‘What is shocking, Clio dear?’ her father asked, coming up beside her to sit down at the edge of the floor.
‘The colours of the tiles,’ Clio answered, gesturing to a pomegranate bursting with ruby-coloured seeds. ‘They could have been laid yesterday.’
‘It’s the soil, of course,’ Sir Walter said. ‘Perfect conditions for preservation, just the right level of acidity. We are quite fortunate.’
‘Indeed we are. Travelling here was a very good idea.’ Clio examined her father over the edge of her sketchbook. He seemed rather tired today, his face reddened from the southern sun, his eyes lined with purplish shadows. He appeared thinner, too, despite Rosa’s excellent cooking.
This kind of work had been his life for so long, but he was not as young as he used to be. Perhaps if he did marry Lady Rushworth, it would be a good thing. She would take care of him, as Clio’s mother once had.
He took the book from her hands, examining the drawings. ‘Such careful measurements and proportions, Clio. You were always good at such things.’
‘But not nearly as artistic as Cory! Her sketches grow more accomplished every day.’ Clio gestured toward her sister, working with her watercolour box under the canvas pavilion.
‘So she does. Her works bring this place back to life.’ Sir Walter laughed. ‘She talks of joining an expedition to Egypt when she is older! Painting the pyramids and hieroglyphs.’
‘She would be excellent at that, I’m sure.’
‘My dearest girls. You all were always so fanciful.’
Were? ‘That is because of you and Mother. You always gave us much to be fanciful about.’
‘Indeed we did. Yet I sometimes wonder…’ His voice trailed away, and he stared out into the distance, to the ever-vigilant, ever-patient hulk of Etna.
‘Wonder what, Father?’
‘If we raised all of you the wrong way. We wanted you to love what we loved, to see the great importance of history and art. To think for yourselves.’
Clio laughed. ‘We most assuredly do that!’
‘Perhaps we should have been more realistic, though. Should have taught you more of the things young ladies of your position ought to know, and lived less in our own world with our own friends. I begin to fear we did not prepare you well for life.’
‘Oh, no!’ Clio cried. ‘We all love you and Mother so very much. We love the life you’ve given us. None of us could bear the usual missish sort of existence, needlework and idle gossip…’
‘Husband hunting?’ he said teasingly, a glint in his eye.
‘Especially that.’
‘Oh, well, that is another way I have failed you. If your mother were here, she would know how to find suitable matches. I have been shockingly remiss, just drifting along, year after year, selfishly keeping you with me.’
‘Not at all! Isn’t Calliope well married? She’s a countess now. And Cameron is a good man. He loves her very much.’
‘Yes. Love. We never thought of that sort of thing when I was young. But I suppose you modern young Muses won’t do without it.’
‘You suppose correctly! But weren’t you and Mother in love? Despite—’ Clio snapped her mouth shut before she could let out those dreadful words. The secret knowledge she had held all these years, would hold for ever. ‘Despite being so young when you married.’
He smiled sadly. ‘Of course I loved your mother. Who could not? She was so beautiful, so—temperamental. Full of fire. Just like you, Clio.’
‘Like me?’
‘Of all my girls, you are the most like my Celeste. You have her hair, her eyes. Her passion.’
Clio reached out and gently touched his hand. ‘Then I must wait for my perfect match, as she did.’
He laughed. ‘I could never match Celeste! No one could. You must simply find someone who can keep up with you, a Herculean task in itself.’ He stood up, prodding at a mosaic flute girl with his walking stick. ‘Oh, I almost forgot! I have invited someone to take a look at the villa this morning. He’ll probably stay and share our picnic luncheon, too.’
Clio slowly closed her sketchbook. Guests at the villa were certainly nothing new. All the English tourists who visited Santa Lucia were avid to see ruins. And they often stayed to eat, too, discussing antiquities far into the siesta hours. But something in her father’s tone, in the way he refused to meet her gaze, aroused her suspicions.
‘What sort of visitors?’ she asked. ‘Not one of those odd men from Palermo who are always offering to be a “security guard”? I don’t trust them!’
