"I call this meeting of the Ladies Artistic Society to
order," announced Calliope Chase, sounding her gavel on
the table in front of her. "Our secretary, Miss Clio
Chase, will take the minutes."
Slowly, all the teacups and plates of cakes were lowered to
laps and tabletops, and the members of the Society turned
their attention to their founder and president. Bright
sunlight flowed from the tall windows of the drawing room of
the Chases' townhouse, warm and bright after the chilly
misery of the night before, casting pastel spencers and
muslin gowns in a brilliant light. Everything in the
fashionably appointed room was just as expected—the
ladies seated in pretty groupings of chairs and settees,
china tea sets, silver services, hovering housemaids, the
soft sound of Mozart from the pianoforte in the corner.
All expected and proper. Except for one thing. Behind
Calliope, set high on its pedestal, was a marble statue of
Apollo. An anatomically correct, completely naked statue of
Apollo.
But then, what else could be looked for in a house belonging
to the famous scholar of Greek history, Sir Walter Chase? A
house where his nine daughters, named after the Greek Muses,
resided and pursued their own, not always completely
ladylike, interests.
Calliope, the eldest of the Chase Muses at age twenty-one,
was also not all that was expected. She was quite
attractive, taking after her late mother's French family
with her black hair and brown eyes, her flawless fair skin;
and those good looks—with the Chase fortune—had
attracted more than a few offers from very eligible
partis. Yet she had turned them all down. "They
just don't care about history and antiquities," she told
her father, and he immediately agreed that those young men
would never do for one of the Chase Muses.
She also cared little for fashion or for dancing or cards,
preferring to spend her time in study, or in conversation
about her studies with like-minded people.
That was why she founded the Ladies Artistic Society in the
first place, so that she and her sisters could reach out to
other females with more on their minds than hemlines and
hats. "Surely there must be others like us here in
London," she told her sister Clio. "You
know—ladies who wish they could take books with them
to pass the dull hours at Almack's."
And so there were. Their membership now included two of
their friends, along with the three eldest Chase daughters
(the other six still being in the schoolroom, and therefore
members-in-waiting). There was also a waiting list, though
Calliope suspected that many of those just wanted a glimpse
of Apollo. They met once a week during the Season to talk
about history, literature, art, music. Often a guest
lecturer, provided by the Muses' father, would speak, or a
painter would give a demonstration. Sometimes they would
just discuss amongst themselves a book read or an opera
seen, or Thalia, the third Chase sister and an ardent
musician, would perform a scandalous, passionate Beethoven
piece.
Not today, though. Today there was very serious business to
discuss, and obviously everyone discerned that from the
stiff set of Calliope's shoulders in her white muslin day
dress. A hush fell over the bright room, all clinkings and
rustlings stilled. Even Thalia ceased playing the
pianoforte, swivelling around to face her sister.
Calliope lifted up a copy of the
Post, pointing at
a black, shrieking headline:
The Lily Thief Returns!
"It has been many weeks since this criminal struck,"
Calliope said softly. Her voice was quiet, but she felt her
cheeks burn with the force of her inner anger. Many
weeks—and she had thought the Lily Thief gone,
vanished like so many other ephemeral sensations in Society.
A two-day scandal, and then something else, an elopement or
divorce, or other such harmless trifle. "I suppose he
realised that attention was drifting from his foul deeds."
Her sister Clio glanced up from the minutes, her auburn brow
arched above the gilt frames of her spectacles. Clio said
nothing, though. Merely went back to her note-taking. It was
Lady Emmeline Saunders who spoke. "Perhaps the Lily
Thief has very good reasons for what he does."
"Reasons such as profit and riches?" Thalia cried
from her piano. Her golden curls, so shiny and pretty,
trembled with indignation. Thalia might look like a china
shepherdess, but she had the heart of a gladiator. And that
accounted for the many scrapes she always found herself in.
"I am sure he saw a pretty penny from the sale of Lord
Egermont's Euphronios krater and the Clives' Bastet statue."
