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.
He wanted everyone 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?”
“Better than some. You’ve been away, Comte?”
“The Midlands, on a matter of business. I returned this afternoon, but since I had the so-gracious invitation to this soirée, I thought I would take a look in, as you English say.” That, and he was avoiding Eve.
He had been relieved his cousin wasn’t home when he got back, and the longer he could stay away, the better.
Some people might call that cowardice, and they would be absolutely right.
“Poor timing,” Harborough said, shaking his head. “Dashed poor timing.”
“My attendance here? Why would that be?”
“No, not that. Going away. Weren’t you after the Whitecross moneybags?”
“Monsieur, the vieille demoiselle Whitecross is a most gracious lady, and I am honoured to be counted her friend,” Nico said, with a touch of warning. “I should not care to hear disrespect of her name.”
He was going to hear it, like it or not.
This world demanded that one should be rich, but raised a brow at the open pursuit of riches.
Young men who sought wealthy old ladies were sneered at, though not as much as wealthy old ladies who indulged the young men.
Eliza Whitecross was a particular figure of fun, being a hatchet-faced besom whose immense fortune came from trade.
To marry her would be to sell himself, and become a contemptible spectacle in the eyes of any person of sensibility.
Well, fuck sensibility. Nico had no problems that an extremely large sum of money couldn’t solve, while Miss Whitecross wanted to spite her nephew and make the Polite World call her Comtesse. They’d marry, get what they wanted, and both die laughing. She a lot sooner than Nico, he hoped.
Eight thousand a year. A year! A mere couple of thousand on the table right now would make all his current troubles go away, but eight thousand pounds every single year …
He didn’t propose to miss that chance because of a little mockery, and if he had to defend the honour of his aged love, he would. He wasn’t going to risk Miss Whitecross hearing that he’d laughed at her expense.
Harborough didn’t offer any disrespect, though. He simply said, “That’s as may be, but you’ve missed your chance.”
“Pardon?”
“She married another chap a week ago, died the same day. Have you not heard?”
Nico’s stomach plunged sickeningly. “What? Married? Dead? Married whom?”
“Some tradesman, a druggist or some such. Married him on her deathbed, left him every penny, and popped off.”
This couldn’t be. Nico had been telling himself all the long journey back to London that Miss Whitecross’s money would save them. Everything else had fallen apart, but it would all come right thanks to her. He’d only managed to sleep at night by assuring himself of that.
There was a faint ringing in his ears and he wanted to sit down. He put his hands neatly behind his back, and clenched the bases of his thumbs to the point of pain. “Vraiment? How did it happen?”
“What, her death? No idea. No question of it, though: Matthew Laxton’s raging.
Says she was bullied into marrying and signing a new will on her deathbed.
Says she was in rude health before all this, and she just so happened to take a turn for the worse while this druggist was around. Dashed bad show.”
The old lady couldn’t possibly be dead. Nico had been planning on visiting her tomorrow, deploying every bit of charm and pathos and good looks he could scrape together to get a date set for their marriage, instead of Miss Whitecross putting it off forever with her fear of predatory men.
And some shifty bastard had slipped into his place while everything went to hell in the countryside, and now he and Eve were fucked.
He couldn’t think about how fucked at this moment, not with people watching.
The panic and fear and anger had to be stifled until he got somewhere private to scream.
“A sad story, indeed. Miss Whitecross was most kind to me, and I am shocked to learn of her passing. I will miss her friendship and think fondly of her memory.”
He moved on. About five paces later, someone else hailed him with, “I say, Comte, have you heard—” and he realised he’d be dealing with this all night.
Everyone had known he was pursuing Miss Whitecross’s money; everyone would enjoy his discomfiture and be eagle-eyed for any sign of less than gentlemanly feeling.
He would need to be on his best charming, easy behaviour, when what he wanted to do was cry, or break things, or simply bang his head against a wall.
That he’d left London at just the wrong time, that he’d stopped dancing attendance on the bloody woman for ten bloody minutes and she’d done this to him.
