Rosemary Lillywhite bit her lip, pushed a lock of golden hair off her forehead, and frowned as she assessed the canvas perched on her easel. Somehow, no matter which shades she used or how meticulous were her brushstrokes, she couldn’t seem to bring the colors of Cyprus to life in front of her. Not, at least, as vibrantly as she remembered them.

She’d been trying now for the two months since she’d returned to the London flat she had shared with her late husband, Andrew, who had died nearly a year before. Rosemary glanced at the stacks and rows of canvases already covered with images of what was supposed to have been a relaxing, cathartic holiday on the Isle of Love.

The vacation hadn’t gone off as planned. Instead, she’d returned with more grief in her heart than when she’d left, and even though her friends had helped her solve a murder during their stay, finding Cecily’s killer hadn’t eased the shock of losing another person close to Rosemary’s family.

“If only,” she said aloud, wishing vehemently that she could capture the image of a golden sunset against a cerulean sea that swam behind her eyes. It seemed that if she could manage that, she might be able to put the whole sordid affair behind her.

Rosemary paced the room—the office Andrew had used for his private detective business and which she was contemplating turning into an art studio—shuffling her bare, paint-splattered feet across the cloth protecting the plush oriental rug underneath. She supposed she had turned it into a studio, if only a makeshift one, though her thoughts kept wandering back to the nameplate tucked into Andrew’s top desk drawer. It read ‘Rosemary Lillywhite, Private Investigator,’ but whether she was going to remove it from its hiding place and display it prominently on top of the desk was a decision yet to be made.

Doing so would mean declaring to the world—a world where women weren’t expected to do such things—that she was a true detective. She wasn’t certain she was ready to take that on, though it would be considered a boon for the equal rights movement still raging even after the fairer sex had demanded the ability to vote.

There were, Rosemary decided, limits to her willingness to further the cause.

“Madam,” came a voice from the doorway, “your tea.” Wadsworth, the butler, looked for a clean place to set down the tray and, finding none suitable enough for his tastes, raised an eyebrow at his mistress.

Rosemary pulled the protective cover off a small table and settled in to enjoy a quiet cuppa. “Wadsworth?” she said thoughtfully, a question in her voice. Unable to bring herself to actually ask it, she waved a hand. “Never mind.”

Nodding once, the butler turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Whatever was on his mistress’s mind, it wasn’t his place to pry, and so he didn’t. When he was forced to return a few moments later, he found her sitting in the same position she’d been when he left, the full cup of tea going cold in her hand.

“Madam,” Wadsworth said, rousing Rosemary from her reverie, “you have a phone call waiting in the parlor. It’s Mrs. Woolridge.” His tone indicated she ought to put a spring in her step, for her mother wouldn’t appreciate being kept waiting.

Quickly, Rosemary hurried up the stairs from the ground-floor office and reached for the receiver before sitting down in front of the telephone. “Hello, Mother,” she said and was treated to an earful in return.

“Are you there, Rose?” Evelyn spoke loudly as if unsure she could be heard. “Is that you?”

“Yes, Mother. Who else were you expecting?”

“It’s a disaster. All is gone to rack and ruin! I can’t believe your father is so daft. How will I ever show my face again? Your father. I gave him one simple task,” Evelyn Woolridge spouted, her words becoming tangled in her irritation. “You will come, won’t you?”

Rosemary sighed. “Slow down. I can’t understand a thing you’re saying.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Evelyn cried. “I’ve been perfectly clear. It’s a disaster. When can you get here?”

“What is a disaster, exactly?” Rosemary demanded, recalling the last conversation she’d had with her mother and attempting to put the scattered pieces of Evelyn’s ramblings into a sensible order.

Speaking slowly, as though Rosemary was a child, Evelyn explained. “The tea, Rosemary. The tea. You do remember me telling you about the Society for the Protection of Euphorbia Villosa, don’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued. “I’ve been put in charge, and this is the first event I’m to host. I asked your father to post the invitations two weeks ago. They were all tied up in two parcels, and he’s managed only to post one. The rest he left in the boot of his car. I can’t imagine what he must have been thinking!”

