This is the second book in this author’s series. It will be enjoyed by readers who like mysteries that are not too violent and stories with good characters and plots. And, of course, it will be enjoyed by those who like bakeries and a bit of magical realism. All in all, a good read.
A bit on plot: Baker Felicity has been making egg tarts for the wedding cake at an outdoor wedding. All goes well, until it doesn’t. There are a missing groomsman and a groom who meet their fates.
There will be sleuthing and a mystery solved by the end of this enjoyable story.
Many thanks to NetGalley and St. Martin’s Press-Minotaur for this title. All opinions are my own.
Pub date: 21 January 2025
Editorial Reviews
Review
Praise for the Magical Fortune Cookie series and Jennifer J. Chow:
“Good things lie ahead in this series.” ―Kirkus Reviews
Garden lovers will enjoy dipping into this collection which features 40 gardens that have, for varied reasons, been lost. For each of these, there is beautifully evocative artwork to help readers imagine the garden in it glory. The text further details what made each of these places special.
These gardens were once found all around the world. Readers travel to The Garden of Dreams, Little Acorns, Warley Place, Bachs of Khajuaro, Gardens of the Nations, Madinat al-Zahra, Wah Bagh and these are just a few of the places.
This would make a lovely addition to the library of a garden lover! The author makes a wonderful guide. She has loved gardens ever since she became a reader of Frances Hodgson Burnett.
Many thanks to NetGalley and Quarto Publishing Group for this title. All opinions are my own.
Barbie…just the name is enough to form the picture of this her in the reader’s mind. She is a doll that has both been embraced and vilified, perhaps even both at the same time for some. Now, she is so much a part of popular culture, it is difficult to remember that once there was no Barbie.
Author Renee Rosen has written a detailed, intriguing and complex story about Barbie and her creators. She has brought the historical people to life, especially Ruth and Jack (more below), Elliot and Charlotte, to name a few. She also has created fictional characters including Stevie who interacts with all of the historical figures.
I learned so much about the toy industry, how toys go from plans to reality and how this applied specifically to Barbie, in these pages. Ruth had a vision and it took her and engineer Jack much work and many years before Barbie was brought to the market. It is intriguing that Ruth saw Barbie as a source of freedom for girls. She wanted them to have a doll that offered more to them than imagining becoming a mother and wife.
It was intriguing to think of the real fashion designers who made the clothes and why Barbie has her dimensions. It was fascinating to find out how many tries it took to get Barbie just right.
Both Ruth and Jack were quite complex individuals. Readers learn that Ruth’s mother did not want to raise her. They find why work was so critical for Ruth and the ways in which this impacted her children and husband. Jack, also was complicated. Readers learn that he had some mental health issues with which to struggle.
Over the course of the novel, readers learn about both the triumphs and lows of these characters so that is there is no fairy tale. All of this is part of the characters’ life stories.
In her afterword, Rosen notes that she had wanted to write this novel before the Barbie movie was released. The movie will undoubtedly bring readers to this novel but, in my opinion, this excellent book stands very well on its own.
Highly recommended to readers of historical and women’s fiction. Of course, those who are already interested in Barbie will flock to this but, even if a reader is not a Barbie aficionado, there is much in these pages.
I was so delighted to be asked to read and review this title. Many thanks to NetGalley and Berkley Publishing Group this title. All opinions are my own.
The cover of this book is filled with clues that let a reader know what is inside. If a reader likes the cover, they will, I think, like the story that is inside.
So, pictured here are isolated real estate, letters, and a couple, all of which will be featured in the pages of this novel. The people are Kate and a man who is important to her. The envelope holds an invitation to a wedding. The real estate is for the destination wedding. Will everything go smoothly? Certainly not for a while.
Kate has agreed to attend her ex’s wedding. Events most clearly do not go according to plan. As readers quickly learn, the bride has been murdered. Kate needs to figure things out, after all, she is a mystery writer as well as having personal connections here. One of these connections is a past romantic regret.
Readers are offered both mystery and romance in this book that has liberal doses of both. It is told in a somewhat breezy style. Those looking for a light read might want to give this hybrid a look.
Many thanks to NetGalley and St. Martin’s Press for this title. All opinions are my own.
Jenny Colgan is a mistress of her craft. She writes the kinds of books that readers hope for, especially when they are feeling stressed. This new book offers so much to enjoy. There is a wonderful Scottish setting, good characters and a bookshop! Of course, there is also romance and the holiday season. What more could possibly be needed?