This damned druggist fellow had stolen Nico’s money, his and Eve’s way out, their future. And possibly Miss Whitecross’s life, too, which was all of a piece with the rest. He was going to pay for his sharp practice, Nico vowed. And when he said “pay,” he meant it literally.
His cousin was waiting when Nico got back to the wretched room they shared.
Damp plaster, bare boards, one small window that admitted more cold than light during the day, and was now covered by a threadbare curtain.
At least the space was sufficiently miserly in size that a single tallow candle sufficed.
It was all something of a let-down after the Baskervilles’ Mayfair home.
“Well? How did it go?” Eve spoke in French, as they always did together, out of habit and also caution. They preferred not to be overheard.
The cousins mostly took after opposite sides of the family, Nico resembling his dark, handsome father, while Eve was the spit of fair-haired, shrewd-faced Tante Anne.
They shared a lack of inches, striking chestnut eyes, and a tendency to become erratic under stress.
That was unfortunate, because Eve was not going to be soothed by anything Nico had to say.
“Right,” Nico said carefully. “So—”
“You got the money, yes? I don’t want a performance, just tell me you got it, and then you can do the big story, all right?”
“I didn’t get it.”
“You didn’t get it,” Eve repeated. “You didn’t get it?”
“I didn’t get it.”
“Fuck,” Eve said, in a tiny, terrified voice, and collapsed on the malevolently hard bed, which was all they had to sit on. “Oh fuck, oh fuck. Why not? What happened?”
“Baynes tried to kill me, that’s what! The man is a raving bedlamite!”
“Shit. Are you all right?”
“No, I am not!” Nico said, with the force of relived fear.
“He drew a pistol on me, point-blank. I made placating noises, then stabbed him in the hand and ran like hell. He followed me to the inn with a couple of men, I had to climb out a fucking window to get to the stables, and as I was riding away, the bastard shot at me!”
Eve gave him a quick survey. “He missed, right?”
“That isn’t the point! Yes, he missed. I’m not hurt. Not happy, but not hurt.”
“Good.” Eve paused. “You might have seen it coming.”
“Oh, piss off.”
“Just saying, I warned you.”
Eve had indeed warned him, and Nico had waved it away. “Well, I didn’t think he’d attack me. Not an aristo. What’s the point of England if people go around murdering nobility? I could have stayed in France for that.”
“You probably should have,” Eve said. “Because— Oh, hell. Thing is, Nic, while you were away—”
“Miss Whitecross.”
“You’ve heard.”
“Yes, I’ve heard!” Nico yelped. “What the buggery? She’s married? She’s dead?”
“It happened the day after you left. She fell down the stairs.”
“Wait. Fell? Was she not—you know?”
Eve executed a very familiar eye-roll. “Poisoned? No, she wasn’t. She fell and busted her hip. There was plenty of fuss about why she fell, but it was ruled an accident.”
Nico frowned. “Why are people saying the other, then? What about this druggist?”
“The man she married? He isn’t a druggist, he’s an oil and colourman—makes paints—and the fall was nothing to do with him.
She married him on her deathbed to cut Laxton out.
Did it properly, everything was witnessed, and she even got a will done.
She’s dead, he’s rich, Laxton’s disinherited, and we’re fucked. ”
“So fucked,” Nico said. “She was a good old soul in her way, and I’m glad she could spite Laxton, but we’re fucked.”
“What are we going to do?”
That was very much the question. When Nico had left ten days ago, they were about to get five thousand pounds from Chilcott Baynes, with Miss Whitecross’s fortune to come on top, and everything was going to be wonderful.
Now they had, if he calculated their assets and rounded up to the nearest pound, sweet fuck all in hand, no visible means of support, and a debt to London’s nastiest moneylender that was ticking up every day.
“Damn,” he said, considerably understating the matter. “Has Gaskin sent anyone round?”
“One of his men. Wanted to know where you’d gone.” Eve swallowed. “I told him we’d have the money by Friday.”
“Shit. All right, let’s not panic.”
“Why not? It’s all gone wrong!”