Chapter Eight
Titus strolled back towards Carey Street with the Comte in comfortable silence.
It had been a wonderful day. He would never have dared enter Hoby’s or Lloyd’s with his stained hands and shabby clothes and inexperience: at most he would have gone to shops of the second or third rank.
Instead the Comte’s confidence had swept him into the best places on a tide of respect and attention that had been deeply enjoyable, even if it was purchased.
A delightful day, at least from the moment the Comte arrived. The Ormskirks had been dreadful, and Titus’s own response even worse. He was still kicking himself.
What made it so infuriating was that Titus was perfectly capable of standing up for himself, in some circumstances.
He’d run his own business for years, and knew how to respond to people who didn’t pay, supplied substandard materials, or made baseless complaints.
But he didn’t know what to do when everyone else seemed to understand a social rule that he didn’t, or when people broke the social rules he did understand.
That was why Henry had been so debilitating: he’d changed the rules all the time, and then made Titus feel stupid and guilty for breaking them.
The Ormskirks had done a similar thing, now he considered it.
They had refused to be dismissed politely, and since the rules decreed he could not be rude to a titled sixty-year-old widow, they had rendered him utterly powerless.
The Comte had taken back that power without guilt or hesitation.
Titus wondered how anyone could be so effortlessly confident.
And so untrammelled by the desire to please!
He’d pointed out the ghastly duo’s absurdity, interrupted without hesitation, and told them to leave a house that wasn’t even his, and all with an easy smile that rendered their protests ridiculous.
He would probably have told Henry he was unreasonable and childish the first time he threw a tantrum, and Henry might even have felt ashamed.
The Comte didn’t feel the need to placate anyone. That was his secret, and Titus could only look on and marvel. At that and the fact that, for all his brisk way with tiresome people, he had been nothing but patient with Titus.
He could have been irritable, since they’d been hours choosing cloth and patterns with Mr. Hawkes yesterday.
Titus didn’t think anyone had ever spent so much time or care in attending to his wishes, and he was sure most people would have become impatient—Henry would have called him grossly self-indulgent—but not a word of annoyance had escaped the Comte’s lips.
It was intoxicating, and then the Comte had done the same again today.
Cheerful, smiling, apparently genuinely interested, his firelight eyes intent on patterns …
Titus had previously wondered how anyone could spend eight thousand pounds a year. Now he knew. He could go shopping with the Comte every day until his coffers were bare and his house full of unnecessary things, just to have his attention. Just to keep in his company.
This was stupid, and might be dangerous.
The Comte was charming beyond words, but he was quite obviously a rogue, even if he bore a title.
His mother’s legacy, Titus supposed. He’d been after Miss Whitecross’s money before, and Titus did not delude himself that the Comte was helping him now out of nothing but desire for his company.
That didn’t have to be a problem. The Comte had made himself genuinely useful, and genuinely pleasant, and if he had an ulterior motive, well, that made him no different from anyone else.
Surely Titus could enjoy his company on that basis without harm, so long as he didn’t do anything stupid such as staring too obviously, or letting longing show on his face, or permitting himself the sort of hope that he should already know was impossible.
And it was impossible. Quite apart from the sheer improbability that the Comte, if he were even interested in men at all, would be interested in a gangling, paint-stained idiot, Titus had enough on his plate with Henry.
He hadn’t replied to his past lover’s first, pleasantly phrased letters; the one that had come this morning had been distinctly less pleasant.
It had complained of his silence and coldness, trusted that his newfound wealth was not making him forget his old friends, and generally taken a reproachful tone that was alarming, since Henry’s reproaches were the early heralds of explosion.
Titus was deeply worried about what Henry might do, in a way he was trying hard not to think about. He would be an entire fool to start mooning after another man now.
He and the Comte were walking silently eastwards to Carey Street. For a man who was so ready with words, the Comte was remarkably capable of silence. It was a gift Titus wished a lot more people had, and yet another irresistible characteristic in a man he very much needed to resist.
He wasn’t even sure why the Comte was coming with him, given he’d expected such a fashionable man to live in a more westerly area.
