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A Tincture of Murder, Lord Danvers Investigates #4

By Donna Fletcher Crow

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One
“What a perfect evening.” Antonia, Lady Danvers, gave a small, delicious sigh of pleasure and rested her head on her husband’s broad shoulder as the landau, tonight open to the stars, rolled through the Northamptonshire countryside under the steady driving of Charles’s ever-efficient man Hardy. “Oh, Charles, such a lovely ball.” She closed her eyes and saw again the swirl of wide, crinoline gowns swaying like bells under the gleaming crystal chandeliers.
“Glad I talked you into attending, then, my love?”
Antonia more felt than saw her husband’s smile from his face several inches above hers. She smoothed the primrose silk of her skirt, spread out to fill the carriage. “Of course I am. It was never that I didn’t want to attend the ball, you understand, but simply that I’m so content.” She smiled at her own words. That one who had formerly been so restless anywhere but in the whirl of London society could know such contentment living quietly at the Danvers family seat deep in the countryside month after month…
Charles’s arm drew tighter around her. “Charlie.” He said simply.
“Charlie.” She agreed. And even as she said it her arms ached for the seven-month-old son whose birth they had so long desired. In spite of the excellent attentions of Nurse Bevans to the infant, Antonia disliked being away from her enchanting child for any extended period. Every smile and gurgle she missed would be lost forever.
Antonia’s euphoric smile deepened as above her head her husband burst into a deep-throated, almost on-key rendition of Soa Gân, the traditional Welsh lullaby he had sung to a cooing Charles Frederick almost every night since his birth:
“Sleep our baby, at the breast,
’Tis mother’s arms around you.
Harm will ne’er meet you in sleep,
Hurt will always pass you by.
Child beloved, always you’ll keep,
Sleep in peace tonight, sleep.”
Charles’s happiness added to Tonia’s gratification as did the fact that he had of recent months abandoned his passion to break forth in operatic aria for a quieter mode of expression. “My love,” she began, then hesitated. She hated to break the tranquility by introducing a subject of discord. And yet, what better time? They were alone together, nothing to interrupt them… “My love, about the letter from Frederick…”
The singing broke off abruptly. “Dash that young puppy. What could have possessed him to take up residence in darkest Yorkshire?”
Tonia gave a trill of laughter to offset what she knew to be her husband’s agitation. Only the strongest feeling would lead him to such overstatement. “Hardly that, I think. I’ve always found York to be one of the most charming cities in the kingdom.”
“To visit, certainly. But why Freddie should be so pudding-headed as to choose to live so far away from all his family and friends. And after we did him the singular honour of naming our son and heir after him.”
Antonia laughed again. “You do forget yourself, love. Aside from the Charles part, I believe Frederick is one of your names as well. As it has been for every male in your line for how many generations?”
“That is entirely beside the point. If my brother has gotten himself into a scrape with some lightskirt in York it’s up to him to disentangle himself. Be good experience for him. There is absolutely no reason I should dash halfway across the country for Freddie’s pleasure and my own discomfort.”
Tonia bit her tongue. Charles didn’t need reminding that since his father, the 10th Earl, had effectively abdicated his title by choosing to live in Paris, his eldest son, the Viscount, was head of the family for all intents and purposes. As a matter of fact, she suspected that his discomforture at being thrust into that position was precisely what lay behind her husband’s strong reaction to his younger brother’s eccentric move.
She chose another line of attack. “Really, Charles. Frederick is a vicar. I can’t imagine a more respectable position. The trouble on which he has sought your counsel can’t possibly be of the nature you imply.”
A firm “Humph” signaled that the conversation was at an end.
Antonia allowed her mind to drift back to happier thoughts as the carriage turned off the main road and began the ascent up the mile-long, elm-lined lane to Norwood Park, and Charles resumed his interrupted lullaby:
“Sleep child mine, there’s nothing here,
While in slumber you are blest,
Angels smiling, have no fear,
Holy angels guard your rest.”
Tonia was never certain what instinct caused her to sit upright and scan the night sky ahead of them. Did it somehow seem too light? Or the air to warm a bit? Perhaps there was the tiniest whiff of acrid scent on the breeze? Whatever the cause, suddenly every nerve in her body was electrified.
“Hardy, spur on the horses. Hurry!” She sat forward, straining to haste their progress.
A horrified cry broke from her as the carriage swung around the last curve of the drive.
A billow of smoke rose from the east wing of the house—the wing where the infant Charlie lay asleep in the nursery—and an unnatural, yellow light flickering behind the curtains confirmed that Norwood Park was on fire.

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