‘Certainly not. They only want to steal what they can dig up and sell, destroying everything else in the process. We have our own “security”. No, my dear, it is—well, it is the Duke of Averton.’
‘Averton?’ Clio muttered. She knew she should not be surprised. The man had such a knack for insinuating himself into her life. A duke was always welcome everywhere. But now her own father? She had thought he did not much like Averton, or indeed any of the Radcliffes.
But then, Sir Walter knew nothing of what had happened between her and Averton last year. If Clio had her way, he never would.
‘Yes,’ he said, his voice far too cheerful. ‘Thalia told me Lady Riverton said he was in Santa Lucia, and I thought he might be interested to see what we’re doing here.’
‘But, Father! He is so…’
He held up his hand. ‘I know he is a bit more avid in his collecting habits than you would like. Yet he is not so bad as you seem to think, Clio. He is a great scholar, particularly knowledgeable about the Punic Wars, which would be very helpful to us at this site.’
He leaned down, laying a gentle touch on her arm, much as one would with a skittish horse. ‘He did make many mistakes when he was a young man, that is true. But, my dear, I have heard that he is trying to make a new start. To live up to his title, his family and responsibilities. Look at the work he has done for the Antiquities Society! I feel we should give him a chance.’
‘Then of course I will welcome him politely, Father. You and Mother did raise me to have proper manners, no matter what your doubts on that score.’ And they were surrounded by people here. That would definitely limit the trouble she and Averton could get into. ‘Do we have enough food and wine?’
Her father gave her a relieved smile. Apparently, being so much like her French mother made her unpredictable, too. ‘Lady Rushworth has gone back to Santa Lucia to fetch more provisions, plus some footmen to set up more tables under the pavilion. Silver and china, linens and such.’
Clio laughed. ‘What, is he bringing an army with him? An entourage of retainers?’
‘One never knows with dukes, my dear. Lady Rushworth just thought we should be prepared.’ He paused. ‘But then, Averton has never been like most dukes, has he?’
No, indeed, Clio thought wryly. Averton had never been like anyone else at all. ‘I will go and help Cory to clear up her paints, then. If I had known we were to have such exalted company, I would have worn my silks and feathers!’
Her father kissed her cheek. ‘You look beautiful no matter what you wear, Clio. I have the suspicion that his Grace thinks so, as well.’
Before Clio could even begin to argue with him, Sir Walter strolled quickly away, whistling as he swung his walking stick. Exactly how much did her father know? And how much did he know that she knew?
Along with her worries about Marco’s appearance, and about what Averton knew that she did not, it made her head spin more than any amount of grappa.
Clio helped Cory pack her paintboxes away in her baskets, hanging up finished watercolours to dry along a line specially hung for that purpose. They were really wonderful, Clio thought, examining a scene that was a reconstruction of the villa as it would have been in its prime. The frescoes on the walls were perfectly detailed, the water in the fountain sparkling. Far better than anything Denon had done in Egypt.
‘These are truly wonderful, Cory,’ Clio said.
‘They’re all right,’ Cory answe
red. ‘I’m having some trouble with the perspective in the thermal baths. If I could just work on it some more today, instead of having to pack it all up! Just to give luncheon to a stupid old duke.’
Clio smothered a laugh at her sister’s petulant irreverence. It would never do to encourage her! Yet it was still quite funny. Stupid duke, indeed.
Cory was quite serious, though. ‘I wouldn’t think you would care to see him, Clio,’ she said, taking off her paint-splattered apron and smoothing her pink muslin dress. Like Calliope, she had black hair and fair skin that glowed in pink. The colour just made Clio look like a demented strawberry. Not that her grey work frock was any better.
‘Why is that?’ Clio asked. ‘I don’t mind Father’s guests.’