In fact, he had no idea of the Comte’s direction, he realised, or of his other connections, or of much else beyond his parentage.
Titus hadn’t enquired, since he wasn’t in the habit of asking personal questions.
He had been taught it was rude to be curious, and he preferred not to be asked questions himself. It always seemed so intrusive.
The Comte asked questions all the time, those dark-bright eyes gleaming interest, and somehow Titus didn’t mind that at all.
He glanced round at his companion, and saw his well-shaped brows were furrowed into a frown. “Comte?”
The Comte gave a little head-shake as he pulled out of his brown study. “Mon ami?”
“I thought you looked worried.”
“Ah, no, it is nothing. A reverie only, lost in thought. I was wondering, have you considered a valet?”
“A valet?”
“You will need one. Fine clothes require fine treatment, as do fine gentlemen.”
Titus should have thought of that himself. “Ah. Yes. I shall ask Mr. Thorpe. I daresay he’ll know what to do.”
“Certes he will. Although, if I may suggest…?”
“Yes, of course.”
“It is merely that I am obliged to turn off my own valet. Not for any fault of his, none in the least! He is an excellent servant, painstaking and very competent. More, he is entirely trustworthy, of discretion the most absolute. If you are looking for a man, I would give him the most excellent of references. But naturally you may prefer to select your own.”
“A recommendation is very welcome,” Titus said. “But—forgive me asking—if this man is such a paragon, why are you turning him off?”
“Nothing to forgive, mon ami; of course you should ask. It is—ugh.” The Comte made a face.
“The truth is that I find myself financially embarrassed, and I do not care to have Perreau suffer on my account. He is a good and loyal man, and I should be happy to know he had a more secure place than I can now offer.”
Financially embarrassed. That was doubtless the beginning of the request for money that both Thorpe and Carnaby had warned Titus to expect, and he tried not to let the realisation hurt.
The Comte had earned it, as long as the sum was reasonable.
He hoped it would be reasonable, that the Comte didn’t see him as a mere gull. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Ah, it is my foolishness. I was a little careless in my spending. And now I learn that my landlord takes a different view of a Frenchman with a rich marriage in the offing to a Frenchman with no such privilege. Alors, I must find a new place to live and reduce my expenses, lest I outrun the constable, as you say.”
“Your English is quite wonderful,” Titus said. “You know all the phrases. Comte, I do feel rather responsible for your predicament—with my marriage, you know. Perhaps I could help?” There, that was tactfully put, and made it Titus’s offer, not the Comte’s demand. He found he preferred that.
“That is kindly offered,” the Comte said. “Thank you, but I do not care to be a hanger-on, or to break the shins of my friends.”
“Really, I should be pleased—”
“Mon ami, no.” He spoke with startling finality. “I appreciate the offer, but I will not take your money, as loan or gift. I am not without resources: merely, it will take me a little time to turn those resources into funds, and meanwhile I must learn to do without Perreau. That is all.”
“But,” Titus said blankly. He had been so certain. “Are you sure?”
“Absolument. I am grateful for the offer, but let us leave the subject, hmm?”
Titus had a sudden fear he might have made a terrible faux pas.
The last thing he wanted to do was offer insult.
“Of course, I do beg your pardon. And I shall interview your man. That seems an excellent idea. But—” The words somehow came out of his mouth without intervention from his brain.
“If your landlord is turning you out, would it help you to stay with me a while?”
The Comte’s mouth dropped open. It was startling: he was normally so poised. “To—”
“Well, I have a great deal of room. Far more than I need, and far more staff than I really require. It feels quite wrong to have a house all to myself while everyone else struggles to find space. And I do know how it is with landlords. The truth is, I married Miss Whitecross because my landlord had raised my rent unaffordably, and I was afraid I’d lose my shop. ”
“There is a reason the landlord class was sent to Madame la Guillotine,” the Comte remarked sourly.
“Isn’t there just? Although that was very wrong, of course,” Titus added, more by rote than conviction. “So if you would care to be my guest until your funds come through, you are most welcome.”
The Comte hesitated. “It is an offer of the greatest generosity, but I should not wish to be a burden on you.”