Death on a Silver Tray Read Online Free

Robinson prides himself on his league of chattering valets, butlers, underbutlers, footmen, and maids who can always be depended upon to talk about their lords and ladies. Heaven knows Robinson’s knowledge of the latest news rivals the Morning Post , and his propensity to share it is equally fervent.
    “Do go on,” I encouraged him shamelessly.
    “Well, sir, it seems Lord Sidwell is preparing to, er, retire to his country estate. It is said he needs to take himself away from the temptations of London, especially from the gaming tables.” Robinson lowered his voice. “There is talk that he might even be forced to sell his town house.”
    Now that was distressing news. I paused in the act of arranging my hair with one of Floris’s smooth-pointed combs. Robinson took the comb and finished my hair. Then he pulled out a bottle of Eau de Melisse des Carmes lotion and began rapidly massaging it into my fingers.
    I wanted the painting, make no mistake, but I felt a twinge of pity for the old man who was forced to part with it. Gambling fever ran rampant through London, and sometimes I feared going too far myself. Tradesmen could be put off, but a debt of honor, such as a gaming debt, must be paid at once.
    Finished with the hand cream, Robinson put the top back on the bottle and stood waiting for my pronouncement.
    I gazed into the tall mahogany-framed dressing glass. A convenient article, it rested on castors and could be moved about the room at will. The dressing glass had two brass arms, each containing a lit candle. In this light, I studied the full length of my appearance critically, not missing a single detail. I made one final adjustment to the folds of my cravat. Robinson pulled a square of linen from his pocket and wiped his brow. By now you may have realized that The Dressing Hour is a bit of an understatement.
    Content, I turned to leave the room, vigorously pushing aside thoughts of ruin at the gaming tables. I need not worry. Such an ignominious end would never befall me.
    For if one got too deeply in debt there were only two alternatives. Flee the country. Or place a pistol to one’s temple and pull the trigger.
    And death, social or actual, held no appeal for me.
    Little did I realize how much a part of my life it would soon become.
     

Chapter Two
     
    Fans fluttered and jewels flashed in the candlelight of the crowded drawing room of Lord and Lady Perry’s Grosvenor Square town house.
    The large square chamber was done in the neo-classical Adam style, with the carpet woven into pleasing geometrical medallions, a design echoed in the painted ceiling. Delicate shades of cream and olive with rose-colored accents were repeated throughout the room, complementing each other. Rows of gilt chairs sat facing the ornate fireplace, next to which the tenor would perform for the distinguished guests. I noticed a magnificent harp stood positioned in front of the chairs and gathered we would be treated to its soothing sounds.
    Among the crowd of people one man stood out. I gazed at him curiously then went to greet my hosts.
    “Brummell! Glad you could attend,” Lord Perry welcomed me. Perry is a well-favored man about thirty years of age with a strong profile. An earl in command of three income-producing estates, he had been a much desired bachelor until only a year ago. At that time, defying the predictions of matchmaking mamas who thought their daughters’ dowries would attract the earl, the former Miss Bernadette Martin, a demure lady, both of countenance and of pocketbook, captured his heart and became his wife.
    Lady Perry, a petite brunette, was fashionably attired. She wore a dainty, pale pink gown designed in the new classically inspired mode. The styles taken from ancient Rome and Greece make for gowns constructed of the lightest materials, cut low on the bosom, and draped in a clinging manner like a goddess in Greek mythology.
    She smiled at me. “Mr. Brummell, how kind of you to come. Now the success of my