Cory glanced at her from the corner of her eye. ‘Well, after that quarrel you had with the Duke at the British Museum last year…’
Clio froze. Oh, blast. How could she have forgotten that? Cory had been right there in the Elgin room when Averton had cornered Clio and tried to talk to her about the Lily Thief. When she had nearly stabbed him with her hatpin before Cameron de Vere had separated them. She had foolishly thought Cory had not noticed, being so preoccupied with her sketching, but she should have known better. Cory was a Chase, after all. Observation—some might unkindly call it snooping—was their raison d’être.
‘That was just a misunderstanding,’ Clio said.
‘Was it?’ Cory answered. ‘You and the Duke seem to misunderstand each other a lot. Like that time at Herr Mueller’s lecture at the Antiquities Society…’
‘Well, we’re not going to have any such misunderstandings today,’ Clio said firmly. ‘We’re all going to be perfectly polite and have a pleasant luncheon. Correct?’
Cory gave a most impolite snort. ‘I wouldn’t count on that if Thalia comes back from the theatre. She doesn’t like him, either, and you know Thalia is likely to say anything.’
Clio sighed. She did know that. Calliope, the most sensible and organised of them, had once likened managing her sisters to herding a pack of feral cats. Not flattering, but probably true. Maybe her father was right about their upbringing.
‘Thalia will be polite, too,’ Clio said sternly, trying to sound like Calliope. ‘We are all going to be polite. Yes, Terpsichore?’
‘I will if you won’t call me that.’ Cory hated her full name.
There was no time to remonstrate further. The Duke himself came into the valley on his gleaming black horse, gazing around him with an air of wary interest. He had no entourage at all, no army of hangers-on. Not even a groom. Just himself, yet he alone seemed to fill up every corner with his vast presence.
He had left off his black garb in the afternoon heat, wearing instead a wheat-coloured linen coat over his buckskin breeches and high boots. His bright hair fell to his shoulders, under the shadowing brim of his hat.
Sir Walter hurried forward to greet him, and even Cory followed, dragging her feet only a bit before making a proper, pretty curtsy. But Clio found she was quite frozen to the spot, unable to move even one step on seeing him again. Seeing, feeling, the reality of his presence.
It was one thing to think about him, to ponder his mysterious motives and try to push away her own tangled feelings for him. But it was always something else entirely to be face to face with him in the stark light of day.
He swung down from his horse, shaking hands with Sir Walter, bowing to Cory. He slowly drew off his riding gloves, watching thoughtfully as her father gestured to the villa, the cracked steps leading to the agora. She saw that he did not wear his rings today. There was no gaudy sparkle of emeralds or rubies, no antique stickpin in his simply tied neckcloth. No satin waistcoat, either. Nothing to distract from his austere beauty. His simple clothes, his solemn mien, it all spoke of a seriousness of purpose here.
A purpose she still could not get to the bottom of.
Her father and Averton turned toward the pavilion where Clio stood, making their way slowly as Sir Walter talked and gestured avidly. Averton nodded, listening intently.
Edward, she thought suddenly. He was not the Duke today. He was Edward.
And she was shocked to realise she wanted to run forwards and throw her arms around Edward’s neck. To feel the press of his lips on hers as he lifted her from her feet, twirling her around and around as the world blurred and crumbled around them. No Duke, no Lily Thief, just Clio and Edward, free to feel and do whatever they chose. To forget the past.
As if such a thing was even possible. Clio was too much a realist to believe that.
She smoothed her skirt as they drew closer, folding her hands tightly to still their trembling. To keep them from reaching out for him.
‘…should be here soon with our meal,’ Sir Walter was saying. ‘In the meantime, perhaps you’d care to see the mosaics of the villa. They are extraordinarily well-preserved.’
‘I would like that very much, Sir Walter,’ Averton answered. ‘Everyone speaks of their beauty. Good day, Miss Clio. It is most pleasant to see you again.’
Clio swallowed past the dry knot in her throat. Where was that grappa when she really needed it? ‘And you, your Grace. Father is always so happy to have someone new to Santa Lucia to show off his villa.’
‘I’m honoured to be allowed to see it. I haven’t yet had time to see any of the sites of Enna properly.’
