To Deceive a Duke (14 page)

The Picini palazzo was also silent, except for one lighted window beckoning in the gloom. Was the Duke awake, too?

Clio took in a deep breath. She had to think now, to be calm, not go off on a shower of emotions as brilliant as tonight’s fireworks. That was what always happened when she was with Edward, and it would not help her now. Where was the silver, if it was indeed real? Where had it come from? And who sought it with such intensity? What meaning did it have?

She stared at that distant lighted window. There were many ‘English’ in Sicily, most of them collectors who vied to outdo each other. Surely any one of them would love to find a rare collection of temple silver.

Yet none of them cared about the art itself, about the history it represented, quite as passionately as the Duke of Averton. Once she had thought him the most rapacious of collectors. His holdings of antiquities were vast, and he did not seem to care from where he obtained them. The Duke of ‘Avarice’, some called him, and she had assumed it to be the truth.

Then she had found out that his guise of insatiable collector was a ruse. He actually worked for the highly respectable Antiquities Society, a group his revered scholar father helped found. And his task was to stop the Lily Thief, which he did—with the unwitting help of her sister Calliope.

What was his game now? Was he the thief-hunter, or the thief? If the silver was real, it could be a great temptation to anyone. But then, Edward was not just
anyone
.

Clio frowned in thought. Giacomo and his cohort had mentioned a bowl. If she could just find that one piece…

She shivered in her thin muslin nightdress, trying to calmly list her options. She could confront Giacomo, of course, lecture him about his loyalty to his parents, to his homeland. If she could find him, and if he didn’t stab her through with his rabbit-poaching knife. Men like Giacomo, lower-level
tombarolo
, were usually desperate and unpredictable. She was good with a dagger and a pistol herself, but no match for such desperation. She might be a fool in truth, but hopefully not as big a fool as all that.

She could ask Rosa what she and Paolo knew. Yet Clio could see they would not tell the truth about their son’s ac
tivities. They liked her, but that was nothing to the iron strength of their family loyalty. Not only would they tell her naught, they would warn Giacomo. That was the code of their village.

She could also confront Edward directly. No one was a better actor than he was, though, not even Marco or Thalia. He played the spoiled, eccentric duke and collector to perfection, fooling everyone, even herself.

No, she had to find that bowl. If it was in Edward’s house, she would make her move. If not, then she would need yet another plan.

The Lily Thief would have to rise again, just this one last time. Clio felt a bitter pang at the thought. She had promised Calliope she would not do that any longer, but surely this was different. She would take nothing but the bowl, if it was found, and that only for evidence.

Even as she justified her plan, she shivered again in trepidation. Something
was
happening out there in the quiet town, something that sizzled and bubbled deep inside the tranquil surface. And she intended to discover exactly what it was.

‘S
hall we go the Manning-Smythes’ waltzing party tonight?’ Thalia asked over the breakfast table, as she shuffled through the stack of new invitations.

‘Hmm?’ Clio said, distracted. She had a book open beside her plate, but had not read more than two words together. Dances were as far from her thoughts as a subject could be.

‘It is last minute, I know, but Mrs Manning-Smythe says in her note it will all be quite informal,’ Thalia said. ‘Just some dancing, a few hands of cards. You would enjoy the cards, Father, even if Lady Rushworth could not persuade you to waltz!’

Their father chuckled. ‘Perhaps she could not get me to waltz, yet she will no doubt insist I be there. She says I need to get out in society more often. Live in the present sometimes, not always in the ancient past.’

‘That is excellent advice, Father,’ Thalia said.

‘If only the present didn’t move so very fast.’ Sir Walter sighed. ‘Always changes, changes. You can’t rely on it, like you can the past. It won’t stand still to be studied.’

Just like certain people
, Clio thought. Just as she imagined
she had a grasp on them, on their essence and motives, they changed on her.

‘A waltzing party is not a mathematical equation, Father,’ Thalia said. ‘It will be most diverting. Everyone will be there, I’m sure.’

Everyone?
Clio took a thoughtful bite of her toast. Surely that included the Duke. And while he was dancing at the Manning-Smythes’, his palazzo would be empty.

‘I think I must cry off,’ Clio said. ‘All these parties of late have made me neglect my studies.’

‘Quite right, my dear. We cannot forget why we are here,’ Sir Walter replied, his tone wistful.

‘But
you
must come, Father,’ Thalia reminded him. ‘I need your escort.’

‘Of course. It will be an early evening, though?’

‘We shall see,’ Thalia teased. ‘I have so many people I must speak to.’

‘People you must dance with,’ said Clio, pushing her chair back. ‘Excuse me, Father, Thalia. I’m off to work at the farmhouse today.’

‘Do be careful, Clio,’ her father said.

‘I’m always careful, Father, I promise.’ Clio quickly collected her shawl and knapsack, changing her slippers for her work boots before leaving the house.

