Mrs. Ginger Reed, known in some London circles as Lady Gold, sat at her large oak desk in the office of Lady Gold Investigations, her papers neatly stacked beside her, and her fountain pen hovered above the ledger.
Magna Jones, her assistant, lounged at the adjacent desk, one leg draped carelessly over the other, a grin tugging at her mouth. “You’ve written ‘suspicious footsteps’ twice.” Her voice carried the faintest hint of a Belgian French accent, though her words landed sharp as pins. With dark hair cut in a blunt bob, skin pale as parchment, and a gaze that could chill a room, she had the sort of presence that unsettled the uninitiated. Even after years of acquaintance—stretching back to the Great War—Ginger occasionally felt herself affected by it.
“If you’re padding the expenses,” Magna went on, “at least vary the vocabulary.”
Ginger lifted her head, pushed a loose wave of red hair behind her ear, and arched a brow. “It’s not padding, it’s thoroughness. Our clients expect precision.”
“They expect results,” Magna countered, folding her arms. “And we gave them that, didn’t we? Caught the poor man’s secretary red-handed.”
“Blue-inked, actually,” Ginger replied, the corners of her lips twitching into a smile.
From his cushion in the corner, Boss, her Boston terrier, gave a soft woof of agreement and promptly rolled onto his back, paws in the air, demanding tribute.
“You see? Even he’s tired of ledgers,” Magna said, rising to stretch. She crossed the room with her usual purposeful stride and rubbed the little dog’s belly.
“I rather think Boss likes seeing me work,” Ginger murmured, dipping her pen once more. “It assures him someone is keeping the world in order.”
“Then he’s more optimistic than I am,” Magna retorted, brushing a bit of dog hair from her skirt. “Because nothing about this world is in order, Ginger—and you know it.”
Before Ginger could reply, the bell over the front door jangled.
The lady who entered brought the cool damp of a foggy London February day with her, along with an unmistakable air of drama. She wore a travelling cloak of ivory wool trimmed in sable, and a champagne-coloured cloche shaded a pale and striking face. Soft lines about her eyes suggested she was in her early forties, only a few years Ginger’s senior. With unhurried grace, she removed her gloves, one finger at a time.
Ginger stood, presenting her customary warm smile. “Good afternoon.”
The lady cut in before Ginger could say more. “You don’t know me, Lady Gold.” Her voice carried the polish of Mayfair society but with a darker note beneath. “But you will have heard of me. I am Lady Alice Pembroke.”
Ginger concealed her amusement at the presumption. Yet Lady Alice was not mistaken—the name was familiar enough: a widow with impeccable connections, whispers of a scandalous inheritance, and rumours of adventures spanning Cairo to Calcutta.
Ginger gestured towards Magna. “This is my assistant, Miss Jones. What may we do for you, Lady Alice?”
The newcomer’s lips, red with glossy lipstick, tightened a fraction. “It is a matter of delicacy. I am leaving soon to travel to India, to attend a celebration at the palace of His Highness the Maharaja of Rajasthan near Alwar. It is said certain heirlooms of my family have found their way into his collection. I cannot be seen to pry…but you, Lady Gold, could make inquiries. Your reputation for discretion and success is well known.”
Boss gave a small huff, unimpressed by her polished delivery. Ginger, however, felt that familiar quickening of the pulse that always came when intrigue sidled in through her office door. Rajasthan. A maharaja’s palace.
“India?” Magna interjected. “You expect her to go to India? That’s a two weeks journey at the very least, one way.”
“I am aware of the distance, Miss Jones,” Lady Alice said coolly. “Rest assured, Lady Gold—and her husband, naturally—would be handsomely compensated.”
Ginger purposefully glanced away from Magna, whose absence from that particular invitation had been made abundantly clear.
“Do sit down, Lady Alice,” Ginger said, reclaiming her seat. “I find your proposal interesting but require more detail.”
Lady Alice glided into the empty leather chair opposite Ginger’s desk and arranged herself with effortless elegance. “It is precisely as I said. A valuable emerald necklace belonging to my grandmother, a miniature portrait… it is not only their monetary value, you understand, but they are dear to me. Someone whose opinions I trust informed me of having seen them at the palace. I cannot risk offence by inquiring personally, but I want them returned.”
“How do you know this, Lady Alice?” Magna asked, her tone edged with scepticism. “Have you been there of late?”
“Not for some years,” the lady replied, “but I have, shall we say, eyes and ears on the ground.”
