Chapter Seven
“You look smug,” Eve said, as Nico came in late that afternoon.
“So I should. Except—” He pulled off the green coat. “I have to rid myself of this damned thing.”
“That coat? It cost a fortune! What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s made of arsenic.”
“Sorry?”
“Arsenic!” Nico went to wash his hands on that thought. “Who deserves a painful death? Can we send it to Jacky Gaskin?”
“Your coat is made of arsenic? What did you buy it for?”
“Nobody told me it was poisoned! They just said it was green!”
“Oh, the dye, you do make a fuss. It’s probably fine,” Eve said, with the insouciance of someone who wasn’t wearing it. “Just don’t eat it. Even better, do.”
“Have I upset you?”
“You went out to take your new friend shopping at ten, and it’s past five now! Where’ve you been?”
Nico sat with a sigh, and started wrestling his boots off. “Did you miss me?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly the problem,” Eve said with immense sarcasm. “I was all sad and lonely by myself till one of Gaskin’s men turned up to keep me company.”
Nico dropped the boot. “Shit. Are you all right? What did he want?”
“He pointed out I’d said you’d come back with Gaskin’s money, and you’re back, so where is it?”
“Fuck. I thought we’d have more time. He didn’t touch you?”
“Not this time,” Eve said, mouth twisting. “I said there was a delay, and he said Jacky Gaskin doesn’t like delays, and we’re to come round and explain where his money is tomorrow.”
“Fuck,” Nico said again. “Why’s Gaskin in such a damned hurry?”
“Because I was supposed to pay him back weeks ago?”
“It was a rhetorical question. I’ll delay him, all right? I’ll go and see him tomorrow.”
“We,” Eve said.
“No.”
Eve gave him a look of pure malevolence.
Nico ignored it. Eve was fierce and determined, not to mention quick, clever, and entirely unprincipled, but also smaller than Nico, frighteningly more vulnerable, and worryingly frail.
Nico remembered too many coughs that had gone to Eve’s chest and stayed there, too many broken bones from accidents where Nico had bounced off unharmed.
And they were in this together. The cousins had been allies in survival since they could toddle, as close as siblings.
Eve had stolen food for them both; Nico had charmed both their ways out of trouble when retribution descended.
Nico had fought for Eve physically and verbally more times than he could count; Eve had hit some very large people over the head from behind on his behalf, and told some spectacular lies to angry husbands and wives while Nico extricated himself from their spouses.
Lovers, friends, parents came and went, but Nico and Eve stood for one another, the sole reliable relationship either had ever had, and Nico could no more leave Eve in a dangerous mess than Eve could leave him, or either of them could fly.
Which, unfortunately, required the occasional sacrifice. Nico was no more likely than Eve to win a fight with Jacky Gaskin’s phalanx of thugs, but Eve was still wincing from last year’s broken ribs. If one of them was going to take physical punishment now, it had to be Nico.
He knew better than to express that. “He’s annoyed with you, not me, so let’s not let him see you. I’ll tell him it’s in hand, play the comte, we’ll have a nice chat. Anyway, you were asking about my day. So much shopping. I took Pilcrow to Mr. Hawkes and spent an absolute fortune of his money.”
“Congratulations?”
Nico gave a pointed sigh. “He’s got no idea what he’s doing, and he’s desperate for someone to help.
So I’m going to dress him up, hold his hand, take him to parties, be his glamorous wonderful new best friend.
And in due course we’re going to talk about my poor betrayed mother again, and I expect he’ll be a bit more interested next time. ”
“Oh,” Eve said. “Oh, right, fair enough. You think he’ll take the bait?”
Nico took a moment to consider his answer.
Pilcrow wasn’t stupid, but intelligence wasn’t the issue.
The thing that got you, that made you vulnerable and left you wide open to manipulation, was dreams. Pilcrow hadn’t looked or sounded like a dreamer at first, but Nico had seen the man’s face while Mr. Hawkes exhibited fabrics, murmuring, Surely something very plain, even as he stared longingly at colours.
That was people for you. No matter how sensible and practical they might be, there was always a chink where the dreams crept in and made them vulnerable.
They had fantasies of royalty or true love or social success, and didn’t see what they were sacrificing for it.
They dreamed of revenge, and blundered into horrible trouble pursuing it.
