He visited the coroner with Mr. Carnaby at his side, to ask him to reconsider the verdict on Miss Whitecross’s death. It did not go well. Miss Whitecross, the coroner insisted, was a bitter, querulous old woman, senile or malicious or both. Her nephew had said everything that was proper at the time, and the coroner saw nothing suspicious in his conduct. Yes, Mr. Laxton had stood to gain a fortune from her death, but since he had not murdered her at any point in the previous twenty years, there was no reason to suppose he had done so now. The coroner would not pursue a case for which there was no evidence except the spiteful words of a nasty old woman who had nothing to do but complain about her male relatives, and he would advise the gentlemen not to listen to fishwives and gossips.
“Doesn’t like his mother-in-law, I take it,” Mr. Carnaby said as they left.
“I hope she makes his life miserable every day,” Titus said. “This is wrong. Can we appeal to someone? A different coroner?”
Mr. Carnaby sighed. “Realistically, no.”
“But is there nothing more to be done?”
“Only to let Laxton know he won’t snatch the prize. I think we should announce your marriage and inheritance tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?” Titus said, and heard his nerves in his voice. “That is, shouldn’t we wait?”
“For what?”
“Well, suppose Mr. Laxton goes to law?”
“I doubt he’ll risk it,” Mr. Carnaby said. “Nobody is going to hang him on Miss Whitecross’s word, but in a civil case, the suspicion that he had a hand in her death will carry a lot of weight. And more to the point, he can’t afford lawyers. Between him and his father, every penny they had off Miss Whitecross’s unfortunate sister is long gone.”
That seemed impossible. “How? I mean, what does one spend that much moneyon?”
“Horses, cards, women? My dear sir, eight thousand a year is easily thrown away, at least in some circles. Though I grant you, running through the capital as well must have taken a deal of effort and dedication.”
“Goodness,” Titus said. “I don’t propose to make that sort of effort myself.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Mr. Carnaby cocked his head. “That said, and to be serious, have you considered your next steps? You have a most satisfactory fortune, and gentlemanly birth to go with it. You could make an excellent marriage. A younger daughter of the nobility is not out of the question.”
“My eldest brother is married to a baronet’s daughter,” Titus said numbly.
“You might aspire to an earl’s. A marquess’s, even. Mr. Titus Pilcrow and Lady Such-and-such Pilcrow. One in the eye for your brother, eh?”
“I don’t really think—”
“Of course not. Excuse me: Mrs. Carnaby and I are in a habit of friendly rivalry with her sister.”
Titus could not imagine any such thing. “No, well. I had not thought of marriage. My circumstances have never been such as to permit it.” Or his inclinations, either. He’d had three love affairs in his thirty-one years, two of them pleasant,quiet dalliances with pleasant, quiet men, one of them Henry, who had plunged his existence into miserable tumult. He suspected he was about to have quite enough tumult to be getting on with. “I would rather accustom myself to my new circumstances before I consider another change.”
“That is a very reasonable attitude,” Mr. Carnaby agreed. “Though I doubt you will find it shared by people with marriageable daughters. I shall speak to Mr. Laxton today—we have an appointment, which I shall enjoy—and put the announcement in the papers for tomorrow. You can expect a certain amount of attention thereafter.”
“What should I do about that?”
“Precisely as you please. You’re now a man of considerable substance, Mr. Pilcrow, and there is a reason we call wealth ‘an independence.’”
Titus moved the rest of his clothes and personal effects into Carey Street that afternoon, with the aid—shyly requested from Mr. Thorpe—of a footman. He had a feeling he’d be safer there when the storm broke.
“You don’t have much, sir,” Mr. Thorpe observed when his two trunks were brought into the hall.
“No,” Titus admitted, somewhat self-consciously. Of course Mr. Thorpe knew his previous position in life, but he still felt embarrassed by what now seemed desperately straitened circumstances. “Though there are a lot of paintings still in the cart. Perhaps they could go in a spare room for now? But I don’t have many clothes. I must visit a tailor.” He supposed he should be looking forward to that. In fact, he was dreading it.
“I will have it all looked at for mending before it’s putaway,” Mrs. Thorpe said, bustling up. She was a kindly, motherly, pleasant woman, clearly an excellent housekeeper, and Titus had just a slight feeling she was watching him like a hawk. “I had meant to ask, sir, will you be taking the master bedroom?”
Titus had been sleeping in a back bedroom. The thought of turfing out all Miss Whitecross’s clothes and trinkets, airing the room to rid it of the smell of lavender and old age, felt like the grossest imposition. “Oh, I don’t know—the back room does very well—”
“We could clear it out for you to decide, sir,” Mr. Thorpe said. “We all miss the mistress very much, but she would be the first to say,Get about your business.”
“She would, wouldn’t she? I suppose you were with her a long time?”
“Mrs. Thorpe and I have served the Whitecrosses all our lives.”