Mischief in Regency Society: To Catch a Rogue. Amanda McCabe

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      “Exactly so. It is a Roman copy, of course, but still its great beauty is evident. And her face looks rather like your sister, does it not?”

      Startled, Calliope stared up at the duke, shaken from the reverie the Daphne invoked. He did not watch her; all his attention was on Daphne’s cold, carved face. He reached out one fingertip to touch her cheek, sliding a slow caress along the angle of her cheekbone.

      It did look like Clio, Calliope had to admit. With that hair, and the sharp, thin angles of the face and bare shoulders. And that made his rapt attention all the more chilling.

      “She has the same independent spirit, you see,” the duke murmured. “But in the end, one way or another, she will belong to the gods. Run though she will.”

      Calliope’s throat was dry, and she knew she had leave, to find Clio. She slowly backed away from the duke, who still seemed lost in his own world. His own fantasies of poor Daphne.

      “Excuse me,” Calliope murmured. “I see someone I must speak to.”

      She hurried back into the midst of the crowd. There seemed to be even more people packed into the ballroom than before, knots and skeins of humanity laughing and drinking, oblivious to any nightmarish quality this house might hold. Yet there was no Clio anywhere, not even a glimpse of her shimmering green silk. Thalia was still dancing, as she probably would do all night. Their father was nowhere to be seen. Probably he had gone off to the card room with his philosopher friends, continuing their discussion over a hand of vingt-et-un. She did see Emmeline, dressed as the Delphic Oracle, talking with one of her assigned possible thieves. She gave Calliope a small nod and smile. All was going as planned in that corner.

      If only Calliope could say the same! She so hated when her plans went awry. But then, what could she expect from someone like the Duke of Averton? He was a strange one, to say the least, and there could be no predicting what might happen in his house. She had to stay calm. Remember her goal—to protect the Alabaster Goddess.

      And surely in such a vast crowd Clio was safe enough. The duke couldn’t hurt her here, couldn’t turn her into a tree. He probably couldn’t even find her. Still, Calliope would feel better if she could talk to her sister, warn her to be on her guard.

      Hoisting her shield higher, Calliope threaded her way through the ballroom. Several friends greeted her, but there was no Clio.

      “Where are you?” she muttered, straining on tiptoe to see over the crowd.

      “I am here, grey-eyed Athena,” a voice said, slightly muffled, close to her shoulder.

      Half-fearing the duke had crept up on her again, Calliope turned. There was no Dionysus, though. It was Hermes, in his winged sandals and helmet, muscled arms bare in a white chiton. The visor of the helmet was down, but Calliope recognised the unruly dark curls that escaped its golden confines. She also recognized Hermes’ scent, the clean smell of citrus soap with something darker, more complex and alluring, underneath, like cinnamon or sunshine, salty sea air.

      A strange sense of relief flowed over her. She was not alone in this crowd any longer! “My eyes are brown, Lord Westwood,” she said, resisting the urge to hug him, to cling to those strong arms. It was surely just another measure of how bizarre this evening had become that she was so very happy to see him.

      “Always so logical,” he said, pushing back the visor to reveal his smile. “How did you know it was me?”

      “Your soap.”

      “My soap?”

      Calliope shook her head. “It’s not important. Have you by any chance seen my sister?”

      “Miss Clio? I don’t think so, but then anything is possible in this crowd. What is her costume?”

      “Oh, you couldn’t miss her. She is Medusa, in a green-and-gold gown, with snakes on her headdress.”

      “Snakes? Never say she brought reptiles in here! But then, I would not really be surprised. You Chases always do things in your own fashion.”

      Calliope had to smile in spite of herself. “I dare say Clio might have brought real snakes in, if she didn’t know how I dislike them. But she only has cloth snakes. With green glass eyes.”

      “I fear I’ve seen no Medusas at all. Is something amiss?”

      “No, I just need to tell her something. I’m sure I will see her later. Unfortunately, I can glimpse little in this crowd.”

      “Did I not predict it would be a ‘dreadful crush’?”

      “You did. Surely what every hostess most desires.”

      “Or host.” His expression hardened. “I saw you were speaking to Mr Dionysus.”

      “For a moment,” Calliope answered cautiously. “He was showing me a statue of Daphne.” The memory of the duke’s hand on that marble cheek made her feel cold all over again, and she trembled.

      “Are you cold?” Lord Westwood asked solicitously.

      “Just a bit. Though I’m not sure how I could be, it’s so overheated in here!”

      “Such a mausoleum as this place can never be truly warm. Come, Miss Chase, dance with me. I think the exercise will do us both good.”

      Calliope glanced towards the dance floor to find a new set forming. Emmeline was there with Mr Smithson, as was Thalia with the strange Minotaur. Still no Clio. Yet surely a dance would do her good. Take her whirling thoughts from the duke and his bizarre actions, the Alabaster Goddess and the Lily Thief, and warm her chilled bones. Westwood was right—this place was a mausoleum. Only music and dancing could bring it to life again.

      Especially a dance with Lord Westwood, for surely no one could be more alive than he was. His cognac eyes, the golden glow of his smooth skin, fairly breathed youth and vitality and strength. After the duke’s brief, cold touch, the breath of his corruption, she craved that heat. Yearned for it. Even if it was with Westwood.

      But he was not Westwood tonight. He was Hermes. She was Athena. And this was not an ordinary London ball, but an Olympian revel. For the length of one dance, anyway.

      “Thank you, Lord Westwood,” she said. “I would be happy to dance with you.”

Chapter Eight

      Clio glanced back over her shoulder as she tiptoed along the narrow corridor. Empty. No one followed her. Probably they did not even notice her absence from the ballroom, not in such a crush.

      Perfect.

      It was silent here, unlike the roar of music and shallow conversation. So quiet it was almost like a cave, lit only by a few lamps built to resemble flickering torches. The shifting light touched the dark, linenfold panelled walls, the low, carved ceiling and the gilt-framed paintings, making them glitter and waver as if alive.

      Clio paused to slip off her heeled shoes, peering closer at one of those paintings. It was a modern creation, an oil of the Minotaur in his labyrinth. A great, hulking, hairy beast with red, fiery eyes, lurking in a dark space much like this corridor. СКАЧАТЬ