To Deceive a Duke

by Amanda McCabe

  Edward knew how she felt. He found he could never run away from himself, either, no matter where he went. His ducal life was always there, along with the piles of invitations, the clamouring obligations. When all he really wanted right now was to stand for ever on a windswept tower with Clio Chase. How very strange was that?

  Chapter Ten

  Lady Riverton’s palazzo was lit up like a Chinese lantern, glowing a hot orange in the dusty-black Sicilian night. Clio gazed up at the windows as she stepped from the carriage, watching as figures already inside strolled past the glass like puppets in a pantomime. They talked and laughed, silent behind the panes, raising glasses of wine, examining proffered trays of delicacies. A liveried footman held the door open for the Chases as they made their way through the manicured courtyard.

  How terribly civilised it all was, Clio thought, stepping into that light and noise. As if it were a million miles from the windswept medieval tower, the grey stones that whispered of battles and death and old, old gods.

  She remembered what Edward had told her when he had first appeared at her farmhouse, that there was danger here. Well, at this house danger surely dared not show its face. The only real peril was in possibly finding oneself cornered and talked at by Lady Riverton’s voluble friend, Ronald Frobisher. All in all, Clio preferred curses and spirits.

  She surrendered her cloak to another footman, examining herself in one of the gilt-framed mirrors hung on the marble foyer walls. She had left off her brown-and-grey work dresses for a gown in jade-green silk, trimmed on the bodice and cap sleeves with finely spun gold lace. Her hair was smoothed and pinned up, bound by a scarf of more gold lace. She wore a pair of antique Mycenaean gold bracelets over her gloves, pieces that had once been part of her mother’s vast jewellery collection. The silk and lace, the gold, it was all an armour of sorts, a disguise carefully constructed to make her appear a fashionable lady, a part of this glittering throng, while her true thoughts were always hidden.

  Thalia hurried into the drawing room, her blue eyes glowing with purpose, her pink-and-white muslin skirts whispering softly around her. In her gloved hands she held her rolled Antigone script. Clio followed slowly, staying to the back of the room until she had gauged the lay of the land.

  Lady Riverton held court by the ornate plaster fireplace, clad in eye-catching red-and-bronze brocade, an elaborate plumed turban atop her curls. Next to her stood Ronald Frobisher, her ‘special friend’—or lapdog, as Clio sometimes thought him—a man of delicately slender stature, lovely brown eyes and soft, dark curls. He claimed to be descended from the great Elizabethan mariner, but his life seemed to consist of naught but fetching and fawning. The two of them chatted happily away as they greeted guests, but Lady Riverton kept a sharp eye on the trays of wineglasses and lobster tarts, the new arrivals at the door.

  And a great many arrivals there were. Clio slid into a corner near the stage, behind a pair of large comedy/tragedy statues. All the English families were there, the Darbys and Elliotts, the young Manning-Smythes, and also the noble Sicilian families who had not yet decamped to Naples. They stayed mostly in their own tribal clusters at the other end of the room, deigning to grace the foreign proceedings with their dignified presence.

  Did they come for the food, then, as her father did? Clio watched as one black-silk-clad matron slid a tart into her reticule. Or perhaps they came to keep an eye on their local antiquities.

  Well, whatever their reasons, they certainly added an ancien régime dignity to Lady Riverton’s proceedings, and filled out her vast rooms quite nicely.

  Thalia was making her own progress around the drawing room, trailed by the puppyishly devoted Peter Elliott. She seemed not to notice him, but he now carried her script for her. No doubt he would bear her shawl and reticule, too, if she would let him. Clio’s father had found Lady Rushworth, and they were examining one of the cases of the late viscount’s coins.

  So, Clio thought, everyone was accounted for. Except for the most important piece of all, the Duke. He was nowhere to be seen, and surely if he was there she would sense it. He filled every room he entered; everyone always watched him.

  As the moments ticked by, Lady Riverton’s smiles became just a tad more brittle, her glances at the door more frequent. She, too, missed her most prominent guest. She took Mr Frobisher’s arm, whispering fiercely in his ear until he scurried away on a new errand.

  Someone slid up next to Clio in her corner, but she knew it was not Edward. She could sense it.

