Miss Ailsa Bridge ferreted through her belongings, some of which were still in boxes, and found a crystal butter dish which she considered would do very well for an engagement present. Then she took another sip of gin.

Lady Polly had thawed somewhat towards the engagement. Harry had helped so many people in society that she found her daughter was regarded as fortunate. So it was with a lighter heart that she set out one sunny day to attend at garden party at Mrs Barrington-Bruce’s home in Kensington accompanied by Rose and Daisy. Harry had promised to be there.

Luncheon was served at tables in the garden. Rose was not seated next to Harry, a good hostess having assumed that engaged couples saw enough of each other.

She had a guards’ officer on one side and an elderly gentleman on the other, neither of whom seemed to wish to make conversation.

Harry was in conversation with a very pretty lady of mature years. The tops of her swelling white bosoms rose above a gown of midnight-blue moire. She was wearing a dashing little hat tipped over her glossy blonde curls. Harry was laughing at something she was saying. Rose reflected sourly that she had never seen Harry look so relaxed or happy before.

The guardsman next to her – what was his name again? She peered at the place card in front of him. Ah, Major Devery, that was it.

The major was crunching an ortolan, bones and all. She waited impatiently until he had finished and said, ‘Who is that lady next to Captain Cathcart?’

‘Eh, beg your pardon?’

One monocled eye swivelled in Rose’s direction.

She repeated the question. The major stared down the table and then let out a guffaw. ‘That’s Mrs Winston. We call her the Merry Widow. Great flirt.’

A little black knot of jealousy tightened in Rose’s stomach. Harry was her fiancé. He had no right to be so flagrantly enjoying the attentions of that blowsy creature whose hair was probably dyed.

The bit of the table she was seated at was in full sunlight. Her hat of fine straw did little to protect her head from the heat of the sun’s rays. She suffered until the end of the luncheon and then with a muttered excuse got to her feet. Rose escaped to a shady part of the garden and sat down in an arbour. There was a slight breeze and the arbour was cool. She decided to sit for a few more minutes before rejoining the party.

Then she became aware of someone standing in front of her. She looked up.

Peregrine Stockton stood glaring down at her.

‘Why, Mr Stockton,’ said Rose. ‘I was just about to go back to the party. It was so very hot at luncheon.’

‘It was all your fault,’ said Peregrine passionately. ‘My poor mother would never have killed anyone had she not been blackmailed, and no one would have found out except for you and your nasty prying ways. You’re like all these cold little virgins. A good roll in the hay is what you need.’