Jane and His Lordship's Legacy by Stephanie Barron Page A

entered the room—a glancing at Mr. Prowting and myself, and a muttered communication behind gloved hands—and then the noise died away, and I was conveyed to a seat conveniently near what I judged to be Munro’s chair.
    Only one other woman was present in the room: perhaps four-and-twenty years of age, with reddish-blond hair tied in a knot on her head, a worn gown that might once have been red, and a black shawl about her shoulders. From the look of her face, she had been weeping; some relative of the dead man’s, then—his widow perhaps. She was quite alone, and the townsfolk preserved a cordon of distance around her, tho’ seating was scarce.
    In the opposite row, not five feet from where I was placed, sat Mr. Middleton and his young friend Julian Thrace. Both rose at my appearance and bowed politely. A third gentleman, unknown to me, made another of their party. A slight figure of unremarkable aspect, he was the sort of man who should rarely excite a lady’s interest; and yet a slow flush suffused his countenance as he met my gaze. A poet, perhaps, ill-suited to the public eye—but my study of the gentleman was curtailed by the approach of Mr. Middleton.
    “I am surprised but gratified to find you here, Miss Austen,” he said heartily. “You are come as your brother’s proxy, no doubt. Such attention does you credit; we must hope the exertion is not overpowering.”
    “I attempted to dissuade the lady,” Mr. Prowting assured him, “but Miss Austen is firm where she sees her duty.”
    “And why not? It is her home that has been violated, after all.”
    “Indeed, sir—I believe it is poor Shafto French we must regard as the injured party.” I offered Middleton my hand, and he bent over it with swift gallantry. As when I had first encountered him on horseback a few hours before, I was struck by his vigour—remarkable in a gentleman of advancing years. He must be of an age with the magistrate, but from his general air of health, might have been Mr. Prowting’s son.
    “You will observe Jack Hinton behind me,” Middleton confided. “Thrace and I fell in with him here in town, and carried him along from a scandalous desire for gossip. I shall make him acquainted with Miss Austen, eh? We shall all meet tomorrow evening in any case, at the Great House. I have asked Hinton and his sister to dine.”
    Mr. Prowting glanced at me doubtfully.
    “I should like to meet . . . a man of whom I have heard so much,” I said evenly.
    But Mr. Hinton was studiously engrossed in conversation with Julian Thrace, and avoiding all our gaze. His intent was to offer the cut indirect—a glancing insult, and one that might be ascribed simply to diffidence or poor manners. I, however, saw a purpose in his actions: Hinton meant to publish his petty wars against the Austens before all of Alton.
    Mr. Middleton frowned and looked perplexed.
    “There will be time enough tomorrow for introductions,” I suggested. “The coroner’s panel looks to be upon the point of convention.”
    It had been impossible for the proceedings to begin without Mr. Prowting’s presence, but the coroner had awaited only the magistrate’s arrival to make his entrance. A door in the far wall, communicating to a lesser room beyond our own, was opened discreetly and quietly and the man himself strode towards the chair. I liked his looks immediately: he was neatly and elegantly dressed in black superfine and pantaloons; his face was clean-shaven; his gaze direct and uncritical as it roamed the room. I detected intelligence in his wide brow, and an eloquence in the fingers that bespoke the natural philosopher. I was pleasantly surprised. Mr. Munro was something above my usual experience of coroners.
    He inclined his head to the assembly, glanced towards the men lounging about the perimeter of the room, and said without preamble: “Have you a foreman?”
    “Ellis Watson, sir,” returned a grey-haired fellow as he stepped forward, cap in hand.
    “Very