Chapter Five
Nico headed up to Carey Street, aware he looked well. He dressed with more flamboyance than most gentlemen in London, as a French count and a Valois: not for him the tedious Brummell uniform of blue coat, white linen, beige breeches adopted by so many.
Mr. Brummell, who had ruled London Society for years, had decreed that the well-dressed man should be a model of plainness and understatement, but Mr. Brummell had lost a fortune at the gaming tables and fled England to avoid debtors’ prison.
Nico had spent long enough in hells to develop a profound aversion to people who played and lost, in case it was contagious.
He didn’t care to take Brummell as a model, and anyway, he had never been understated in his life and didn’t intend to start.
Therefore his new coat was a rich brown, his new waistcoat, orange and pale gold, glowed under it, and he looked excellently.
He should: his clothes accounted for a fair part of what they owed Jacky Gaskin.
Now was not the time to think about that. He needed to exude confidence, not desperation.
“Your mistress is dead,” Nico said, a little louder than he’d have liked, because the crowd of beggars had set up an instant clamour of whining and pleading. That was new since the old lady’s death. “My condolences. I require to speak to Monsieur—I believe the name is Pilcrow.”
Thorpe considered him with a dead-fish expression. Nico really thought he might be left on the doorstep, so he added, “Since I have not the honour of his acquaintance, you will kindly give him my card, and inform him the Comte de La Motte begs a moment of his time.”
“Perhaps you will wait in the parlour, sir.”
That’s “my lord” to you, Nico thought, but didn’t make the demand. French titles were rather devalued on the English market, what with all the émigrés, and claimants, and shameless frauds. He followed the butler in and sat in the parlour, where he waited for an exceedingly long time.
Finally, a lanky man came in, wearing a shabby, baggy, washed-out black coat. His head went back a fraction when he saw Nico, which might have been defensiveness, or a natural reaction to his physical charms and superb dress.
“Good afternoon,” the man said in a wary voice.
Nico stood and swept a bow. “Bonjour, monsieur. Nicolas-Marc de Valois-Saint-Rémy de La Motte, Comte de La Motte, à votre service.”
The man’s eyes widened. “I … thank you? My name is Pilcrow.”
He was tall, a little round-shouldered, and thin. He had wide brown eyes, a prominent nose, a wide mouth. His hair was a few shades darker than his eyes, a touch over-long, and unfashionably straight except for a cow’s lick that flopped over his forehead and begged to be brushed away.
He wasn’t bad, actually. Not bad at all. Really quite appealing, if you liked the type. And if he were better groomed, and significantly better dressed, and looked more confident, and if he hadn’t walked off with the fortune that Nico desperately needed. The bastard.
“Monsieur,” Nico said. “Je vous en prie—”
“Mr., uh, comte. I don’t speak French.”
“Then I will speak the English,” Nico said with an extra helping of accent and another bow, since both of those clearly put the man on edge. “Will you sit?” He gestured politely, as though it were his house, and to his glee, Pilcrow said a reflex, “Thank you.”
Nico sat before he could be given permission. “Monsieur Pilcrow. Please, correct me if I am mistaken, but I am informed that you wed the lady Whitecross. Can this be?”
Pilcrow flushed a dull red over his high cheekbones. “I did.”
“You will forgive my asking how this came about.”
Pilcrow’s brows drew together a fraction. “Perhaps you will first tell me why you ask. What business is it of yours?”
“A cat may look at a king, as I believe you English say.”
“And you may ask what questions you choose, but why should I answer? What is your purpose here?”
He wasn’t folding nearly as easily as Nico had hoped. Nervous but not spineless. “Monsieur, I must in return ask, do you know who I am?”
“I am informed that you were—uh—a close friend to Miss Whitecross.”
“A close friend. Oui, monsieur: as close a friend as you, it seems. Miss Whitecross was affianced to me.”
Pilcrow’s lips moved to a round, and almost immediately pressed into a line.
He’d probably wanted to ask if it was a love match, and been too polite.
Missed your chance there, Nico thought. “It was an arrangement of a type perhaps commoner in France than England. Miss Whitecross wished to be Madame la Comtesse, and I—” He gave a Gallic shrug.
“You understand. A bargain was struck. You, monsieur, broke it.”
“I beg your pardon, but I did not. Miss Whitecross was dying, and she wanted to secure her fortune—er—”
“Away from her nephew, the Laxton,” Nico said helpfully.
“She confided her circumstances to me too. She was not shy to express her thoughts, hein?” That got a wary smile.
