“I must say that I agree.” Our butler, Arthur Fredericks, walked into the kitchen with a stack of newspapers under his arm. “It’s far too early for your morbidity, milady.”

“Nonsense,” Aunt Cat mused. “It’s never too early for murder. Is there tea in that pot, Gabriella?”

“Yes. Would you like a cup?”

“I would.”

“I’ll handle that.” Arthur set the newspapers down on the table like he did every morning in preparation for my father’s morning cup of tea. “You have your breakfast, Lady Gabriella.”

“Yeeees,” my aunt said slowly. “You were out quite late last night at the Holmes’, weren’t you?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Helena insisted on post-dinner drinks. I was outvoted.”

“Hmm.” She watched Arthur as he retrieved a mug from the cupboard and picked up the teapot. “I wonder about Helena. She can put her liquor away, can’t she?”

I rolled my eyes. “No more than any other twenty-something aristocrat in the public eye.”

“So, you.”

“Please,” I replied, making sure the slice of banana was perfectly situated for me to scoop it up my Weetabix. “You know I avoid the media. There are enough party-loving upper-class people they can rip to shreds in their opinion pieces without me offering myself up for their amusement.”

Besides, I preferred to be in the garden, much to my father’s frustration.

“Agreed. Best not to rile them. Look at Amelia Hughes. Her wedding in Sicily to that nice Italian bloke was essentially sponsored by a designer and the media did not like that.” Aunt Cat took her tea from Arthur with a quiet thank you and turned her attention to her newspaper. “Very tacky, flashing those designer labels about the place.” She sniffed and flipped her page. “Back in my day—”

“Good morning!” My father strolled into the kitchen while tying the belt on his dressing gown. “Oh, Arthur, excellent timing.”

“Of course, my lord.” Arthur bowed his head. “I’ll get you your tea.”

“Thank you. What’s in the news today?”

“Please don’t ask,” I muttered.

“Dead body in the town square,” my aunt replied, nonplussed. “Bled out all over the tulips. Just as well, if you ask me. It’s the end of their season and they were looking a little miserable, so all that blood appears to have livened the square up a bit.”

Arthur coughed.

“And there goes my breakfast.” I abandoned my morning Weetabix and disposed of it.

Daddy glanced at me. “Really? Who died?”

“Nobody knows,” my aunt replied. “Those bloody police taped off the area and nobody can get near.”

“That is their job, Catherine.”

“I don’t care. I want to know who was stupid enough to get themselves stabbed.”

I paused.

Daddy eyed her. “This is why you’re not allowed to talk to the media, Catherine.”

“I don’t want to talk to the media, Henry. I want to look after my goats without those heathens wondering if Queen Victoria or Prince Albert have escaped to the public gardens again.”