Georgie is back and hanging the stockings with care when a murder interrupts her Christmas cheer in this all-new installment in the  New York Times  bestselling Royal Spyness series from Rhys Bowen. Georgie is excited for her first Christmas as a married woman in her lovely new home. She suggests to her dashing husband, Darcy, that they have a little house party, but when Darcy receives a letter from his aunt Ermintrude, there is an abrupt change in plans. She has moved to a house on the edge of the Sandringham estate, near the royal family, and wants to invite Darcy and his new bride for Christmas. Aunt Ermintrude hints that the queen would like Georgie nearby. Georgie had not known that Aunt Ermintrude was a former lady-in-waiting and close confidante of her royal highness. The letter is therefore almost a royal request, so Georgie, Darcy, and their Christmas guests: Mummy, Grandad, Fig, and Binky all head to Sandringham. Georgie soon learns that the notorious Mrs. Simpson, mistress to the Prince of Wales, will also be in attendance. It is now crystal clear to Georgie that the Queen expects her to do a bit of spying. There is tension in the air from the get-go, and when Georgie pays a visit to the queen, she learns that there is more to her request than just some simple eavesdropping. There have been a couple of strange accidents at the estate recently. Two gentlemen of the royal household have died in mysterious circumstances and another has been shot by mistake during a hunt. Georgie begins to suspect that a member of the royal family is the real target but her investigation will put her new husband and love of her life, Darcy, in the crosshairs of a killer. Praise for God Rest Ye, Royal Gentlemen "Britain teeters on the brink of scandal and war in this charming combination of history and mystery."— Kirkus “The fifteenth entry in Bowen’s popular Royal Spyness series again combines a delightful spoof of the British upper classes (shades of Oscar Wilde and Noël Coward) with an Agatha Christie–style period cozy… A plucky heroine and plenty of droll British humor will keep readers happy.”— Booklist   “The humor and wit match a cast of charming, quirky characters. Bowen’s lovely English Christmas cozy doesn’t disappoint.”— Publishers Weekly Rhys Bowen , a New York Times bestselling author, has been nominated for every major award in mystery writing, including the Edgar®, and has won many, including both the Agatha and Anthony awards. She is the author of the Royal Spyness Mysteries, set in 1930s London, the Molly Murphy Mysteries, set in turn-of-the-century New York, and the Constable Evans Mysteries, set in Wales. She was born in England and now divides her time between Northern California and Arizona. Chapter 1   November 25, 1935   Eynsleigh House, Sussex   I'm looking out of my window on a misty November morning. A deer and fawn are standing at the edge of our woods and a couple of hares just raced across the grass. It's hard to believe that this lovely place is now my home and that my life is now so settled. I also still can't quite believe I am a married woman with a wonderful husband. Sometimes I want to pinch myself to find out if I'm dreaming. But then I don't want to wake up!   "'Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat, please to put a penny in the old man's hat,'" sang my housemaid, Sally, in a high, sweet voice as she brandished the feather duster over the portraits in the long gallery. I have never actually seen the value of feather dusters. All they seem to do is to make the dust fly off one surface to land on another nearby. That was certainly happening at the moment, but then, Sally was getting into the spirit of the season and dusting like an orchestra conductor in time to her singing.   She was a trifle optimistic about Christmas coming. It was still a month away, an idea just looming at the edge of my consciousness. But the song brought a sudden realization that I'd have to do something about getting ready for the holiday season. Now that I was mistress of a great house it would be up to me to see to decorations, invite guests, buy presents. . . . Golly, I thought when I realized what might be expected of me.   Until now Christmas had been a cheerless affair at my family castle in Scotland, with my sister-in-law, Hilda, Duchess of Rannoch, commonly known as Fig, only allowing one log on the fire at a time, in spite of the fact that gales were habitually felling trees all over the estate. Now, for the first time, I could have the holiday I had always dreamed of-in my own house with my new husband, and maybe family and friends. I pictured sitting by a roaring fire with my nearest and dearest around me and went through to the study to find paper and pencil to make a list of people to invite. Darcy was sitting at the desk and looked up in surprise as I came in.   "Hello-I didn't hear you coming."   "Sorry, am I interrupting something?" I asked.   "No. Just some odds and