Chapter Nine
Nico moved himself and Eve into Carey Street two days later, to an accompaniment of Eve’s mutters about whether this was a good idea.
It was a brilliant idea. Titus had made a very polite offer of funds, and he was an open-handed and open-hearted man.
He might have been good for as much as a hundred quid.
But the revised debt to Jacky Gaskin, with late fee and interest, was almost two thousand pounds, a sum so large Nico wanted to be sick when he thought of it.
Titus wouldn’t hand over two grand for the asking: nobody would.
You could buy an estate in the country for that kind of money.
So he’d refused anything at all, and as a result Titus had offered Eve a generous salary, and was paying for both their bed and board. Virtue was its own reward.
Eve had given him two new targets: collectors of objets d’art with a particular interest in Marie Antoinette.
A month in Carey Street without worrying about food, rent, or rats would give Nico all the time he needed to sell the painting to one or the other gull, while Titus’s golden aura cast an illusory lustre on Nico’s cheap tin.
Eve had again suggested selling the painting to Titus, since he and Nico were such good friends now. That would save a lot of trouble, but Nico had turned it off, citing Titus’s entire lack of interest in the French Queen. In fact, he hadn’t even asked.
He would sell it to Titus if he had to, but he didn’t want to.
He liked Titus, liked his humour, and how remarkably easy he was to get along with, and the admiration in those big eyes, and his careful courtesy.
Nico liked all that very much, and didn’t want to repay it by selling him Eve’s bloody painting.
With luck he wouldn’t have to. They had nearly a month in hand, so he would find another buyer, pay off Gaskin, play the game and win.
And meanwhile he’d ensure Titus had the right clothes, squire him to parties, make certain he had a good time, and see off the scroungers and leeches.
That would definitely make up for lying to him about everything.
Nico didn’t like that train of thought, so he abandoned it in favour of sorting out his wardrobe.
He had no help from Eve, who was setting up as Titus’s valet, so it took a while.
He went over his clothes with care, smoothing out creases, carefully mending loose threads or tiny holes before they got worse, putting aside any he’d want washed or pressed.
He didn’t want to go down early and sit in the drawing room as though he owned the place: a bit of humility now would pay dividends.
He did, though, wonder what the blazes Eve could be doing that took quite so long.
Chasing after the pretty maid, probably.
He’d heard Eve’s tiny intake of breath as they were introduced to Titus’s household, and seen the equally tiny flick of the hips as Alma had turned to escort Eve around the servants’ areas; he anticipated hearing a lot about Alma Thorpe in the near future.
He just hoped Eve managed any affair in a way that wouldn’t get them thrown out.
He hung the painting on the wall, since he was settling in. It was a natural thing to do, and you never knew when it might come in useful.
He went downstairs when the gong rang for dinner, pleasingly dressed in his favourite brown coat and a dark green (not arsenic; he’d asked) waistcoat with gilt trim. He headed into the parlour, and stopped dead.
Titus was waiting for him. Except it was … better Titus.
He was wearing the dark blue superfine that he had picked out with unerring taste, and Mr. Hawkes had done a superb job on the cut, so that his shoulders looked broader, his lanky form elegant.
Possibly that was because he stood straighter, as well he might in those clothes.
The waistcoat he wore—Nico’s heart leapt with pride—was the one Nico had insisted on, satisfying Titus’s desires in the teeth of his fears.
It was a pale blue satin shot with white, elegantly embroidered in silver thread.
The effect wasn’t precisely flashy, but it was certainly eye-catching, and very much worth looking at.
Titus was worth looking at. Someone, probably Eve, had cut his hair into a far more flattering style, so the cow’s lick framed his forehead instead of hanging over it, the lank locks were gone, and his cheekbones and jawline were emphasised.
His new breeches were well-fitted, his new shoes gleamed, his silk stockings and linen and neckcloth were spotless.
He was even wearing gloves in the isabella of which Nico had disapproved, which proved to be an excellent choice because there was no glare of white or bright lemon drawing attention to his hands.
He was smiling in a shy, anticipatory, delighted way. He looked delicious.
“Well,” he said. “What do you think?”
