Berkley Prime Crime titles by Rhys Bowen

Royal Spyness Mysteries

HER ROYAL SPYNESS

A ROYAL PAIN

ROYAL FLUSH

ROYAL BLOOD

NAUGHTY IN NICE

THE TWELVE CLUES OF CHRISTMAS

Constable Evans Mysteries

EVANS ABOVE

EVAN HELP US

EVANLY CHOIRS

EVAN AND ELLE

EVAN CAN WAIT

EVANS TO BETSY

EVAN ONLY KNOWS

EVAN’S GATE

EVAN BLESSED

Specials

MASKED BALL AT BROXLEY MANOR

Masked Ball at Broxley Manor

Rhys Bowen

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

MASKED BALL AT BROXLEY MANOR

A Berkley Prime Crime Special / published by arrangement with the author

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime Special edition / October 2012

Copyright © 2012 by Janet Quin-Harkin.

Excerpt from The Twelve Clues of Christmas by Rhys Bowen copyright © 2012 by Janet Quin-Harkin.

Cover photos: Ballroom © JinYoung Lee; Figure Illustration by Lawrence Whitley.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 978-1-101-57860-5

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A story featuring Lady Georgiana before she became Her Royal Spyness . . .

Rannoch House

Belgrave Square, London W.1

October 1929

“Two letters have just come in the post for Georgiana!” My sister-in-law Fig sounded amazed, and a trifle annoyed too, as she took the envelopes from the silver salver the butler was holding. “And they look as if they might be invitations.”

We had been drinking coffee in the morning room of our London house—the easiest room to keep warm on a bleak October day. My brother—Hamish Albert Henry, Duke of Rannoch, usually known as Binky, had been reading the newspaper. I was curled on the window seat, looking out at the gardens in Belgrave Square, watching nannies pushing impressive prams and elderly colonels walking dogs and wondering what on earth I was going to do with myself all day. My brother, Binky, looked up from the Times with a mild display of interest.

I tried not to cross the room too eagerly to take the letters from her outstretched hand. Invitations had been few and far between recently. It was the end of my season. I had been presented at court (and nearly catapulted onto Their Majesties by mistake when I’d caught my heel in the train of my gown). I had been to balls, to Ascot, and done all the things a deb with severely limited funds could do. But I hadn’t found the man of my dreams. In fact I hadn’t even received one proposal—not from a halfway decent sort of chap anyway. At nineteen I feared I was destined to become an old maid.

I perched on the window seat and opened the first envelope, conscious of Fig’s and Binky’s eyes on me.

“It is an invitation,” I said excitedly. “To a masked Halloween ball at Broxley Manor.”

Fig’s jaw dropped in a most unladylike manor. “Broxley? Isn’t that the home of Lord Merriman?”

I glanced at the invitation and nodded. “That’s right. It says ‘Lord and Lady Merriman invite you.’”

“How on earth do you know Lord Merriman?” Fig sounded positively vexed now.

“I don’t. Never met the Merrimans.”

“Then why would they invite you of all people to a ball? They only mix with beautiful people.”

“Oh, Georgie’s not too bad,” Binky said, making my self-esteem sink even lower. “Maybe not beautiful but she’s a healthy-looking kind of girl.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Fig said. “Really, Binky, you are so clueless. I meant the smart set. You know, the Prince of Wales and his chums. Nobody like Georgie.”

“She is the Prince of Wales’s cousin, old bean,” Binky reminded her. It was always a sore spot to my sister-in-law that Binky and I were related to the royals and she wasn’t.

“Yes, but she doesn’t move in the same circles, does she? Monte Carlo and yachts on the Med and that kind of thing.”

“I have no idea why I was invited,” I said.

“Maybe they’ve invited all of this year’s debutantes,” Fig said, obviously trying to come up with an answer that would satisfy her. If I were just one of a crowd she could handle it. “Although I’ve never heard of anyone celebrating Halloween with a ball,” she added with a sniff.

“Lady Merriman is American, remember,” Binky put in. “They make a big thing of it over there.”

“Pagan feast, isn’t it? One step away from devil worship.” She took a long sip from her coffee cup.

“Steady on, old fruit. That’s a bit thick,” Binky said. “I’m sure it will be a fun and respectable ball and Georgie will have a wonderful time. She may even meet a chap, you never know.”

“She’s had all season to meet a chap,” Fig said coldly. She turned her reptilian gaze back to me. “So who is the other invitation from?”

I was about to open it when I noticed the royal crest embossed into the envelope. “I think it comes from the palace,” I said. I tore open the envelope with unseemly haste. “It does. ‘Their Majesties request the presence of Lady Georgiana Rannoch at a reception in honor of Prince Rupert and Prince Otto of Prussia.’”

“A reception? At Buck House? In honor of a couple of Prussian princes?” Fig’s voice had risen dangerously now.

“The war is long over, old bean,” Binky said. “Forgive and forget and all that, you know. And the kaiser is our cousin, after all. So that makes two second or third cousins, doesn’t it? I expect it’s a little family do.”

“Then why is Georgie invited to a little family do when we aren’t?” Fig was positively glaring at me now with undisguised hatred.

Binky shrugged. “It’s up to the king and queen to invite whom they want, Fig.”

“We don’t get out and about enough, Binky. That is our problem.” Fig rose from her chair and paced the room. “Their Majesties probably don’t even know we’re in London. We are not seen in society. They’ll think we’ve gone home to shoot.”

“We don’t get out and about because it costs money to be seen in society, Fig, and you know we have very little.” He paused. “Pretty much zero, actually.”

“We seemed to manage to fund Georgie’s season,” she said bitterly.

“We had to do the right thing for my sister,” Binky said. “She had to come out into society. Surely you agree to that, Fig.”

“And now she’s being invited to Buck House and we’re not.” She glared at me. “Do you know either of these Prussian princes, Georgiana?’

“Never met either of them,” I said. “I’ve never been to Germany.”

“Rupert is one of the kaiser’s younger sons,” Binky said. “I met them when they came over once before the war.”

“Wasn’t Otto the mad one?” Fig asked. “Didn’t they have to lock him away?”

“He was all right when I met him,” Binky said. “We played trains under the table and he wasn’t foaming at the mouth or anything. Of course I was only about five at the time. He spoke English quite well too, I remember. He had an English governess.”

“He’s obviously not foaming now or Their Majesties wouldn’t have invited people to a reception to meet him,” Fig said dryly. “But we do know that insanity runs in all the royal families. That’s the one thing Georgiana can be thankful for—that her father married a commoner.”

I was surprised she even acknowledged my mother, who had been a famous actress and was now a famous bolter, having run off with an absolute string of men across the globe.

“Of course the Prussian lot are not in power anymore,” Binky said, going back to his newspaper. “They are only princes in name. Although I understand that there is some talk of restoring the monarchy to keep out the communists.”

“Don’t tell me the communists are threatening to take over Germany now,” Fig said. “Surely the Germans aren’t silly enough to think that Russia is a good role model for anyone.”

“The communists are everywhere, Fig. Even in England. Anywhere where there is discontent among the masses, and Germany certainly has its share of that at the moment. We must stamp them out before they can do real damage. I hear that Rupert especially is in very thick with the new National Socialists. Now they seem to have the right idea.”

Fig was clearly disinterested in politics. “So when is this reception at the palace, Georgiana?” she asked, examining her face in the looking glass over the mantelpiece.

“Next Tuesday, and then the ball is in Hampshire on Saturday. Golly, what a busy week.”

“And what on earth will you wear?” she asked. “You don’t exactly have the right wardrobe for a place like Broxley.”

“My white deb’s gown should be suitable for the reception, shouldn’t it? And my tiara, since it’s royalty. But as for the ball, I don’t think I’ve got anything smart enough.” I looked at the invitation again. “Wait a minute,” I said. “It’s a masked ball.”