Make this book a gift to yourself as the nights get longer. It will offer you the perfect escape.
Many thanks to NetGalley and Avon-Harper Voyager for this title. All opinions are my own.
Every time I find that a new Ruth Galloway book is due to come out, I get super excited. I adore spending time with Ruth and watching the evolution of her relationship with Nelson, the father of Ruth’s daughter Kate. Long time readers of the series know that Nelson and Ruth’s relationship is a complex one that often leads to cliffhangers in the novels. I think that this relationship will intrigue readers for as long as Ms. Griffiths writes. There is something so lovely about a romantic heroine who is about to turn fifty. There are so many other interesting characters surrounding Ruth. There is Frank with whom she now lives; Cathbad, yes the Druid; Nelson’s wife and daughters; Cathbad’s reporter daughter and more. There are also highly evocative settings. And, of course, there is murder and mystery. Ivor has just been jailed for multiple murders. Was he guilty? Who are those with whom he spent time at an artistic retreat? How will these characters interact and intersect with the series regulars? Read the book to find out. I often find that the case itself intrigues me less than the people in this author’s stories. Still, for the last half hour of reading this title, I was gripped and kept turning the pages eagerly. This novel could be read as a standalone. If readers do that, I hope they will go back and read the stories from the very first one to catch up. Long terms followers of the series will, I think, be delighted by Ruth’s return. Many thanks to NetGalley and the publisher for this title in exchange for an honest review.
Simon Mason has written books that I very much enjoy. Now the fourth in this Oxford set mystery/police procedural is available.
Note that it is possible to read this one on its own, although I definitely recommend reading all of the novels, even if not in order. Those who have read the previous stories s will be eager to just jump in.
Ryan and Ray share a last name, live in Oxford, are dads and are in the police force. Despite these seeming similarities, the two are very different and often struggle to work with one another.
Ryan grew up in a trailer park. He is a single dad to a little boy who is one of the best characters in the series. Ryan dresses most casually, has a minimal education, is often being reprimanded at work, but…gets the job done.
Ray grew up with many expectations placed upon him. He is Oxford educated, has a “blue,” is the married father of twins, and has a father who is quite invested in his career and success. His marriage seems a bit shaky at times.
In this novel, Ray and Ryan have a new boss. She insists on being called “Sir” and has a lot of plans for reforming the station. She has been warned about these two Wilkins.
A professor and professed atheist has been found murdered soon after an appearance at an Oxford Union debate. What was he doing out in his pajamas? What was behind his murder? Does it connect to another case that the squad has been assigned?
No spoilers so readers will have to find out for themselves.
I highly recommend this title and the entire series. These books will be enjoyed by those who like a complex mystery with characters that are engaging.
Many thanks to NetGalley and Hachette Book Group for this title. All opinions are my own.
I am excited to share The Queen of Fives with readers. This author’s last book was so enjoyable and this new one will, I think, also offer readers a good escape.
Many thanks to the team at HTP for this opportunity.
The book:
The Queen of Fives
Author: Alex Hay
Publication Date: January 21, 2025
ISBN: 9781525809859
Graydon House Hardcover
About the book:
“Bridgerton meets The Sting in this effervescent offering…. Hay has conceived of a wholly original take on Victorian London and populated it with a gallery of colorful underworld types. The plotting will have readers on the edges of their seats as one twist after another sets the stage for a series of jaw-dropping revelations. This literary confection is a delectable treat.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)
A confidence scheme, when properly executed, will follow five movements:
I. The Mark II. The Intrusion. III. The Ballyhoo. IV. The Knot. V. All In.
There may be many counter-strikes along the way, for such is the nature of the game; it contains so many sides, so many endless possibilities…
Nothing is quite as it seems in Victorian high society in this clever novel set against the most magnificent wedding of the season, as a mysterious heiress sets her sights on London’s most illustrious family
1898. Quinn le Blanc, London’s most talented con woman, has five days to pull off her most ambitious plot yet: trap a highly eligible duke into marriage and lift a fortune from the richest family in England.
Masquerading as the season’s most enviable debutante, Quinn puts on a brilliant act that earns her entrance into the grand drawing rooms and lavish balls of high society—and propels her straight into the inner circle of her target: the charismatic Kendals. Among those she must convince are the handsome bachelor heir, the rebellious younger sister, and the esteemed duchess eager to see her son married.