“Alors, she had the accident. She found herself in grave circumstances, and the disposal of her fortune was of the importance the very highest. And you happened to pass by?”
“I came to deliver some paints.”
“Bien s?r, and then she gives you the order: ‘Marry me, save my money from the Laxton.’ Yes?”
“More or less.”
“And you find yourself married on the spot. By special licence?”
“That’s right.” He was relaxing into the conversation, happy to be agreeing. Letting his guard down.
“A special licence,” Nico repeated. “The licence she obtained to marry me.”
“Oh.”
“I was to wed her on my return from important business, monsieur. She had accepted my hand; she was to wed me this week. This very day,” he added with more emotion than truth. “Monsieur, you see my disappointment, my displeasure. The wrong you have done me.”
“I didn’t—”
“What is the English term? ‘Alienation of affections’?”
“Oh, come,” Pilcrow said. “Affections?”
“I had a promise of marriage, which was broken by you, monsieur, wedding my intended bride, and claiming her fortune along with her hand. You will understand my sentiments.”
“I’m sure you’re most annoyed, Comte, but I broke no oath to you. Any promise was made by a lady who is now dead, and I don’t believe that is legally enforceable.”
Nor did Nico, sadly. “I speak not of law, monsieur, but of honour. You have deprived me of a great fortune: the injustice is clear. I believe you intended no harm, but harm has been done nonetheless, is it not so?”
“I understand you are disappointed. I cannot accept any liability for your disappointment.”
In other circumstances, Nico would have admired the man. He was clearly uncomfortable, but sticking to his guns and defending himself with impressive steadiness where Nico would have resorted to taking offence, withering insults, or bad language some time ago.
These were not other circumstances, and this bloody shopkeeper was not making himself a friend. “I do not speak in these pettifogging terms,” Nico informed him haughtily. “I prefer to talk as one gentleman to another, in the hope we may redress an admitted injustice without recourse to sordid law.”
It was a good line and he was pleased with it.
It would have been even better if some prick hadn’t started making a racket in the hallway halfway through, distracting Pilcrow just when Nico needed his full attention.
“Monsieur, I pray you will hear me,” he added, slightly louder, because he’d distinctly heard an oath, followed by a cry. “I do not wish to—”
The door slammed open. A man stormed in shouting, “Pilcrow!”
It was Matthew Laxton, Miss Whitecross’s nephew. Nico had met him while visiting the old lady, when he had appeared gentlemanly enough. Now he was dishevelled and red-faced, and reeked of brandy although it was not yet noon.
Pilcrow jumped up. “Mr. Laxton! I am engaged with the Comte de La, de— I am engaged. I must ask you to leave.”
Thorpe came in after the fellow. He looked decidedly ruffled in an unbutlerish way, and had a nasty red mark on his face from a blow. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said furiously. “Mr. Laxton, the footman will escort you out.”
Laxton ignored that, advancing on Pilcrow. “You damned wretched thieving swine! I’ve come for what’s mine, and you’ll give me my due, you puling shit!”
“Monsieur!” Nico said, making a swift grab for the moral high ground. “You forget yourself in a house of mourning.”
“Piss off, you damned Frog!”
“You are offensive, sir,” Nico said with great hauteur.
“Go to the devil. And you! You stole my money! I want my money!”
“It was Miss Whitecross’s money, and she made her choice,” Pilcrow said. His voice was shaky, but he wasn’t backing down. “And you will not have a penny of it, and if you continue to harass me, I shall—shall—I won’t stand for it.”
“I’ll sue you for slander,” Laxton snarled, ignoring that frankly weak effort. “I want my money. I earned it dancing attendance on the old bitch, and you’ll be sorry if you don’t give it to me, you turd!”
Laxton swung on that expletive, catching Pilcrow unawares and on the chin.
He went stumbling back, and Laxton lunged after him.
Pilcrow yelped, ducked, and flailed toward Nico like a grasshopper, all limbs.
The butler shouted for a footman as Laxton threw another punch.
It passed decidedly too close to Nico, who deflected the blow with his forearm and slapped the fist away.
“Bastard,” Laxton slurred, turning on him.
Nico had had quite enough of this. He sidestepped the man’s movement and slid a foot between his legs. Laxton tripped and fell forward; Nico caught him by the collar and coat-tails, swung him round, and used the momentum to ram his head into the wall, sending a china ornament tumbling off a shelf.