The village was quiet so early in the morning, just a few shops and stalls opening their doors, a few merchants sweeping out their doorways as they yawned. The tattered remains of the
feste
littered the square, bits of faded confetti and torn ribbon, empty and abandoned bottles. The smell of smoke from the fireworks still clung to the breeze, but there was no one lurking in the shadows today.

Clio hurried along the path to the valley, following the
well-known trail only by memory as her thoughts were far away. She had not planned to make her move so soon, but the Manning-Smythes’ party was too good an opportunity to miss. She would find out if the Duke was attending, and if he was she would do what she had to do. A swift raid, a search for only the one item, and then she would be gone. She wouldn’t be distracted by the Alabaster Goddess again.

Edward would never know she had been there.

The only problem was, what would she do if she
did
find the bowl? How could she fight against him?

She glimpsed the farmhouse walls with relief.
This
she understood. This was rational, open to study. It was knowable, if she just worked hard enough. She climbed the steps down to the old cellar and took her spade out of the knapsack. Work was all she had right now.

Another blasted party.

Edward tossed the Manning-Smythes’ invitation on to the desk along with all the others, rubbing his hand over his scarred brow. It was almost as bad as London. Everyone wanted to lure a duke to their gathering, to write to their friends of his presence there. Everyone wanted
something
from him.

Except for Clio. She seemed to want nothing at all from him, except in the dark of a masked ball. Yet she was becoming the only one whose presence he craved. Whose opinion he cared about.

He glanced at the card. He would go, of course. His task would never be completed if he followed his own inclination and stayed home by the fire. An alluring vision suddenly flashed across his mind—he and Clio sitting by the fire in his chamber, laughing companionably over their books. Her smile warm as she reached for his hand.
You see
,
she said.
Staying home together is so much better than any party…

Edward laughed wryly at his own daydream. Erotic visions of Clio naked were one thing; dreams of domestic bliss with her were even more impossible. More insidiously attractive.

Even if Clio would care to sit with him by the fire, there was no time for such things now. The robbers who gathered at the secret house were growing more desperate, which meant their foreign customers were, too. The only way to find out who those customers were was to mingle in society. If they all thought him just an indolent, extravagant duke, they might be careless around him. They might even infer that he, too, was looking for stolen antiquities to buy.

And if he had the chance to waltz with Clio Chase in the moonlight—well, that would be a perk indeed.

I
t was a perfect night. Completely black, with just the waning moon for light, covered and then revealed by the drift of lacy clouds. Any passer-by would attribute a flicker of movement to those shifting shadows.

Everyone was dancing at the Manning-Smythes’, but Clio knew she did not have much time. Soirées in Santa Lucia did not spin on until dawn, as they sometimes did in London, and the Duke was not the unobservant looby some of the Lily Thief’s previous ‘victims’ had been. They had not missed their treasures for days, in a few cases. He would know something was missing immediately, and who was responsible.

But then, she didn’t really intend to steal anything, unless it proved necessary. She just wanted to
know
.

Clio crouched low in the hedges outside Edward’s palazzo, clad in black breeches and shirt, her hair covered by a black cap. She stared up at the façade, studying the windows, their narrow ledges, the loops of old ivy. Where would he stash a piece of ancient silver? Where would he hide something so valuable and dangerous?

Many of his antiquities were held in his own bedchamber,
according to Rosa via her son Lorenzo, who was a footman here. Clio would have to start there, and hope she found quick success.

She crept around the side of the house to the back garden, which sloped down to a dramatic cliff and soared out to the sea far beyond. Her soft boots were silent on the overgrown lawn, and she saw to her relief a tall old tree near the house. Its gnarled limbs spread to balconies and darkened windows. No light or noise disturbed the silence, so hopefully that meant the servants were congregated belowstairs with their supper and gossip.

With a master like Edward, gossip and speculation would surely keep them busy for hours.

Clio caught hold of a low-hanging limb and swung herself up into the tree, climbing lightly, higher and higher, concealed by the fresh spring leaves. Despite the danger, and her own trepidation, she felt a new exhilaration as she left the earth far behind. It was like a cool, crisp wind after being locked in a stuffy room too long.

She hadn’t realised until this moment that she had been chafing so at her respectable, polite life. She felt like the eagles who sometimes flew out over the valley, her wings spread as she leaped into freedom.

She knew it could not last long. When she found what she sought and climbed back down again, this freedom would be lost and for ever. She had to make the most of this fleeting moment, this one last breath of air.

And, strangely, the one person she wanted to share this rare joy with, the one who would understand its intoxicating transcendence, was Edward. For was he, too, not bound with plush ducal chains? Being subversive was sometimes the only way to break them.

Yet that understanding, that bizarre kinship, was also what made him her enemy tonight.

Clio finally reached a balcony she could catch on to from the tree, and she leaped over its wrought-iron railing, landing softly on the tiled floor. Once she caught her breath, she tried the latch on the tall, narrow door. It was unlocked, of course. Who would bother with security so high up, in such a quiet town? But Edward of all people should know better.