“Are you often in India?” Ginger asked. “Are you connected with the Maharaja of Rajasthan?”
A flicker of something crossed Lady Alice’s eyes—annoyance, perhaps, or bemusement. She withdrew a slim silver case from her reticule, produced a card, and turned it idly in her fingers without offering it across. “Connected?” she repeated. “Let us say I am… beguiling. His Highness finds me diverting, and I in turn find his court a perpetual source of fascination. And yes, I’ve been a guest several times since ’23 and expect to be for much of the next coming decade as well.”
Magna leaned back in her chair, arms folded, gaze cool as winter rain. “And you think he’s pilfered your jewels while you weren’t looking?”
The lady’s chin lifted. “Not pilfered, Miss Jones. Acquired—perhaps through unscrupulous intermediaries. Whatever the means, they are mine. I cannot risk the appearance of mistrust, but I want them back.”
“And you suppose,” Ginger said gently, “that I can stroll into a maharaja’s collection and make discreet enquiries on your behalf?”
“Not suppose,” Lady Alice corrected. “I rely upon it. You are known for moving with equal ease in drawing rooms and darker quarters. Besides,” she lowered her voice just enough to set the air humming. “It is not only my heirlooms that concern me. The palace will be brimming with guests from both England and India. Where there are jewels and politics, there is mischief. I would very much like a fresh set of eyes on this situation; it would make me feel infinitely safer.”
Magna tapped her pen sharply against the ledger. “Sounds more like you want a watchdog than a detective. And forgive me, Lady Alice, but India really is rather a long way from Mayfair.”
“Precisely why discretion and intelligence are required,” Lady Alice said, snapping her case shut. “Two qualities Lady Gold is said to possess in abundance.”
Ginger felt the familiar thrill rise within her—the scent of trouble dressed as opportunity. She met Magna’s steady gaze across her desk, then turned back to her visitor.
“Very well, Lady Alice,” Ginger said at last, folding her hands atop the ledger. “Leave the particulars with me. I shall give you my answer tomorrow.”
Lady Alice’s expression softened with relief. At last, she extended her card, laying it carefully on the desk. “You may reach me at this address. I shall await your response.”
Once the work of the day was completed, Ginger stepped out onto Regent Street. It bustled with shoppers and motorcars, ladies in fur-trimmed coats hurrying into cafés, and clerks darting about with packages under their arms. The air was sharp with petrol fumes and the promise of rain.
Waiting at the kerb was her Crossley, its white paintwork gleaming despite the winter grime. Ginger gathered her skirts, Boss hopping onto the passenger seat, and settled onto the red leather upholstery.
The motor started with a purr. She nosed into the traffic, immediately startling a cabbie by swerving into the road in front of him.
“Do keep your side of the road, won’t you!” the cabbie bellowed, shaking a fist as she sailed past.
Ginger merely smiled, adjusting her cloche in the rear-view mirror. “Some people are so touchy, Boss.”
They rattled past Piccadilly Circus, where neon signs blazed advertisements for Bovril and Guinness, then down the Haymarket and onto Pall Mall, startling a pair of gentlemen in bowler hats who leapt aside as she cut rather closer to the kerb than was strictly polite. Rounding Trafalgar Square, she braked sharply to avoid a cart piled with flowers, sending Boss sliding against the door with a yelp.
“Terribly sorry!” she called to the flower-seller, who looked far from mollified.
By the time they reached the Embankment, the fog had lifted, and the Thames glittered in a single ray of the setting sun breaking through the cloud. Ginger slowed only slightly to admire the view, much to the alarm of a policeman who raised his arm in protest as she swerved round a tram.
“Perfectly under control,” she assured Boss, whose ears had flattened in suspicion.
At that moment, a faint droning hummed above the city. Ginger glanced skyward, her eyes catching on the silvered outline of an aeroplane, its wings glinting as it banked gracefully across the clouds. She was struck by a thought. “Would you look at that, Boss. Do you know what, I have a good mind to try this mode of travel myself! I could be soaring above the Channel, skimming across Europe, the whole world laid out beneath me.”
Boss pressed his nose against the window, as if he too longed to take to the skies.
Ginger pressed her foot to the accelerator with renewed determination. “But for now, old friend, we must make do with wheels—and my excellent sense of direction.”
A horn blared behind her as she missed the turning for South Kensington and swerved back across the lane. She only laughed, cheeks flushed with the thrill of motion.
“Really,” she said gaily, “driving is simply a matter of confidence.”
