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.
Once safely upstairs, Alkmene took a deep breath. It wasn’t just Denise’s odd behaviour on the way over and the vicious spat with her stepmother. This whole house exuded an exaggerated opulence, a need to show off and prove the owners worthy of their place in high society. The guests who were already here and who would be arriving in the next few hours would also be social climbers eager to establish their right to be here. Everybody would be watching the others and trying to rank their own position in comparison. Alkmene intensely disliked social scrutiny and the quiet condemnation that came with not quite being up to par – in her case, because she was still unmarried.
But she had accepted the invitation to the masked ball,