Mischief in Regency Society. Amanda McCabe
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fear not. It was so very crowded. And my mother insisted I dance with Mr Mountbank, so I was rather distracted in dodging him.”
More giggles rippled around the room, and even Calliope had to laugh at the vision of her rather tall friend ducking behind curtains and potted palms to hide from her persistent suitor.
“I’m sorry,” Emmeline said. “If I had known…”
“Yes.” Calliope sighed. “If only we all knew.”
“What shall we do now?” asked Thalia, her tone suggesting that she would prefer to armour up like a Valkyrie and go marching out into Mayfair to destroy all villains in her path.
“I am not entirely sure,” Calliope admitted. “But I think I do have an idea where the Lily Thief will strike next.”
“Really?”
“Where?”
“Oh, do tell us!”
Calliope had not completely worked out all this in her mind. Yet sometimes, she thought, intuition was the best guide. “The Duke of Averton’s ball.”
“Oh!”
“Of course.”
“The Alabaster Goddess,” Thalia said. “Lud, but that is clever of you, Cal.”
“I’m surprised the Lily Thief hasn’t made a move towards it yet,” Emmeline said.
“He is obviously growing in audacity,” Calliope said, gesturing towards the newspaper. “To snatch the diadem in plain sight indicates confidence.”
The Alabaster Goddess was a rather small, perfectly preserved statue of Artemis with her bow, taken only a few years ago from a ruined Greek temple on the island of Delos and purchased by the Duke of Averton (or Duke of Avarice, as he was known in certain circles) for his famous collection. She was quite unblemished for being thousands of years old, and the duke loved to show her off, strangely enough, for he was a well-known recluse. The goddess had even sparked quite a fashion in society for “Artemis” hairstyles and “Artemis” sandals. The duke had made it known she would soon be moved to his heavily fortified castle in Yorkshire. But next week she could be seen at a grand masked ball the duke was hosting. His first ball in years.
The ball had a Grecian theme, of course.
Yes, Calliope thought, suddenly sure. The Lily Thief would strike there.
“We must all go to the ball, and there we will—”
“Oh!” Calliope’s instructions were cut off by a sudden cry from Lotty, who sat closest to the window. She pressed her nose to the glass, leaning forward precariously. “Oh, it is Lord Westwood! And your beau Mr Mountbank, Emmeline.”
Those words, of course—Lord Westwood—caused a great rush to the windows, silks and ribbons furiously a-rustle. More noses and fingers pressed to the glass, unheeding of smudges and dignity.
“Oh!” cried Thalia. “He is in his beautiful phaeton. I wish Father would buy one for me, I’m sure I would be a rare hand at the reins. But Westwood appears to be in some sort of altercation with Mr Mountbank. How fascinating.”
Oh, what a great surprise, Calliope thought sarcastically. Where Cameron de Vere, the Earl of Westwood went, “altercations” were sure to follow.
“Cal, Clio, come, you must see this. It’s too amusing,” Thalia said.
Clio left off her scratching of pens and joined the others, peering down as if observing some scientific demonstration.
Calliope did not want to go and gawk with her friends, as if they were all silly schoolgirls who had never before seen a man rather than the intelligent, rational women they were. She did not want to give Lord Westwood the satisfaction of yet more attention. Yet, somehow, she could not help herself. It was as if a thick cord suddenly tightened around her waist, pulling her inexorably towards the window. Towards him.
Calliope dropped the newspaper and strolled reluctantly towards the others, peering past Thalia’s shoulder to the scene below. It was indeed Lord Westwood, his bright yellow and gleaming black phaeton wedged into traffic, at a complete standstill. His matched bay horses snorted and pranced restlessly, as Mr Mountbank, in his own conveyance, blocked Westwood’s way, shouting and gesticulating, as he was wont to do. Mr Mountbank’s face was an alarming shade of purple above his overly starched cravat, yet Westwood looked on with an expression of amused boredom on his ridiculously gorgeous face, as if the quarrel had nothing at all to do with him, and he merely watched the action at Drury Lane.
“Really,” Calliope muttered. “Our street is hardly Gentleman Jackson’s saloon.”
“Oh!” Thalia exclaimed. “Do you really think they might come to blows? How terribly interesting.”
“How very handsome he is,” sighed Lotty. “Just like the comte in Mademoiselle Marguerites’s Fatal Secret.”
Handsome—well, yes. Even Calliope had to admit that, albeit grudgingly. Westwood was sometimes called “the Greek God” in more florid circles, and strictly from an aesthetic viewpoint it was all too true. He could have been their Ladies Society Apollo statue come to warm, vivid, breathing life, if he were to shed his buckskin breeches and exquisite bottle-green coat. He was hatless now, despite the sunny skies, his glossy, sable-dark curls tossed by the wind until they fell in artistic disarray over his brow. His skin was always a golden-bronze, his eyes dark and maddeningly unreadable.
No, Calliope thought as she watched him now, trying to reason with Mr Mountbank with a half-grin on his lips. He was not so much a god, as a young Greek fisherman, virile, earthbound, as secret as the deepest sea. Surely he got that sense of otherness from his mother. Like the Chases’ own mother, the late countess had hailed from more exotic climes. She came from where else but Athens, the daughter of a famous Greek scholar.
For an instant, it seemed as if Westwood would actually alight from his phaeton and face the apoplectic wrath of Mr Mountbank. The ladies at the window held their collective breath, but, alas, fisticuffs—and shirtsleeves—in Mayfair were not to be. Mountbank, faced with an opponent potentially closer than several feet away, backed off and hurried on his way, steering his carriage precariously around the corner.
The ladies, disappointed, also backed away, leaving the view to return to their seats. The drawing room was soon filled with the mingling of chatter, music, tea being poured into delicate cups. Calliope, though, could not yet leave with them. Could not break that cord. Something tightened, binding her there, staring down at Cameron de Vere.
He laughed aloud at Mountbank’s precipitous retreat, his head thrown back with the unbridled freedom of his humour. His hair fell away from his chiseled face, the sharp angles of his cheekbones and nose. He leaned back easily on the cushioned seat, free as a corsair at the helm of his ship. Passers-by paused to stare at him, as if drawn by the sheer life of him, yet he noticed not at all, so comfortable in his own skin, his own world.
Blast him, anyway, Calliope thought wryly. Blast for being—him. For being all she was not. For being so free. Not bound to family responsibilities.
Calliope leaned her forehead against the cool glass, watching as Lord Westwood’s laughter faded and he once again collected the loosened reins. Even his casual movements were filled with a smooth, unstudied grace.
She watched him, and remembered their first meeting, at the beginning of the Season. Was that only weeks ago? It felt a lifetime. Or mere moments. That night when…
No! No, that didn’t bear thinking of. Not now. She was in the middle of a Ladies Society meeting! Her friends were nearby. Thinking of Cameron de Vere, seeing him, fantasising about him as some Greek fisherman on a beach, would only discompose her. Her friends were sure to ask questions, and that would never do. She was always collected and calm. Always in control. She had to be, her family relied on her.
Why, then, did she tremble so much, just from watching him down on the street? It was ridiculous!
Calliope