Mischief in Regency Society: To Catch a Rogue

Calliope stopped at the window, peering down at the darkened street. It was quiet now, a calm lull between the bustle of the day and the flow of evening partygoers. She should feel calm, too. There was surely no need for nervousness. She had played hostess for her father since her mother died, and while they certainly did not entertain as much as they once did, she could manage a small card party.

Perhaps it was not the party itself, but the guest list. Or one guest in particular.

Cameron de Vere was coming to the party tonight. And, what was more, he was going to help her in her schemes to save the Alabaster Goddess. Of course, she didn’t yet know what the scheme would be, but surely with his help things would soon be figured out. He disliked the duke as much as she did. He wanted to see Artemis safe.

A lone carriage rattled down the street, a phaeton hurrying homeward. It was not bright yellow, yet for a moment she remembered staring down from here to see Cameron’s equipage in that very spot, his laughing face turned towards the sun, hair tossed in the breeze. Free. He was always so very free, so careless of what others thought of him. So secure in who he was.

How she envied that.

Calliope sighed, and drew the curtains closed. Free or not, she had a job to do and not much time to do it. She was wasting precious minutes, reflecting on Cameron’s handsome face, his self-confident ways. She just couldn’t seem to help it, though! Thoughts of him crept up on her at the oddest moments. Perhaps she was infected by Lotty’s novel-reading habits, after all.

But then, maybe in a situation like this—stolen antiquities, wicked dukes, mysterious thieves—horrid novels could be more help than Plato or Aristotle. Too bad those novel heroines always seemed to be such fainting cabbage-heads.

“Calliope? Are you not dressed yet?” she heard her father say. She turned to find him in the doorway, leaning on the walking stick he seemed to employ more and more these days. He glanced around with a puzzled air, as if surprised to find himself in his own quiet drawing room, and not the bustling Athenian agora of his studies.

Calliope gazed at him with concern. How frail he looked since her mother died! How distracted and distant. As if he was not of this world, but living more and more in the ancient past. Who could blame him, really, with so many daughters to worry over? So many wild Muses. At least his distraction gave them lots of free time. Time to track down thieves.

“I just wanted to be sure everything is in readiness,” she said. She hurried to his side, taking his arm to lead him to his favourite armchair. “We want our guests to be comfortable, do we not?”

“Ah, Calliope. So much like your mother,” he said with a sigh, patting her cheek.

“Am I, Father?”

“Certainly. Oh, Clio looks the most like her, with that red hair, but you have her spirit. Always thinking of other people, always wanting things to be right for them.” He chuckled. “Whatever you think right is. You and your mother—always so certain of everything. How I always relied on her sureness…”

Calliope gently took his hand in hers. “You miss her very much. Just as I do.”

“Indeed. She was an excellent companion, your mother, so intelligent and steady. Practical, as you are. And beautiful, of course. I can’t seem to find my way without her.” He covered her hand with his, holding her close. “But she left me you and your sisters. I’ll always have a part of her. I tell you, Calliope, my dearest wish for you, for all my Muses, is that you find such a partner in life.”

“Oh, Father,” Calliope said carefully, fearful she might start to cry, “you and Mother were so fortunate to find each other. I fear I’ve never met anyone I could be so compatible with. Could love that way.”

“No one? What of young Westwood?”

Calliope stared at her father, startled. Had he, too, heard those rumours? She thought he noticed nothing that hadn’t happened thousands of years ago! “Lord Westwood? Of course not him, Father. We argue too much.”

“So did your mother and I, when we first met. It’s a sign of passion, y’know.”

“Father!” Calliope cried, feeling hot embarrassment flood her cheeks. She turned away to fuss with an arrangement of chairs.

Her father chuckled. “You don’t want some milquetoast who would just agree with everything you say, would you? Not my Calliope. You would be bored within an hour. And Westwood appreciates the same things you do. Art, history.”

“His father appreciated those things, too, and you two were great rivals.”

“So we were. And enjoyed every moment of our rivalry. One wants to be opposed at times. Life is so dull otherwise.”

“I don’t think I would want a rival as a spouse, though,” Calliope protested. “And Lord Westwood’s views are so different from mine.”

“I’m sure he would come round to a more correct way of thinking, with my Calliope’s help. One more for our cause, eh? You always did enjoy a challenge, my dear.”

Calliope had to laugh. “I do indeed. He might prove too great a challenge, though.”

“For a Chase Muse? Never!” He gave her a sly wink. “Lady Rushworth tells me Lord Westwood is considered quite handsome among the ladies. An Apollo to adorn your side?”

“Father!” Calliope said, kissing his cheek amid helpless laughter. “You should not try to matchmake, you do it ill. I will find the right gentleman, never fear.”

He patted her hand. “I just want to see you happy.”

“I am happy. But I will be even happier once I dress, so I don’t have to greet our guests in my round gown and shawl.”

“You run along, then, Calliope. I will sit here and savour the anticipation of trouncing Mr Berryman at cards. He won ten shillings off me last time.”

“Such shocking extravagance, Father,” Calliope teased. “While you sit here, make sure the servants properly arrange the cakes for the tea table.”

“I shall, my dear. You can always trust me with cakes.”

Calliope left the drawing room and went up the stairs, past servants bustling with final preparations. She should be thinking about refreshments and the guest list, too, but instead she thought only about her father’s words.

For a man with such a crowd of daughters, he seldom showed any concern for their matrimonial prospects. He lived in his own classical world, where dowries and betrothals had little place. Had he really been looking to Lord Westwood with an eye for an engagement? Scheming a match, along with his friend Lady Rushworth? Was everyone around her expecting her to marry Cameron, simply because they were prone to quarrels?

Calliope stepped into her bedchamber, watching as Mary prepared yet another white evening gown. Had she grown so predictable, then? She feared she had—white gowns, arguments with Lord Westwood, the evening was set. Too bad life couldn’t follow such easy patterns. It always insisted on throwing obstacles in one’s path. Things like thieves, and dukes obsessed with one’s sister.

And handsome young earls.

Calliope pushed all that away, and discarded her shawl to begin her evening toilette. A card party was not the place to suddenly become unpredictable. But if society thought they really knew Calliope Chase—well, soon, they would just have to think again.

The scene in the Chase drawing room was a distinct contrast to the one that happened in the duke’s grand ballroom. There were no fantastical costumes, no gods and monsters and nymphs, just ordinary mortals in stylish, if subdued, evening dress. No wild dancing, no crowds packed to the walls, and much less artwork. But at least their statues, Calliope thought with satisfaction, were legally obtained and properly looked after.

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