But the deeper she forges into their world, the more Quinn finds herself tangled in a complicated web of love, lies, and loyalty. The Kendals all have secrets of their own, and she may not be the only one playing a game of high deception…
Try it:
THE QUEEN OF FIVES
By ALEX HAY
A confidence scheme, when properly executed, will follow five movements in close and inviolable order:
I. The Mark.
Wherein a fresh quarry is perceived and made the object of the closest possible study.
II. The Intrusion.
Wherein the quarry’s outer layers must be pierced, his world peeled open…
III. The Ballyhoo.
Where a golden opportunity shall greatly tempt and dazzle the quarry…
IV. The Knot.
Wherein the quarry is encircled by his new friends, and naysayers are sent gently on their way…
V. All In.
Where all commitments are secured, and the business is happily—and irrevocably—concluded.
A coda: there may be many counterstrikes along the way, for such is the nature of the game; it contains so many sides, so many endless possibilities…
Rulebook—1799.
Day One
The Mark
1
Quinn
Five days earlier
Here was how it began. Four miles east of Berkeley Square, a few turns from Fashion Street and several doors down from the synagogue, stood a humble old house in Spitalfields. Four floors high, four bays across. Rose-colored shutters, a green trim to the door. A basement kitchen hidden from the street, and a colony of house sparrows nesting in the eaves, feasting on bread crusts and milk pudding scrapings.
On the first floor, behind peeling sash windows, stood Quinn Le Blanc.
She changed her gloves. She had a fine selection at her disposal, per her exalted rank in this neighborhood—chevrette kid, mousquetaire, pleated gloves for daytime, ridged ones for riding, silk-lined, fur-edged. All shades, too—dark, tan, brandy, black, mauve. No suede, of course. And no lace: nothing that could snag. The purpose of the glove was the preservation of the skin. Not from the sun, not from the cold.
From people.
She pulled on the French kid—cream-colored with green buttons—flexed her fingers, tested the grip. For she was the reigning Queen of Fives, the present mistress of this house; the details were everything.
“Mr. Silk?” she called from the gaming room. “Have you bolted the rear doors?”
His voice came back, querulous, from the stairs. “Naturally I have.” Then the echo of his boots as he clumped away.
The gaming room breathed around her. It was hot, for they kept a good strong fire burning year-round, braving incineration. But now she threw cold water on the grate, making the embers hiss and smoke. She closed the drapes, which smelled as they always did: a tinge of tobacco and the sour tint of mildew. Something else, too: a touch of cognac, or absinthe—one of the prior queens had enjoyed her spirits.
Quinn examined the room, wondering if she should lock away any valuables for the week. Of course, she had no fears of not returning on schedule, in triumph, per her plan—but still, she was venturing into new and dangerous waters. Some prudence could serve her well. The shelves were crammed with objects: hatboxes, shoeboxes, vinegars, perfume bottles, merino cloths, linen wrappings. But then she decided against it; she despised wasting time. The most incriminating, valuable things were all stored downstairs, in the bureau.
The bureau contained every idea the household ever had, the schemes designed and played by generations of queens. It stood behind doors reinforced with iron bolts, windows that were bricked up and impassable. It was safe enough, for now.
“Quinn?” Silk’s voice floated up the stairs. “We must be punctual.”
“We will be,” she called back with confidence.
Confidence was all they had going for them at the Château these days.
The Château. It was a pompous name for a humble old house. But that was the point, wasn’t it? It gave the place a sense of importance in a neighborhood that great folk merely despised. There were tailors and boot finishers living on one side, cigar makers and scholars on the other, and a very notorious doss-house at the end of the road. Quinn had lived in it nearly all her life, alongside Mr. Silk.
Quinn descended the creaking staircase, flicking dust from the framed portraits lined along the wall. They depicted the Château’s prior queens, first in oils, later in daguerreotype, with Quinn’s own picture placed at the foot of the stairs. Hers was a carte de visite mounted in a gilt frame, adorned with red velvet curtains. In it, Quinn wore a thick veil, just like her predecessors. She carried a single game card in one hand, and she was dressed in her inaugural disguise—playing the very splendid “Mrs. Valentine,” decked in emerald green velvet, ready to defraud the corrupt owners of the nearby Fairfield Works. She was just eighteen, and had already secured the confidence of the Château’s other players—and she was ready to rule.
