Praise for Georgina Clarke

Praise for Georgina Clarke

‘Brava to this new, engaging voice’ – Karen Odden, author of A Lady in the Smoke

‘A gripping page-turner with a sassy and fabulously original heroine in the form of Lizzie Hardwicke – I loved it!’ – Annie Lyons, author of Not Quite Perfect

‘Razor sharp and brilliantly original’ – Joe Heap, author of The Rules of Seeing

‘Sparkling and twisty’ – Celia Anderson, author of 59 Memory Lane

‘A truly gripping story that is full of historical atmosphere and a devilish plot… Full of pace from beginning to end. I can’t recommend this book highly enough’ – Peter Donnelly, The Reading Desk

‘Irresistible’ – 5-star Reader Review

‘The author has razor-sharp wit and knows how to use it… An absolute delight’ – 5-star Reader Review

For Faith Claringbull and Jane Tillier.

My soul sisters and partners in crime.

1

1

London, February 1920

Saturday morning

Ruby Mills runs her knuckles along the mink collar, enjoying the softness of the fur. The coat is perfect. She will look like a queen.

‘I’ll try this one.’ The words are addressed to the shop assistant, but she talks to the coat.

She doesn’t need to see the girl. She’s already noted everything about her: lank hair, too many teeth and a badly picked spot on her chin. Trussed up in soulless navy – the uniform of one of London’s smartest stores. Ruby is indifferent to her. But if she bothered to turn her attention from the coat, she would observe the assistant staring, open-mouthed, at the shiny black bobbed hair, the powdered face, the deep red stain on the lips.

Ruby Mills, although barely older than the girl at the counter, could be a film star.

Ruby knows the shop assistant will be staring. She is used to the stares. It’s part of it. Part of the fun. She swings around now to repeat her demand, adding a hint of impatience.

‘This one?’

The girl starts out of her daydream, snaps her mouth shut and hurries from behind the wide mahogany counter to remove the coat from the hanger. She helps Ruby put it on, taking her own surreptitious stroke of the fur as she smooths the shoulders and breathes in the waft of expensive French scent.

Ruby admires her reflection in the full-length gilt mirror. Yes, this will be the one.

She frowns.

‘No. There’s something not quite right.’ She keeps her words crisp and clipped – a world away from the Cockney drawl she ordinarily uses. ‘It needs… It needs…?’ There’s a querying lilt in her tone now as she draws the girl into the game, stretching her neck to reveal a triangle of bare flesh at her throat.

‘A scarf of some sort, madam?’ The girl ventures. ‘We have silk…’