“Does that mean just masks or does it mean fancy dress costumes?” Fig asked, looking at Binky for the answer.

“Blowed if I know, old bean.” He looked up over his newspaper. “Never been to a bally masked ball. Never want to go. Not a ball-going type of chap. Why don’t you telephone Broxley and ask them?”

“Telephone?” Fig demanded. “All the way to Hampshire? Binky, you talk as if we were made of money. Georgiana will have time to write to them, and receive a reply, all for the cost of a postage stamp.”

“I’ll go and write to them immediately,” I said, sliding off the window seat. “If I have to provide a costume, I’ll need enough time to get something together.”

As I went upstairs I heard Fig mutter to Binky, “She gets invited to the palace and to places like Broxley Manor and yet nobody has proposed to her yet. What on earth is wrong with her? We’ll have an old maid on our hands if we’re not careful.”

“Oh, steady on, old bean. She is only nineteen,” I heard Binky say as I ran up the second flight of stairs. The conversation made me feel sick and hollow inside. Since my brother had inherited the title and estate after our father died, he was now Duke of Rannoch and owned the family homes. And his wife constantly made it clear that she wasn’t thrilled about having me around. But I had nowhere else to go—no money and no skills to survive on my own. Besides, the world was in the throes of a great depression and even people with qualifications a mile long were standing in breadlines. It was a discouraging thought to realize that my only option in life was to make a good marriage. If only I had looks and talent like my mother, I could have gone on the stage, but my only talent was being a passably good horsewoman. And I was too tall to be a jockey. I sighed and opened my wardrobe, staring at my meager collection of clothes. I was doomed either way. If it was a costume ball, my homemade effort would never compare with the smart designer costumes of the Prince of Wales’s set. If it was not . . . I held out a taffeta ball gown, made by our gamekeeper’s wife, and shuddered.

I almost sat down and replied that Lady Georgiana Rannoch regretted that she could not attend their ball. But then I told myself that I would be a fool to turn down a chance to go to a do at Broxley. I still had no idea why I had been invited, but if it made Fig feel miffed, then I was definitely going to go.

* * *

I waited with poorly concealed anticipation for an answer from Broxley to arrive in the post. Two days passed and no letter came. Tuesday arrived and I was in a flurry of nerves as I prepared for the reception at Buckingham Palace. You’d think that someone related to the royals would feel quite at home going to the palace. Absolutely not true. I tend to be a trifle clumsy when I’m in a difficult situation and I’m always scared I’ll break a piece of royal china, or knock red wine over a visiting diplomat. I looked at the white gown that Fig’s maid had ironed for me. Oh, golly, was white a sensible color? What if I dripped some kind of sauce down my front? I wasn’t very good at eating in public, especially in royal circles. At least we’d removed the train so I didn’t have that to trip over.

I was about to try on the dress when our butler, Hamilton, tapped on my bedroom door.

“You are wanted on the telephone, my lady,” he said.

I went downstairs, mystified. Nobody ever telephoned me. Perhaps the reception had been canceled? I felt a wave of relief flood over me.

I picked up the mouthpiece. “Hello,” I said cautiously.

“Is that Lady Georgiana?” an American voice said. “Honey, this is Dottie Merriman. You’re coming to our ball, and I just wanted to tell you that we’ve ordered a whole rack of costumes and masks, so don’t worry about bringing a thing. It seems that nobody in Britain stocks proper Halloween costumes—no skeletons or vampires or anything terrifying and ripping fun, so I had a whole trunk-load shipped over from the States. I do insist that my guests look creepy. Which train are you catching, honey? I’ll have Cavendish meet you at the station.”

I realized I hadn’t managed to say a single word until now. “I planned to arrive about five o’clock,” I said. “And after the ball, is one expected to stay the night?”

She had a delightfully musical laugh. “Honey, the ball will end with breakfast as the sun comes up. We never do things by halves at Broxley. See you on Saturday then. I know you’re going to have a ball.” And she burst into laughter as she hung up, leaving me breathless.

Reassured that I wouldn’t have to put together a costume, I rang for Fig’s maid to dress me for the reception. By the time I was secured into the white dress and my hair was arranged around the family tiara, which had been a gift from Queen Victoria to her daughter (my grandmother), I actually looked the part. I didn’t feel very regal inside as the taxicab dropped me at the visitors’ entrance to the palace and I was escorted up the grand staircase. In fact my knees were shivering violently under that thin white dress, and it had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. A footman appeared offering champagne. A small orchestra played Strauss waltzes in the far corner. Other people stood about in little groups, chatting awkwardly. I looked around desperately for anyone I might know, but the other guests all seemed to be my parents’ age or older. And my white dress stood out horribly.

There was no sign of Their Majesties nor of any of their children. A large red-faced man, his uniform dripping in medals, slunk up beside me.

“I say, hello, you delectable creature,” he said. “Don’t tell me. You’re the token sacrificial virgin.”

He laughed a hearty haw haw. I gave him what I hoped was a cold stare.

“Which one is the Hun then?” he asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” I said.

“Rum do this, what? Doesn’t seem that long ago that we were fighting the blighters and now we’re welcoming them with open arms.” He moved closer to me and slid a finger down my bare arm. “I say, you’re an attractive little filly. If it turns out to be too frightfully boring why don’t we just pop off somewhere alone? I know a quiet little nightclub where we could be very cozy.”

At that moment trumpets sounded the fanfare; the national anthem was played. A hush fell on the company as double doors opened and Their Majesties came in, the queen on the arm of a large, portly and very Germanic-looking man wearing more braid and medals than my obnoxious companion. They came forward, nodding and smiling through the room, pausing to chat here and there, until they stopped beside me.

“Georgiana, dear. How good of you to come,” the queen said, holding out her hand as I managed a curtsy without falling over. (As if one refused a queen!) She turned to her escort. “Rupert, may I introduce our young cousin Georgiana Rannoch.”

He took my hand, clicked his heels, then, to my horror, he drew my hand up to his lips. “Delighted,” he said. “Zis is the young lady of whom vee vere speaking, ja? My cousin too, I believe.” He looked at the king and queen for confirmation.

“That’s right,” the king said. “Her father and I were first cousins, just as we were with your father the kaiser.”

“Bertie Rannoch. I remember him. Good fellow,” Prince Rupert said. “And now his daughter is grown up. Charming.” He looked around with annoyance. “And where is Otto? Not here when his father needs and commands him to be present. Most disrespectful. Sons today do not know zat zey must obey their fathers.”

“We are well aware of that,” the queen said, turning to her husband. “Aren’t we, George?”

“You mean the Prince of Wales, don’t you? Confounded boy. Won’t get married,” King George snapped. “Can’t force him. Would if I could.”

“I expect young Otto will turn up eventually,” the queen said. “We must greet the rest of our guests.”

She gave me a knowing sort of nod that I couldn’t quite interpret. My only satisfaction was that the red-faced man beside me had turned distinctly green, realizing he’d been about to seduce the king’s cousin. I smiled at him. “Jolly party, isn’t it?” I said and deliberately trod on his toe as I moved away.

Other people came into the salon. The Duke and Duchess of York came over to greet me and I asked about their little daughters.

“So Prince Otto hasn’t put in an appearance,” the duchess muttered to me. “His father is not well pleased with him. Just as Bertie’s father is not pleased with David. Heaven knows where he is tonight. Or with what type of woman.”

“From what one gathers Otto and David have a lot in common,” the Duke of York said. I noticed that when he chatted with someone he knew, he hardly stuttered at all. “Both of them refusing to grow up and accept responsibility.”