I think I’m a fucking genius. I knew you’d be lovely. “Magnifique. Absolument magnifique. I knew that cloth for the waistcoat.”
“Ha!” Titus said. “Perreau said you’d say that.”
The little shit. “Well, I wish to take some credit in this transformation. You look superb. Tonight you are most definitely an exclamation mark.”
Titus went quite pink with pleasure. So he should: He looked damned good.
Anyone would, with as much money as he’d spent plus Eve’s talent lavished on them, but it wasn’t just fine feathers making the man.
Nico had once seen a forger clean dirty yellowed varnish off an old oil painting so that the real colours hidden underneath sprang out bright, and he came dangerously close to sharing that metaphor with Titus before he recalled himself and bit it back.
“I really am grateful for your help,” Titus said.
“I’d never have dared ask for anything like this.
I don’t think I’d have realised I could.
And Perreau is marvellous. Er, I told him that I’d appreciate him helping you too, while you’re here, if that’s possible.
I don’t want to deprive you of a valet when your need is as great as mine. ”
Nico already knew that. Titus had offered Eve a lavish salary increase for the extra work that would entail. Another kindness.
Dinner was a delight. Delicacies covered the table: a soup of peas, lettuce and cucumber, haricot mutton, mackerel cooked with gooseberries, water-cress, some well-spiced pickled vegetables, and an excellent bottle of burgundy.
“I had this on Carnaby’s advice—he is a connoisseur of wine—but I should value your opinion,” Titus said, pouring Nico a glass. “Which is to say, I don’t know anything about it.”
“It is superb,” Nico assured him. “This is all magnificent.”
“I don’t always eat like this, by the way. I just thought, since it was your first night as my guest, we should do something a little special.”
“I feel entirely pampered,” Nico assured him untruthfully, because his overriding emotion was nothing so pleasant. It felt like guilt.
That was stupid. He’d got Titus dressed, hadn’t he?
And was going to set him on his way to his new life, and otherwise had been extremely helpful to the man who’d taken his fortune.
He’d done nothing wrong. Except for all the lies, of course, and the intent, but they couldn’t hang you for intent.
Or could they? He wasn’t sure. But otherwise he’d done nothing wrong, yet.
If he sat here stewing about this, he’d waste an excellent dinner and provide poor return for Titus’s generosity.
He shook the mood off before it could take a grip and set himself to talk, asking about the future of Titus’s beloved shop, which was when he learned that the lunatic had transferred his poisons, powders, and pungent-smelling oddments to a room in this very house.
“Is that a problem?” Titus said, looking at him with some alarm. “That is, you do seem to be rather, er, cautious about my materials. Which is very sensible, of course.”
“I am not so weak as to fear poisons stored in a room with a closed door,” Nico said loftily, and then ruined it by adding, “Is there a lock?”
“I can have one fitted. But they are pigment materials rather than poisons.”
“Arsenic is arsenic. No, I am being foolish. I understand it will not spring out and take me by the throat. Merely, poison is a thing that disturbs me in principle.”
“Is there any reason for that?” Titus asked, hastening to add, “Only if you care to discuss it, of course.”
“Oh, I was brought up by women of Versailles. My mother, aunt, and great-aunts all lived at the court at one time or another, and they had a fund of stories.”
“Your mother? I thought—”
“I did not hear her stories directly,” Nico put in swiftly, “but Versailles was, how shall I put it, a family business. So I grew up on tales such as the Affair of the Poisons—the great trade in inheritance powder at the court.”
Titus’s eyes were wide and fascinated in the candlelight. It suited him. “Inheritance powder? What is that?”
“Arsenic, mon ami, and not for use in colours. It became the fashion to hasten the ends of those who stood between oneself and money. Courtiers took to disposing of first-in-line heirs, unwanted spouses, and inconvenient children. The midwife La Voisin is said to have had the bones of hundreds of babies in her garden. When it all came out, dozens of people were executed for murder. Even the king’s mistress was implicated. People were burned at the stake.”
Titus looked suitably awed. “Good heavens! At Versailles? Really?”
“Surely a man named Titus Caesar cannot criticise the conduct of a court.”
“You’re thinking of Tiberius,” Titus said. “Titus was of impeccable character, for a Roman emperor.”