It didn’t come as much of a shock to Rosemary, though now that she understood the situation, her mother’s irritation made more sense.

“Perhaps you should have asked one of the maids or your butler to attend to the posting,” Rosemary mused. “You know how absentminded Father can be. He’d forget to eat breakfast if you didn’t remind him.”

Evidently, that wasn’t the response Evelyn was looking for because she began to rant once more, and this time her ire was directed at Rosemary. “Absentmindedness is no excuse. He’s a grown man; he ought to be able to remember the simplest of instructions. I find your soft spot for his shenanigans infuriating. The worst part is he obviously made it to the post office because he sent out half the invitations. Now, as chairwoman, it’s on me to fill the empty seats.”

Evelyn had, indeed, mentioned her newest protective endeavor in weekly missives that Rosemary had scanned cursorily as they’d gone on for quite some length. She’d declined reading through lists of the ladies who’d joined the society—most of whom Rosemary considered quite frivolous and downright silly—but she couldn’t—and wouldn’t—say as much to her mother.

“Now,” Evelyn demanded, “I need you to fill a seat—several, in fact—so bring as many people as you can. Your brother intends to invite Vera, of course, so she can’t count for you.” The name Vera came out sounding like a slur, and to that, Rosemary did take great offense.

“Mother,” she sighed, “would it kill you to be nice to Vera? She’s been my most trusted friend since we were children, you’re close to her mother, and now she and Freddie are a couple.” Rosemary ticked off several good reasons why Evelyn’s attitude was inappropriate, to say the least. “She’s part of the family in more ways than one already. What could she possibly have done to deserve this sudden spate of animosity?”

Evelyn balked. “Nothing whatever, dear. Vera’s a lovely girl. Whether she’s right for your brother is another matter altogether, but I’ll try to keep an open mind.” Her tone had taken on a lightness Rosemary recognized not as acquiescence but an attempt to end the conversation.

She sighed again and, realizing there was no getting out of a trip to Pardington, vowed to further defend Vera when she had her mother’s full attention.

“I’ll be there as soon as possible, of course, and I’ll see what I can do about filling some of your empty seats,” she promised.

“Thank you, dear,” Evelyn said as if there were ever a question that, when faced with a family crisis—no matter how immaterial Rosemary thought it might be—she wouldn’t rise to the occasion. “Your sister is here, and little Nelly, of course. Leonard will arrive in time for the fête, or so I’ve been told. I’ll put her on seating charts, and you can handle the rearrangements … or perhaps—” Evelyn continued to think out loud, for once, evidently, forgetting her strict rule about keeping all telephone calls to under five minutes.

Evelyn would change her mind twelve times before Rosemary arrived anyway, so she tuned her mother out and began making a mental list of people she could invite to fill those empty seats. The Redberrys from next door, of course. Abigail was the type to enjoy an afternoon among the hoity-toity country set, even if her husband, Martin, would be bored silly.

Long after Evelyn disconnected the line with a parting demand to “Get here as fast as you can,” Rosemary racked her brain for more friends who might be willing to travel all the way out to Pardington. Unfortunately, she realized, she’d lost touch with so many of the couples who only served to remind her that she was now without a husband of her own.

“I’m really very sorry, Rose.” Abigail Redberry’s reply had come out on a sigh. “Martin is attending some sort of symposium to do with his work, and I’m to tag along. I do wish you and your mother good luck with the Euphorbia … whatever it was.”

Her surest bet out of the running, Rosemary opened her address book and scanned through the list. Agatha Bainsbury, she remembered, had taken to clucking her tongue and shaking her head every time her eye fell on the new widow. For that reason, Rosemary decided she would continue to avoid the woman at all costs. Besides which, Agatha’s husband was possessed of a wandering eye.

Two minutes too late, she remembered Pansy Dalrymple’s penchant for mindless prattle and her obsession with detailing her every vagrant thought. Strike that couple off the list.