I saw Prince Rupert glancing at the entrance from time to time but Otto did not appear by the time the reception ended, the king and queen retired and the rest of us went home. It wasn’t until I was sitting in the taxicab that it finally struck me. “Oh, crikey,” I muttered out loud. I realized why I had been invited to the reception: they were trying to hitch me up with Prince Otto!

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised but I was. I was only a very minor royal, only thirty-fourth in line to the throne, but the king had no more daughters to dispose of and it was obviously a good idea to reestablish ties with postwar Germany. So I had been the sacrificial virgin after all. I wondered what Otto was like. I wouldn’t have minded marrying my cousin the Prince of Wales. He was rather dashing, and fun too, even if he was shorter than me. I remembered what Fig had said. Were they trying to foist Otto on me because he was actually mad? I was glad he hadn’t shown up. Who knows, they might have had a priest waiting in the anteroom.

* * *

I felt both scared and excited as I prepared to take the train to Broxley on Saturday. I really hadn’t been out in real grown-up society much and certainly hadn’t had experience in mixing with the smart set with their witty repartee. I hoped that Fig had been right and that the rest of my fellow debs had been invited. I wished I had a maid to accompany me and help me dress, but my own maid stayed in Scotland and Fig wasn’t about to lend me hers. Perhaps people as rich as the Merrimans would have maids to spare.

The train journey seemed to take hours as the sun set in a fiery ball over the bleak October countryside. It was hot in the first-class compartment and I had almost dozed off when I heard a voice shouting “Broxley Halt.” I gathered my bags hastily and alighted. So did several others, including a smartly dressed woman with sleek black hair and a tall dark man with a mustache. She was wearing a gorgeous black mink and he had a fur collar on his overcoat.

“They said they’d send an automobile for us,” the woman said in an American accent, “but I don’t see it. Go see if you can locate it, honey.” Her gaze fell on me, taking in my well-worn overcoat. “Are you bound for Broxley, miss?” she asked. “Coming to help out at the party?”

Before I could answer indignantly that I was going to the party she went on. “They are sending a car for us but I expect we could squeeze you in somewhere. You certainly can’t walk in this weather.”

A chauffeur in livery now approached. “Are you Lady Georgiana, my lady?” he asked. “I was sent to meet you.”

“I am,” I said as he bent to take my bags. “And this lady and gentleman are also for Broxley. I expect we can find room for them, can’t we?” Then I smiled sweetly at the fur-clad American woman. She looked daggers at me. I decided that it was useful to be royal after all.

“So you’re Lady Georgiana,” the woman said as the motorcar took off. “I’ve heard about you. Most eligible deb of the year, aren’t you? Have you landed a husband yet, or is the royal family supposed to hitch you up with a European princeling?”

I thought she was being frightfully informal to someone she didn’t know, so I reverted to formality, as I always do when nervous. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced,” I said.

She threw back her head and laughed. “You British are so delightfully stuffy. Wallis Simpson, honey. Newly arrived from Baltimore and friend of Lady Merriman.” She glanced to her left. “And this is my husband.” To him she said, “This young lady is related to the royals, so mind your manners.”

We rode the rest of the way in near silence. Wallis Simpson powdered her nose and applied a red gash of lipstick to her mouth. Then we turned in between gates and I got my first glimpse of Broxley. It was called Broxley Manor but it was nothing like my idea of a manor house. The old manor houses are usually square and low and simple. This was Victorian indulgence at its most opulent, complete with turrets, battlements, towers. I had studied up on it during the week and read that the present viscount’s grandfather had made a lot of money in the India trade, had the old manor pulled down and this monstrosity built instead. They were now one of the richest families in England.

“Well, they’ve certainly done themselves proud. Look, honey,” Mrs. Simpson said to her husband. “I just love the way English aristocrats live. I plan to have a place like this myself someday.”

“I don’t know where you’re going to put it in Baltimore,” Mr. Simpson said, giving me a wink.

“Who said anything about Baltimore,” she replied.

The car came to a stop under a portico, and footmen in smart gold-and-black livery came running to open the door. Mrs. Simpson made sure she got out first. As I climbed out after her a diminutive figure in an exquisitely cut Parisian gown appeared at the top of steps and rushed toward us, arms open.

“Wallis, you came. How lovely.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, honey,” Mrs. Simpson said, kissing her an inch from her cheek. “Tell me, is a certain royal person going to attend as you promised?”

“The Prince of Wales? Of course. He never misses one of my parties. You’ll adore him, Wallis.”

“Will I?” She gave an enigmatic smile.

Our hostess turned her charming smile to me. “And you must be Georgiana. I met your father in Monte Carlo. What a delightful man. We were so sorry when he died. Has your season been fun? No proposals yet, I hear. Or at least none that you’ve accepted. Never mind. There’s always tonight. Come along in out of the cold. Tea is being served in the long drawing room.”

I realized one wasn’t required to speak much when Lady Merriman was around. We were escorted into the house, where servants took our overcoats and luggage. Then Lady Merriman ushered us in through a doorway to our right. It was a large comfortable sitting room with groups of sofas and armchairs and in the middle a roaring fire blazed in a big marble fireplace. The room was amazingly warm for one who has grown up in a Scottish castle and I realized that they must have had central heating installed. No fireplace could heat that well. An elegant company was assembled, many of them standing around the fireplace. I recognized several faces from glossy magazines and at the center of the liveliest group was my cousin, the Prince of Wales.

Lady Merriman stepped into the throng. “Everyone, I want you to meet our latest arrivals, Lady Georgiana Rannoch and Mr. and Mrs. Simpson, old chums from America.”

My cousin David’s face lit up. “What ho, Georgie.” He held out his hand to me.

I took it and bobbed the required curtsy. “Hello, sir.” (One always has to call royals sir and ma’am, even if they are cousins.)

“So you’re out in society, are you?” he said, still beaming at me. “Splendid. Glad to see you all grown up and looking so pretty.”

David had always been kind. I was sure I didn’t look pretty compared to all those Chanel outfits and cashmeres I could see in that crowd.

Mrs. Simpson gave an annoyed little cough. The Prince of Wales turned his attention to her. “How do you do. Welcome to England.”

Mrs. Simpson dropped a gorgeous curtsy. “I can’t tell you how I’ve been longing to meet you, Your Highness,” she said.

“Have you, by Jove.” And David’s fair skin turned bright pink.

Tea included every scrumptious sandwich, scone, cake and pastry in creation. I observed that the rest of the company seemed to be much older than I and frightfully smart. Worse still, they all seemed to know each other. So I was allowed to eat undisturbed, which was a good thing actually as éclairs are not always easy things to manage and I hate to have to talk with cream on my nose. I heard snatches of conversation around me about people and places that meant nothing to me, and then I heard something that made me pay attention. “So tell me, is the rumor correct? Is Prince Otto really going to grace us with his presence?”

“He’s promised to. He’s driving down and will join us later,” Lady Merriman said.

“My dear, you manage to snag such a glittering company of guests,” another woman said. “How do you do it?”

“Simple. Good food, good wine, beautiful women. Who can resist that combination?” And Lady Merriman laughed. I sat poised with a slice of walnut cake halfway to my lips.

“Oh, golly,” I muttered. So that was why I had been invited—they were determined to get me together with Prince Otto, one way or another.

“It’s all right,” I told myself. “I don’t have to like him. They can’t force me to marry him. It isn’t the Middle Ages.”

“So that’s why there are policemen hiding in the bushes around the house,” another of the women said. “I thought they were to protect the Prince of Wales.”

“I don’t need protecting,” David said. “Who’d want to bump me off? I’m not worth assassinating. Besides, everyone adores me.”

“Of course we do.” Lady Merriman smiled at him fondly.

“I thought they were to keep out your husband, Pauline,” someone said, getting a good laugh.

“We have been warned that we can’t be too careful,” Lady Merriman said. “There are anarchists and communist agitators everywhere these days and Prince Otto is a guest of His Majesty.”

