Читать книгу Mischief in Regency Society: To Catch a Rogue - Amanda McCabe, Amanda McCabe - Страница 13

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…”

“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.