That was eight years ago.
Quinn rubbed the smeared glass with her cuff. The house needed a good spring clean. She’d given up the housekeeper months ago; even a scullery maid was too great an expense now. Glancing through the rear window, she caught her usual view of the neighborhood—rags flapping on distant lines, air hazed with smoke. The houses opposite winked back at her, all nets and blinds, their disjointed gardens tangled and wild. She fastened the shutters, checking the bolts.
Silk was waiting by the front door. “Ready?” He was wearing a bulky waistcoat, his cravat ruffled right up to his chin. His bald head shone in the weak light.
Quinn studied him, amused. “What have you stuffed yourself with?”
“Strips of steel, if you must know.”
“In your jacket?”
“Yes.”
“For what reason?”
“My own protection. What else?”
Quinn raised a brow. “You’re developing a complex.”
“We’re living in a violent age, Le Blanc. A terribly violent age.”
Silk was forever clipping newspaper articles about foreign agitators, bombs being left in fruit baskets on station platforms.
“Stay close to me, then,” Quinn said, hauling open the front door, squinting in the light.
Net curtains twitched across the road. This was a quiet anonymous street, and the location of the Château was a closely guarded secret, even among their kind. But the neighbors kept their eyes on the Château. Nobody questioned its true ownership: the deeds had been adulterated too many times, sliced out of all official registers. In the 1790s, it was inhabited by an elusive Mrs. B—(real name unknown). Some said she’d been a disgraced bluestocking, or an actress, or perhaps a Frenchwoman on the run—a noble comtesse in disguise! She caught the neighborhood’s imagination; they refashioned her in their minds. B—became “Blank,” which in time became “Le Blanc.” Her house was nicknamed le Château. Smoke rose from the chimneys; queer characters came and went; the lights burned at all hours. Some said Madame Le Blanc had started a school. Others claimed it was a brothel.
In fact, it was neither.
It was something much cleverer.
The Queen of Fives. They breathed the title with reverence on the docks, down the coastline. A lady with a hundred faces, a thousand voices, a million lives. She might spin into yours if you didn’t watch out… She played a glittering game: lifting a man’s fortune with five moves, in five days, before disappearing without a trace.
The sun was inching higher, turning the sky a hard mazarine blue. “Nice day for it,” Quinn said, squeezing Silk’s arm.
Silk peered upward. “I think not.” He’d checked his barometer before breakfast. “There’s a storm coming.”
Quinn could feel it, the rippling pleasure down her spine. “Better and better,” she replied. “Now, come along.”
They made an unassuming pair when they were out in public. An older gentleman in a dark and bulky overcoat, with a very sleek top hat. A youngish woman in dyed green furs, with a high collar and a sharp-tilted toque. He with his eyes down, minding his step. She with her face veiled, gloves gripped round an elegant cane. Always listening, watching, rolling dice in their minds.
Silk and Quinn had a single clear objective for the day. Audacious, impossible, outrageous—but clear. He showed her his appointment book: Three p.m.—Arrive in ballroom, Buckingham Palace, en déguisé.
“In disguise? Doesn’t that go without saying?”
“You tell me. Has your costume been delivered?”
“Not yet. But we have a more serious impediment.”
“Oh?” he asked her.
“I’ve still not received my invitation card to the palace.”
They turned into Fournier Street. Silk tutted. “I’ve dealt with that. Our old friend at the Athenaeum Club will oblige you.”
“You’re quite sure? We’ve never cut it so fine before.”
“Well, you might need to prod him a little.”
“Just a little?”
“The very littlest bit, Quinn.”
Unnecessary violence was not part of their method. But persuasion—well, that was essential. Let’s call a spade a spade: the Château was a fraud house, a cunning firm, a swindler’s palace ruled by a queen. It made its business by cheating great men out of their fortunes. In the bureau stood the Rulebook, its marbled endpapers inscribed with each queen’s initials, setting the conditions of their games.
And this week the Queen of Fives would execute the most dangerous game of her reign.
Quinn paused outside the Ten Bells. “Very well. We can’t afford any slips. I’ll go to the Athenaeum now. Anything else?”
Silk shook his head. “Rien ne va plus.” No more bets.
They gripped hands. He gave her his usual look: a fond gaze, then a frown. “Play on, Le Blanc.”
She grinned at him in return. “Same to you, old friend.”