When tea was over and more guests had arrived, Lady Merriman clapped her hands. “Those of you who didn’t bring a costume—now is your chance to take your pick from our selection upstairs. I’ll lead the way. And you need to keep up. It’s easy to get lost in this house. We once found a guest who’d been gone for a week.” She gave a melodic peal of laughter.

As we followed her out of the drawing room I noticed that Mrs. Simpson had moved closer to the Prince of Wales and whispered something into his ear. He blushed again and laughed. The queen wouldn’t be happy to hear about her, I thought. She would definitely not be considered a suitable companion. Thank heavens she was already married.

In a guest bedroom upstairs there were racks of costumes and by the time I arrived women were already fighting over them—in well-bred fashion, of course. I had no idea what I wanted to be. The first dresses I looked at seemed rather provocative with exceedingly low necklines. Certainly not for me. I didn’t fancy being a lady vampire either. I was looking for something innocuous when Lady Merriman grabbed my arm and drew me aside. “I’ve the perfect costume for you, Georgiana—here you are, honey.”

She lifted a long black dress from a hanger. It appeared to have some sort of wings.

“What am I, a harpy?” I asked.

She laughed. “No, honey. You’re a fallen angel. Such a cute little dress that I thought of you immediately.”

I took the outfit, not sure why she thought of me as a fallen angel. Or . . . an uneasy thought crossed my mind . . . was she planning that I was going to lose my virginity tonight? And if so with whom?

“And do go next door to pick out a mask,” she was saying. “We’ve a splendid array of Venetian masks that we brought back from Venice for this ball.” She clapped her hands. “Pay attention, everyone—it’s essential that nobody recognize you so choose wisely. We’ll have the guessing of identities and stripping of the masks at midnight.”

If this was the rule, I wondered why she had let everybody know who I was going to be.

“You’ll find rooms to change in all along this hallway,” she went on. “One thing we haven’t in this house is a shortage of bedrooms. There are a hundred and one to be precise, so take your pick. And anyone who didn’t bring a maid, just ask.”

As I was leaving in search of a room I heard Lady Merriman’s voice saying, “No, Rodney, you can’t be the devil. I’ve been asked to reserve that costume for a rather special person.”

“Who could possibly be more special than I, my love?’ the man called Rodney asked in a peeved voice.

“You’re not a prince, honey.” She patted his cheek.

I felt the color draining from my face. I saw clearly now. It really was a conspiracy. The devil’s costume was for Prince Otto. He and I had been assigned our costumes so that we were a pair and would recognize each other at the ball. We were supposed to meet and fall in love and all would be well. He might not be too bad, I thought. Some members of our family are quite good looking. But I kept hearing Fig’s voice in my head: “Wasn’t Otto the mad one? Didn’t they have to lock him away?”

I found an empty bedroom and almost immediately a maid arrived to help me dress. I had to admit that the costume was rather gorgeous and oh so sophisticated: a long black dress, beautifully draped (and a little revealing at the cleavage), with a low back and the sort of wings one sees on angels in Renaissance paintings—only black instead of white. It was topped with a strange, spiky halo that one wore at an angle and long black gloves. It fit as if it had been made for me. When I put on my golden mask I didn’t look at all like Georgiana Rannoch, naïve country girl fresh from the schoolroom. I looked like a svelte woman, like one of those other women who were the Merrimans’ guests.

That didn’t stop me from feeling so horribly nervous that I wanted to be sick as I went downstairs. Music was spilling out of the ballroom and couples were already dancing to a lively two-step. At the ballroom doorway I stopped short, alarmed. Great spiderwebs were strung from one chandelier to the next. Skeletons and ghosts and hanged men dangled from the ceiling. A strange cauldron bubbled in one corner. Smoke curled across the floor. The whole room was bathed in red light so that the masks on the dancers glowed in an unearthly fashion. It was a strange sight to watch witches and vampires and other creatures dancing and chatting happily and I hesitated at the door, scared to go in.

When Frankenstein’s monster lumbered up to me and grabbed my hand I had to stifle a scream. But he said in a perfectly ordinary voice, “Don’t worry. I’m your host Lord Merriman and I was instructed by my wife to look out for you. Care for a spin around the dance floor?”

And so I started to fox-trot with a monster who chatted to me pleasantly about how my season had gone, whether I’d done much shooting yet this year, while I couldn’t take my eyes off the bolt sticking out of his neck. Such a bizarre feeling. At the end of the dance Lord Merriman escorted me to a seat and had a footman bring a jug of punch to my table. New guests arrived in a noisy group and he went off to greet them, leaving me sitting alone. The ball went on and the ballroom filled with couples. Before this I had only been to debutants’ balls, which were severely chaperoned. I had never seen people behaving with such familiarity in public. There were hands on derrieres, couples dancing so closely together that there was no space between them and even couples slinking off together, heading for the stairs, presumably to find a bedroom. And they all seemed to know one another, even though they were masked. I wondered which one was the Prince of Wales and whether he and Mrs. Simpson were dancing together.

I sat observing from my seat in the shadows, feeling in one way like a wallflower, but in another relieved that I didn’t have to fight off wandering hands or improper suggestions. Then a Paul Jones was suggested and I was dragged from the safety of my chair to join. For those of you who have no idea what a Paul Jones is, it’s only a method of selecting random partners to dance with. The ladies formed an inner circle, the men an outer. The music started and the men circled to the right, ladies to the left, until the music stopped. I found myself opposite a large troll.

“Jolly party, what?” he said as we stomped off to a quickstep. “The Merrimans certainly know how to go overboard. Of course she’s not British. Doesn’t quite know what’s proper, what?”

Unfortunately he danced like a troll and trod on my toes about every other step. I was glad when the music summoned us back to our circles again. Off we went until the music stopped and I found myself facing a vampire.

“Ah. A young maiden. How delightful. What a lovely white neck,” he said as he drew me to him. I suppose part of me resisted, and, I realized later, the punch I had thought to be harmless was already beginning to take effect. As he pulled at me I staggered backward and bumped into somebody.

“I’m sorry,” I said. I tried to move but for some reason I could not step forward. I heard a woman’s voice behind me saying, “What are you doing? Let go.”

I tried to turn around and saw that one of my wings had hooked itself onto a frill at the back of a green sprite’s costume. As I tried to extricate myself the frill started to unravel to my horror. I was frozen in utter confusion and mortification. I could not reach behind myself to free my wing and I couldn’t turn without unraveling more of the woman’s costume.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” the woman sounded really angry now. “You’re wrecking my costume. You’ll have me naked in a minute.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad, sweetie. In fact I’d rather enjoy it,” said her partner.

Suddenly help arrived. “Here, let me,” said a deep voice. In a second my wing came free and I catapulted into rescuing arms.

“Thank you,” I gasped. “That was so embarrassing. I’m sorry,” I looked back at the water sprite, who was now smoothing out her damaged dignity. Then I turned to my rescuer. It was the devil himself.

He was tall and slim. That was really all I could see of him. He wore a tight-fitting black outfit and a long black cape lined with red. His hair was hidden by a black cap that sprouted neat little red horns, and his eyes were behind a slim red mask. He was smiling at me revealing a strong jaw and a mouth of perfect teeth. He looked quite dashing and very scary.

“We meet at last,” he said in a low voice.

“It was kind of you to come to my rescue,” I stammered.

“We inhabitants of the nether regions have to stick together,” he said. “I take it you are a fallen angel? But you really have to learn to control those wings or you’ll be hopeless at flying.”

The music changed to a slow waltz. “Shall we?” he asked.

His hand that slid onto my bare back was firm and strong and elicited an unexpected shiver as he drew me close to him.

“I’m not supposed to know who you are, but I do,” he said. He spoke with a refined English accent, but so properly that I sensed he was working hard at it.