  ‘Ah, cara,’ Marco whispered. ‘Such an amusing little fête! You English are always so endlessly diverting. I have missed it since I left your shores.’

  Clio turned to smile at her old friend, her old partner in crime. He was handsome, she had to admit. Probably the most handsome man she had ever seen, a young Roman god with his dark eyes and broad shoulders, with those cut-glass cheekbones and smooth olive skin. He had surely broken hearts in a sad trail from Florence to London and back, hearts he scarcely noticed for he was devoted only to his studies. His burning Florentine patriotism.

  But when Clio was near him, she never felt that still, hot awareness that came over her when she saw Edward. Marco never made her breath catch, her heart pound. They were friends, that was all; they understood each other, helped each other. It was a great pity, really. Forming an attachment to Marco would be less complicated than carrying a torch for Edward! A lot safer, too.

  ‘So, you did not go on to Palermo after all,’ she said.

  ‘And miss this fine party? Never! Especially once I found you were here. It has been far too long, cara.’ He gave her a melting glance from his chocolate-brown eyes, a woeful, lovelorn gaze that had made many a maiden melt into a puddle on the floor.

  It made Clio laugh. ‘Shameless, Marco!’

  He laughed, too, a rueful sound as he reached for two fresh glasses of wine from a passing footman. He handed her one. ‘Ah, Clio, my charms never did work on you. Am I getting old? Losing my romantic touch?’

  ‘Never fear. I just know you far too well. But you are still the loveliest man I have ever met, and you are sure to garner many new hearts here in Santa Lucia. Susan Darby is already in love with you, I think.’

  Marco gazed over the gilded rim of his glass toward Thalia, who was laughing with the Elliotts, her blonde hair a luminous halo in the candlelight. ‘What of your pretty sister? Is she in love with me?’

  Clio snorted. ‘Thalia? I wouldn’t count on that, my friend. She might look like an angel, but she has the soul of a demon. Be careful, or you’ll find yourself galloping around the amphitheatre doing her every bidding. She has that effect on men, you see.’

  Marco frowned. ‘I never do a lady’s bidding. Except yours, of course.’

  ‘Only because my bidding helped you achieve your goals—bringing antiquities back to Italy.’

  ‘Very true. You do know me too well.’

  ‘So, what are your goals here in little Santa Lucia?’

  He glanced quickly around the bright, crowded room, and shook his head. ‘We shouldn’t talk about it here.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Despite herself, despite her promises of reform, Clio felt the old excitement flutter deep inside, wakening from its long, respectable sleep. The excitement of secrecy and mischief, of righting old wrongs.

  She tightened her clasp on the stem of her glass, until the heavy crystal bit through her glove. No. No matter what Marco was up to, she could not be a part of it. She had promised Calliope.

  But surely it would not hurt just to hear what was afoot…

  ‘Send me a message later,’ she whispered.

  Marco gave her a solemn glance, quite unlike his usual teasing flirtation. ‘Be careful, Clio. There are things going on here, things that could be very dangerous.’

  You are in danger—she remembered the Duke’s words. Remembered Rosa’s ghosts and curses, the deceptively lazy men in the piazza. ‘Dangerous? Here in this sleepy town?’

  ‘Surely you know, bett
er than most people, how appearances can be ever so deceiving.’ He placed his empty glass on Comedy’s pedestal and folded his hands behind his back. ‘Just be cautious in your work. Promise me, my friend?’

  ‘I am always cautious.’ Almost always, anyway. Just not when she found herself kissing Edward, unable to stop. She gulped down the last of her wine, even though the alcoholic bite of it could not erase the remembered taste of him.

  Almost as if her thoughts had conjuring powers, the drawing room doors opened and the Duke himself stepped inside. And he was the Duke tonight, not Edward, not the man who had stood with her atop the tower and stared down into the whirling maelstrom of something they could not understand. Could not control.

  His evening coat was of a glistening sapphire-coloured velvet, with diamond buttons and blue satin trim, over a fine gold brocade waistcoat. He wore his rings again, heavy, archaic gemstones that glittered distractingly on his long, elegant fingers, concealing their true strength.

