Chapter Seven #2
“Shut up.” This was a good idea, Nico was sure.
Pilcrow needed a valet, Nico needed that valet to be on his side, and if Eve was paid, fed, and housed somewhere less likely to set off a chesty cough, Nico could live somewhere even cheaper than their current rathole.
It would be safe, he was sure: Pilcrow was decent, and Eve had the skills to pull it off.
This was brilliant, in fact. “A valet’s closer than a butler, so you can get the upper hand over that suspicious sod Thorpe.
I have Pilcrow in the day, you have him at night—”
“Sounds like fun.”
Nico made an offensive gesture. Eve sighed. “Fine, fine, you’re probably right. Valet. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
Nico went down to see Jacky Gaskin the next morning. He wore the green coat—if Gaskin intended to take the coat off his back, it should be the poisonous one—and slipped his folding knife into a pocket just in case.
The moneylender’s seat of power was in Nag’s Head Court, a narrow, dark, and twisty space of grimy low buildings with rather too many hard-faced men loitering on its wet and dirty cobbles. For all that, it was not far from the grand new Bank of England buildings. Birds of a feather, Nico supposed.
Gaskin wasn’t only a moneylender, of course.
They would have a great deal less to worry about if he simply eased the flow of capital around the capital.
Unfortunately, he had been a notorious bruiser in his time, and now headed a wide-ranging operation selling flesh, debts, stolen goods, and violence.
You wouldn’t go to him for a loan if you had a choice.
Eve had not had one, since a decent, reputable moneylender wanted things like collateral, a fixed abode, or a reasonable explanation of how the funds would be paid back.
Gaskin was where you went in the absence of all the above, and he charged interest accordingly. Although—
“Eighteen hundred pounds?” Nico yelped. “Eve borrowed twelve hundred!”
“On strict repayment terms,” Gaskin said. “There were penalties for not paying me back by the due date, and that’s well past. So I’m charging interest. Compound interest.”
“You need return on your investment,” Nico said, recovering a bit of his composure. “I quite understand, and you will have it. My cousin’s investment is an excellent one, and it will mature.” He hoped to God Gaskin didn’t ask for details.
The fellow didn’t look like he cared. “All very well, but I was told you’d gone to get the money last week. Now you’re back, and I’m still waiting.”
He was a big man, muscular still, presumably from a youth spent hitting people, though carrying a lot of weight now.
He must be worth a fortune, but he hadn’t troubled to make himself look respectable: he wore a lurid Belcher neckcloth in green with yellow spots, boots made for kicking heads, and a battered old coat with suspicious stains on the cuffs.
He wanted you to look at him and see a pugilist, a brute, a threat.
He was cleaning his fingernails while they spoke, with a little scratchy noise and a big knife. They unquestionably needed cleaning; Nico nevertheless wished he wouldn’t. It was a pointed gesture in more ways than one.
“I encountered an unforeseen obstacle,” Nico told him, keeping his voice easy. “A temporary impediment, no more, and we are working even now to remedy the situation. You will be paid, Mr. Gaskin. Give me a little time, and the money is yours.”
“You’ve had all the time I agreed to, and more.”
“I grant that. I am grateful for your patience.”
“What makes you think I’m patient?”
A bead of sweat had started trickling down Nico’s spine, between his shoulder blades.
“Your wisdom,” he said. “You understand that my cousin intends to pay in full very soon. You do not permit your very natural annoyance at this slight delay to outweigh your soon-to-be-made profit. I applaud your judgement.”
He might be overdoing it. It was fifty-fifty: cockiness sometimes got kicked, but grovelling begged for kicking. Gaskin stared at him levelly; Nico met his eyes with all the insouciance he could muster. Look at me, the confident aristocrat who is absolutely going to pay you any moment now.
“How soon?” Gaskin said after a geological epoch.
Nico all but collapsed in relief. “Two months would be—”
“One. One calendar month, and after that I’m going to make an example of Evelyn Perreau. I don’t like people who mess me about.”
“Sir—”
“An example of Perreau,” Gaskin repeated. “You heard about anyone I’ve made an example of?”
Nico tried not to flinch. “I have heard stories, yes.”
“When I’ve finished with Perreau, that’s the example people’ll be talking about. And when they’ve scraped up what’s left—” He pointed the knife at Nico, his hand very steady. “You’ll still owe me the money. You, personally. Your cousin’s debt is your debt, understand?”
“I did not agree to that!”
“Should I be talking to Perreau, then?” He dropped the knife and clicked his fingers at a lurching henchman. “Hoi, you. Go get me—”
“No, no, no!” Nico said. “I merely wished to clarify. My debt. Absolutely.”
