Fatal Masquerade. Vivian Conroy

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       Chapter One

      ‘Can’t this thing go any faster?’ Denise Hargrove snapped at the driver. During the ride she’d consulted her watch over and over again, exuding a nervous energy Lady Alkmene Callender found hard to place.

      It seemed odd that Denise was so anxious to get home. Her relationship with her father had never been close, and she endured her stepmother, a woman who was but a few years older than she herself was, making for an awkward atmosphere whenever the two women were forced to spend time together.

      Denise’s stepmother would probably soon bear the male child who would push Denise from her current position as her father’s sole heir, leaving her with little more than an annual sum of money until she married. In the circumstances, one might have expected that Denise would have no wish to go home and spend time with her family, but just at the moment it seemed she couldn’t wait to get to the Hargrove estate.

      Of course there was a masked ball on tonight, the kind of frivolous pastime Denise lived for.

      Still, the ball wouldn’t begin for five hours, and Denise’s fidgeting suggested worry more than happy anticipation.

      ‘Is anything wrong?’ Alkmene asked in a low tone so the driver wouldn’t overhear.

      ‘Wrong?’ Denise gave her a wide-eyed look from under her new hat. ‘Why would anything be wrong?’

      ‘You seem so anxious to get to our destination.’

      Denise laughed: a high-pitched, insincere sound. ‘My dress is getting crinkled in the trunk. It has to be put out and cared for. My make-up and wig will also take time. I just wish Cecily hadn’t insisted on having a formal dinner with the house guests before the other guests arrive for the ball.’

      Denise insisted on calling her stepmother by her given name as she didn’t want to call her ‘Mother’ or anything else denoting any kind of family tie between them. Her father disapproved of it, but had stopped commenting as he didn’t want to antagonize Denise further.

      Alkmene believed Hargrove secretly hoped for better relations between his new wife and daughter, so that, with the birth of a male heir, his familial happiness would be complete. Alkmene hoped, for his sake, this would happen, but Denise’s antipathy towards her stepmother, not to mention the prospect of losing her position in the family to a new baby, made it seem unlikely there would ever be more between them than an icy politeness that sometimes flared into a subtly stinging reminder of the other’s position.

      Denise sighed. ‘Dinner with all these tedious house guests will take up so much time, which I would rather spend on my looks.’ She snapped open her purse and extracted a small mirror. She studied her face with a critical intensity. ‘Do you think I’m a beauty?’

      Alkmene burst out laughing. ‘Don’t ask me. I’ve never understood what a beauty is.’

      Denise gave her an indignant look. ‘I mean, like men adore.’ She returned her attention to her mirror image, cocking her head and batting her lashes. ‘Am I like a Spanish beauty with my wild tresses and pools of fire in my eyes?’

      It sounded like the kind of nonsense some overheated earl had whispered in her ear, unaware Denise would soon lose her status as heiress to her father’s insanely large fortune. There were a lot of peers around whose family houses were in dire need of restoration. Those men didn’t shun any means to get their hands on extra funds.

      But before Alkmene could voice a warning to her friend, Denise had already thrust the mirror back into her purse and returned to staring out of the window. ‘There is the birch we used to picnic under when my mother was still alive. It can’t be far now.’

      She seemed to relax for a moment, a soft smile playing around her lips. Her memories of her mother were all happy, it seemed, something Alkmene herself could easily relate to. Her mother had died when she had been just four years old and she remembered a warm, wonderful woman who sat in front of her dressing table while Father combed her long hair. Those were the happy places Alkmene retreated to whenever life turned grim, and she supposed Denise experienced the same now her father had remarried and was building his new family, of which Denise no longer felt a part.

      Alkmene wanted to ask something about those days, about the picnic under the birch, but already Denise was sitting up again and peering ahead intently, as though willing the road to shorten and the country house to come into full view.

      Alkmene had never seen the estate before. She had only befriended Denise in the spring, when the two of them had found themselves on the same team for a game of charades at an insanely boring party. Denise had soon proven herself a shrewd player and, before the night was over, Alkmene felt she had known her for a long time.

      In fact, sometimes, when the two of them were laughing over tea, she had wondered if it was like this between sisters. Being an only child, Alkmene couldn’t really tell.

      Denise could be very silly, spend money like water, and mock other people, especially older women who had lost the best of their beauty, but still powdered their faces and smeared their lips with crimson to look young. Denise had a sharp tongue at all times, but it turned into an outright razor when she judged people from her father’s acquaintance or her stepmother’s circle of ‘silly young wives who live for nothing but the purchase of a feather boa in the exact same shade as their eye make-up’.

      That Denise herself had a wardrobe to rival a queen’s, needing every piece in at least three variations, was something Alkmene conveniently ignored. She even found these traits sort of endearing, in a big-sisterly way, perhaps because she was close to very few people and cherished the natural connection she had sensed with Denise upon their first meeting.

      Still, driving down the lane to the Hargrove estate, Alkmene had to admit she knew very little of her friend’s family, and she had only accepted the invitation to the masked ball to be away from London for a few days, thus distracting her mind from the morose subjects that had occupied it so frequently during three murder investigations.

      During all three she had enjoyed the company of journalist and free spirit Jake Dubois, a man with strong opinions on the rich and privileged, and she couldn’t help wondering what Jake would make of a party night like this. No doubt it was costing a lot of money which, to Jake’s practical mind, might have been better spent.

      Alkmene didn’t agree with him on everything – in fact, they often quarrelled about their different outlooks on life – but she had to admit that most parties she went to displayed a lavishness not so much to please the visitor as to show off that the host could afford to spend the money. The motive behind the spending was less than honourable and therefore made her feel slightly awkward, as if Jake were here now and she was having to defend herself to him.

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