Lady Georgiana Rannoch is off to solve a Hollywood homicide in the eighth mystery in the New York Times bestselling Royal Spyness series. England, 1934 . Georgie's mother, the glamorous and much-married actress, is hearing wedding bells once again—which is why she must hop across the pond for a quickie divorce in Reno. To offer her moral support, Georgie agrees to go along on the all expenses paid voyage across the Atlantic. While her mother meets movie mogul Cy Goldman—who insists on casting her in his next picture—Georgie finds herself caught up in the secret investigation of a suspected jewel thief. Lucky for her, the lead investigator happens to be her dashing beau, Darcy! Her mother's movie and Darcy’s larceny lead everyone to Cy’s Hollywood home, where the likes of Charlie Chaplin are hanging about and there’s enough romantic intrigue to fill a double feature. But they hardly get a chance to work out the sleeping arrangements before Cy turns up dead. As if there wasn’t enough drama already... 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) 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 KINGSDOWNE PLACE, EYNSFORD, KENT MONDAY, JULY 9, 1934 Dear Diary: Weather fine but absolutely nothing to do. Dying of boredom. I was sitting in a white wicker chair under a spreading chestnut tree on a manicured lawn. Behind me the stately battlements of Kingsdowne Place, seat of the dukes of Eynsford, were reflected in the perfect mirror of the lake, its surface ruffled only by a pair of gliding swans. Before me was a tea table, groaning under tiers of cucumber and smoked salmon sandwiches, strawberries and cream, éclairs, Victoria sponges, petit fours and scones with clotted cream. It was about the most perfect afternoon one could wish for, one of those rare English summer days when the only sounds are the buzzing of bees among the roses, the clickety-clack of a distant lawn mower and the thwack of ball on bat at the cricket match down in the village. I gave a long sigh. It should have been of contentment but actually it was one of boredom. I have a confession to make. Being almost royal isn’t always a piece of cake. For one thing it isn’t always easy keeping that stiff upper lip in the face of royal relatives, lunatic suitors, and dead bodies. And it’s certainly not easy doing nothing all day. I know that ordinary people who have to catch the eight-twenty to Waterloo every day envy our leisure but frankly most of the time our lives are a battle against boredom. I’d love to be doing something useful. I’d love to be making money too. But alas there are no jobs for a young woman whose education has only equipped her to walk around with a book on her head and know where to seat a bishop at a dinner party. My royal relatives would certainly not have been amused if they learned I was working behind the counter in Woolworths or serving tea at Lyons. And in this horrid depression even people with strings of qualifications can’t find gainful employment. What I should have been doing was my duty by marrying some half-batty Continental princeling, thus ensuring the continuation of some outmoded dynasty (while running the risk of being assassinated by anarchists). So far I had managed to avoid all half-lunatic princes that had been thrust in my direction. And in case you think I was against the idea of marriage, actually I did have a candidate for marriage lined up, but he, like me, was penniless with no prospects. A pretty hopeless situation. And so I did what other young ladies of my station do until they find a husband—endured long empty days punctuated by meals, healthy walks through the countryside and occasional bursts of exciteme