The room was indeed a bedchamber, probably the grandest one in the palazzo. It was dark, but Clio could make out a vast bed, swathed in elaborate draperies, the looming hulks of oversize dressing tables and chairs. An elaborate fireplace gleamed pale as ice. Yet as her vision adjusted to the gloom, she saw the room was not inhabited, for most of the furniture was still draped in holland covers. There were no trunks or cases, no personal objects.

She hurried out of the chamber, opening the door a crack to peer cautiously into the corridor. A few branches of candles flickered there, but no servants bustled about on their errands. Not even a mouse stirred. Clio slipped out, keeping to the edges of the carpet runner as she tiptoed from room to room. She listened at each door before looking inside. Every chamber was cold and musty with disuse, either empty or swathed in more ghostly covers.

Not a man for houseguests, obviously
, Clio thought. In London, that was part of what made him so talked about, so sought after in his elusiveness.

But it was one of the things that utterly maddened her.

At last she found what she sought, a chamber that was inhabited. A colza lamp burned on the dressing table, as if waiting to welcome someone home, and it illuminated a room that was luxurious but small. The satin bedhangings were tied back, the bedclothes turned down invitingly, while a brocade dressing gown and slippers were arranged at its foot.

And the small space was full of breathtaking treasures. Some of the loveliest things she remembered from Acropolis House—vases and kraters, carved caskets, obsidian cats, jewelled goblets. The Alabaster Goddess.

Artemis stood by the fireplace, pale and serene, her bow calmly levelled on some unseen foe. Clio stared at her, entranced. She remembered too well the last time she had seen her, in Yorkshire, as she and Marco had tried to lever her from her base. She remembered, too, the masquerade ball at Acropolis House, when everything came, quite literally, crashing down.

Clio shook her head. This was no time to get lost in the past! She had no moments to lose. She quickly turned her back on Artemis and set to work.

The armoire held only clothes, rows and rows of the finest-cut coats and rich waistcoats, stacks of soft linen shirts, perfectly white starched neckcloths. They all smelled of Edward, of that clean, crisp spiciness that was only him. She sifted through it all as fast as she could, shutting the carved doors firmly, as if she shut them on
him
.

He would never be so easily dismissed, though. She knew that well.

Drawers and crates also yielded nothing. Just antiquities she knew were already his, piles of history books, notes written in some odd shorthand she could not decipher. Letters from his stewards in England.

Clio sat back on her heels after examining a valise found under the bed, sighing in frustration. Now she would have to try to find a safe, and there was no time for that! A clock on the mantel loudly ticked away the moments, reminding her of that frantic fact. Why did Edward have to be so blasted cautious about this, when he left his balcony doors unlocked?

She scanned the room one last time, and her gaze alighted on the dressing table. She had not yet examined it, for the piece had no drawers, just a surface arrayed with brushes and bottles, a leather shaving kit. And a small, carved wooden box with a most intriguing lock.

Clio made her way to the table, drawing a thin wire lockpick from the pouch at her waist. The lock was more intricately made than most; it took her several minutes to find the mechanism with the tip of the wire and pop it free. But when she did she was rewarded.

There were more papers written in that baffling shorthand, heavy bags of coins. But the box was too small for its outside measurements. She found the false bottom and lifted it out, revealing one tiny silver bowl. It was a thing of rare beauty indeed, intricately decorated with hammered patterns of acorns and beechnuts. Clio turned it over in her hand, feeling the old metal turn warm against her skin as if it were alive.

On the bottom were crudely etched Greek letters spelling out ‘This belongs to the gods’. Just like the sketch of the incense burner.

Still clutching the bowl in her gloved hand, Clio peered into the depths of the box. She half-hoped, feared, to see more silver. A hoard, as Giacomo had put it. What she found was even more disquieting.

A scrap of emerald green, ripped at one end, sewn with green glass beads. Torn from the sleeve of her Medusa costume from the Acropolis House masquerade.

She lifted it out, holding it to the light of the lamp. Along the very edge she could see tiny, rust-coloured stains. Blood and silk, binding her and Edward together. Why would he keep such a reminder of that night, locking it away so carefully?

Clio forced herself to put it back in its place, forced herself not to think of what had happened. After all, she had found what she came for, proof that Edward was somehow involved with the silver. If only she had not found so much more as well.

So absorbed was she by the bowl and the silk, she forgot her own first rule, always be cautious. Always be aware. She did not hear the soft click of the door until it was too late.

She spun around, the bowl still in hand, pressed back against the edge of the table as she faced Edward. Though her heart pounded, her palms turning cold in their gloves, she was somehow not surprised. It was as if the whole night had been spinning to this one moment, their gazes meeting across the room.

Edward leaned lazily against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest. He still wore his evening clothes, a cloak shrugged back from the shoulders of his black satin coat.

He gave her a bitter smile. ‘Well, my dear,’ he said, his tone one of affable sociability, ‘if you wanted an invitation to my bedchamber, you had only to ask.’