“Not at all,” Calliope answered.
He smiled, and led her to the end of the marble procession, where it curved around to the next wall. There was etched the very reason for the procession—Athena, seated in profile as she observed her offerings. She did not wear her usual helmet on her curled hair, but held her aegis on her lap and bore a spear in her right hand.
“She is your favourite?” Calliope asked.
“You sound surprised.”
“Perhaps I imagined you preferred one of the Lapiths and centaurs from the metope, drunkenly breaking up the party. Or Dionysus over there with his leopard skin.”
He laughed. “Oh, come now, Miss Chase! I do enjoy the pleasures of life, but I am hardly a centaur. Or a Dionysus. Were we not just speaking of orgies last night? His soirées tend to end so badly, with the participants tearing each other limb from limb and devouring the raw flesh. No, indeed, cannibalism is not for me.”
Calliope felt herself blushing again, an embarrassing red heat flooding up her throat to her cheeks. “I never quite imagined cannibalism as one of your vices, Lord Westwood. But tell me why you like Athena here so very much? She seems too rational and measured for you.”
“It is exactly those qualities—her rational calm, her dignity. My life has never held much of those qualities, pulled from pillar to post with my parents, and I crave them. I can find them right here, carved in this marble.”
Calliope blinked in surprise. True, the two of them had declared peace only moments before, but she could never have expected such an instance of confidence from Cameron de Vere, of all people. A wistful longing was etched on his handsome face, driving out the careless mockery.
“She is my favourite, too,” she admitted.
“And so she should be, for you are very like her.”
“I, like Athena?” she said, startled. “She would never have been rude to you at a musicale.”
“No, she would have struck me down with her spear. I must feel fortunate you wield no such weapon. Your tongue is quite sharp enough.”
Before Calliope could answer, there was a sudden commotion in the doorway, disturbing the church-like hush of the room. A ripple of comment, of tension. Calliope peered around the bulk of a headless goddess to see that the Duke of Averton had just made an entrance.
He was a handsome enough man, Calliope thought, she would give him that much. Tall, slim, with flowing red-gold hair that fairly shimmered in the dim light, and bright green eyes that took in everything around him in one penetrating glance. The only flaw on his handsome face was a slightly crooked nose, as if it had once been broken and not healed straight. His dramatic, almost Celtic looks were emphasised by his flamboyant way of dressing—a long cape where all the other men wore wool greatcoats, a yellow satin waistcoat, tasselled boots, and jewelled rings on his fingers. Rubies and emeralds.
The duke stood there for a moment until he was certain everyone watched him, then he swung his cloak from his shoulders in a great arc and deposited it with one of the many lackeys trailing behind him. The sweep of his arm seemed to encompass and embrace all the sculptures as if they belonged to him alone.
“Ah, the glories of Greece, the ancient spirits—we meet again,” he said, softly but carryingly. Then he turned and made his way towards the metope section, his entourage hurrying behind him.
Calliope almost laughed aloud. The Duke of Averton so seldom went about in town; it was part of what made his upcoming ball the talk of the ton. But when he did it was more amusing than Drury Lane.
“Ridiculous toad,” Lord Westwood muttered darkly. “What is the purpose of such a preening display?”
Calliope glanced up at him to find him glowering towards the duke, his long fingers curled into fists. Where was the lighthearted Apollo now? Westwood resembled no one so much as the ill-tempered Hades, lurking in his black underworld, wishing he could feed the duke limb by limb to his snarling Cerberus.
Calliope had to admit she rather liked that image herself. Of all the selfish collectors in London, all the people who hoarded their treasures while denying scholars all access, Averton was the worst. He never scrupled about where or from whom he bought his treasures, and the precious objects always disappeared into his Yorkshire fortress. But she had not known that Westwood had a quarrel with him. Indeed, Westwood seldom seemed to dislike anyone—except her, of course.
Yet it was more than mere dislike she saw on his face now. It was dark, unadulterated hatred, raw and primitive. And very frightening.
Calliope shivered despite the warmth of the close-packed room, and edged away from him until she felt the hard edge of a stone base against her hips. He seemed to notice her wide-eyed regard, and that glimpse of jagged emotion was quickly concealed behind his usual smile.
“I did not realise you knew the duke well,” she murmured.
“Not well,” Lord Westwood answered. “Certainly better than I would like. We were at Cambridge together, and the Duke of Avarice has certainly not changed much since those days. Except to grow even more vicious and brainless.”
Vicious and brainless? The duke was a menace, certainly, and had a reputation for eccentricity and rapaciousness. But vicious? Calliope waited, full of anticipation, for Westwood to elaborate, but of course he did not. Their brief moment of confidence was gone, and Calliope was soon distracted by the sight of the duke drawing close to Clio.
Clio did not even seem to notice the man’s theatrical entrance, or his stately parade around the room as everyone cleared a path for him. She was leaning close to a goddess sculpture, frowning as she examined it through her spectacles. The duke, much to the consternation of his followers, suddenly veered from his trail to stop at her side.
As Calliope watched, puzzled and concerned, he edged closer to Clio until his bejewelled hand brushed her arm. Clio spun around, startled, bumping into the goddess.
“Your sister should have a care around that man,” Westwood muttered.
“I have no idea what he could be saying to her. We hardly know him.”
“That won’t stop him when it comes to ladies. Even respectable ones like your sister.”
Calliope saw Clio’s hand edging back and up, towards the sharp pin that skewered her silk bonnet. Clio’s frozen expression and demeanour never altered, yet Calliope knew she would have no compunction about driving that pin into the duke’s arm. Or more sensitive areas.
Calliope took a step forward, intending to intervene, but Lord Westwood was there before her. He strode across the room, reaching out to practically shove the duke away from Clio. As the duke smirked at him, Westwood leaned in to mutter low, harsh-sounding words that carried to Calliope’s ears as only the rushing noise of a stormy sea. Clio eased away from the men, her hand dropping to her side, as everyone else in the room edged closer. A quarrel between a duke and an earl in the middle of the British Museum was not something to be seen every day! This was certain to be much talked of for days to come.
If only she and her sister were not in the midst of it, Calliope thought, perturbed. Yet even she could not help but stare at the two men, Westwood so full of barely leashed anger, Averton still smirking but growing in agitation, if the spasmodic opening and closing of his fists was any indication. It was a scene that hardly belonged in civilised London. More like those Lapiths and centaurs, wrestling in ancient stone.
Calliope shook off the strange spell that urged her just to stare at the growing fight, and hurried to Clio’s side. She took her sister’s arm and whispered, “We should take Cory out of here, don’t you think?”
Clio shuddered, as if she too were bound by some strange, wicked enchantment and only Calliope’s voice shook her out of it. “Of course,” she said, and rushed over to where Cory