They wanted the perfect green so badly they’d wear arsenic on their backs.
Pilcrow looked at colours as if he were hearing symphonies, and surely to God that made him a man who dreamed.
“Maybe,” he said. “He’s not stupid, though, so if you’ve got any other leads for buyers?”
“I looked into the other collectors while you were larking around, actually. One of them’s out of the country, but there’s two still to chase. Sorry if it gets in the way of your fun.”
“I have not been having fun,” Nico lied.
He’d enjoyed the day very much indeed, except for the crawling sensation on his skin every time he remembered what his coat was steeped in.
He liked spending money even when it wasn’t for his own benefit; he liked to indulge his eye for the fashions; he had very much liked a break from fretting about Jacky Gaskin’s reach, and malevolence, and the violence he exerted so casually against debtors. And, it turned out, he liked Pilcrow.
Titus Pilcrow was a quiet, serious sort of man, a little shy, a little awkward, the sort who thought too much about things that ought not bother him.
He had a sense of humour, and a generous soul: He’d bought Nico an excellent luncheon and been good company eating it.
He obviously admired Nico’s good looks, which was usual, but was highly respectful about it, which was less so.
He was generally respectful, in fact. No jibes about Nico’s nationality or his pursuit of Miss Whitecross; no probing questions; no jostling for social position, scoring points, dropping names.
Rather, he was … Nico groped for a word, and settled on “self-contained.” A man who lived in himself, not always hungry, or demanding, or grabbing at others for more.
Nico, who was frequently the object of people’s hunger and grabbing, found that remarkably peaceful.
He had set out to make himself the newly rich man’s best friend because, to his frantically searching eyes, it seemed a possible way out of the dungeon he was in. But in the process he’d undeniably had a very good day.
Especially in the shop. They’d argued for a good couple of hours, Pilcrow flinching at the idea of being showy, Nico pushing as hard as he could for something more exciting.
He could see the way Pilcrow’s eyes lit at the fabrics that sang to him, how those slightly oversized features became animated by enthusiasm, and his face suddenly looked just right.
He’d look even better when he was dressed.
Nico and Mr. Hawkes had spent some time working out the best way to flatter Pilcrow’s gangly form into “tall and slender,” with the dour tailor becoming positively animated by the challenge.
It had been thoroughly entertaining, and Nico was looking forward to seeing the results.
He wanted Pilcrow transformed; he wanted him alive to the pleasures of owning beautiful things; he wanted him to look at his new wardrobe, his new self, and think, I owe this to my friend the Comte.
Nico was hoping it would pay off, of course, but he liked to take pride in his work, no matter its nature, and there was a principle at stake. A man should not make himself duller just because other people were dull around him. Pilcrow didn’t have to squash himself before anyone did it for him.
Maybe he would do so anyway, and retreat into blue, buff, or black, like all the other boring men in this boring city. That would be a pity because his whole being so evidently thrilled at colour, and also because they would have wasted a lot of his money. Oh well. He had it to waste.
They’d left Hawkes with a vast order that meant the tailor would refrain from dunning Nico on his overdue bill for a while longer.
It was a fair trade. Pilcrow might have gone anywhere: to Weston or Scott, or even Mr. Cheney, Hawkes’s bitter rival.
But Nico had steered London’s newest set of deep pockets to Mr. Hawkes, and he’d take a few extra months’ credit as his reward.
He intended to buy himself a fair bit of breathing space from his other debts this way, so they were going to look at boots and hats tomorrow; then there were all sorts of sundries to be purchased, and once that was done, a visit to Weston or Cheney would seem necessary.
Nico could stave off most of his creditors on the back of Pilcrow’s money, and he hadn’t even taken a penny from the man.
That would be one over on the suspicious butler, who had given him the fish-eye this morning, and was doubtless warning Pilcrow not to trust him even now.
The butler … “He needs a valet,” Nico said aloud.
“Eh?”
“Pilcrow. He’ll need a valet for his new wardrobe, and he’s probably thinking of promoting one of the footmen. That won’t do.”
“You’re going to become his valet?” Eve suggested sarcastically.
“No, you are.”
“Excuse me?”
“Think, will you?” Nico said. “Pilcrow’s looking for support, and I don’t want him getting that from the butler. He doesn’t like me.”
“Good taste.”