Maybe there had been other reasons besides her tragic loss for letting go of some friendships. With finality, Rosemary closed her address book and stashed it back in the drawer.

Despite her reticence, Rosemary knew Evelyn expected her to deliver, and she thought for a moment that perhaps Max might be a willing participant, but then shook her head decidedly no. “I think it’s best to learn a lesson from Pandora and leave the lid on that particular box,” she said aloud.

Max was Maximilian Whittington, a handsome CID detective who had been Andrew’s dearest comrade. Now, he was the man who threatened to wake Rosemary from her mourning period. Guilt at the thought of betraying Andrew’s memory had tamped that hope back down to the bottommost places of her heart, and she’d been forced to tell Max that their relationship—if there were ever to be one—would have to be put on hold until she’d fully healed.

As if that hadn’t been enough for her to deal with, Max wasn’t the only one vying for her affections. There was Teddy Barton to consider, and Frederick’s longtime chum Desmond Cooper, towards whom Rosemary had fostered an unrequited childhood crush. As her brother Frederick’s best mate, Desmond would likely attend the party at Woolridge House, and having all three men there would make things more awkward than they already were. If that’s even possible, Rosemary thought to herself as she placed another phone call.

“I need your help.” Rosemary echoed her mother’s plea so convincingly she grimaced in chagrin.

“And so you shall have it,” Vera Blackburn replied without hesitation, somehow managing to sound as though doing whatever Rosemary asked would be the highlight of her life. “What’s happened? You sound tense.”

Leave it to Vera to notice her melancholy even over the phone. “You’re not going to like it,” Rosemary said, expecting to take the shine off Vera’s generous mood. “It involves a heaping dose of the incomparable Evelyn Woolridge.”

“Oh, you must be talking about the SPEV tea party. I’ve already been told I’m expected to attend. You know, your brother has become quite presumptuous,” Vera said, not seeming the least bit bothered by the fact. Quite the contrary, actually. Ever since sharing a long-anticipated kiss in Cyprus, Vera and her new beau had become inseparable despite Frederick having to spend most of his time in the country, running the family business alongside Rosemary’s father.

That he took his position seriously was a testament to how much he’d grown up from the careless boy he’d once been, and Rosemary was prouder than he knew. She simply couldn’t voice her opinion to Frederick, or he’d balk and protest, claiming he was only doing his familial duty. It was more than that, but Rosemary knew she’d have to let him come to that conclusion on his own.

“Perhaps I’ll be able to impress your mother,” Vera continued, a tinge of worry in her voice.

“Since when have you cared for my mother’s opinion of you?” Rosemary asked, knowing full well the reason for her friend’s change of perspective.

With a harrumph, Vera retorted, “Don’t be daft, Rosie dear. I may have been a staunch supporter of the suffrage movement, and yes, I enjoy thumbing my nose at authority, but that doesn’t have to mean I should be thrilled that my beau’s mother can’t stand the sight of me.”

“I don’t think her feelings have changed towards you,” Rosemary said, “so much as I think she simply hasn’t accepted it’s not Lionel you’ll be marrying.”

Neither her friend nor her brother had mentioned marriage thus far, so Rosemary held her breath while she waited to see what Vera might say on the subject.

Vera paused momentarily, swallowed the lump in her throat, and replied, “Well, there isn’t anything I can do about that, now is there?”

There wasn’t, and the subject quickly changed, as it always did when Rosemary’s other, deceased brother’s name came up in conversation. Had he survived, he and Vera would have been wed long ago; instead, Vera had rejected the idea of tying herself to any man and had spent the last few years as a single woman.

“I can put on a show and pretend to get along; I’m an actress, after all. Nevertheless, I intend to win her over this weekend. Now, who are you inviting and what are you going to wear? Never mind, I know you haven’t given that a bit of thought. I’ll take care of it, and I’ll pick you up. We’ll go together,” Vera said and, without waiting for Rosemary’s reply, hung up the phone.