You are cordially invited to Cliffside Manor from the 6th to the 12th of October 1924 for a delightfully terrifying House Party.

Quinnie Greene read the missive for quite possibly the hundredth time since she had first received it in London the week prior. She knew her name granted her entry to some fairly eccentric events, but she truly did not know what to expect from this house party in the very north of Scotland in the Orkney Islands, so very far from the home she knew in Boston. She had desired to come to Britain to learn the secrets of Agatha Christie, whose novels inspired Quinnie herself to write mysteries. Her latest novel, A Dangerous Witch, had thus far sold quite well, but the critics had decried, “Juvenile! Perfect for the kids, but not in the same league as Mrs. Christie. Mrs. Greene needs more experience, more grit.”

Traveling to the northern tip of Scotland seems damned gritty to me, thought Quinnie, crumpling the missive in her hand as she did so, looking out over the setting sun on the cold crystalline North Sea on the ferry to Cliffside Manor from Kirkwall.

“I see I am not the only one dreading this ridiculous house party we’ve been summoned to,” drawled a deep Scottish brogue from behind Quinnie.

Startled, she turned around to see who had spoken and came face to face with the most stunningly attractive man she had ever seen. Deep blue eyes, square jaw, a straight nose with a bump that looked to have been broken and healed over more than once, and unruly chestnut hair, the breeze picking up a curl here and there, taunting Quinnie to right them. Gulping loudly and self-consciously, she licked her suddenly dry lips to reply, “Are you to be joining the Balfours then?”

The Adonis smiled, a dimple popping up in his right cheek, but curiously absent from his left, and Quinnie’s heart came to a thudding stop. She knew then and there that this was what true attraction felt like. Every other experience in her life was child’s play compared to the havoc this man was wreaking on her senses. He spoke again, “Indeed, it would seem you and I are equally doomed.”

“Doomed?” She repeated, fixated on that single dimple.

“To boredom no doubt. Dreadfully boring these northern islands, nothing like Town. No doubt we shall have to play silly games to entertain ourselves like Blind Man’s Bluff,” he winked, he actually winked. Quinnie did not believe people truly winked outside of novels, but here he was, winking at her like she was her very own heroine. 

“Perhaps charades are more to your liking?” she teased, hoping to coax him to wink at her again. 

He laughed then, a dry chuckle that did more to unsettle her nerves then both the wink and the dimple before it combined. “Oh dear, not charades! All that flailing and fake acting and nobody ever guesses correctly.”

“You must be an abhorrent actor then, if nobody can guess what you are miming,” she said, her laughter joining his.

“No doubt, no doubt. But what of you, you are a famous authoress! Perhaps your charade skills are equally entertaining.”

He was flattering her, she knew he was, but it did not stop the blush from rising up her cheeks, “You know who I am?” She asked, somewhat rhetorically as he had clearly correctly identified her.

“Indeed. It isn’t every day one is sharing a ferry with the writer of Murder at Hill Mansion, I would be remiss if I did not introduce myself.”

“And yet, you have not done so.”

He flashed that dimple again, and Quinnie wondered if she were going overboard, she felt as though she had lost her footing, “I fear my name is not nearly so famous as yours, Mrs. Greene.”

“I am unmarried.”

“Oh?” The question implied he wanted her to explain.

“Married women sell more books.”

“Don’t men also sell more books? Why not write under a man’s name if that is your aim?”

Quinnie felt her cheeks flush again, but this time from the fiery rage that enabled her to march alongside her sisters to claim the vote, “Why should women be denied the same things men are given without thought?”

The devilishly handsome man raised both his hands up in defense, “I do not believe they should! I think you deserve all the accolades a male author receives, Miss Greene,” He emphasized her correct, if not public title before lowering his hands to pick up her empty one and kiss her knuckles gently. She cursed whoever invented gloves. He continued, “My name is Cornelius Frederick Archibald Spence, the fifth.”

Her eyes widened at the lengthy name, “Must I say that entire thing when I speak with you? Or shall I simply call you Mr. The fifth?” She grinned at him.

He laughed again, “Fred for friends,” lowering his voice and leaning close, “Spence to my enemies.”

Her breath caught at his nearness, “And am I to be your friend, or your enemy?”

His blue eyes caught the dying rays of sunlight and it seemed that heaven itself was beaming down at her, “I suppose we’ll have a week together to find out.”