“I think I know who you are too, sir,” I said.

He laughed then. He had a wonderful laugh, rich, genuine. “Do you? I wonder.”

We danced. He glided me effortlessly across the floor. I felt as if I were floating. I couldn’t believe it was happening to me. At the end of the dance he stayed at my side and escorted me to my seat. Then he pulled up a chair beside me. “Is this your first visit to the Merrimans’?” he asked.

“It is. I don’t know them at all,” I said.

“Neither do I.” He laughed again. “In fact I’ll let you into a secret if you promise not to tell. I’m a complete gate-crasher.”

I laughed now. “No you are not.”

“Oh, but I am,” he said. “I make a practice of it. How else would I dine and wine well?”

“You’re making fun of me,” I said.

“I assure you I’m not,” he said. “During this time of depression it makes so much sense to eat someone else’s food and drink someone else’s wine, don’t you think? Especially when the ‘someone else’ is as rich as the Merrimans.”

A hag with long white hair and a white mask came up to us. “So you’ve got together. Splendid,” said Lady Merriman’s voice. “I’m going to have them send over some champagne for you.”

“That would be most appropriate,” my companion said. I saw dark eyes flash beneath that mask as he looked back at me.

Champagne arrived in a silver bucket and was opened with a satisfying pop. Two glasses were poured and my companion held up his glass to me. “To the future. May it be everything you dream of,” he said and our glasses clinked together. As I took a sip my heart was beating very fast. He was tall and from what I could see he was handsome. He had a lovely voice and a terrific smile and a wonderful sense of humor. He seemed to be considerate. Oh, and he was a prince. What more could I want in a man?

The music began again and he held out his hand to me. He held me very tight as we danced and I could feel his heart beating against my chest. During the balls of my season I had danced with a variety of chaps, but mostly they had been clodhopping and awkward, stepping on my toes and trying to make stilted conversation about hunting and shooting—the only subjects they knew. With this man there was nothing awkward at all. It felt as if we belonged together. I had never been close to a man before, conscious of his body against mine, the warmth of his breath on my cheek, two hearts beating as one. It was heady and exciting and I couldn’t believe it was happening to me.

“So what will you do now that your season is over?” he asked me.

“I have no idea,” I said. “I’ll have to go back to Scotland with the family when they close up the London house, I suppose. I wish there was something I could do. I’d love a job, but I have no qualifications and no skills except to walk around with a book on my head and know where to seat a bishop at the dinner table.”

He laughed. “Do you know a lot of bishops then?”

“None.”

“Then I agree it’s not the most useful skill in the world. But never mind. You’ll marry a prince or a duke or a count and live happily ever after, I expect.”

“I’m not sure that I’m ready to get married yet,” I heard myself saying. “Nineteen is so awfully young, isn’t it? And I haven’t seen anything of life. How can I make the right choice? I know debs are supposed to find their future husbands during this year, but it seems rather frightening to make a decision about spending the rest of one’s life with someone one hardly knows.”

“I agree,” he said. “But aren’t young ladies in your position supposed to make a good match, with no regard for your personal feelings about the chap?”

“I’m not about to inherit any kingdom,” I said. “I’m only thirty-fourth in line to the throne so how can I be of any importance in international affairs?”

“Any link to the House of Windsor is valuable these days. You won the war, remember.” I noticed that he said you.

“Anyway, I plan to marry for love,” I said. “I don’t want to spend my life being miserable.”

“Quite right,” he said.

“But if I happened to fall in love with the family’s choice for me, that would be marvelous,” I added.

“Then let us drink a toast to that.” He raised his glass again and his eyes met mine.

The champagne tickled all the way through my body. I wasn’t used to drinking and I’d already had several glasses of that lethal punch. When my partner took my hand again and drew me up to dance I felt the room swing around and I had a strange feeling that my feet weren’t touching the floor.

“Shouldn’t you offer to dance with some of the other ladies?” I asked as his hand came around my waist again. “I wouldn’t want to monopolize you all evening.”

“Haven’t you noticed?” he whispered. “We are the only couple under forty. I heartily dislike dancing with older women. Too bony and bitchy.”

I laughed then. He smiled too. “That’s more like it. You looked like a scared rabbit when I first spotted you. You belong here. You have a better pedigree than all but one. They should be honored by your presence.”

“I don’t feel that way,” I said. “I see them as rich, confident, sophisticated and me as a girl just out from school with no experience of the world.”

“Then we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?” he whispered in my ear and drew me close to him. “So tell me—have you even been kissed?”

“Sort of,” I said. “A few chaps tried it at the various balls but I don’t think they were very good at it.”

I hadn’t noticed that he had steered us toward an alcove dotted with huge potted palm trees. He pulled me to him. “Let me show you what you’ve been missing.” And then he kissed me. Gently at first, his lips teasing mine, and then more hungrily as he felt me responding to him. I had never known that a kiss could feel like this. I had never known what desire felt like, but I was feeling it now, and as I yielded to his kiss, the thought flooded through my mind that I might be spending the rest of my life with this man. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.

At last we broke apart breathlessly. I noticed he was breathing as hard as I was. “I don’t think we better take it any further tonight,” he said as he gazed down into my eyes, “or I might not be responsible for my actions. I must say I’m glad you chose such a simple little mask, otherwise kissing would have been impossible, or I would have been forced to remove the mask—which is not allowed until midnight.”

I realized that midnight was not far away and felt a thrill of excitement about looking at his face for the first time. I hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed when he saw me unmasked. As I glanced across the room to the ornate gold clock on a sideboard I saw something I couldn’t quite believe.

“That man just put something in your drink,” I said indignantly.

He stiffened and I felt his hand tense on my shoulder. “Are you sure? What man?”

“See, that one. Sort of white and formless, like a ghost. But I’d swear I saw a hand come out from under all that flowing fabric and it tipped something into your drink.”

He dragged me rapidly back to the table, picked up his glass and sniffed at it.

“They don’t play around, do they?” he said. “Cyanide, if I’m not mistaken.” He picked up my glass. “They obviously wanted to finish you off too. There’s some in yours.”

“But who would want to do that?” I asked.

He shrugged. “There are plenty of anarchists’ groups who are sworn to do away with royalty, and of course Russia is reaching out communist tentacles, hoping to topple all Western governments.”

“That’s horrible.”

“But a fact, nonetheless.” He picked up both glasses. “Now do what I say. Stay put and do not move. And don’t eat or drink anything unless you’re sure it’s safe. Understand?”

“Where are you going?”

“To find the bastard who did this.”

“Don’t go.” I touched his arm. “Tell Lord Merriman. They have policemen around the house.”

“That will be too late,” he said. “Stay with the crowd. You’re safer here.”

I watched as he forced his way through dancing couples and out of one of the French doors. Just as he exited a deep bell started tolling. Then the sweet chimes of the ormolu clock were added to it.

“Midnight, everybody,” Lady Merriman’s voice called. “Come on through to the gold salon for the grand unveiling of masks, and then we’ll all go in to supper. Come on, come on. No lagging.”

She drove us out of the ballroom like a diminutive sheepdog, through to a lovely white-and-gilt room where we took our seats in a circle of chairs. I looked around the circle but didn’t see the wraithlike figure who had tried to kill us. I kept glancing across at the French doors, wondering whether my dancing partner had found the man and when he’d be back.

“You probably all know by now who we are so we’ll go first,” Lady Merriman said. “Come on, Podge, take your mask off.”

“About time.” Lord Merriman wrestled with his monster head. “I was just about suffocating under this thing. Somebody help me off with it.”

