“You didn’t want Mr. Laxton to inherit, did you?” Titus said, struck by sudden doubt. “As his mother was a Whitecross?”
“We should both have handed in our resignations on the spot,” Mr. Thorpe said crisply.
Mrs. Thorpe glanced swiftly at her husband. “Whereas we are very happy to continue service to you, if that is your wish.”
She seemed a touch nervous, and Titus thought he knew why. He owed his good fortune to Mr. Thorpe’s decision on the doorstep. It hadn’t been made for his benefit, but he had benefitted to an absurd degree, and he undeniably felt a little awkward knowing that his new wealth stemmed from his butler’s whim. That was doubtless what Mr. Carnaby had meant about holding his good fortune against Mr. Thorpe; Titus could imagine deciding that life would be more pleasant witha new butler who only knew him as a wealthy gentleman, not a needy tradesman.
That would be ungrateful in the extreme, not to mention self-deluding. Everyone would very soon know he was a jumped-up colourman, so he would only be paying someone to pretend otherwise. “I should very much appreciate it if you would stay,” he said. “This seems an exceedingly well-run house, and I would have no idea what to do without you. To be honest, it’s all rather overwhelming—the money, and what I’m supposed to do, and Mr. Carnaby is putting in the announcement of my marriage in the newspapers for tomorrow, and he says there will be a great deal of interest, and I’m not sure…”
He tailed off there, realising he had blurted out rather too much. The Thorpes exchanged looks.
“What you need, Mr. Pilcrow, is a cup of tea and something good to nibble on,” Mrs. Thorpe said firmly. “Now, I could bring you something in the parlour, but I wonder if you’d care to continue one of the mistress’s traditions?”
“What was that?”
“She used to take tea in our pantry, now and then. When she wanted a gossip, or to feel a family around her. She liked to watch our Alma play, back when she was a little one, and she got in the habit. We’d have a cup of tea and a comfortable coze, and it took her troubles off her for a little. I don’t know if that would suit?”
“Yes,” Titus said with profound thanks. “Yes, it truly would.”
An hour later, he felt better than he had done all week. Mrs. Thorpe had given him tea, biscuits, and unflattering character descriptions of all his neighbours. She had decreed, and he agreed, that he would take the master bedroom and consider new furniture, better suited to the house. Mr. Thorpehad offered to announce him as Not At Home for as long as he liked. Titus felt a strong urge to shelter behind that, but knew himself well enough to fear that if he refused this fence early on, he would shy away forever. That wouldn’t do. He was a rich man now, and it would be foolish to live as a hermit.
“No, I will see callers,” he said aloud, so he couldn’t go back on it. “Really, there is nothing to be worried about. Is there?” he was forced to add, as Mr. Thorpe made a face.
“Well, perhaps notworried, sir, but I doubt Mr. Laxton will take the news well.”
Titus didn’t think so either. “Mr. Carnaby is seeing him today,” he said apprehensively. “Is he likely to visit?”
“I should think so, yes. I can turn him away.”
“No, I should talk to him,” Titus decided. “At least once.”
“He’ll be begging for money, I’ve no doubt; it’s what he always did. You won’t give him anything, sir?” Mrs. Thorpe asked.
“I promised not to. And if he did as Miss Whitecross said—no, absolutely not. But I think I should tell him so to his face. I don’t need to avoid him, since I have done nothing wrong.”
“No, sir,” Mr. Thorpe said, a touch dubiously. “And then there’s the Comte.”
“Who?”
“The Comte de La Motte, sir. The gentleman Miss Whitecross proposed to marry.”
“Oh, yes! Mr. Carnaby mentioned she had a man in mind. Do you think she was going to go through with it?” The words “breach of promise” intruded alarmingly into his thoughts.
Mr. Thorpe rocked a hand. “She found the Comte charming, and he made her laugh, but she was no fool: she knew what sort of man he is. A handsome rogue if ever I saw one.”
“He would have made her Lady de La Motte, though, andshe liked that idea,” Mrs. Thorpe said, adding with perhaps a touch of wistfulness, “And he isveryhandsome.”
“I don’t believe she’d have done it, except on her deathbed,” Mr. Thorpe said. “That’s a wrong’un if ever I saw one. And if he turns up to scrounge now, my advice is to send him packing.”
Chapter Four
Nicolas-Marc de Valois-Saint-Rémy de La Motte handed his cane to a footman and strolled into the hubbub of Lady Baskerville’s rout party. A number of heads turned. He heard murmurs.
In principle, murmurs were good. He was perfectly dressed, good-looking to a fault, elegant, interestingly French, even more interestingly parented. Hewantedeveryone to be talking about him, all these expensively dressed people in this expensively appointed room. Everywhere he looked there was satin and silk, china and gilt, noble blood and inherited wealth, diamonds and rubies, and paste that glittered like both, and here he was in the middle of it all, object of a hundred well-bred gazes. Yes, he wanted them looking, the whole pack of them.
He really didn’t want them smirking while they did it.
He kept his face composed as he came up to an acquaintance, resplendent in black silk breeches. “Ah, Monsieur Harborough, how do you do?”