral goes without saying.”

Illegal contacts? “Oh, Clio,” Calliope breathed. “Do you suppose the duke is the Lily Thief?”

Cameron splashed cold water over his face, hoping the icy drops would finally wake him from the bizarre dream this whole evening had been. It didn’t work, though. When he opened his eyes, slicking back the wet strands of his hair, his rumpled Hermes costume was still tossed over a chair. And he faced himself—eyes bloodshot, face strained—in the mirror.

In his travels to Greece, he and his companions were chased by bandits and rebels on occasion, running through the rocky hills with bullets zinging at their heels. That was surely dangerous, but also exhilarating. Life-affirming. After a narrow escape, they would drink and sing around campfires until dawn, when they would run again.

Why, then, did he feel so weary now? So—old, almost. Was it because bandits and bullets had a strange honesty to them? Unlike whatever it was that had happened at Averton’s house tonight. That had a murky, corrupt air, a mystery he didn’t care for.

Would he have left Averton to die, if Calliope Chase’s solemn dark eyes weren’t watching every move he made? He was surely tempted to, and the world would be better off. In the end he couldn’t. He couldn’t even let a man he detested die. Because of some weakness in himself? Because he didn’t want to seem less than good, seem the flawed man he was, in front of Calliope?