Free Death on a Silver Tray by Rosemary Stevens

ever lower, my thoughts centered more on Freddie than the mystery I should have been contemplating.
    Sweet, dear, Freddie who had come to England from Prussia fourteen years ago with hopes, if not expectations, of a comfortable marriage. Shakespeare’s question of “to be or not to be” could hardly have been uttered regarding the union, before clearly the answer was “not to be.”
    While most of Society, including me, thinks the Duke of York a figure of distinction as he is, after all, the Commander in Chief of England’s land forces, I cannot help but believe he falls short of being a true gentleman. A gentleman, in my view, does not bring dishonor to his wife by his behavior. A gentleman honors his marriage vows.
    I poured myself another brandy. Next to me, at arm’s length, stood a smallish mahogany revolving bookcase with a gilt Greek key apron. I absently twirled the circular
    book-holder round and round while thinking of Freddie and her husband.
    The Duke of York had married Frederica Charlotte Ulrica Catherine in two ceremonies. The first time was in Berlin with her family, the second held shortly thereafter in London. ‘Twas a shame neither ceremony had affected the Duke of York, who currently kept Mrs. Clark as his mistress. How his Royal Highness could chose such an uncouth woman over Freddie was the mystery I did ponder over two more glasses of brandy. In my view, Mrs. Clark, a faithless creature if there ever was one, was bound to bring calamity onto the Duke’s head at someday.
    Meanwhile, Freddie chose to stay at Oatlands with more loyal companions, even if they were animals rather than people.
    Such pointless, depressing musings carried me through the evening with my only conclusion being the one I have known all along: sometimes being the leader of Society and the arbiter of fashion does not bestow one with the rewards one wishes for most.
    The candles burned low when Robinson came downstairs clucking like a mother hen and ushered me up to my bedchamber.
    I slept the next morning away like most members of the Beau Monde , only rising when the sounds of peddlers calling their wares on the street below penetrated my muddled brain.
    Robinson pulled back the curtains of my bed and handed me my morning chocolate. Unlike some fellows, a night of drinking rarely puts me off my breakfast. Robinson’s news that Andre was bustling about the kitchen preparing his special toast almost made me hurry through the Dressing Hour. Almost. My stomach does not take priority over faultless grooming.
    Once properly dressed in a simple costume of buff-colored pantaloons, white waistcoat, Spanish blue coat and Hessian boots polished to a shine that could lead ships ashore, I made my way to the dining room and thoroughly enjoyed my repast.
    Andre has a way of making a French-style of toast. Cut slices of bread are dipped in a mixture of cream, sugar and nutmeg. This concoction is then fried in butter and served with a wine sauce that is delicious. Back in my school days, I was considered top of the class in Cheese Toasting, so I tip my hat to anyone skilled in the realm of the toasting arts.
    I felt invigorated after two cups of coffee and settled in with the Morning Post to consume my third. Unlike the Times which restrains itself from reporting rumors, the Morning Post feels no need to restrict itself to facts. The following was listed under the “Deceased” section.
     
     Hester Billings, the Countess of Wrayburn, has been consigned to her tomb under the most shocking of circumstances. According to confidential information obtained from the Bow Street Police Office, and other most reliable sources, her ladyship was transported to the hereafter following the consumption of a glass of poisoned milk given to her by a member of her very own household staff. The Morning Post has learned the evil staff member in question—a young woman—was recommended to Lady Wrayburn as trustworthy by the reclusive F——,  a lady of