2020 historical mystery; eighth in Huber's Lady Darby series
(post-Regency amateur detection). Lady Darby, six months pregnant, is
painting the portrait of the scandalous Duchess, and then a Twelfth
Night party turns up a corpse in the cellar…
Most modern writers of historical fiction being in unquestioned
their modern assumptions, such as complete abstention from alcohol
in pregnancy from the first missed period until after birth. So I was
very glad to see that Huber doesn't fall into this error; Lady Darby
is moderate in her indulgence, because she's tired and she can't rely
on there being sober people to help her if she needs it, but there's
no notion that she shouldn't be doing it at all. (Later, after an
injury, she takes laudanum for the pain.) It's enough to make up for
the reference to part of a nun's habit as a "scapula".
There are some strange infelicities of style, though.
Unmasking murderers, and providing peace and justice to their loved
ones, certainly fit that description.
Surely "their victims' loved ones"? (All right, we have had several
murders within families in this series.)
Both distinguished ladies had claimed a Louis Quatorze chair with
padded wings, perching with their backs rigidly straight except when
they leaned toward each other to confer.
I don't think they are sharing a single chair! "Each", please.
"Either Gage or you appointed yourself to be my escort."
This clangs for me. I'd prefer "Either Gage appointed you to be my
escort, or you took it on yourself."
And part of the problem may have been that the story rarely engaged
me; I took several days to read this, and if I'd been plunging on at
my usual speed I might have passed om without being distracted. That
is potentially the fault of my mood rather than of the book, of
course; I'm in an odd mood at the moment.
A significant side plot, once that's caused several people to attempt
to deceive the investigators, is explained but is not resolved; I
trust it will be mentioned again in future books. And the last few
paragraphs, in which while all is well for now there's foreboding for
the future, feel as before like a blatant author's invitation to buy
the next book.
In spite of all these small problems I did still enjoy it, and I'll
read more, but I can't see a new reader being engaged by this.xs