One of the footmen rushed forward to help him and soon a distinguished gray-haired head appeared, his face a little flushed. Lady Merriman had taken off her mask and fluffed out her hair. “There, that’s better, isn’t it? Who is going to go next? Order of precedence, Your Royal Highness? “

“Very well,” my cousin’s voice said and an extravagant birdlike Venetian mask was removed to reveal the Prince of Wales.

Before any more masks could be removed there was a deep boom outside the building. The French doors blew open, a great gust of wind rushed in and the whole house shook. People jumped to their feet, alarmed. A couple of women screamed.

“What is it? What’s going on?’ a woman shrieked.

“Stay put, everyone,” Lord Merriman said in a commanding voice. “Nobody go anywhere. We’ve got police around the building. I’m sure we’re quite safe in here if we stick together. I’m going to see what’s happening.”

“Do you think they’ve bombed Broxley, Podge?” Lady Merriman asked. “Bombed our lovely house?”

“I’m sure everything’s all right, Dottie. You keep our guests entertained.”

“All right, but take care, won’t you?” Lady Merriman called after him. She turned back to us and tried to manage a bright smile. “On with our game and off with the motley. Who is next, Prince Otto?”

“Where is Prince Otto?” a woman’s voice said. “I don’t see him. Oh my God. They haven’t killed Prince Otto, have they?”

My heart had almost stopped beating. That blast had come from outside the French doors and that was exactly where Prince Otto had gone. It was all I could do to force myself to stay seated.

“I’m sure Prince Otto is just fine,” Lady Merriman said.

“Here I am. Quite safe. No cause for alarm,” said a voice by the door, and a man in a devil’s costume stepped out among us. “Please do not worry. I am sure your excellent police will soon have apprehended the man who tried to harm us.”

He came into the light and I stared hard at him. It was the same costume all right, but there was something different about him. Even the voice was different—higher and with a slight foreign accent.

“It is my turn to remove the mask, nicht wahr? Very well. I shall have a devil of a time doing it.” And he laughed as he pulled off the red mask and black cap. I found myself looking at a chubby and rather silly face with a weak chin. He had fair hair and blue eyes that drooped a little at the corners. He was definitely not the same person I had danced with.

“Go and sit next to lady Georgiana, Otto,” Lady Merriman said. “She looks quite upset.”

She led Otto to the seat beside me. “Your turn, I believe,” he said. He reached across and removed my mask. “Ah, yes,” he said. “My dear cousin Georgiana. I am so sorry you were frightened by the explosion. But you have had a pleasant ball so far, I hope. You enjoyed the dancing?”

“Yes, thank you,” I mumbled. I could hardly get out the words. My mind was reeling. My partner had told me he was an interloper, a gate-crasher, and obviously it was true. But who was he, and why had he gate-crashed the ball disguised as Prince Otto? And then my brain took this supposition one stage further. Was it possible that he was perhaps the anarchist himself, in cahoots with the man who put poison in a drink intended for me? After all, the explosion had happened soon after he went outside, through those French doors. I didn’t want to believe that of him. It was breaking my heart, in fact.

Otto was chatting on. “I am so sorry that I missed the reception that the king and queen gave for me the other day. I understand that you were there. I was unavoidably detained with friends in the country. A spot of motorcar trouble, you know.”

His English was fluent but clipped and Germanic.

The company had recovered from shock and other people were now removing masks to expressions of surprise and laughter. Lady Merriman had just suggested that we go in to supper when the French doors opened again and Lord Merriman came in, accompanied by a young bobby.

“It’s all right,” he said. “They caught the blighter. Some foreign chappy trying to bump off Prince Otto, from what we can gather.”

“Really, it is too bad that one can’t feel safe in England anymore,” Lady Merriman said. “Did he do any damage to our house?”

“No, luckily the bomb was wrenched away from him and hurled away from the house before it could explode,” Lord Merriman said. “It has blown a crater in one of the lawns, that’s all. Easily remedied. So sorry, everyone. Let’s put it out of our minds and go in to supper, shall we? We’ll show these foreign blighters that they can’t scare us.”

Prince Otto rose to his feet and offered me his arm. I took it and allowed myself to be led through double doors to a dining room where a magnificent spread awaited us on long, white-clothed tables. We ate very frugally at home, as Fig was in full economy mode, so on any other occasion I would have been thrilled to see whole smoked salmons, cold chickens, plates of oysters, mounds of caviar, lobsters, cold venison and all the foods I dreamed of when we were forced to face baked beans yet again. But I wasn’t used to eating this late and my stomach was tied in knots. I couldn’t stop thinking about my mystery man. I wondered if I should say anything to Lord Merriman, to tell him that my dance partner had been a gate-crasher at the party and had claimed that someone tried to poison our drinks. But if they had already caught him, his fate was sealed anyway. A wave of overwhelming sadness enveloped me. For the first time in my life I had met a man with whom I could really fall in love, and he had turned out to be a fake. Perhaps his kisses had been fake too—a pleasant way to pass the time until he went outside to detonate the bomb that would have killed us all.

“You do not eat,” Prince Otto said. His own plate was piled high. “Not good to starve yourself. You need more meat on your bones. Here, let me give you this good venison.”

I looked at the small foreleg in horror. All I could picture was a fawn standing in the forest. When Otto wasn’t looking I put down that plate, picked up another and served myself a little caviar and a fruit jelly. Otto escorted me back to the gold salon where he procured two chairs in a corner. “Zis is cozy, ja?” he said. “Now we get to know each other better and you tell me amusing stories of your royal relations.”

There was no way I wanted to tell him amusing stories. Actually, I didn’t want to sit beside him, so I said, sweetly, “You were a little late in coming to the party, weren’t you, sir?”

“Me?” he gave me a long look of innocence. “But I have been here all the time. You must be remarkably unobservant because I believe I danced with you.”

I didn’t feel like taking this any further. I wanted to get away, to be among people with whom I felt safe. “Oh, yes,” I said. “So you did.”

“And I hope I was a good dancer?” he teased.

“The best,” I said.

The Prince of Wales, with the Simpsons in tow, came up to join us.

“Ah, so you’ve finally met young Georgie, have you, Otto?” The prince pulled up a chair beside us and Mrs. Simpson sat in it, giving him a dazzling smile of gratitude. Mr. Simpson grunted and loitered in the background.

“I have, and your mother was right. She is quite charming,” he said.

“Then at least one of us had better do the right thing and get married,” my cousin said.

“So my father keeps telling me,” Otto replied. “But I do not see why I have to do the right thing any longer. It is not as if we have a dynasty to continue. We are no longer in power. We are passé, has-beens. So why not just amuse ourselves and to hell with duty?”

Conversation was broken off as a plainclothes officer stepped into the room. “You will be pleased to know that the man who tried to commit this heinous act is currently being driven to Southampton in a police motorcar. Our men have searched the grounds and found no accomplices, so I’m happy to tell you that it is quite safe to carry on enjoying your evening.”

Lady Merriman got up. “Thank you, Inspector. And if your men would like to come in for some supper in the servants’ hall, they would be most welcome.”

“Good of you, my lady,” he said, “but I think they should stay on duty around the house at least until it’s light. Just in case. We can’t be too careful where these foreign assassins are concerned, can we? Look what started the Great War.”

“Then I’ll have some food sent out to them,” Lady Merriman said. “Tell me, do they like smoked salmon? Maybe pasties would be safer. And are they allowed to drink on duty? We’ve a very innocuous punch.” And she went out of the room before the stunned man could answer any of these questions.

Before he could leave the room, I went over to him. “Tell me, Inspector,” I said. “What did this man you arrested look like?”

“Nasty, foreign-looking chap,” he said. “Unshaven. Big dark fellow. Shabbily dressed. He put up a good fight too, when our lads brought him to the ground. Biting and snarling like some kind of wild animal, he was.”

Now I was even more confused. That didn’t sound like my dancing partner either.