"Antiquities have more than a monetary value, you
know," Clio said quietly. "Something their previous
owners seemed to have lost sight of."
"Of course they do," Calliope said. "And that is
what makes the exploits of this Lily Thief so heinous. Who
knows where these objects have gone, or if they will ever be
seen again? We will have no access to the lessons they could
teach us. It is a terrible loss to scholarship."
Clio bent her head back over her notes, murmuring low enough
for only Calliope to hear, "As if there was much
scholarship going on in Lady Tenbray's library."
"The Lily Thief does not just steal money or jewels, as
a common burglar would. Objects that could easily be
replaced," Calliope said. "He steals history."
The other Society members glanced at each other. Finally,
Emmeline raised her hand again. "What must we do about
this, Calliope? Perhaps engage a don from Cambridge to speak
on cultural thefts?"
"Or tomb-raiding!" cried Miss Charlotte Price, the
youngest and most excitable of the Society. She had an
unfortunate predilection for reading horrid novels, but her
father was a friend of Sir Walter Chase. He hoped the
Society would help her expand her horizons. So far the hope
was in vain, but one never knew. "I did read about a
cursed tomb robber in
The Baron's Revenge—"
"Yes, indeed," Calliope said, interrupting smoothly
before Lotty could be carried off into a rambling synopsis.
"But I have something rather more—personal in
mind."
"Personal?" the others chorused.
"Yes." Calliope placed her palms flat on the table
before her, leaning towards her audience. "We are going
to catch the Lily Thief ourselves."
A great sigh went up, floating to the plaster-ceiling
medallion in a wave of exclamation.
"Oh, how very thrilling!" trilled Charlotte.
"Just like
The Curse of Lady Arabella—"
"We are to turn amateur sleuths?" Thalia said,
clapping her hands. "What a marvellous idea!"
"Indeed," agreed Emmeline. "Scholastic inquiry
is all very well, but sometimes we need to
move"
Clio's pen stilled, her brows drawn down in a puzzled vee.
"How do you propose we go about this task, Calliope? If
even the Bow Street Runners could not find the Lily
Thief…"
Honestly, Calliope had not thought quite that far ahead. The
idea of taking action themselves had only occurred to her at
breakfast that morning, as she read the papers in mounting
anger over the harmful exploits of that show-off Lily Thief.
She had some vague notion that, as ladies of the
ton,
they could move about more freely and with far more
stealth than those Runners. They could listen and observe
with no one being the wiser, and perhaps catch the villain
at a vulnerable moment.
For she was sure of one thing—the Lily Thief was a
member of the
ton. He had to be, to possess such
knowledge of the houses and schedules of lords and ladies.
But she was
not entirely sure how to begin catching
him in their net.
"I suggest," she said slowly, "that we begin
with last night's theft of the Etruscan diadem. Was anyone
at Lady Tenbray's rout?" Calliope herself had not been,
turning down the invitation to what was sure to be a dull
crush to attend the theatre with her father.
Macbeth,
she had thought, was sure to be more exciting. If only
she had known the Lily Thief was to strike again!
Clio and Thalia were of no help, having chosen to stay home
with their studies. There must have been
someone
there whose observations she could trust!
Finally, Emmeline raised her hand again. "I was there,
but I noticed nothing untoward, I fear."
"No one behaving oddly at all?" Calliope asked
hopefully.
"Just Freddie Mountbank," Emmeline answered.
"But then, what does one expect of him? I would have
been suspicious if he behaved
normally."
The ladies all giggled. Poor Mr Mountbank—he was so
earnest, so very much in love with Emmeline, yet he had the
unfortunate tendency to lose his temper and blurt out curses
when he was nervous in a lady's presence (which was always).
He had launched more than one dance set into disarray by
knocking down all the participants. Unless Mr Mountbank was
very clever indeed—and, judging by his parents, that
was not likely—he was not the Lily Thief.
"Nothing else?" Calliope asked.
Emmeline shook her head regretfully. "I 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.
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