ALEX HAY grew up in the United Kingdom in Cambridge and Cardiff, and has been writing as long as he can remember. He studied history at the University of York, and wrote his dissertation on female power at royal courts, combing the archives for every scrap of drama and skulduggery he could find. He has worked in magazine publishing and the charity sector and lives with his husband in London. His debut, The Housekeepers won the Caledonia Novel Award, and was named a Best Book of the Summer by Reader’s Digest, The Washington Post, Good Housekeeping, Harper’s Bazaar, and others. His second novel, The Queen of Fives, publishes in January 2025. Alex lives with his husband in South East London.
I am thrilled to be part of the blog tour for this title which will, I think, be a popular read this summer. Many thanks to HTP and their team for this opportunity.
The cover:
THE HOUSEKEEPERS
Author: Alex Hay
ISBN: 9781525805004
Publication Date: July 4, 2023
Publisher: Graydon House
$30.00 US | $37.00 CAN
He wrote it:
Author Bio:
ALEX HAY grew up in the United Kingdom in Cambridge and Cardiff, and has been writing as long as he can remember. He studied history at the University of York, and wrote his dissertation on female power at royal courts, combing the archives for every scrap of drama and skulduggery he could find. He has worked in magazine publishing and the charity sector and lives with his husband in London. The Housekeepers is his debut novel and won the Caledonia Novel Award.
About the book:
The night of London’s grandest ball, a bold group of women downstairs launch a daring revenge heist against Mayfair society in this dazzling historical novel about power, gender, and class
Mrs. King is no ordinary housekeeper. Born into a world of con artists and thieves, she’s made herself respectable, running the grandest home in Mayfair. The place is packed with treasures, a glittering symbol of wealth and power, but dark secrets lurk in the shadows.
When Mrs. King is suddenly dismissed from her position, she recruits an eclectic group of women to join her in revenge: A black market queen out to settle her scores. An actress desperate for a magnificent part. A seamstress dreaming of a better life. And Mrs. King’s predecessor, with her own desire for vengeance.
Their plan? On the night of the house’s highly anticipated costume ball—set to be the most illustrious of the year—they will rob it of its every possession, right under the noses of the distinguished guests and their elusive heiress host. But there’s one thing Mrs. King wants even more than money: the truth. And she’ll run any risk to get it…
After all, one should never underestimate the women downstairs.
Mrs. King laid out all the knives on the kitchen table. She didn’t do it to frighten Mr. Shepherd, although she knew he would be frightened, but just to make the point. She kept good knives. She took excellent care of them. This was her kitchen.
They had scrubbed the room to within an inch of its life, as if to prevent contamination. The tabletop was still damp. She could feel the house straining, a mountain of marble and iron and glass, pipes shuddering overhead.
She reckoned she had twenty minutes until they threw her out. Madam was awake and on the prowl, up in the vast ivory stillness of the bedroom floor, and they were already late with breakfast. It was important that Mrs. King didn’t waste time. Or endanger anyone else. She didn’t care what they did to her—she was past caring about that—but troubles had a way of multiplying, sending out tendrils, catching other people. She moved fast, going from drawer to drawer, checking, rummaging. She was looking for a wrinkle in things, a missing piece, something out of place. But everything was in perfect order.
Too perfect, she thought, skin prickling.
A shadow fell across the wall.
“I’ll need your keys, please, Mrs. King.”
She could smell Mr. Shepherd standing behind her. It was the odor that came off his skin, the fried-up scent of grease and gentleman’s musk.
Breathe, she told herself. She turned to face him.
He made an excellent butler. But he’d have done even better as a priest. He had that air about him, so tremendously pious. He stared at her, feasting his eyes on her, loving every minute of this.
“Good morning, Mr. Shepherd,” she said, voice smooth, same as every morning.
Mrs. King’s rule was: choose your first move wisely, and you could steer things any way you liked. Choose it badly, and you’d get boxed into a corner, pummeled to pulp. Mr. Shepherd pursed his lips. He had a strange mouth, a nasty little rosebud.
“Keys,” he said, holding out his hand.
Straight to business, then. She circled him, making her approach. She wanted to capture a picture of his face in her mind. It would be very helpful later, once things were properly underway. It would give her all the encouragement she needed.
“I’m still doing my rounds, Mr. Shepherd,” she said.