Prince Otto had now come to join me. “Do not concern yourself, liebchen,” he said. “I am sure we are safe and all is well. Listen. The music has begun again. Shall we go and dance?”

I could hardly refuse as other couples were now making their way back to the ballroom. As we walked he said to me, “I have been thinking. You seem to be a pleasant young woman. It is true you are not a great beauty, but you look wholesome and healthy enough. If I really must marry, then I could do worse. It will stop the family from constantly reminding me of my duty.” Then to my horror he slipped his arm around my waist and drew me closer to him. “And you would have an agreeable life with me. Berlin is a delightful city with many amusements. And I would allow you much freedom. You would even be free to take a lover, providing you were discreet.”

“And you would be free to take a mistress?” I asked innocently.

He chuckled. “But of course. That is how it is done with our kind of people. But at least a marriage fits the bill, so to speak, doesn’t it? It cements family ties across Europe. It provides each of our countries with a valuable connection.” I was about to remind him that his grandfather the kaiser and our King George were first cousins but it hadn’t prevented the worst war the world had ever known. But I decided there was no point. Otto went on cheerfully, “Everyone would be happy.”

“Not me,” I said and was amazed at my bravery. “I wouldn’t be happy, Otto.”

He stopped and looked stunned. “You do not like me?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re very nice,” I said, “but I don’t know you. And I certainly don’t love you. When I marry, it will only be for love.”

He laughed. “You are still young and inexperienced. I understand this. When you grow older you will realize that marriage is only a formality, designed to keep wealth and power among the right families. And to produce an heir. Love does not come into this.”

“Well, it should,” I said. “I do not wish to spend my life with someone I don’t love, watching him sneak off to be with his mistresses. That’s not for me. I want to marry for love and live happily ever after.”

“Your trouble is that you have too much of your great-grandmother Queen Victoria in you,” he said.

“You’re right,” I said. “I’m proud to be like her. And until I find my Prince Albert, I shall remain fancy-free.”

“Your king and queen will not be pleased about this.”

“I think they’ll understand,” I said. “And if they don’t like it—I’m only a very minor member of the family. Of no consequence at all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m feeling very tired.”

I pulled away and gave him a polite sort of bow and went upstairs. I was feeling rather proud of myself by the time I located the room I had changed in and took off my costume. I had turned down my first real proposal. I had not let crowned heads of Europe push me around. I had stood up for what I believed in. I was not a child anymore. Before I fell asleep I conjured up the strong jaw and lovely smile of the man who’d danced with me, and I heard his voice in my head. And I wondered if I would ever see him again.

* * *

I awoke to the sun streaming in through long windows, and came downstairs to find guests at breakfast, still in their costumes. I didn’t feel like joining them and being jolly all over again. I found Lady Merriman and asked if I could be driven to the station.

“Are you not feeling well, my dear?” she asked. “You are looking pale. Too much champagne last night, maybe. Tell me, did you sleep alone?”

I blushed. “Of course.”

“I thought as much. Otto was in a bad mood. I gather you turned him down.”

I nodded. “I can’t agree to marry someone I’ve never met before.”

“I quite agree. And you’re far too young.” She patted my hand. “Travel the world. See life and then marry. That’s what I did and I am blissfully happy with my dear Podge.”

I tried to phrase the question in my head. “Tell me, Lady Merriman, was there another guest wearing a devil’s outfit last night?”

“Were you seeing double? All that champagne, honey. No, you two were the only devilish pair.”

And so I left, not knowing, believing I should never know the truth. When I arrived home that afternoon Harrison met me in the front hall and helped me off with my coat.

“Did you have a delightful time, my lady?” he asked.

“It was very grand,” I said. “All a little overwhelming.”

“I understand, my lady. Always better to be among one’s own kind, I think.”

I nodded.

“Their graces have gone out, so you have the house to yourself,” he went on. “Should I have some tea sent to the drawing room for you?”

“Thank you, that would be lovely.”

“And a note came for you, my lady. Delivered by hand earlier today.” He held out the salver to me and I took the letter, addressed in strong black script. To a fallen angel.

I rushed into the drawing room, sat by the fire and opened it.

My dear fallen angel,

I am sorry that I had to run off like that last night and we never had a chance to say good-bye. Maybe it’s better that way. Did you accept Prince Otto’s proposal? He told me he intended to propose.

I told you I was a gate-crasher and it was true. I was not on the guest list. I came only to do my friend Otto a favor. You see, there is a certain married woman of whom he is rather fond. She finds it hard to give her husband the slip, so I was brought in to be the decoy while they were dallying upstairs. I hope this doesn’t shock you too much. It’s the way of the world, I am afraid. Although I am sure that you will never dally. When you have made your choice, you will be faithful forever.

I wanted to say that I didn’t intend last night to be any more than harmless fun. I didn’t intend to have feelings for you. And since I am not in a position to offer you a palace or a crown, then it is better that we part this way. Still I hope our paths might cross some time in the future. You never know.

Your devil companion,

And under this was written three letters that looked like DOM.

* * *

And in the next day’s Times there was a small paragraph on page two:

Attack on German Prince Foiled.

An attack on visiting Prince Otto of Prussia by a bomb-wielding terrorist was thwarted by the gallant efforts of a young guest attending a ball at Broxley Manor. The young man in question wrestled the bomb away from the man, believed to be a communist agitator, and hurled it away from the building, where it exploded harmlessly. He then helped subdue the man but declined to give his name and disappeared when the man was taken off to the police station. It was hinted that he was actually working for British secret service and was assigned to guard the prince, although Whitehall has denied this allegation. Prince Otto was unhurt and returns home to Germany tomorrow.

* * *

And so I put the incident from my mind. I was never invited to Broxley Manor again and understood that Prince Otto finally married a cabaret singer from Berlin, much to the disapproval of his family. It never occurred to me that I would ever be involved with danger and acts of terrorism again, or that some day in the future it would be my own detecting skills that thwarted a similar plot against our own king and queen. And it was only several years later that I rediscovered that letter in bold black script and realized that the initials on it stood for Darcy O’Mara.

Keep reading for a special excerpt from Rhys Bowen’s next Royal Spyness Mystery . . .

THE TWELVE CLUES OF CHRISTMAS

Available in hardcover November 2012 from Berkley Prime Crime!

Castle Rannoch

Perthshire, Scotland

December 14, 1933

Weather: cold, dreary, bleak.

Atmosphere here: cold, dreary, bleak.

Outlook: cold, dreary, bleak. Not in a good mood today. I wonder why. Could it have something to do with the fact that Christmas is coming and it will be utterly bloody?

Ah, Christmas: chestnuts roasting; Yule logs crackling merrily; tables groaning under roast goose, turkey, mince pies and flaming plum puddings; carols and mistletoe, goodwill to all men. I’m sure there were some houses in Britain where this was going to be the case, in spite of the depression—just not at Castle Rannoch, on the bleak Scottish moors, where I was currently trapped for the winter. No, I was not snowed in or being held prisoner. I was there of my own volition. I happen to be Lady Georgiana Rannoch, sister to the current duke, and that bleak castle is my family home.

There is actually no way to make Castle Rannoch festive even if one wanted to. Firstly it would be impossible to heat those cavernous great rooms no matter how many Yule logs you piled on the fire, and secondly my sister-in-law, Hilda, Duchess of Rannoch, commonly known as Fig, was in full austerity mode. Times were hard, she said. The country was in the grip of a great depression. It was up to us to set an example and live simply. We even had to endure baked beans on toast as our savory at the end of dinner, which shows how dire our situation had become.

