ONE
“Christopher!”
I let the door slam behind me as I headed across the parquet floor of the foyer and deeper into the flat. “Kit! Are you home?”
“In here, darling.”
The voice came from the first bedroom to the left—or more specifically, my bedroom. I veered in that direction and found my flat-mate and cousin seated at my dressing table, using my brush and rice powder to set his makeup. A pair of sky-blue eyes, perfectly outlined in kohl, met mine in the mirror for a moment before he spun the chair around to face me. “What’s the matter? Didn’t the interview go well?”
I shook my head, as I plumped my posterior down on the edge of the bed and crossed my ankles. “Mr. Bancroft said he’d consider my application for the position if I showed him my qualifications on the divan in his office. I told him no and walked out.”
“And who could blame you?” Christopher said, and swung back to the mirror. “You don’t have to work, Pippa. I have enough money to keep us both.”
“I know you do.” And what’s more, he was happy to spend it. But— “I don’t want to be a burden.”
He shook his head. “It’s not a burden. You know as well as I do that you’re the closest thing I have to a sister. You’re my best friend. I don’t want you to lower yourself to the divan in Mr. Bancroft’s office when I have more than enough to take care of us both.”
“I have no intention of lowering myself to the divan in anyone’s office,” I informed him. “Certainly not for a job. Even though I would adore working for The Bodley Head. They publishedThe Mysterious Affair at Styles, you know.”
“I know,” Christopher said, eyes on the mirror as he painted his lips scarlet. “You told me, and told me, and told me.”
He flicked his gaze up to meet mine again. “You know, you should just write a book of your own, Pippa. Your English is just fine now, and you’re always going on about that Christie woman. And now there’s the Sayers woman, too.”
That was true. I had been reading Agatha Christie’s mysteries since the first was released in early 1921 by The Bodley Head Press. Three or four or maybe five books to date. And now there was Dorothy Leigh Sayers andWhose Body?, which had been released in 1923, not by The Bodley Head. And—
“There’s a new Sayers being released in a couple of months, did you know? Maybe I ought to apply for a job at T. Fisher Unwin instead. Maybe they’d let me have it early…”
I trailed off, as my mind delighted in the possibilities.
“Or you could just write your own,” Christopher reiterated. “If they can do it, you can do it.”
I squinted at him. “Oh, I don’t think so, do you? I’ve never even seen a dead body.”
“We’ll find you one, if you’d like,” Christopher said, with the air of someone happy to go to great lengths to please. “Although I’m not sure personal knowledge of dead bodies is necessary to write successful detective fiction. It’s less about the body and more about the puzzle, isn’t it?”
I supposed it was, really. “I could write about us. Two cousins who live in London and solve mysteries together. We could be like Tommy and Tuppence.”
“But without the romance,” Christopher said, since he’d also readThe Secret Adversary, “naturally?”
I nodded. “Naturally. No one who knows us could possibly think we’re anything but platonic.”
Christopher looked relieved. I watched as he lifted a black, bobbed wig off the stand on the edge of the dressing table and lowered it, carefully, over his own slicked-back hair.
“Where are you off to?” As if I couldn’t guess.
“Drag Ball at Lady Austin’s.” Christopher’s eyes were on the mirror as he minutely adjusted the wig. He’s a natural blond, but with his lashes and brows darkened, the black wig was ridiculously becoming, and made him look like someone completely different.
And I don’t mean the obvious. Clearly, the makeup and wig and the evening gown I knew were waiting turned my cousin from a young gentleman into a young lady. But he also didn’t look like Christopher Astley, second-youngest grandson of the Duke of Sutherland, in drag. Instead, when he walked out the door tonight, he’d be Kitty Dupree, belle of the ball, and I’d defy even those who knew him well to recognize Christopher under the wig and makeup.
I wasn’t certain I would recognize him myself, had I not watched the transformation.
But nonetheless—
“Are you certain it’s safe?”
Lady Austin, for the uninitiated, was not a lady, nor was her name Austin. Truth be told, I wasn’t even sure she was a woman. I’d never met her, and I wasn’t sure Christopher had. The lady—or gentleman—was elusive.
And for good reason. While Christopher’s lifestyle had become more acceptable to the Bright Young Set in the second decade of the twentieth century, the London constabulary was not so sanguine. Raids were common, and the buggery laws were still in effect, and being in violation could lead to anything from fines to hard labor. Lady Austin—whoever he or she might be—was taking a big chance by hosting the balls, and so was Christopher and the others who attended them.
