LITMIR.BIZ

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under her ear and reached for her blue spencer. Maybe she didn’t have flirtatious azure eyes, but she did have one thing she shared with Cameron—a knowledge of history and antiquities. They could speak the same language, if they just tried.

      As she pinned a tiny brooch, a golden owl of Athena, to her collar, a knock sounded at her chamber door.

      “The Earl of Westwood is waiting for you in the morning room, Miss Chase,” the footman announced.

      “Thank you,” Calliope called. “I will be down directly.” She touched the owl and whispered, “Courage.”

      The fashionable hour was just beginning as Calliope and Cameron turned into the gates of Hyde Park, his dashing yellow-and-black phaeton rolling smoothly along the lane, joining in the bright parade. Calliope opened her parasol, turning it over her shoulder to block the afternoon sunlight—and some of the stares of the curious.

      “Are you quite well today, Miss Chase?” Cameron asked, steering his horses down a slightly quieter pathway. She had been right about his driving skills. His gloved hands were featherlight on the reins, his horses perfectly responsive to his slightest touch. Just as she had been responsive when they danced.

      “A good night’s sleep and a strong pot of tea can do wonders,” Calliope answered, nodding at Emmeline as they passed her and her mother in their carriage.

      “Did you sleep well, then?”

      Calliope laughed ruefully, and shook her head. “Hardly at all. I had such dreams!”

      “Dreams of falling statues?”

      “Of being chased by hairy Minotaurs down endless corridors.”

      He gave her a sympathetic smile. “That house would be quite enough to disturb anyone’s dreams, even without other—events.”

      “Quite. I hope never to see Acropolis House again.”

      “Or its owner?”

      “Him, too. Will he live, do you think?”

      “The doctor who was summoned last night says his prognosis is quite good. Once his brain is set right. Whatever right might be for such a man.”

      Calliope swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. “And have you heard what the events of the night are supposed to be?”

      “That the duke was examining his treasure, and she fell from her unsteady base. A tragic accident.”

      “At least until the duke awakens and tells the truth.”

      “Until then. How is your sister today?”

      “Quiet, but well enough. Clio does not stay discomposed for long. But her account of events is much what you would think, I fear. The duke surprised her as she examined the Alabaster Goddess, and when he tried to do—something, she hit him with the statue.”

      “Well done for her.”

      Calliope laughed. “I think she is mostly disappointed she didn’t finish the job.”

      “Well, I’m sure one day someone will—finish the job. The duke has many enemies.”

      “Like you, Lord Westwood?”

      He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “Perhaps. One can never predict what might happen in the future. And I thought I asked you to call me Cameron.”

      “When we are alone.”

      “Aren’t we alone now?”

      Calliope looked around at the crowd of carriages and equestrians. “Hardly.”

      “No one can hear us.”

      “All right, then—Cameron. I hope that, if something does one day happen to the duke, it won’t be by your hand.”

      “You wouldn’t like to see me in Newgate, then?”

      Calliope had a vision of him locked behind stout bars, dishevelled, waiting for the noose or the ship to Botany Bay. Once it might have made her laugh; now it made her shiver. “Not for the likes of the Duke of Averton. I don’t want to see you or my sister hurt because of him.”

      “I don’t want to see such a thing, either, believe me.”

      “Then how can we prevent it?”

      “We?”

      Calliope examined the passing scenery, the neat rows of trees, feigning a carelessness she was far from feeling. “I think we worked together well last night, did we not?”

      “Yes,” he agreed slowly. “Certainly we prevented anyone knowing what really happened in that gallery, though I’m sure there is no power on earth that could stop speculation.”

      Calliope thought again of those rumours Emmeline told her about. The wagers on how soon she and Westwood would be betrothed—or would kill each other. “No, indeed. People do like their gossip.”

      “But not us,” he said teasingly. “We are above all that. We care only for the benefit of art.”

      Calliope laughed. “I am not so high in the instep as all that, I hope! I confess I do indulge in a spot of, shall we say, speculative conversation now and then.”

      “Never! Not Miss Calliope Chase.”

      “Sad, I know, but I must be honest.” Calliope sighed.

      “And what do you speculate about?”

      You, she almost said. She bit her lip, turning away again to peer at the passing pedestrians on the walkways. They were in a more sparsely populated part of the park now, most of the stylish gawkers behind them. Here were mostly serious strollers, nurses with their charges, footmen with dogs on leads. The phaeton rolled past them slowly, at a snail’s pace. “Oh, this and that. Bonnets, of course. Parisian fashion papers. Fans and plumes. Don’t ladies always interest themselves in the latest styles?”

      Cameron shook his head. “Some ladies perhaps, Miss Chase. Not you, nor, I dare say, your sisters, or your friends in that Ladies Society of yours all the females of the ton are so anxious to join. You can’t fool me.”

      She hoped she could fool him, at least some of the time. He couldn’t know how much they really did talk about him at Ladies Society meetings, how most of her acquaintances were half in love with him, called him their “Greek god”. He couldn’t know why she needed his help so much now. Why she had to keep an eye on him.

      And he really couldn’t know that she was beginning to like him.

      There. She said it, at least to herself. She was beginning to like him, to look forward to his conversation, his smiles. It surely wouldn’t last, though. Such silliness rarely did. She knew this from watching ladies like Lotty, who were infatuated with a different gentleman every week.

      It was like one of Lotty’s beloved novels, turned farce rather than Gothic tragedy. The Folly of Calliope. At least it was folly with a purpose.

      “Very well,” she admitted. “Sometimes we do talk about hats, and sometimes suitors. Mostly we talk about art and history. And books.” No need to mention that once in a while the books were things like Lady Rosamund’s Tragedy.

      “I knew it. Did I not say you cared only for the benefit of art?”

      “You did. And that, Lord Westwood—Cameron—is why I need your help.”

      He glanced at her, his brow arched. “My help? Dear me, Miss Chase, I fear I shall swoon!”

      Calliope lightly slapped his arm. “Don’t tease! I’m serious.”

      “As am I. Who would have thought this day would come? I’m quite dizzy with surprise.”

      “Hmph.” She snapped her parasol closed, just in case she was required to rap him over the head with it. “Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?”

      “Always.”

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