To Kiss a Count. Amanda McCabe

course it is not nothing. Is it—is it because of meeting with Count di Fabrizzi this morning?’

      ‘So, you do know this so-called Count.’

      ‘And so do you!’ Thalia cried. ‘I knew it! But how? I don’t understand anything.’

      ‘Not even why he might be here?’

      ‘Especially not that.’

      Calliope gave a deep sigh. ‘It is true I have met him before, though in a far different guise. He was pretending to be a gypsy.’

      ‘A gypsy!’ Thalia gasped. This was turning into a tale far more interesting than any she could ever devise for a play. And Marco just became more and more complex, more incomprehensible to her. ‘When was that?’

      ‘Oh, a long time ago, before Cameron and I were married,’ Calliope answered. ‘You remember when we went to Yorkshire, to visit Emmeline Saunders’s family?’

      ‘Of course I remember. Our Ladies Artistic Society was chasing after the Lily Thief then. We went to Averton’s castle…’ Suddenly, Thalia felt like the greatest of fools. She slumped back in her chair, shaking her head. ‘Was Marco the thief? Even back then?’

      ‘No, he wasn’t the thief,’ Calliope answered quietly. ‘But I certainly wouldn’t put it past him to be a thief. Clio tells me he is quite fanatical about Italian history and culture, about retrieving parts of its great heritage that have been scattered. He must feel such contempt for collectors like our father and Averton! That is probably why he and Clio got along so very well.’

      A cold wave broke over Thalia, and she covered her eyes with her hands. ‘He was in Yorkshire with Clio.’ Of course he was. He did love Clio. It was probably good that she was reminded of that fact, before she foolishly drowned in those dark eyes of his.

      She lowered her hands to find Calliope gazing at her, her expression full of sisterly concern. Dearest Cal—she had protected all of them for so long, had taken her position as the eldest of the Muses so seriously. But she needed to take care of herself now, and Thalia was weary of being protected.

      ‘I don’t know what his feelings for Clio might have been then,’ Calliope said. ‘She is married now, and it seems he has transferred his affections to Lady Riverton. I wouldn’t trust appearances, though. Not with a man like that.’

      ‘A man who is a gypsy, a count, and a thief, all in one?’ Thalia said with a laugh. ‘Not to mention a ladies’ man. Please, Cal, do not worry about me. I won’t fall prey to his charms, great though they are. I haven’t the time or energy for deciphering such vast complexities as the Count di Fabrizzi.’

      ‘You are the most “energetic” person I know, Thalia,’ Calliope said. ‘And I am sure you could decipher anything you set your mind to. But I would never want to see you hurt by a man who was so entirely unworthy.’

      Thalia laughed again, as if she hadn’t a care in the world about ‘unworthy’men. Yet she turned her face away so Cal could not see her eyes. ‘Not when there are so many worthy men beating down my door?’

      ‘You have far more suitors than any other young lady I know! Mr Bramsby, Lord Egreton, young Viscount Moreby—I know they have all made an offer, and they seem quite respectable. Not to mention utterly infatuated.’

      Thalia thought of those men, of the avid way they looked at her as they drove in the park, the way they lined up to dance with her at balls. The flowers they sent, the compliments they paid. The way they never even saw past her façade, her prettiness, her connections, into the real her.

      For a few moments in Santa Lucia, she had thought someone did see. Saw, and understood, and answered. But that was foolish.

      ‘They are respectable,’ she answered, pouring more tea. ‘And nice enough. I doubt any infatuation would last more than a few days, though, once they saw what I am really like.’

      Calliope sighed. ‘It is true that we Chase girls are not quite as other ladies. We were raised to actually use our brains, to speak our minds! But there are men who quite like that, I think.’

      Thalia gave her a teasing smile. ‘Men like Cameron?’

      Calliope laughed. ‘I have never held back from expressing my thoughts to him! We have very—lively conversations. And quarrels, from time to time.’

      ‘Cameron is a very fine man, to be sure. But there aren’t many like to him to be found in England.’

      ‘Perhaps that is because his mother was Greek. It is true that my husband is quite unique, but I am sure we can find someone just as special for you.’

      Thalia doubted that. Her sisters were very fortunate in their marriages. Lightning didn’t strike three times.

      ‘I am content as I am,’ Thalia said. ‘I will write my plays, and teach Psyche her music when she is older. I will be the perfect maiden aunt!’

      Calliope laughed, but Thalia could see she looked tired again. ‘I cannot be selfish enough to keep you with me, though I would dearly love it. Psyche is so very—vivid now, I cannot imagine what will happen when she is walking and talking.’

      ‘Or, heaven forefend, when she is old enough to have suitors of her own! She is a true Chase.’ Thalia went to tuck a blanket around Calliope’s legs. ‘I will leave you now, Cal dear, so you can rest. Please, don’t worry about me. I am entirely well and happy.’

      ‘Are you?’

      ‘Yes, indeed,’ Thalia said firmly.

      ‘Very well. I will pretend I believe you. Just do one thing for me.’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘Write to Clio and ask her about the Count. She will know more of him than I, and she can tell you things I have promised not to speak of.’

      Promised not to speak of? Thalia positively ached with curiosity. Ordinarily she would bombard Calliope with questions, but her sister’s pale face stopped her. Calliope was weary, and she would never tell her secrets anyway. She had her share of the Chase stubbornness.

      ‘Yes, I will write to Clio,’ Thalia said. She went to the pianoforte, running her fingertips over the cool ivory keys. This was no time for the storms of her beloved Beethoven, the one she always turned to when her thoughts were in turmoil. Instead, she played for Calliope a folksong she had learned in Italy, a light, trilling piece to raise the spirits.

      It raised hers, too, drawing her into the other world music always created for her. A place where nothing mattered but sound and creation, emotion and freedom. But as she moved into another song, she happened to glance up at the window.

      Passing along the curve of the Crescent were Marco and Lady Riverton with her little dog, arm in arm and laughing.

      Thalia’s fingers fumbled, clashing on a discordant note. She looked hastily to see if Calliope had noticed, but her sister was asleep. And when Thalia turned back to the window, Marco was gone.