  She recalled the rough grace of those hands on her bare skin, the sparkling magic of them that seemed to flow from his very essence into hers, binding them together more than mere touch, mere sex.

  Clio shook her head, trying to drive out those memories, those needs. Lady Riverton’s crowded drawing room was no place for her lustful feelings. No place to start any new whispers circulating.

  She watched, feigning only casual interest, as Lady Riverton’s brittle smile lightened into radiant welcome. Trailed by Mr Frobisher, she hurried across the room to greet this long-awaited guest of honour.

  The rest of the company also seemed to turn as one towards the door, once they realised who had arrived. A soft web of awed hush fell over all the loud chatter, the clink of crystal and china. A duke—and not just any duke, but the elusive, handsome Duke of Averton!—had joined them. A new kind of glamour-glitter fell over their little party.

  And, if she was honest, over Clio, too. When he stepped into the room, even if they did not look at each other, she felt overcome by a flushed, giddy awareness that was not at all like her. He did bring a sort of magic with him, something that everyone felt. But it was the deceptive magic of the underworld, and she could not give in to its alluring, pomegranate-laden trap.

  ‘What is he doing here?’ Marco muttered roughly.

  Clio glanced at her friend to find a dark glower on his face, his shoulders tensed under his elegant dark green coat as if he would rush forwards and attack the Duke, right in front of everyone. Rush forwards to avenge what had happened in Yorkshire all those months ago, when they had lost the Alabaster Goddess. Marco and Cameron both had this violent reaction to Edward, then.

  Clio laid a gentle, restraining hand on his arm, holding him at her side. Every muscle in his body was taut with anger, yet he stayed with her. For the moment.

  What would he do if he learned that the Alabaster Goddess, Artemis, was possibly here in Santa Lucia? Or did he already know? Perhaps that was his reason for being here in the first place. To finish what had begun in Yorkshire.

  But there was genuine surprise in his aspect, in those fireworks in his eyes. So, if it was not for Artemis, why was he here?

  Why had they all converged at this one moment, in this place?

  Clio’s head suddenly ached, and not from the wine.

  ‘I don’t know why he is here,’ she said quietly. ‘Probably just sightseeing, like the rest of us.’

  ‘Sightseeing? Dear Clio, surely you do not believe that. He is here to make mischief.’

  Unlike you, of course, Clio thought wryly. She watched as Edward raised Lady Riverton’s gloved hand to his lips, as that lady laughed, blushing a glowing pink. Mischief just followed them—all of them, Marco, Edward, herself, even Thalia—wherever they went.

  ‘Well, he will have to escape Lady Riverton’s clutches before he can hope to make any trouble for us,’ she said. ‘And that won’t happen any time soon. Shall we sample some of those stuffed mushrooms? All this confusion makes me quite famished.’

  Marco still did not look at all happy, but he went along as she led him across the room to the trays of refreshments. She held firmly to his arm, talking resolutely of the superficial charms of lobster and white soup. Thalia joined them, and, as usual, her fairy-like beauty distracted male attention from more martial concerns. Once Marco was focused on charming Thalia, Clio glanced surreptitiously at Edward, who was being seated by their hostess near the front row of gilded chairs set up before the stage.

  Even as he smiled politely at the viscountess’s flutterings, Clio could tell he watched her. Her and Marco. His green-gold gaze beamed across the room, and it was as if they were alone in the very midst of the noisy crowd.

  She still remembered the gallery at Acropolis House in London, the Alabaster Goddess and her steady bow. The crackle of the air, so heavy with fury and passion and raw need as he grasped her arms in her green silk sleeves. As he dragged her closer, closer, until she could not breathe…

  Clio choked on a bite of mushroom, gasping as Thalia thumped her on the back. ‘Clio! Are you quite well?’

  ‘Signorina Chase, have some wine!’ Marco cried, thrusting a full glass of Marsala into her hand.

  ‘Thank you, I’m quite well,’ Clio gasped. If she drank any more wine, she would have to be carried home. At least it was not Paolo’s grappa. That stuff would send the night spinning completely out of control. ‘Just too greedy for the mushrooms.’

  ‘Well, there is no time for that now. The theatricals are about to begin,’ said Thalia. She frowned up at Clio, as if she suspected her sister would be taken ill again at any moment. Felled by those pernicious mushrooms. ‘Are you sure you are well?’