Pilcrow squawked. Thorpe said, “Lord!” Laxton made a noise suggestive of significant pain. It was all sadly inelegant for the Comte de La Motte.
Oh, well, in for a penny. Nico grabbed Laxton’s arm, twisted it up behind his back, and hauled the fellow round, keeping him doubled over with the pressure on his shoulder joint.
He’d walked many a drunk out this way, and he did it now, including the classic “accidental” bang of Laxton’s head on the doorframe to keep his pain and confusion at a suitably high level.
That let him march the man to the front door, which a gaping footman rushed to open.
Nico pushed Mr. Laxton out and, as a small tribute to Miss Whitecross, sped him on his way with a boot to the arse.
“Good heavens,” Pilcrow said behind him. “That was very efficient.”
Nico turned and bowed deeply. He could probably pass it off as Gallic temperament if he Frenched it up sufficiently. “A thousand pardons, monsieur. The offence, his language, all of the most outrageous.” He flashed a rueful grin. “And my temper, the most lamentable.”
“Not at all, Comte. Quite understandable, and very welcome.” Pilcrow sagged suddenly. “It’s the third time he’s come round, and he gets angrier every time.”
“He does not accept the disposition of Madame’s fortune?”
“No, he does not. He thinks I have no right or reason to inherit her money, which is absolutely true in every sense but the legal one.”
“Which is all that matters, sir,” Thorpe observed. “She didn’t want him to have it.”
“Indeed not, but he says the most appalling things, and—are you hurt, Mr. Thorpe? Did he hit you? Oh no, that is outrageous. He must not be allowed in again.”
“I was attempting not to allow him in,” the butler pointed out. “That was when he hit me.”
“Yes, of course. Do we need to hire men with cudgels? Great heavens, this is appalling. If I’d known a fortune meant nothing but people turning up begging and cozening and demanding money— Oh, I beg your pardon, Comte!”
He looked so horrified, and the insult was so clearly unintended, that Nico had to repress a snort of laughter. “Pas du tout, monsieur.”
He was doing some very rapid rethinking.
He’d hoped Pilcrow would hand over a nice little sum to avoid trouble, but if the man wasn’t paying Laxton off, Nico didn’t stand a chance.
However, you caught more flies with honey than with vinegar, and this looked like a marvellous opportunity to apply honey.
“You are shaken, monsieur, and no wonder. A glass of wine, perhaps?” He took Pilcrow’s arm solicitously, and felt a violent twitch.
An expectation of being manhandled? Or the reaction of a man who was not used to casual touch?
Either way, it suggested nerves to be soothed.
Nico loosened his hold to fairy-light, gave a soothing murmur, and urged Pilcrow back to the parlour with extreme gentleness.
“Come, sit, recover yourself. That was most unpleasant. I gather it has been a difficult time?”
“Ghastly,” Pilcrow said, sitting heavily.
Nico pulled a chair close, examining his face.
He really might be quite alluring in a gangly way, with those big brown eyes and that sensitive, expressive mouth, if he were a little—or a lot—better presented.
Someone ought to do something about that: It seemed a waste.
“Utterly ghastly. I didn’t expect any of this.
I only came to deliver some paint, and now I’ve got a fortune, and a house, and investments, and my name is in all the scandal sheets, with caricatures.
There are political cartoons representing me and Miss Whitecross as King and Parliament!
And everyone who isn’t laughing at me is begging from me! There are queues outside the house!”
He sounded fraught, as well he might. A man of shame or sensibility would doubtless feel his position painfully.
Nico reflected that it served him sodding well right, and gave a sympathetic nod.
“Ah, yes. The mendicants, those with their charitable subscriptions or their poor ailing mothers or their business opportunities the most wonderful…”
“Yes! It started as soon as it was in the papers, all ‘Strange Marriage’ and ‘Great Inheritance’ and so on. People are coming uninvited to the house, and Thorpe tries to keep them out, but when it’s Lady This with her subscription list, or Mrs. That with her daughter, it is so hard to decline.
Really, that is the worst. To come here to solicit my hand, as it were, with Miss Whitecross barely in the ground— I beg your pardon, Comte. I am rambling.”
“Not in the least,” Nico assured him.
“I am. You did not come here to listen to my troubles.”
“No.” Nico gave him a long, considering look, mainly to gain a few seconds’ thinking time. “No, that is quite true: I did not. Rather, I arrived with certain assumptions, and I begin to see I was mistaken. I wonder, monsieur, if I might speak to you in confidence?”