It is true that times are hard for the Rannochs, even though we’re related to the royal family and my brother inherited Rannoch Castle and a London house in Belgravia. You see, our father lost the last of his fortune in the great crash of ’29, then went up on the moors and shot himself, thus saddling poor Binky with horrendous death duties. I had my allowance cut off on my twenty-first birthday and have been struggling to keep my head above water ever since. Not that our situation is as dire as those poor wretches in the soup lines. I was supposed to marry well, to one of those chinless, spineless and half-imbecile European princes, or, failing that, become lady-in-waiting to an elderly royal aunt.

So far I had chosen neither of the above, but as Christmas approached and the wind whistled down the hallways of Castle Rannoch, either option began to seem more desirable than my present situation. You might wonder why I stayed in such dreary surroundings. It had started through the famous Rannoch sense of duty that had been rammed down our throats since birth. We’d been raised with stories about ancestors like Robert Bruce Rannoch, who had kept fighting when his arm was hacked off in battle, merely changing his sword from his right hand to his left. I don’t think my sense of duty was that strong, but it was definitely there.

You see, that summer, in London, my sister-in-law Fig had given birth to a second little Rannoch. Although she looked as if she had the constitution of a cart horse, she had been rather ill. She had gone home to Scotland to recuperate and had actually begged me to come to keep her company (which shows how jolly sick she was!). I, being a kindhearted soul, had agreed.

Summer had turned to autumn and there were the royal relatives at Balmoral to visit, house parties, grouse shoots—all of which we hoped might bring Fig out of her blue funk. But she had remained languid and depressed, hardly showing any interest in little Adelaide—yes, that was what they named the poor child. Adelaide Gertrude Hermione Maude. Can you imagine saddling any poor baby with such monstrosities? They hadn’t even come up with a good pet name yet. One could hardly call her Addy or Laidy, could one? Then she’d be Lady Addy or Lady Laidy and that wouldn’t do. To date she was addressed as “baby,” or occasionally “diddums.”

And so I had stayed on. Nanny coped admirably with little Adelaide, Fig lolled about, getting more and more petty and bad tempered, and Binky wandered the grounds looking worried. I was starting to wonder how long I could endure this, when things were decided for me. Fig’s mother, Lady Wormwood, arrived to take charge. It only took an instant to see where Fig’s pettiness and bossy nature came from. If Fig was a trial, Lady Wormwood was utterly bloody. (Yes, I know a lady is not supposed to use words like “bloody,” but in describing Lady Wormwood the adjective is actually rather mild. Alas, my education was sadly lacking. If I knew stronger words, I’d have used them.)

She had been in the house for about a week when I came back from a walk to hear her strident voice saying, “It’s not healthy, Hilda.” (She was the only person who called Fig Hilda, being responsible for the ghastly name.) “It’s not natural for a young girl to shut herself away like this, doing nothing all day. Does she not think at all about her future?”

I froze in the entrance hall, shielded by a suit of armor. I expected Fig to leap to my defense and tell her mother that I was only shutting myself away at Castle Rannoch because she had begged me to stay with her. Instead I heard her saying, “I really don’t know what she thinks, Mummy.”

“She can’t possibly expect that you’ll go on supporting her. You’ve done your duty and more. The girl has had her season, hasn’t she?” (People like Lady Wormwood pronounced the word “gell”). “Why isn’t she married? She’s not bad looking. She has royal connections. You’d have thought someone would have taken her off your hands by now.”

“She’s already turned down Prince Siegfried of Romania,” Fig said. “I don’t think she has any idea about duty. The queen was really angling for that match. They are Hollenzollern-Sigmaringens, you know. Related to the queen’s family. And Siegfried was a charming young man, too. But she turned him down.”

“What on earth is she waiting for—a king?” Lady Wormwood asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s not as if she’s next in line to the throne, is it?”

This was true. I had been thirty-fourth until Adelaide was born. Now I had been relegated to thirty-fifth.

Fig lowered her voice. “Between ourselves, she’s mooning after some disreputable chap called Darcy O’Mara. Absolutely rotten sort.”

“O’Mara? Son of Lord Kilhenny?”

“That’s the one. Their family is in a worse state than ours. One gathers his father has had to sell off the family seat and the racing stables to cover his debts. So there are no prospects in that quarter. This O’Mara chap has no fortune and no career. He’ll never be able to support a wife.”

“Well, she wouldn’t be allowed to marry him anyway, would she?” Lady Wormwood’s voice echoed around the great hall. “They are a Catholic family. As a member of the line of succession she’d be barred from marrying a Catholic.”

I took an involuntary step back, knocking into the suit of armor and just managing to grab the mace before it clattered to the floor. I knew that the royal family was not allowed by British law to marry a Catholic, but surely that didn’t apply to me. It wasn’t as if I’d ever find myself queen, unless a particularly virulent epidemic hit or invaders wiped out numbers one through thirty-four. Not that Darcy had asked me to marry him. In fact, we did not even fit the traditional concept of sweethearts. When I was with him it was bliss, but most of the time I didn’t even know where he was. I certainly didn’t know how he earned his living. He appeared to be another young man-about-town, spending his days in idle pursuits like most peers’ sons, but I suspected he was also employed by the British government as some kind of spy. I had questioned him on several occasions but he remained enigmatically mum. When I last heard from him he was on his way to Argentina. I felt a lump come into my throat.

“The girl needs taking in hand, Hilda.” Lady Wormwood’s voice boomed again. “Make it quite clear to her that she is expected to do her duty like everyone else. None of us mooned around waiting for an unsuitable chap, did we? We married whom we were told to and got on with it. Such a stupid notion that one marries for love.”

“Hold on a minute, Mummy,” Fig interrupted. “I’m jolly fond of Binky, you know. I consider myself very lucky in that department.”

“Nobody is saying that love doesn’t come later in some cases,” Lady Wormwood said. “If I remember correctly you had a distinct crush on the local curate until we set you straight. So will you speak to the girl, Hilda, or shall I? Give her an ultimatum—tell her you can support her no longer and it’s up to her to find herself a husband right away.”

I couldn’t stand there for another second. I turned and pushed open the front door, stepping out into the full force of the gale that had begun brewing during my walk. It had started to snow, a driving kind of sleet that stung like needles then stuck to my clothing, hair and eyelashes, but I didn’t care. I walked, faster and faster, away from the house and out into the storm. As I walked I concentrated on my anger, to keep my fear at bay. How dare she! Castle Rannoch was my ancestral home, not hers. She couldn’t turn me out. And then the fear began to creep in . . . if they did turn me out, where would I go? God knows I’d tried to find ways to support myself, but with the world in the grips of a great depression even those with qualifications and experience were standing in bread lines. And then the bigger fear—the real fear. What if I couldn’t marry Darcy? Was I waiting for an impossible dream? Hadn’t I better start facing reality?

* * *

The snow turned to blizzard, coating me in a white blanket and making it hard to breathe. Well, one thing was sure—I was not going to conveniently die in a storm just to please Fig and her mother. I turned around and made my way back toward the looming black shape of the castle. Since my presence was no longer appreciated, I’d not stay any longer. I’d have my maid, Queenie, pack my trunk and we’d leave for London in the morning. I had become rather good at camping out in our London house. My grandfather was nearby and my friend Belinda always seemed to have exciting things to do. And who knows, Darcy might be returning to London any day now. It was time for me to take my life into my own hands again.

* * *

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Berkley Prime Crime titles by Rhys Bowen

Royal Spyness Mysteries

HER ROYAL SPYNESS

A ROYAL PAIN

ROYAL FLUSH

ROYAL BLOOD

NAUGHTY IN NICE

THE TWELVE CLUES OF CHRISTMAS

Constable Evans Mysteries

EVANS ABOVE

EVAN HELP US

EVANLY CHOIRS

EVAN AND ELLE

EVAN CAN WAIT

EVANS TO BETSY

EVAN ONLY KNOWS

EVAN’S GATE

EVAN BLESSED

Specials

MASKED BALL AT BROXLEY MANOR