“A month.” Gaskin returned to scraping his nails. “And the interest’s thirty per cent now, payable to the end of the period as a late fee; I’ll have someone bring you a note of the new total. Don’t think about a midnight flit, will you? It upsets me when people do that. Off you hop, little Frog.”
Nico was not really in the mood to go shopping after that. What he wanted to do was curl up and scream until he was hoarse and then … he didn’t know what then. Bloody Gaskin, bloody England, bloody vengeful, defiant, reckless Eve.
They could fix this, he told himself as he made his way to Carey Street, filling his lungs with air that felt cleaner for not being near Gaskin. Eve’s plan was solid. They’d come so close already. If Baynes hadn’t been a murderous greedy swine, or Miss Whitecross hadn’t died, or both …
They’d very nearly pulled off a coup before.
He could do it again and get them out of this stupid hole filled with spikes.
Pilcrow’s company would silence Nico’s various creditors for long enough that he could sell the goods to whichever collector was fool enough to buy—be damned to moral qualms, he couldn’t afford them—and they’d pay Jacky Gaskin off, and everything would be fine.
He had a whole month to do it. Anything could happen in a month.
Nico was an ebullient man by nature, and had a lot of practice in putting unpleasant things to one side. He had mostly recovered his composure by the time he reached Carey Street, and was quite prepared to receive a chilly welcome at the door.
The butler Thorpe did indeed look rather displeased. “Comte. I regret that Mr. Pilcrow is engaged.”
“He is, with me,” Nico said, with the pleasant smile that he liked to deploy against hostility. “We go to buy him the boots, on his request.”
“Indeed, sir. Unfortunately, he has a visitor.” He hesitated a second, and then met Nico’s eyes directly. “Lady Mary Ormskirk has paid a call with Mr. Ralph Ormskirk.”
“Vraiment? And did Monsieur Pilcrow wish to be paid a visit by the Lady Mary and the Monsieur Ralph?”
“I could not say.”
That sounded like a hint, perhaps even a request. Nico would take that, even if the butler’s thinking was of the “set a thief to catch a thief” variety. “Alors, I have the prior claim. I regret greatly to inconvenience the Lady Mary, but—” He gestured gracefully, requesting permission to enter.
Thorpe bowed and stepped back. “Certainly, sir.”
Nico headed to the parlour and opened the door.
Inside, Pilcrow was seated with his guests.
The Ormskirks had both drawn chairs uncomfortably close to his, and Lady Mary was talking at him, holding his hand in both of hers, while Ralph Ormskirk prodded his knee to emphasise his mother’s words.
Pilcrow was doing a startlingly good impersonation of a cat up a tree.
His gaze flicked up as Nico entered, and the silent plea was deafening.
Neither Ormskirk noticed. Lady Mary was speaking about sending missionaries to foreign lands, with particular emphasis on natives of Africa running around without a stitch of clothing on, and their consequent need for a charitable supply of knitted woollen undergarments.
It was her favourite subject, on which she would discourse for hours, and since she was entirely impervious to hints, the only courteous way to make her stop was a subscription to her Charitable Fund.
Nico generally liked to be courteous: It was a marvellous way to make people do things. Right now, though, he had Jacky Gaskin’s words in his head, and Pilcrow was looking hunched up and harassed in a way that did not suit him, and Nico simply wasn’t having it.
“Ah, bonjour,” he said loudly. “Milady, monsieur, I regret to incommode you, but Monsieur Pilcrow is engaged with me. Mon ami, I must demand your company: We will be late.”
“Late for—? Oh. Yes, of course, late. Oh dear, is that the time?” Pilcrow said, seizing thankfully if unconvincingly on the lie. “I beg your pardon, Lady Mary, will you excuse me?”
Ralph Ormskirk gave Nico a malevolent look. “I daresay the Comte will wait. Mr. Pilcrow was just agreeing to subscribe to the Fund.”
“The most necessary of causes, I assure you, Count,” Lady Mary said, swinging round to gaze at him. Nico had always felt she needed to blink more. “Let me explain—”
“Madame, I have heard your eloquence many times. The undergarments of others are not for me to dictate, since I should greatly object if you showed any interest in mine.”
Lady Mary’s mouth opened, Pilcrow’s eyes bulged, and Nico heard a faint splutter from outside the room. Ralph Ormskirk said, “You are offensive, sir.”
“Me?” Nico spread his hands. “If milady considers this a fit subject for the drawing room, who am I to object?”
“We speak of the undergarments of natives, not of persons present! That is indelicate.”