  Clio gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Very sure.’ The rest of the guests were indeed taking their seats, and the young Manning-Smythe couple were preparing their Romeo and Juliet tableau. A papier-mâché balcony, twined with artificial ivy and roses, simulated Renaissance Verona.

  ‘We should find some empty chairs, then,’ Clio said. ‘Some that are quite close. But aren’t you meant to be changing into your costume, Thalia?’

  Thalia shrugged carelessly, but Clio noticed her fingers nervously plucked at a fold in her pink satin sash. ‘Oh, no, I’m the last performance. Besides, I’m not going to wear my costume. The drama will have to come from the words, you see.’

  ‘No fear of that, Signorina Thalia,’ Marco said gallantly. ‘Antigone is highly dramatic, and you, I can tell, will be perfect for the role of the doomed princess.’

  Thalia tossed him a suspicious glance. ‘How can you tell that, Count di Fabrizzi?’

  ‘Because I have made a study of ancient theatre, and you have Antigone’s great passion, her great capacity to do what is right—even when it is not easy.’ He looked at Clio. ‘Your whole family is like that, yes?’

  Thalia peered between Clio and Marco, her lips pursed as she nodded. ‘I suppose we are, in a way. Complete nuisances, the lot of us. But you say you are a student of theatre, Count? How very fascinating, and useful…’

  Thalia took Marco’s arm in a light clasp, turning with him towards the chairs with a most determined look on her face. Clio followed, sure of one thing now—she would soon see Marco on the amphitheatre stage, Haemon to her sister’s Antigone.

  But that was really the only thing she knew. The rest was still obscured by shreds of silvery mist, a disguising shroud that only allowed her fleeting glimpses. Like Etna on a stormy day. Soon, though, like the clouds parting, she would discover all.

  ‘“O City of Theba! O my country! Gods, the fathers of my race! I am led hence, I linger now no more. Behold me, lords, the last of your kings’ house—what doom is mine, and at whose hands, and for what cause—that I duly performed the dues of piety.”’

  Edward watched as Thalia Chase finished her dramatic scene, her arms folded and gaze cast forwards towards eternity. She was really quite good, he thought. Despite the fact that she wore a stylish pink-and-white muslin gown and jewels of pink pea
rls and diamonds, he had forgotten where they were for a moment. Forgot the modern world outside, transported by her simply spoken words, her solemn, dignified mien to ancient Greece. To a land of warring principles, of strict gods, high-minded maidens, unbending kings, and love destroyed by it all.

  And he was not the only one so moved, either, to judge by the taut silence in the room. The breathless pause before everyone broke into effusive applause. Thalia made her curtsy, her eyes shining. It was really too bad she was a Chase, a baronet’s daughter, he reflected as his applause blended with the others’. If not for her position, she would reign supreme on the London stage.

  He watched as Clio turned to say something to her father, clapping madly. Her face glowed with pride for her sister, and for an instant Edward felt a strange, wistful pang. How must it feel to know you belonged with someone, with a family? That you were part of something larger than your own solitary self, that no matter where you went or what you did someone cared about it. Supported it. Loved it.

  It sounded like a dream to him, a bright fantasy-world he had never actually seen except in Clio and her sisters. Nothing could break their loyalty and love for each other. He could only admire it, protect it, from afar.

  He glanced toward the man who stood along the wall, alone. The dark, far-too-handsome Italian Count who had been Clio’s cohort in Yorkshire. He was a gypsy-thief no longer, but a polished, well-dressed gentleman who had all the ladies sighing. He and Clio had seemed to take no notice of each other during the performances, but Edward had seen them talking quite cosily together when he had arrived. As if they made secret plans.

  Blast the man, anyway! Blast him for his easy charm, that comfort and understanding between him and Clio. The Count’s appearance in Santa Lucia was yet another shadowy fold in a mystery.

  Edward had known when he set out for Sicily that his task would not be an easy one. Too little was known of the treasure. But the secrecy of the local townspeople, the determined sociability of the English visitors, and especially Clio’s involvement, made it all that much harder. Matters were seldom simple where she was concerned.