Guy Despond, art dealer extraordinaire and cosmopolitan charmer, was suave and eager to enthuse about the horses. He was ready for any rural challenge, clad as he was in tweed knickerbockers, matching jacket, flat peaked cap and brogues. The man had taken over-enthusiastic advice from a Savile Row tailor, Joe thought. Or the Prince of Wales.

Daughter Dorothy was less set on being charming. She had what Joe’s mother would have called a knowing eye—a pair of them, in a fetching shade of pale grey, and they were ranging over everything from Lady Cecily’s pearls to the butler’s buttons. Her hair was thick and a very pretty light brown. With the help of a stout straw hat, the expensive marcel wave had survived the journey in an open Bentley very well. Her emerald green suit was exactly what a rich young lady with access to the salons and modern style of New York and Paris would have chosen to wear for an outing to the country. Serviceable, unrestricting and eye-catching. Her manner was reserved but not unfriendly.

As the new guests moved off into the house, guided by Styles and a phalanx of footmen, Cecily edged close to Joe, raised her eyebrows and hissed, “Heavens! If I’d had warning of this I’d have had the Canalettos nailed down!”

“I understand the gentleman to be a most welcome and congenial guest at the grandest houses in the land, your ladyship,” Joe said smoothly.

She grunted. “The fellow’s as rich as Croesus. Nothing wrong with that but they say he’s got the instincts of a magpie. Nothing precious is safe from a keenly judged offer if it catches his collector’s eye.”

“Will you require me to count the dessert spoons before he leaves, madam?” Joe asked in the tone of a stage butler.

“Not funny, Joe! A visit from that man can leave one of your grand houses looking as though a plague of locusts has blown through. I have a delicious little Lancret over in the Dower House … a Monet … a Seurat … Can I be certain that they are safe from his attentions? He’s a harbinger of doom and decay, Joe. The last step before the bailiffs are called in, for some. My friend Miranda Carstairs sold him her great-grandmama by Reynolds one week and the next she was calling in the Removers. Why is he here? What can James be thinking of?”

Cecily’s agitation was palpable. Joe set out to calm her. “I rather think you should look elsewhere for a reason for this visit. A chat with the delightful Miss Despond may reveal a completely different motivation,” Joe suggested blandly.

Cecily stared at him in astonishment. “You don’t mean …?”

“A very eligible young lady, I understand from my reading of the Tatler. A girl with one or two broken engagements behind her on both sides of the ocean and in Europe. ‘Choosy’ is the word normally associated with her if you’re her friend, ‘fickle’ if you’re a disappointed suitor. Indeed, it’s rumoured that the editor of the Times keeps a few inches of the ‘Forthcoming Marriages’ column in reserve in every edition to enable him to respond swiftly to Miss Despond’s changes of plan.” Joe sent up a silent prayer of thanks to his omniscient newshound friend, Cyril Tate, from whom he now took his script: “Since her mother’s death, Dorothy has travelled constantly with her father in the very highest circles, mingling with the cream of rich, art-loving society,” he confided. “She’s twenty-five and presently unattached.”

This exhausted Joe’s stock of knowledge but it had been enough. He watched conflicting emotions chase each other across Cecily’s expressive features. Astonishment, alarm and, finally, intrigue.

“Oh, my goodness! I say—do you really think there may be something going on?” Followed by a dismissive, “Surely not? There are wealthier gentlemen about in London and certainly more illustrious titles to be had, if that’s what she’s after.”

“But not, perhaps, titles attached to such a personable and relatively young man. Idle, elderly earls—two a penny—but an attractive man with an interesting employment and a considerable future?” Lord! What part was he playing now? Marriage broker?

Cecily was all ears and interest. “Yes, indeed. My son, who is all that you say, takes a pride in declaring that he is not a layabout but a working man.”

“A situation which Dorothy is very familiar with. Her father and brothers are all busy bees who know how to keep the hives well stocked.”

“You have a devious mind, Joe Sandilands. I begin to see the possibilities. But—gracious!—this is hardly the moment for James to choose to bring along his … his … raggle-taggle student, the Joliffe woman? Those two were sharing the back seat of the Rolls for sixty miles! What can they possibly have found to say to each other? What must Miss Despond think?”

“Oh, I don’t know … Miss Joliffe is of an artistic family with many friends at—shall we say?—the business end of the art world. They actually apply paint to canvas. I dare say she was able to give Miss Despond insights into Pablo Picasso’s philosophy of art—she is reputed to own one or two of his early works. I noticed the two ladies chose to walk arm in arm into the hall in a companionable way.”

“Mmm … Whatever else, you seem to understand that Dorcas Joliffe is not stupid. I know she has plans of her own for James, plans in which a wealthy rival does not feature. A dangerous little creature! It may suit her well to snuggle in close with a challenger. Shall I ask Styles to mount a guard over Miss Despond while she’s under our roof?”

“Leave it to me. Bodyguarding is something I’m trained for, your ladyship,” Joe said. “The first thing is to plan ahead—never wait for the exchange of fire. Go straight for the enemy as soon as identified, disarm and incapacitate him. I’ll go and renew acquaintance with Miss Joliffe—we have met before on a few occasions. I’ll try to ascertain whether her intentions are peaceable.”

He drifted into the hall where the guests were being allocated footmen and maids to take them to their rooms. Stepping forward, he said, “Thank you, Norman, I’ll take Miss Joliffe upstairs. The Lilac Room was it?”

He grabbed Dorcas’s bag and led the way upstairs to the guest room halfway along the corridor.

“Rather more suitable accommodation than last time, I think you’ll find,” he said, showing her inside and closing the door. “Smaller than the Old Nursery and not so versatile but I’m sure you won’t mind that.” She kept her distance, white-faced and silent. Joe put up an ironic hand, as if to ward off an advance. “No, don’t consider giving me a hug, Dorcas. Apart from Truelove, who treats me as your godfather or something—well, he thinks whatever you’ve told him to think—it’s not generally known that we have a relationship of any kind. Let it stay that way. I’m working. Trying to solve three unlawful killings for one of which you are in the frame. Yes, I’m afraid there are those in this house who would very much like to put the blame for the death of Lady Truelove on you. They see you as an unimportant figure, unconnected and dispensable. They wait to see you being carted off by me to the Yard in cuffs, the arrest photographed by a news magnate who has a convenient camera to hand and a convenient hand to operate it. You may have caught a glimpse of the McIvers’ maid photographing the horse parade? Avoid her lens. Mungo McIver, I believe, is intent on reinstating the reputation of the Minister for Reform in the corridors of Westminster.”

“Westminster?” she asked sharply.

“The House. Where a strong cross-party faction sees him as the saviour of British politics. The only man with the will and ability to recognise and counter the threat of European aggression. He’s a man whose reputation must be protected at all cost.”

“A man particularly popular with a coterie of industrialists in the Midlands whose factories are poised to roll out ever more armament, I think you once told me, Joe. Did you know that’s how Lavinia’s father makes his millions? He provided the wherewithal to take on the Kaiser in the last lot. If Herr Hitler or the Russians were to turn nasty, he’d be a very busy man again.”