“Yes.” He gazed at my countenance, and his own altered slightly. From a studied air of ease that had been meant to reassure the ladies — to suggest that he was in no way affected by the Inquest — it saddened perceptibly, and his thoughts fled far afield. Had Charles Danforth forgiven himself, I wondered, for the deaths of his little children? For the despair and agony of his late wife? A man might take every grief in the world upon his shoulders — might stand as God within the bounds of his own kingdom — and feel how futile his power to alter the balance of life and death. Charles Danforth could do nothing to prevent his daughters failing before him; he could not keep back his son from the brink. Such a man might well believe the whispered mutterings he heard on every side — and cry out that he was cursed. What had kept Charles Danforth from falling headlong into the grave?

“And how have you been amusing yourself, Charles?” Lady Harriot demanded. “Playing the gentleman farmer, I suppose? Or reading great tomes of philosophy in your dusty old library?”

The look of nagging melancholy softened, and was gone; he smiled at Lady Harriot. “I have been planning a great journey, you know. You will have heard, I think, that I intend to sail for the West Indies in the spring.”

“Not really!” The sudden access of delight — of wistful longing — was startling in Lady Harriot’s face. “How I should love to throw off the wet and cold of England, and sail towards the sun! What freedom you men possess — and how I detest you all!”

He held her gaze, and measured his words with care. “I am sure that if Lady Harriot Cavendish wished to go anywhere in the world, she might command the will of any man.”

Lady Harriot drew a sharp breath, and glanced away. Colour flooded into her cheeks; she affected indifference. “It has been ages and ages since I’ve been anywhere but London. And the Continent is entirely closed to us now, unless one considers Oporto, which I cannot regard. But the Indies—! Oh, Charles, how fortunate you are!”

“Or would be, were my estates in better order. But that is to talk of business, and I shall not try your patience with sugar and accounts. My lord,” he observed with a nod to Lord Harold, “what have you attempted, for the amusement of these ladies? I had heard from Andrew that archery had been taken up, and targets secured on the lawn; but I can observe nothing so novel in the landscape. Chatsworth rolls on, as it has ever done, serene in its breadth of green.”

“The only novel you shall find, my dear Charles, is presently in Lady Elizabeth’s work basket,” Hary-O retorted before Lord Harold could speak. “The bows and arrows were dismissed from her sight so lately as yesterday; we may presume that she feared they offered too much temptation. With one murder in the air, you know, the effect may be catching; and dear Bess will not play the bull’s-eye for anyone.”

“You are very bad, Lady Harriot,” Danforth assured her with a half-choked laugh; and as he bent over her chair to admire her work, I had the strongest impression of collusion among Hary-O and Danforth and Lady Swithin. They were all of them shaking with guilty amusement; and I wondered that I had ever found Charles Danforth a figure of melancholy. The effects of sadness — of profound loss — were etched upon his countenance, to be sure; but in this place, and among these young women, he was able to set aside his care. Like Lady Harriot, I was suddenly glad that he had come; and I disliked to think of him alone amidst the many ghosts of Penfolds Hall.

The sound of a barking dog drew Lady Harriot sharply around, to gaze towards a gravelled avenue; three horsemen and several great hounds — bull mastiffs, by their appearance — approached at a walk. The eldest of the three, whose venerable head and resemblance to Lady Harriot proclaimed him her near relation, I judged to be His Grace the Duke of Devonshire. The second was a boyish figure of perhaps fifteen, with auburn hair, a bearing quite stiff and correct, and an unsmiling countenance; he was arrayed entirely in the profoundest black. William, Marquess of Hartington, it must be presumed — the sole Cavendish son and heir to a king’s ransom. He did not look to me to be very promising; but allowances must be made for youth, and for the effects of grief. Lord Hartington was said by all the world to have been devoted to his mother.

The last was a gentleman of sober dress and easy appearance, a decade older than the boy at his side. This must be Andrew Danforth, though I could trace not the slightest resemblance to his brother. Where Charles Danforth was dark and sombre, this man was fair-haired and easy; where the weight of suffering lent nobility to Charles’s brow, his brother could offer only good-humoured charm. Whatever of tragedy had been visited upon Penfolds Hall, it had not laid low this elegant figure.

He swung himself carelessly from the saddle, nodded at his brother by way of greeting, and strode towards our party before his companions had even dismounted.

“You have been eating peaches, Lady Harriot!” he cried, “and were so cruel as to leave us nothing but stones! You see us returned as from a desert. We are utterly parched. Has there ever been an August so hot and brown?”

“There were peaches a-plenty, had you returned in good time.” Lady Harriot proffered a glass of iced lemon-water. “We expected you this last hour, Mr. Danforth, and had no recourse but to devour all the fruit when you failed us.”

“Were I a scrub,” he confided, “I should lay all the blame upon His Grace. There was the matter of a dog to be visited — a bitch with a new litter — and you know what Canis is when he is among his fellows.”

“Not really, Father!” she cried, with a look for the Duke. “Visiting the stables, when you meant to persuade Mr. Danforth to stand for Parliament! It is too bad!”

“Possible to persuade and visit all at once, m’dear,” observed His Grace the Duke. “He’s agreed to stand.”

Lady Harriot threw up her arms in delight and pirouetted on the lawn. “Glorious!” she cried. “The very thing for you, Andrew, had you but eyes to see it!”

“Apparently he does,” observed Lord Harold drily, and drew me forward. “May I present Miss Austen, Your Grace? An old family friend from Bath.”

The Duke inclined his head with a faint air of boredom and proceeded to fondle his dog. The Marquess of Hartington entered more fully into the forms of polite address, without greatly embracing their spirit; he bowed low, but failed to utter a word.

Mr. Andrew Danforth, however, was another matter entirely.

He bent over my hand with an expression of pleasure, smiled warmly into my eyes, and said, “Your servant, Miss Austen. I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Lady Swithin cannot stop praising your merits — and as you know, Lady Swithin is never wrong.”

“Although perhaps she is sometimes a little kinder than I deserve,” I replied with a laugh. “I should not wish my worth to stand a closer scrutiny!”

“Are you the one who found the body?”

The voice was curious — muffled, heavy and halting, as though the speaker must measure every word. I turned, and saw that it was Lord Hartington who addressed me; his expression was quite intent, his eyes fixed upon my face.

“I am, my lord,” I replied.

He stared at me uncomprehendingly, the eyes acute and agonized.

“Lord Hartington is a trifle hard of hearing,” Desdemona breathed in my ear. “Pray repeat your words a bit louder, Jane.”

“Yes, my lord, I found the body of Tess Arnold,” I said distinctly, and saw from the change in the boy’s expression that he had understood.

“Do you think she suffered?”

They were all listening to us now, silent and watchful — Lady Harriot and the Danforths, Lord Harold and the Duke. I felt that they waited with breath suspended, as though something extraordinary were about to happen.