Читать книгу Fatal Masquerade - Vivian Conroy - Страница 9

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.

But he wasn’t here, and this night was to be a night of pure enjoyment. She had to drive all thoughts of troublesome subjects out of her mind.

‘There,’ 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.’

A startled silence descended.

Denise said, ‘I saw you do it. Burn it in the fireplace. And I don’t have to know what’s in that letter to know what it means.’

Mrs Hargrove said in a thin voice, ‘What does it mean then?’

Denise leaned forward. ‘Maybe that Papa will soon get an heir who isn’t even his child.’

Mrs Hargrove arrested Denise’s arm. Alkmene shrank from the violence in that swift movement, which was like a viper striking.

Denise turned pale and yelped. ‘Ouch! Let me go. You’re hurting me.’

‘Mention again that you might talk to your father,’ Mrs Hargrove hissed, ‘and you won’t live to regret it.’

A cough behind her back made Alkmene jump. She knocked into the door, then backed away from it quickly. The impeccable driver held out her purse to her. ‘You left this in the car, my lady.’

‘Thank you.’ Alkmene snatched the purse from his hand and rushed to the stairs.

The door opened and Mrs Hargrove appeared on the threshold, a fiery glint in her eyes as she looked at the driver, who was on his way to the front door, then at Alkmene, now at the stairs.

Alkmene waved her purse in the air. ‘Left it in the car, how silly of me. I’d better rush up now and sort out my clothes. We’ll have a chance to talk at dinner.’

She couldn’t wait to escape those burning eyes and the lingering echo of Mrs Hargrove’s venomous words. A death threat to her own stepdaughter.