LITMIR.BIZ

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shimmering in prisms. She had brought other jewellery to wear with her red ball gown. A bit extravagant, but opulence was expected this evening.

      In the corridor outside her room, Alkmene heard voices. She couldn’t make out the words but it seemed a woman was speaking reproachfully and a man grunted in reply.

      Always curious, Alkmene made for the door quickly and opened it a crack to see, indeed, the backs of a woman and a man, making for the staircase. He had grey in his dark hair, and her blonde locks seemed dyed. It was typical. Turning grey was fashionable for men, making them look mature and worthwhile, while women had to hide every sign of ageing, lest their beauty be ruined.

      Shaking her head, Alkmene straightened her dress and stepped into the corridor herself.

      Just as she was at the head of the stairs, she heard the front door slam. A voice said, ‘You’re going to explain this to Lady Alkmene.’

      She hurried down, calling, ‘Explain what to Lady Alkmene?’

      At the front door two men stood. One of them, tall, broad, his hair still reddish-blond despite his age, was Mr Hargrove. And beside him, just as tall and broad in the shoulders, but dark and brooding as always, was the reporter and her partner in crime for several adventures, Jake Dubois.

      ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ Alkmene exclaimed.

      Jake hitched a brow at Mr Hargrove. ‘I told you she wouldn’t like it.’

      Alkmene wanted to say she did like it, but thought better of it. Jake had enough self-confidence already. He used to joke he always had to save her life. Of course, he had been rather useful on more than one occasion, but there was no need to confirm that to him.

      Frowning at the pair of them, Alkmene said, ‘I had no idea you two knew each other.’

      Mr Hargrove shrugged. ‘We bumped into each other at some social event and got to talking about aviation. Mr Dubois is going to write up a piece about my involvement in creating a new type of engine. I thought it only appropriate to invite him to our little party tonight.’

      Alkmene hitched a brow. As Denise had aptly put it to her stepmother: ‘Papa loathes these parties.’ Why would Hargrove then invite someone to it, someone who didn’t move in the same social circles either? Hargrove might work on a new type of engine and enjoy a reporter’s interest in it, but he wouldn’t invite him into his family home, among his distinguished guests.

      Hargrove walked away into the drawing room where he greeted his wife with a peck on the cheek. She gave him a critical once-over and straightened his tie, speaking to him in what appeared to be an urgent or reproachful manner.

      Alkmene spied through the open door that the couple she had observed upstairs were also in there with her hostess. The man had a Mephistopheles beard that gave him a decidedly diabolical appearance. His wife had a cold, expressionless face, with remarkable light-green eyes.

      Alkmene turned back to Jake Dubois before he could brush past her to greet Mrs Hargrove. ‘So, why are you really here?’

      Jake feigned innocence. ‘Didn’t Hargrove just explain that?’

      ‘He might be grateful you’re going to extol his virtues as an aviation pioneer in the London papers, but not grateful enough to invite you to his manor, into his inner circle, for his wife’s celebrated masked ball.’

      ‘Hargrove isn’t old money. A man like him can see beyond old-fashioned class distinctions,’ Jake said softly.

      Alkmene held his gaze. ‘I don’t pretend to know Hargrove at all. Like you say, he isn’t old money and I doubt he’s been raised in the way an aristocrat would have been. He’s also anything but old-fashioned, so he might even consider befriending journalists the new chic. He would show you off at his club maybe, or introduce you to friends at the races or the theatre. But why bring you home to his wife, who is far more class-conscious because she wants to move up in the world? In case you don’t know yet, Mrs Hargrove decides things around here. Why run the risk of antagonizing her on this happy night? So… what’s really the matter?’

      Jake shook his head. ‘You’ve become oversuspicious, my lady, detecting mystery where there’s none.’

      ‘You’re here for a reason and, since we work together, you should tell me what it is.’

      ‘I don’t understand what you’re referring to,’ Jake said with a sweet smile. ‘Excuse me, I don’t want to keep my hostess waiting.’

      And he walked into the drawing room where Hargrove was standing beside his wife, lighting a small cigar with a silver lighter. Mrs Hargrove hitched a brow at Jake and reached out a hesitant hand, glancing at her husband with an ‘I’ll get back to you about this later’ look.

      Alkmene suppressed a grin and came in as well, making sure she was standing close enough to overhear how Hargrove introduced Jake. ‘Met at the club,’ Hargrove was saying, ‘and we got to talking about Eton.’

      Jake blanched, and Alkmene stepped closer. ‘Eton?’ she asked with an innocent smile. ‘How interesting.’

      Jake shot her a warning glance, but Mrs Hargrove was already distracted because the Mephistopheles bearded man had stepped forward, apparently waiting to be introduced. Not to Jake, but to Alkmene, as the straight stare of his intense blue eyes implied.

      ‘This is Theobald Zeilovsky,’ Mrs Hargrove purred. ‘A famous psychiatrist. He has written extensively on compulsive patterns of behaviour.’

      ‘Recurrent patterns of compulsive behaviour,’ Zeilovsky corrected her with a superior smile.

      ‘Yes,’ Mrs Hargrove said without flinching, ‘very interesting indeed. And Mrs Zeilovsky here is herself an expert in the field of, uh…’

      ‘Experimental psychology,’ Zeilovsky said. ‘She is a great help to me.’

      ‘I’m honoured,’ Mrs Hargrove said, ‘to receive both of them here for our masked ball. Now we must all have a drink before we go to dinner.’ She gestured at a man in black and white who had waited a few paces away with a tray full of tall glasses with a sparkly liquid in it. Alkmene recognized his smug expression at once. He was the man who had passed her in the corridor upstairs. The servant whose presence there had puzzled her. If he’d been hired to assist with serving at dinner and other kitchen-related chores, he had no business upstairs near the guest rooms.

      He apparently noticed her attention as he held the tray out to her so she could pick up a glass. He winked.

      Alkmene felt a sharp flush rise in her cheeks. It wasn’t the wink itself – for, despite Jake Dubois’ ideas about her, she wasn’t as class-conscious as others of her rank – but the complete confidence with which it was bestowed. Like he was winking at someone who should be happy he had acknowledged her. The superiority of it, even a strange sort of disdain, like he was mocking her, made her feel awkward.

      He had already moved on, was serving drinks to the other guests pouring into the room: a middle-aged lady with her husband and, right behind them, Denise. Her mood seemed to have improved again and she came for Alkmene at once. Gesturing at the middle-aged lady, she said, ‘That’s my Aunt Felicia. I must have mentioned her before.’

      Alkmene nodded. Felicia was the only sister of Denise’s deceased mother. Denise had mentioned the two had always looked alike, so that when they were children, they had been mistaken for twins. Right now, as she surveyed Felicia, she wondered if there was still a strong likeness with the late Mrs Hargrove. If so, it had to be awkward for both Hargrove and his new wife to have her around.

      But apparently Felicia was still a part of the family circle, invited here to spend the highlight of the season with them.

      Holding her glass, Alkmene moved over smoothly and smiled. ‘So nice to meet you. And your husband.’

      At that moment another man came in, a bored expression on his handsome face. He ignored the servant who offered him a drink and went straight for the window, folding

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