‘I think there are too many to see “properly” in a decade,’ Clio said, surprised to find that she could chat politely with him. ‘We have been here many weeks now, and my family have not even been to the castle. We’ve just seen it from a distance.’
‘It isn’t Greek, of course,’ her father said dismissively. ‘Just thirteenth century. Far too new for me.’
‘But lovely, or so Rosa says,’ Clio answered. Rosa also said it was haunted, just like Clio’s ‘cursed’ farmhouse, but she didn’t mention that.
‘Rosa?’ Averton asked.
‘Our cook,’ said Clio. ‘Her family has lived in Santa Lucia for generations. She seems to know every inch of the land.’
‘Then if she says the castle is worth seeing, she must be right.’ Averton glanced at Clio, his expression unreadable under the shadow of his hat. ‘Perhaps you would care to accompany me there after luncheon, Miss Clio? We could discover it together. And you, too, of course, Sir Walter.’
Her father laughed. ‘Oh, no, not me! I have work to do on things that are truly old. But you two must go. Clio has been wanting to see it, have you not, my dear?’
‘Well, yes, but…’ she began.
‘Then it is settled. Now, you really must let me show you the mosaics, Averton. Especially the mermaid in the baths. So extraordinarily well preserved.’
Clio watched helplessly as her father led Averton away. It seemed she was now committed to an outing with the Duke. Or was it with Edward?
Either way, she would have to watch her step very carefully. Any unwary move in this slippery game they played would send her tumbling right down into a new abyss.
‘Just don’t push him off the battlements, Clio,’ Cory whispered. ‘That would surely not be polite.’
Edward nodded as Sir Walter pointed out the sections of his villa, the old peristyle hall, the long space where the women had their weaving looms, the walled gardens. He listened closely, yet his attention was not on the ancient past. It was on the all-too-near present.
Clio sat with her younger sister in a pavilion, her dark red hair cast in shadow, her face unreadable. Servants scurried around them, setting up their luncheon, yet she was an island of stillness.
She had agreed to show him the medieval castle, but how did she feel about that? About spending yet more time with him? How did he feel about that?
Edward frowned, nudging at a bright mosaic tile with his boot. Self-examination was not what was needed now; action was. He thought of the dark house on its poor street, of what he had learned in his secret space there. Santa Lucia was not safe for Clio, not if she kept wandering off on her ow
n in the hills. He could warn her again, but would she ever listen?
Truly, Clio Chase was maddening! Every time he determined to stay away from her, from the complications of her fierce intelligence and lithe body, of her tangled past, something pulled him back to her. Pulled them together.
Just like this castle outing. Perhaps it was one last chance, a chance for him to persuade her at last to leave things alone. Persuade himself to leave her alone! If talking did not work…
Then more drastic measures were called for.
Chapter Nine
Clio led the way up the steep stairs carved in the rocky hillside, the only access to the castle, conscious at every moment of the Duke’s footsteps close behind her. Despite the fact that he was a tall man, he walked softly, gracefully, an ever-present ghost. His movements were light, stealthy, as unpredictable as the clouds overhead, and as always when he was near her senses were poised and alert. He had taken her by surprise more than once in the past—he would not do so again.
She glanced back at him as they climbed ever higher, to find him watching her with solemn wariness, his face half-shadowed by the brim of his hat. When she had come to Sicily, she had been so sure she had left him and his all-seeing gaze far behind. Perhaps she had thought she would never even have to face him again! Face the truth of her own feelings. What folly that had been. Even when he was not in the same country, he was always with her.
In her distraction, her boot sole slipped on a loose pebble, and she slid backwards. Caught off guard, her stomach lurching in a sudden jolt of panic, she reached out to steady herself, but clutched only insubstantial air. Before she could tumble off the narrow walkway to the valley far below, a strong arm came around her waist, stopping her in mid-fall.
Breathless, Clio found herself caught against the Duke’s warm, muscled chest, his embrace surrounding her, holding her safe above the chasm.
‘You should watch your step, Clio,’ he whispered. ‘These paths are treacherous.’
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