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Zusatztext Praise for the Royal Spyness Mysteries “Wonderful characters...A delight.”—#1 New York Times bestselling author Charlaine Harris “An insightful blend of old-fashioned whodunnit, clever satire and drawing room comedy of errors.”— New York Times bestselling author Jacqueline Winspear “Brilliant...This is so much more than a murder mystery. It’s part love story, part social commentary, part fun and part downright terrifying. And completely riveting.”—#1 New York Times bestselling author Louise Penny “The perfect fix between seasons for Downton Abbey addicts.”— New York Times bestselling author Deborah Crombie “Fans of P.G. Wodehouse looking for laughs mingled with some amateur sleuthing will be quite pleased.”— Publishers Weekly (starred review) “Georgie’s high spirits and the author’s frothy prose are utterly captivating.”— The Denver Post “A smashing romp.”— Booklist (starred review) Informationen zum Autor Rhys Bowen Klappentext Thirty-fifth in line for the British throne, Lady Georgiana Rannoch becomes embroiled in royal wrongdoing in the ninth mystery from the New York Times bestselling author of Crowned and Dangerous. Caught between her high birth and empty purse, Georgie is relieved to receive a new assignment from the Queen. The King's youngest son, George, is to wed Princess Marina of Greece, and the Queen wants Georgie to be her companion: showing her the best of London-and dispelling any rumors about George's libertine history. The prince is known for his many affairs with women as well as men-including the great songwriter Noel Coward. But things truly get complicated when one of his supposed mistresses is murdered. The Queen wants the whole matter hushed. But as the case unfolds-and Georgie's beau Darcy, as always, turns up in the most unlikely of places-their investigation brings them precariously close to the prince himself. Leseprobe Chapter 1 SUNDAY, OCTOBER 28, 1934 CLABON MEWS, LONDON S.W.7. Weather outside: utterly bloody! Weather inside: cozy and warm. Enjoying life for once, or would be if Darcy hadn’t gone off somewhere secret again . . . Why must he be so annoying! By London standards, it was a dark and stormy night. Nothing like the wild gales that battered our castle in the Scottish Highlands, of course, but violent enough to make me glad I was safely indoors. Rain peppered the windows and drummed on the slates on the roof while a wild wind howled down the chimney. If I’d been at Castle Rannoch, where I grew up, the wind would also have sent icy drafts rushing down the corridors, making tapestries flap and billow out so that it was almost as unpleasant indoors as it was out. But on this particular night I lay listening to the storm feeling snug, warm, comfortable and very thankful that I wasn’t at Castle Rannoch. I was instead in my friend Belinda’s mews cottage in Knightsbridge and enjoying every moment of it. When I returned from America at the end of August—having been dragged there by my mother who was seeking a quickie divorce from one of her husbands—Mummy had immediately flitted away with the very briefest of good-byes as usual. She had abandoned her only child with monotonous regularity and barely a backward glance since that first time she bolted when I was two. But on this occasion she had actually demonstrated a spark of maternal feeling I hadn’t known she possessed. As she left Brown’s hotel she handed me a generous check. “Georgie, darling, I want you to know that I think you behaved splendidly in Hollywood,” she said. “I simply couldn’t have survived without you in that savage place.” I went pink and didn’t quite know what to say as this was so out of character. “Golly, t...
