A special thanks to my fantastic editor at HQ Digital UK/HarperCollins Victoria Oundjian, for loving Lady Alkmene from the first chapter of A Proposal to Die For – read off Carina’s Will You Marry Me? special call – and to the design team for the amazing cover that reflects the era so well.

Note

Writing mysteries set in the 1920s, I’m grateful for all online information – think dress, transportation, etiquette and much more – to ensure an authentic period feel. Still, Lady Alkmene’s world remains fictional, including street addresses, establishments and even entire villages of my invention.

Chapter One

‘Marry me.’

The whispered words reached Lady Alkmene Callender’s ears just as she was reaching for the gold lighter on the mantelpiece to relight the cigarette in her ivory holder.

Freddie used to be a dear and bring her Turkish ones, but since he had been disinherited by his father for his gambling debts, his opportunities to travel had been significantly reduced, as had Alkmene’s stash of cigarettes. These ones, obtained from a tobacconist on Callenburg Square, had the taste of propriety about them that made them decidedly less appetizing than the exotic ones she had to hide from her housekeeper – who always complained the lace curtains got yellowish from the smoke.

‘Marry me,’ the insistent voice repeated, and Alkmene’s gaze wandered from the mirror over the mantelpiece to the table with drinks beside it.

Behind that table was a screen of Chinese silk, decorated with tiny figures tiptoeing over bridges between temples and blossoming cherry trees.

The voice seemed to emerge from behind the screen.

Another voice replied, in an almost callous tone, ‘You know I cannot. The old man would die of apoplexy.’

‘Not that he doesn’t deserve it. If he died, you’d inherit his entire fortune and we could elope.’

‘Where to?’

‘Gretna Green, I suppose. Where else does one elope to?’

Alkmene decided on the spot that the male speaker had a lack of fantasy, which would make him unsuitable for her adventurous mind. If you did elope, you’d better do it the right way, boarding the Orient Express.

‘I mean,’ the female said, in an impatient tone, ‘where would we live, how would we live? Off my fortune I suppose? I don’t think the major would give me a dime.’

‘What has the major got to do with it? Once the old man is dead and we are married, the money is yours.’

There was a particular interest in money in this young man’s approach that was disconcerting, Alkmene decided, but if the female on the other side of the Chinese silk didn’t notice or care, it was none of her business.

‘Alkmene, dushka…’

Alkmene turned on her heel to find the countess of Veveine smiling up at her from under too much make-up. The tiny Russian princess, who had married down to be with the love of her life, wore a striking dark green gown with a waterfall of diamonds around her neck. Matching earrings almost hung to her shoulders, and a tiara graced her silver hair. ‘I had expected to see you at the theatre last week. Everybody who is somebody was there.’

‘I was…’ reading up on the fastest-working exotic poisons ‘…detained unfortunately. But I trust you had a pleasant night?’

‘The new baritone from Greece was a revelation.’ The tiny woman winked. ‘You should meet him some time. Just the right height for you. Never marry a man who is shorter. You will always have to look down on him, and it is never wise to marry a man on whom one must look down.’

Alkmene returned her smile. ‘I will remember that.’

She heard a light scratch of wood and turned her head to see a young woman adjusting the Chinese screen. She wore a bright blue dress and matching diadem, her platinum blonde hair shining under the light of the chandelier.

She looked up and caught Alkmene’s eye. ‘The thing always tips over to the side.

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