Mischief in Regency Society. Amanda McCabe

      To Laura Kay Gauldin,

      who has been brave enough to be my friend since we were

      teenagers! If not for the three Gauldin sisters there

      never could have been three Chase sisters.

Prologue

      “Where’er we tread ’tis haunted, holy ground;

      No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould

      But one vast plain of wonder spreads around,

      And all the Muses’ tales seem truly told

      Till the sense aches with gazing to behold

      The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon…

      Lord Byron

      Never had a night been as dark as this one.

      The moon was a mere sliver high over the crooked rooftops of London, nearly obscured by scudding clouds. There were no stars at all, not even a tiny, bead-like sparkle, and an infamous London fog was creeping inward over the sluggish Thames. Heavy and greasy, a noxious grey-green, it would soon blanket the city, cutting off even the dull shimmer of that tiny moon.

      But all the guests at the Marchioness of Tenbray’s ball—and that was nearly everyone in the ton who mattered at all—cared not a whit for the ominous night outside the brilliantly lit mansion. They were far too busy moving through the crush of the ballroom, laughing, dancing, trading the latest on dits behind silken fans, drinking champagne, stealing kisses under concealment of the terrace’s potted palms. All the world seemed compressed into this one marble-and-gilt room, a swirl of music and chatter and clinking crystal rising up and up with no care for the dark chill outside.

      Not one of them—not even the marchioness herself, deeply preoccupied by a sudden shortage of lobster tarts—noticed a window in the library sliding silently open.

      Someone else was taking full advantage of the darkness, and not for surreptitious caresses on the terrace. No, this person had something far more important, far more devious, in mind.

      As the window swung all the way open, this person, tall and slim, muffled and masked all in black, climbed inside and hopped lightly to the Aubusson carpet laid over polished parquet. The figure made no sound, as soft as cat’s paws on the silken weave. It went automatically down into a low crouch, breath held as bright eyes, revealed through the slits of the satin mask, darted from left to right. The library, as expected, was deserted, lit by only one small Colza lamp on the polished desk. It cast a circle of golden glow, flickering, sweetly scented, and all the far corners were deep in gloom. Bookshelves rose to the ceiling, crowded with leather-bound volumes that looked scarcely touched, let alone read and loved.

      Well, thought the intruder. Old Lady Tenbray is scarcely renowned for her brains, is she?

      Yet the late Lord Tenbray had been renowned for his passion for Italian antiquities, and this was what drew the black-clad figure’s interest. Once assured of being alone, the intruder rose from that crouch and moved stealthily across the room. The shadows were no deterrent—the library’s layout had been carefully studied, every chair and table mapped. This person knew what they sought.

      At the far end of the space, on either side of the carved fireplace, were glass-topped cases, each one filled to the brim with the marquess’s ill-gotten gains. In his youth, long ago, he had served as a diplomat to the kingdom of Naples. From there, he sent home crates full of statuary, jewellery, frescoes, vases. Only a small part of the collection resided in this library.

      The very best part.

      “Ah, yes,” the intruder whispered. “There you are.”

      From a pocket tied around the waist came a thin piece of metal, which was carefully inserted into the case’s lock. One upward twist, and the mechanism popped free.

      “Lax, lax,” the person murmured, lifting up the lid. Really, people who could not take care of their possessions did not deserve them.

      The object of desire lay in the very centre of the display, an Etruscan diadem of gold hammered very thin and formed into the shape of delicate leaves and vines. Once, it had graced the head of a queen. Now it satisfied an old Englishwoman’s vanity.

      But not for long.

      The figure reached for it with black-gloved hands. Even in the shadows the diadem glowed like the Italian sky, so light and perfect. It seemed so fragile, yet had survived so much for these thousands of years.

      “You will soon be safe,” came the reassuring whisper, as the diadem disappeared into the pocket.

      As its glow vanished, there was a loud thump outside the library door. The figure’s masked head whipped around, eyes wide, heart pounding.

      “No, Agnes, we shouldn’t!” a man groaned, his words slurred, overly loud in the quiet room.

      “Oh, but we really must!” a woman answered. “We haven’t got very long. My husband will soon leave the card room and be looking for me.”

      There was another thump, then a click of the door handle as someone, either Agnes or her drunken companion, groped for the entrance.

      Time to be gone. One more object emerged from that pocket, a perfect white lily that was carefully placed in the diadem’s abandoned spot. Then the figure sprinted lightly across the floor, jumping up on to the window ledge. Just as the door flew open, the thief was gone, disappearing into the gloomy night.

      The Lily Thief had struck again.

Chapter One

      “I call this meeting of the Ladies Artistic Society to order,” announced Calliope Chase, sounding her gavel on the table in front of her. “Our secretary, Miss Clio Chase, will take the minutes.”

      Slowly, all the teacups and plates of cakes were lowered to laps and tabletops, and the members of the Society turned their attention to their founder and president. Bright sunlight flowed from the tall windows of the drawing room of the Chases’ townhouse, warm