He took a tiny step back, to preserve the distance between them. “No need for that now, Mrs. King,” he said, eyeing the door.
The other servants were eavesdropping in the kitchen passage. She could feel them, folded just out of sight, contained in the shadows. She placed them like chess pieces in her mind. The chauffeur and the groomsman in the yard, the housemaids on the back stairs. Cook in the pantry, entirely agitated, twisting her handkerchief into indignant knots. William, sequestered in Mr. Shepherd’s office, under close guard. Alice Parker upstairs, keeping well out of trouble. Each of them watching the clock. The entire house was waiting, motion suspended.
“I never leave my work half-finished, Mr. Shepherd,” she said as she slid around him. “You know that.”
And she made for the door.
She saw figures scattering, ducking into pantries and offices. Her boots echoed hard on the flagstones. She felt the cold, damp breeze coming down from the back stairs and wondered, Will I miss it? The chill. The unforgiving scent of carbolic on the air. It wasn’t nice, not at all, but it was familiar. It was funny how you got used to things after so much time. Frightening, even.
Mr. Shepherd followed her. He was like an eel, heavy and vicious, and he moved fast when he wanted to.
“Mrs. King,” he called, “we saw you in the gentlemen’s quarters last night.”
“I know,” said Mrs. King over her shoulder.
A steep staircase ran from the kitchen passage up to the front hall. She kept her eyes fixed on the green baize door at the top. It was a partition between worlds. On the other side the air thinned and the light became frosted around the edges. “Don’t go up there,” called Shepherd.
Mrs. King didn’t care for this. Being ordered about by Shepherd made the inside of her nose itch. “I’ve things to check,” she said.
He continued to follow, sending a tremor through the staircase.
Come on, thought Mrs. King, chase me.
“You stay right here,” he said, reaching to pull her back.
She stopped on the staircase. She wouldn’t run from Shepherd.
He got her by the wrist, his stubby fingers pressing into her veins. His breath smelled stale, but she didn’t recoil. She did the thing he hated most. Looked him straight in the eye.
He said, “What were you doing last night, Mrs. King?”
Shepherd had begun balding over the years, and all he had left were scrubby little hairs dotted right across his brow. Yet still he slicked them with oil. No doubt he waxed them every morning, one by one.
“Perhaps I was sleepwalking.”
“Perhaps?”
“Yes, perhaps.”
Mr. Shepherd loosened his grip slightly. She saw him calculating. “Well. That might change things. I could explain that to Madam.”
“But, then again,” she said, “perhaps I was wide-awake.”
Mr. Shepherd pressed her wrist to the banister. “Keys, Mrs. King.”
She peered up at the green baize door. The house loomed over her, vast and unreachable. The answer she needed was up there. She knew it. Hidden, or sliced into bits, but there. Somewhere. Waiting to be found.
I’ll just have to come back and get it, she thought.
She took him to the housekeeper’s room, her room, and he stood guard in the doorway, blocking the light. Already it seemed to belong to her past. It wasn’t cozy, just cramped. On the table was the master’s present to her. Four weeks before, she’d marked her birthday, her neat and tidy thirty-fifth. The master had given her a prayer book. He gave them all prayer books, gilt edging, satin ribbons.
She held her head up as she handed Mr. Shepherd the keys.
“Any others?”
She shook her head.
“We’ll see to your personal effects. You can come and collect them in…” He considered this. “In due course.”
Mrs. King shrugged. They could inspect her bedroom and sniff the sheets and lick the washbasin all they liked. Even give away her uniforms, if it pleased them. Serge dresses, plain ribbons, tight collars. You could construct any sort of person with those. “Best to choose a new name,” they’d told her when she’d first arrived, and she chose King. They frowned, not liking it—but she held firm: she chose it because it made her feel strong, unassailable. The Mrs. came later, when she made housekeeper. There was no Mr. King, of course.
She kept her navy coat and her hatpins, and everything else she folded away into her black leather Gladstone. There was only one more thing she needed to remove. Pulling open a drawer in the bureau, she rummaged for a pack of papers.
She threw them on the fire. One neat move.
Mr. Shepherd took a step. “What are those?”
“The menus,” said Mrs. King, all the muscles in her chest tight.
The packet was held together with a ribbon, and she watched it darken on the fire. Red turning brown, then black.
“The what?” His eyes hurried around the room, disturbed, as if he were looking for things he’d missed, secrets stuffed and hidden in the walls.
