Chapter Six #3
The Comte looked startled for a second and then smiled again, with that look of complicit amusement. Intimate, Titus thought, and felt his face heat. “But of course, monsieur. How may I be of assistance?”
“Well, could you possibly recommend a helpful tailor? One who could advise me on what I should wear?”
“I can recommend tailors all day and all night,” the Comte assured him. “Clothing is my greatest recreation.” His lips twitched as he indicated his own finery. “Or even my downfall. If you wish for advice, I will gladly offer it—or perhaps I might keep you company in making a visit?”
“Really?”
“It helps infinitely if one knows the vocabulary. I will offer the translation while you find your feet. I should assuredly beg for your assistance if I were to require paint.”
Titus had no idea if noblemen were normally so helpful to strangers. This one seemed peculiarly kind, if a little volatile. And he did need assistance, and had nobody else to turn to, and at some point he’d have to take a risk unless he was to sit here alone with his money till he died.
Plus, no tailor would laugh at the Comte.
Titus could only dream of dressing in such glorious colours: he must stand out in a crowd like a jewel on a beach of pebbles.
Titus had never stood out in a crowd in his life, or wanted to, but the Comte had the confidence of a man for whom attention was a birthright. It was compelling.
And the proposal meant spending time in his company. That was more enticing than Titus wanted to consider. “That would be marvellous. If you’re sure it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”
“But none at all! I enjoy nothing more than to buy a new coat, even if it is not for myself. I shall relish your wardrobe as though it were my own. And I have a great fancy to hear your thoughts on colours. Shall I attend you tomorrow?”
“That would be very good of you,” Titus said with a disproportionate thrill. They were only to go shopping. “I am extremely grateful. Really, I cannot thank you enough.”
“Not at all, mon ami. It will be the pleasantest of recreations. I shall visit you tomorrow at eleven of the clock.”
The Comte was there the next morning as promised, in a coat of intense green. It suited him wonderfully and Titus glanced at it a few times as they walked together to Brook Street, enjoying the sunshine.
“I hope you admire my colour?” the Comte remarked quizzically.
“It is an excellent colour, in itself and on you.” He couldn’t resist making the compliment, because it was exquisitely true: The green was a perfect foil to the Comte’s dark hair, and set off his bronzed eyes in a way that made Titus shudder with pleasure.
Honesty forced him to go on. “I just wondered, do you know it’s Scheele’s green? ”
He got a bright-eyed glance. “Who is Scheele, and what is his green?”
“A chemist: he invented it. I wasn’t sure if you knew what it’s made of.”
“An Indian tree? A sea-creature, like the famous purple?”
“Murex. No. No, it’s copper arsenite.”
“Arsenite—” The Comte stopped short. “Arsenic?”
“It’s just that you seemed rather shocked by orpiment, so I thought you might want to know.”
“I might indeed have liked to know that, and before I bought it,” the Comte said with feeling. “Is there—I ask merely for information—is there any colour that is not made of poison, ear wax, vomit, or death?”
“Oh, many,” Titus assured him. “Well, some. It’s just that the best colours do tend to be—”
“Of course they do. The colour is all. Scheele makes his green and cares nothing for the consequence. It is safe to wear, I suppose?”
“Uh…”
“What?” the Comte snapped, somehow sounding rather less French than usual.
“Many people do wear it. It’s wonderfully popular as a dye and a paint for all sorts of uses. It’s just, I might avoid”—Titus mimed brushing the front of his coat—“with your hands. Or wash them before you eat.”
“Before I—” The Comte’s mouth moved silently. “I’m wearing arsenic. My tailor sold me arsenic.”
“It is very popular,” Titus repeated. “And it’s really the only way to get that excellent green.”
The Comte said something emphatic in French. A passing governess recoiled.
They walked on, chatting as they went. The Comte was an immensely easy conversationalist. He asked pertinent questions, and listened to the answers with an interest that was wholly unfamiliar and mildly intoxicating, and Titus found himself talking far more than he was used to.
The walk to Brook Street went by in a flash.
They stopped at a discreetly elegant establishment. Titus glanced at the sign, and felt his pleasant mood vanish in a twinkling, replaced by pure panic. “Mr. Hawkes? Really?”
“But of course. You have the funds, and to my mind he has the most imagination. Weston is the man for a plain cut, Scott for a military look, but Hawkes has flair.”
“Do I want flair?” Titus asked. His feet were suddenly very cold. “I wouldn’t wish to put myself forward—”
The Comte made a Gallic noise and pushed him to the door. Titus went reluctantly through, setting the bell jangling, and was greeted by a small and gloomy man.
“Good morning, sir. Ah. Comte de La Motte.” He didn’t sound enthusiastic. If anything, he seemed rather unwelcoming.
The Comte appeared not to notice. “My greetings, Mr. Hawkes. I bring you Mr. Pilcrow, of Carey Street, who requires clothing.”
“Mr.—Pilcrow, yes.” Mr. Hawkes executed a second bow, the far greater depth of which told Titus that his name had been recognised. “Yes, indeed. Good day, Mr. Pilcrow, it is a pleasure to have your custom. And what are you looking for today, sir?”
The Comte gave his wonderful, confident, all-conquering smile. “Everything.”