Fatal Masquerade. Vivian Conroy

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СКАЧАТЬ Denise pointed. Two men with a ladder walked to a tree, a third carrying what looked like colourful orbs. Alkmene detected several already attached to other trees in the vicinity.

      ‘Chinese lanterns,’ Denise said with childlike glee. ‘They look like a fairy tale when they’re lit. The gardens will be a dream tonight.’ She drew in a breath and checked her watch again as if she couldn’t wait for the spectacle to begin.

      She looked up and scooted to the edge of the seat. ‘Look, there’s the house. Oh, the draperies behind the windows. And the chimney. Look on top of it. So clever.’

      Alkmene leaned forward to see better. The windows were adorned with colourful draperies and on the chimney, high on the roof, where usually a weathercock sat, she detected a gondola with a gondolier, crafted from metal by an expert craftsman.

      The theme for the masked ball was Venice, and Alkmene had dutifully shopped for a sequinned mask, a fan and tiara to look the part. But seeing the extent of the preparations en route, she rather thought she should also have bought a dress with the grandeur of Louis XV’s grand court and perhaps even a powdered wig. She might look underdressed in her sleek red gown.

      The car whisked down the last stretch of the drive, curved to the right and ended up, after a quarter turn, in front of the house’s immaculate steps. On either side of those steps, a gigantic stone lion guarded the house. But, for this occasion, even the lions wore sequinned masks and their backs were covered with embroidered cloths, full of golden ribbons snaking through flowers. Maids must have put hours of needlework into just these two parts of the house’s elaborate decorations.

      Denise had already opened the car door and climbed out, stretching her long body. As a fervent tennis player she was trim, looking younger than she was. There was a sort of hunger in her face as she stared up at the house, a smile lighting her expression, which had been so tense on the way over.

      Without waiting for Alkmene to follow her, she dashed up the steps and into the house.

      As Alkmene was out of the car, rolling back her shoulders to relieve the tension of the long drive, the taciturn driver had opened the back and was taking out their luggage.

      Alkmene glanced up at the house. The curtains of a room on the first floor moved. Someone seemed to stand there, looking down on her. She could not see more than a shadowy figure. Tall, broad, probably male. Denise had mentioned house guests who would dine with them before the guests for the masked ball arrived. Was this man one of them?

      The driver carried the first load of luggage up the steps.

      Alkmene rested a tentative finger on the embroidery on the back of the nearest lion and then followed him into the hallway. It was dominated by a towering flower arrangement, full of orchids and birds of paradise flowers, rare and expensive as gold.

      Alkmene stepped closer to have a better look at the purple orchids with their bright orange spots. She had expected the blooms to be attached to plants with roots from the house’s conservatory, but saw to her dismay that the flowers had been cut off so as to be worked into the arrangement. Although looking fresh and vibrant, they were already dying, removed from their source of life.

      ‘Do you like it?’ a voice asked with a breathless eagerness.

      Alkmene swung round to see her hostess, Denise’s stepmother.

      Mrs Hargrove was a tall, slim brunette with large brown eyes like a doe. But her sharp chin and narrow mouth betrayed she also had a temper and could be hard to please.

      ‘It’s too bad your gardener felt it necessary to cut off the orchids,’ Alkmene said with a pleasant smile. ‘They won’t survive.’

      ‘He assured me they would last through the ball,’ Mrs Hargrove said with a flick of the hand. ‘That’s enough. When the ball is over, they’ll have served their purpose. They might as well die.’

      Alkmene blinked a moment at her callous tone. She was glad her botanist father wasn’t there to lecture the woman on the value of tropical plants.

      ‘You’ve taken a lot of trouble to make everything look perfect,’ she said to her hostess, nodding at the large, gold-rimmed mirror on the left wall, which had also been adorned with orchids.

      Of course, Mrs Hargrove had hardly done anything herself, having staff to do all the preparatory work for her. As she had thought it all up, however, it was her creation, her masterpiece.

      Mrs Hargrove looked around. ‘Where’s Denise?’

      ‘I suspect she’s already gone up. She seemed worried about her dress.’

      Mrs Hargrove narrowed her eyes. ‘I told Denise I could order a dress for her that could be sent straight here. But she insisted on buying it herself, in London. It’s not my fault if it’s become crinkled during the journey.’

      There was a hint of malicious delight to her tone, as if she would enjoy her stepdaughter walking about in a crinkled dress.

      Alkmene forced a smile. ‘If you don’t mind, I would also like to go up and see to my dress for tonight.’

      Mrs Hargrove turned away from her, snapping her fingers. A girl in black and white, her cheeks flushed red, came forward quickly. ‘You bring Lady Alkmene’s bags up, Megan,’ Mrs Hargrove said, ‘and start unpacking them.’

      Actually, Alkmene preferred to unpack her clothes and jewellery herself, but it would have been impolite to say so. Her father thought personal servants to lay out clothes and heat water a waste of money, but he was the exception in their circle. Mrs Hargrove had probably instructed this girl especially for the ball, to wait on her guests and please them in every possible way.

      The girl curtseyed awkwardly and picked up the bags. Alkmene followed her to see to the unpacking. On the landing she realized she’d left her purse in the car and dashed down the steps again to catch up with the driver before he removed the car from the front of the house to the garage.

      In the hallway she froze upon hearing angry voices.

      ‘I wish you hadn’t been so silly. Your father will see through this ruse at once. He’ll never indulge it.’

      ‘There are plenty of guests coming over for the ball. One more or less will hardly be noticed. Papa loathes these parties. If you don’t mention it, he’ll never know.’

      Alkmene tiptoed to the drawing-room door, which was ajar, and glanced in.

      Mrs Hargrove stood opposite Denise. Her posture was tight with tension. ‘You can’t just invite people to my ball.’

      ‘It’s a ball in my family home. I belong here, you don’t.’

      Mrs Hargrove’s doe eyes flashed. ‘You’ll soon find out how much you belong here.’ She put a hand on her stomach. ‘Once your father’s heir is born, he won’t even remember you exist.’

      Alkmene froze at the biting cold in the woman’s tone.

      Denise looked startled. ‘Are you...?’ She gasped for breath a moment. Then her expression changed, her eyes narrowing. ‘If you tell Papa anything about my life, I’ll tell him you received a letter you kept from him and burned.’

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