The hope dwindled as he was admitted into her bedroom, where she lay with a lawyerly sort of gentleman sitting by her. The old lady’s face was cut and bruised in a way that looked obscenely wrong on elderly features, and her skin was otherwise an unpleasantly pale grey-yellow shade, almost isabelline.
“Miss Whitecross,” Titus said. “I’m so sorry. How are you?”
“Bad,” she said, voice thin. “Dying. Murdered.”
“What?”
“Laxton tripped me,” she whispered. “My nephew. At the top of the stairs. His foot between my legs. I fell.”
Titus’s mouth dropped open. He looked round at the lawyerly man, who grimaced. Miss Whitecross caught that andglared at them both. “I’m not a fool. He tripped me, I tell you, and I fell and broke, rot these bird’s bones of mine. He’ll go unpunished for my murder, and be a rich man for my death. Damn him. Damn you all.”
Titus cast a desperate glance at the butler and the lawyer, but neither was looking at him. “And God rot the Laxtons, all of them,” Miss Whitecross went on, voice shaky but intent. “His father made my sister’s life a misery, and his son is like him as peas in a pod. I had such a scheme to spite him—it would have been a grand jest, but he got wind of it, and he killed me.” She paused there, gasping for breath, and finally got out, “And you fools are doing nothing!”
“We have brought Mr. Pilcrow, ma’am,” the butler said gently.
“Er—” Titus said.
“Yes.” Miss Whitecross’s thin fingers were clutching spasmodically at her sheets. “Pilcrow. You’ll scotch the snake for me. You’re a gentleman born, ain’t you?”
“Yes? My father was rector of a parish in Gloucestershire, but—”
“And you’d like to be rich.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She glanced up at the lawyerly man. “Tell him, Carnaby.”
He bowed in his seat. “Madam. Mr. Pilcrow, I am George Carnaby, Miss Whitecross’s attorney. What she proposes—I must say, this is irregular—”
“Get on, fool,” the old woman croaked. “I might die while you talk.”
Mr. Carnaby sighed. “Miss Whitecross proposes that you marry her. Now.”
“… what?”
“You will marry her, and become heir to the Whitecross fortune, without encumbrances or restrictions.”
“But,” Titus said. “But—the circumstances—”
“Irregular, but I am happy to swear that Miss Whitecross is of sound mind.”
“As am I,” Mr. Thorpe said strongly.
“Her reasoning for this action is, of course—”
“Hate,” Miss Whitecross said. “My money will pass to the Laxton toad if I’m not married. He can go to the devil and say I sent him. What about it, Pilcrow?”
“But—what—”
“Don’t gibber,” she said with a feeble shadow of her usual acerbity. “Won’t ask you to bless the marital bed. Not with my bones. Snap like twigs.”
Mr. Carnaby’s expression was indescribable. Titus groped for a response. “Don’t you need a licence?”
“Got one already. I was going to make myself a lady, but the fool’s gone away, so fill in your name. It’s your lucky day.”
Titus had no idea what she meant by that, but he was more concerned by “lucky” in this context. “Miss Whitecross, please,” he said. “You’ve time yet. You’re well cared for. Please don’t give up.”
Her eyes met his properly then, faded and full of pain. “I’m dying, and we all know it. Help me, Pilcrow. Laxton broke my sister’s heart and his son has broken my bones. Let me spite him and I’ll rest easier.”