to the list. “All right, then, ladies, here are your assignments.”
Thalia handed out the papers to the Society members. They bent over them eagerly, laughing and exclaiming.
“Mr Emerson!” Lotty said. “It would certainly be no hardship to watch him. He is so handsome.”
“Nor Lord Mallow,” said Emmeline. “But what of Mr Hanson? I wouldn’t have thought he could plot a stroll to the end of the street, let alone a theft.”
Calliope rapped her gavel against the table, bringing order back to the gathering. “Now that you have your assignments, this is how we shall proceed on the night of the ball…”
“Do you think it will work?” Emmeline asked quietly, coming up next to Calliope, who stood staring out the window.
Calliope glanced back at the others, gathered around the pianoforte as Thalia played them a Beethoven nocturne. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “The ball is sure to be a dreadful crush. How can we watch just a few people? People in disguise, no less. Yet I can’t just stand here and let that statue be stolen without at least trying to do something.”
“I know. We all care so very much, we want to save them all. Make sure they are all properly looked after and studied,” Emmeline said. “There are only five of us, though. But we will do our very best to save the Alabaster Goddess, Calliope, never fear. She never had more devoted acolytes, even in her temple in Greece.”
They were quiet for a moment, listening to Thalia’s beautiful music, watching the traffic on the street below. Emmeline leaned closer to murmur, “Did you assign yourself Lord Westwood to watch, Calliope?”
Calliope looked to her, startled. “I thought Clio could do that.”
“Oh, no, I really think it should be you. The two of you are always circling each other like wary hawks anyway.”
“We do not!” Calliope cried. The others glanced towards them, and she hastily lowered her voice. “I do not circle Lord Westwood, Emmeline. Whatever do you mean?”
“Oh, Calliope dear. Everyone sees it. Whenever you are in a room together smoke practically billows. My brother even tells me you are in the books at his club.”
“The books! People are wagering on me?” Calliope felt a sick, sour pang deep in her stomach, an ache of sinking embarrassment. “How dare they! What—what are they saying?”
“Are you sure you want to know?” Emmeline said, her eyes full of concern. “I should never have brought it up.”
“Of course you should. If people are talking about me, I want to know.”
“Well, half of them wager you will be married by the end of the Season. The other half wagers one of you will be in Newgate for murdering the other.”
Calliope pressed her hand against her stomach. “What does your brother wager?”
“Calliope! He would never do that to a friend.”
“Come now, Emmeline. He is a man. Wagering seems to be in their very veins. They cannot help themselves.”
“Well, if he does he doesn’t tell me about it. I was much too angry with him for not putting a stop to it.”
“People are always full of such tittle-tattle. They must be desperate for gossip indeed to make up Banbury tales about such a dullard as me! Where do they find that kind of nonsense?”
Emmeline eyed her closely. “It is not entirely made of whole cloth, you know. You and Lord Westwood snap and quarrel every time you meet, or if you don’t speak you glower at each other from across the room. What are people to think?”
Calliope now felt ill in earnest. She sat down heavily in the nearest chair, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.
“Calliope, dear, you really didn’t know?” Emmeline asked.
“I have been so engrossed in my own studies,” Calliope murmured. “Worrying about the Lily Thief. I suppose I was just oblivious. My mother always did say that living in my own little world would get me into trouble one day.”
“It is hardly trouble,” Emmeline said. “It’s not as if you were caught kissing him! You’re right, it’s just silly gossip from people who have nothing better to do. It will soon be gone, replaced by something else and forgotten. My brother says they also wager on whether or not Prinny is the Lily Thief, so you see how serious their betting books are!”
Calliope laughed reluctantly. The vision of the prince, fat, red-faced and encased in a creaking corset climbing in windows and picking locks was so absurd it nearly drove out those sick feelings.
“Just ignore them, Calliope,” Emmeline said. “Their ignorance deserves no response. In the meantime, why don’t we go for a stroll in the park? It is too fine a day to stay indoors, and we all need time to think over our plan for the ball.”
“I would like some fresh air,” Calliope admitted.
“Excellent! I will tell the others.”
Calliope caught Emmeline’s arm as she turned away, staying her for a moment. “Emmeline, what do you think of Lord Westwood and me?”
Emmeline gave her a gentle smile. “How can I say? I’m just an unmarried lady like you, with Freddie Mountbank my most serious suitor. I know little of romance. You say you dislike him. Very well. But are you sure that’s all there is to the matter? Maybe you should ask Lotty what would happen in one of her novels.”
Calliope watched Emmeline walk away, more confused than ever. Antiquities she knew about; they could be studied, classified. Men never could. Especially Westwood.
Maybe she really should take up reading horrid novels, and not so much Aristotle and Thucydides. It was obvious that her powers of observation, her knowledge of modern life, of what passed for romance, was sadly lacking. Would The Prince’s Tragic Secret fill that gap? Surely everything could be learned, with the right tools. Herodotus was no help here. Perhaps By An Anonymous Lady could be.
Calliope pushed herself up from her chair and made her way resolutely towards her friends, who were gathering up their shawls and bonnets in preparation for their walk.
“Lotty,” she called. “Could I speak to you for a moment?”
As it was a fair day, cool and dry after the morning’s rains ceased, Hyde Park was quite crowded. Riders cantered along Rotten Row, stopping by the barriers to chat with each other, or with friends who rolled past in their open carriages, showing off their newest fashions. Nannies in starched caps and cloaks watched their charges as they sailed tiny boats on the calm, murky waters of the Serpentine or rolled hoops along the gravel pathways.
Calliope smiled as she watched them, their laughing faces turned like smooth-petaled flowers to the sun. She remembered days when her own nannies, or sometimes even her mother, would bring her and her sisters here. They would pretend the Serpentine was the Mediterranean, the trees and rocks the grove of Apollo’s Oracle at Delphi, and they were Muses in truth. The fount of all art and wisdom.
Suddenly, she felt a sharp pang, a yearning for that innocence that seemed so far away now. The days when she thought any dream was possible, that she could attain any goal she longed for. Even the wisdom of the Muses. Now—well, now she wondered if somehow their father had cursed them by giving them their names!
Yes, she did wish now for childhood’s blissful oblivion. For as she walked the pathways now, she imagined every person, every polite greeting, concealed smirking laughter. There is Calliope Chase! You know, the one who is pursuing Lord Westwood.
Emmeline linked arms with her, smiling in her cheerfully determined way. “There now! Is the fresh air not bracing?”
“Yes, indeed,” Calliope answered. She could be cheerful, too. After all, Emmeline was quite right. Any rumours about herself and Westwood were merely the product of idle