“For Miss de Vries’s ball,” she said.
Mr. Shepherd stared at her. “Madam won’t like it that you did that.”
“I’ve settled all the arrangements,” Mrs. King said with a cool smile. “She can take it from here.”
She studied the ribbon on the grate. It was satin no longer, simply earth and ash. How quickly it changed, dematerialized. How completely it transformed.
Shepherd marched her through the servants’ hall to the mews yard, but he didn’t touch her again. They passed the portrait of the master hanging above the long table. The frame had been draped with black cloth. She wondered when Shepherd would replace the portrait, now that the funeral had passed, now he’d been buried. Would he put up one of Madam instead, something in soft oils and lavender? It would give everyone the willies if he did. That girl’s eyes were like pincers. She guessed Shepherd would delay as long as he could. He’d be mourning his master longer than anyone.
I hope you’re watching from heaven, she said inwardly, looking at the portrait. Or wherever you’ve landed. I hope you see it all play out. I hope they pin your eyes open so you have to watch what I do to this house.
The house. She’d admired it, once. It was bigger than any other on Park Lane. A sprawling mass of pillars and bays, seven floors high from cellars to attics. Newly built, all diamond money, glinting white. It obliterated the light, shriveled everything around it. The neighbors hated it.
Had any house in London ever been decorated in such sumptuous and stupendous style? Miles of ice-cold marble and gleaming parquet. Walls trimmed with French silks and rococo paneling and columns. Electricity everywhere, voltage throbbing through the walls, electroliers as big as windmills. Enormous gas fires. Acres of glass, all smelling wildly of vinegar.
And everywhere, in every room, from floor to ceiling, such treasures: stupendous Van Dycks, giant crystal bowls stuffed with carnations. Objets d’art in gold and silver and jade, cherubs with rubies for eyes and emeralds for toenails. The zebra-hide sofas in the saloon, and the baccarat tables made of ivory and walnut, and the pink-and-onyx flamingos outside the bathrooms. That library, with the most expensive private collection in Mayfair. The Boiserie, the Red Parlor, the Oval Drawing Room, the ballroom: all dressed with peacock feathers and lapis lazuli and an endless supply of lilies.
They didn’t impress Mrs. King at all anymore.
She didn’t shake hands with Mr. Shepherd. “I shall keep you in my prayers, Mrs. King,” he said.
“Do.”
She supposed the upstairs servants were already clearing out her room. The girls would be scrubbing the floorboards with boiling water and soda crystals and taking the bedsheets to be laundered, eliminating any trace of her.
It was important that she didn’t look over her shoulder on the way out. The wrong look at the wrong person could betray her, spoil things when they were only just underway. A pigeon landed on the portico of the gigantic marbled mausoleum as she crossed the yard. She didn’t give it a second glance, didn’t dip her head in respect to the old master. She marched straight past instead.
She stepped into the mews lane, alone. Heard the distant rumble of motors, saw a clutch of wild poppies growing out of a crack in the paving stones. They were being neglected, trampled, yearning upward to the sky. She plucked one, pressed a fragile crimson petal in her palm, held it warm. She took it with her.
Her first theft.
Or, rather, the first correction. It wasn’t simply stealing, not at all.
I saw a lot about this book before I began reading it myself. I wondered if it could possibly live up to the hype-the good news is that it does. This title will be enjoyed by readers who like a somewhat quirky premise, interesting characters, a well-portrayed time and place, and, of course, a good (if outrageous) plot.
I don’t want to give much away but will say that the housekeepers have quite a scheme in mind. Readers will long remember them; they include Mrs. King who was dismissed from her job and Mrs. Bone who runs some dodgy enterprises. Rounding out the group are Jane and Jane (really), Hephzibah and Alice. Each of these woman has a backstory and a needed skill set; these may well intrigue the reader.
In addition to the housekeepers, there is the owner of an ostentatious home and his daughter. Wilhelm recently died and his daughter is not really mourning. Who was he? What does she want? Readers will discover some surprising connections.
There are many twists and turns in this story and suspension of disbelief is called for. What will happen on the night of a very big ball in Edwardian England? Who are the guests and how will they be affected? Will the housekeepers get their revenge? Read this one to find out!
Many thanks to NetGalley and Harlequin Trade Publishing for this title. All opinions are my own.
Joyce's mystery and fiction book reviews with some non-fiction too! 