that you would tell me if you know of any reason why my sister or I should not go. I know that you and I are not exactly friends…”
At last there was a glimmer of emotion, a tiny smile like the sun peeking through grey clouds. “Are we not, Miss Chase? Friends, that is.”
“I—well,” Calliope said, flustered. “Perhaps we could be.”
“If we were not both such stubborn spirits?”
Calliope took a deep breath. Infernal man! Just when she thought she had him figured out, he fooled her. Revealed another layer. He lured her from her resolve to be cool and polite. “Lord Westwood, tell me! Is there a reason Clio and I should not go to the ball?” A reason such as that he was planning to snatch the Alabaster Goddess while everyone else danced in oblivion?
He shrugged. “As you say, everyone will be there. Averton won’t try anything in front of the entire ton. You should be safe enough. As long as you don’t do anything rash.”
“Rash?” Calliope cried. “What do you think I would do? Rashness is much more your style than mine, Lord Westwood. I merely plan to examine the statue, have a glass of the duke’s fine champagne, and depart. In peace.”
“Of course. As befits a Muse,” he said. His smile was now that maddening full-fledged grin.
Cool and polite! Calliope berated herself. “Will you be there?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it. I always enjoy fine—champagne.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” Calliope asked doubtfully.
“I never overly imbibe, Miss Chase. Not in polite company.”
She had to resist the urge to childishly stamp her half-boot on the walkway. “You know what I mean.”
“Oh, yes. You are remembering our scene in the Elgin Room. I do so often seem to show myself at my worst to you, Miss Chase, and then I have to apologise. It’s true that I have no liking for the duke, or he for me. But I do know better than to cause a scene at a ball, though I’ve given you little cause to trust my word on that.”
“I don’t believe you would cause a scene at a ball,” Calliope admitted, bemused. “It doesn’t seem your way to turn a grand ballroom into Gentleman Jackson’s parlour.”
“Just a museum, eh? Well, you and your sister may attend the ball in peace. We’ll all be masked, won’t we? Averton himself won’t even know I’m there. Neither will you.” He bowed to her again, the paper of the parcel under his arm rustling. “Good day, Miss Chase. Enjoy the rest of your walk.”
Calliope turned to watch him leave, to watch him greet Clio and the others, then hurry on his way, obviously a man with an errand on this fine afternoon.
Oh, but you are wrong, Lord Westwood, she thought. For I will certainly know if you’re there.
Cameron leaned back in his chair, surveying his library. At least nominally it was “his” library, but ever since he returned from his travels to take his place as Earl of Westwood it felt like his father’s library. His father’s house. Everywhere Cameron looked he saw his father’s furniture and carpets, the niches where his collections once resided. Their country seat was one thing; the furnishings there were old family pieces and not personal. This townhouse had been his father’s, the place where he indulged his love of Greece, his passion for collecting.
But that was about to change. For too long now Cameron had lived with someone else’s life. It was time to begin his own. One piece at a time.
He stood up and reached for the parcel on the desk. It was small, flat, carefully wrapped in brown paper. Cameron carried it over to the carved fireplace mantel, gazing up at the painting that hung there. It was one his father had acquired on his own Grand Tour many decades ago, an indifferently executed murky scene of Egyptian pyramids. Cameron had never much liked it, even though it hung there through his childhood. The perspective was all wrong, the colours dim, conveying no sense of the desert brightness, the mystery of the Egyptians.
He reached up and unhooked it from the picture rail, lifting it down at last. It left a pale square on the topaz-coloured silk wallpaper. Then he tore the wrapping from his new package and lifted the pyramid’s replacement into its place.
Cameron stepped back to survey the image. He had seen it in that gallery window and knew it was meant to be his. Meant to hang just here, where he could see it every day as he worked at the desk.
It was an image of Athena, standing framed between the shining white pillars of her temple. The sacred fire burned behind her, outlining her slim figure in pleated white silk. One arm was outstretched, holding her grey owl, while the other hand rested on the shield propped beside her. Her golden helmet rested at her feet, and her hair, a river of glossy raven-black, flowed over her shoulders.
Her beautiful face, a pale oval set with wide-spaced grey eyes, was solemn and knowing. She was beautiful, oh so serious, set on her own course come what may.
She was, in short, Calliope Chase. Or very, very like her.
Cameron smiled up at her, not sure she would appreciate such levity. The real Calliope Chase certainly wouldn’t appreciate knowing he had her double hanging in his library. Yet he could never have passed up this painting. It was so lovely, just as her modern counterpart was.
Why was he always so drawn to her, when their meetings so often ended in strife or farce? He should stay far away from her, from all her family. The Chases were trouble he did not need, now most of all. He had important work to do, and couldn’t afford to be distracted by a beautiful Athena with fire in her eyes. Fire just waiting to scorch him if he got too close.
Yet he never could stay away. Every time he saw her he was pulled to her side, he couldn’t help himself. Lately it seemed quarrelling with her was more fun than making love to another woman would be. The thought of quarrelling and making love with Calliope was enough to make his head explode! Her fiery nature would surely take hold even in bed, and her pale skin and black hair against his sheets…
“Blast,” Cameron cursed, spinning away from Athena’s knowing gaze. The chances of Calliope Chase ending up naked in his bed were slim to none. She wouldn’t even come near his house once she found out what he had done with his father’s antiquities. Not even Aphrodite could help him with that Muse, no matter how much he desired her.
But he could keep her safe from Averton. Safe from her own folly concerning the Lily Thief, perhaps. She said she would be at Averton’s ball. Well, so would he. And he would not let his Athena out of his sight.
“Oh, Miss Calliope! You look lovely,” Mary said, putting the last touches on the hem of Calliope’s costume.
From her perch atop a stool, Calliope surveyed herself in the mirror. “You don’t think it’s too much?”
“Not at all. It’ll be the finest costume there.”
Calliope did rather like it. She had worked closely with the modiste to replicate an etching her father owned of the Athena statue that had once stood in the Parthenon. The soft, thin white muslin was pleated and fastened at the shoulders with gold brooches, bound
