Chapter Ten
A few days later, Titus was having a horrible time at Lady Farjeon’s rout.
He’d been deluged with invitations since his new wealth had become public knowledge, and now he was dressed—superbly dressed, with well-cut coats and waistcoats that were delightful joys—it was time to take them up, and make his entry into Polite Society.
On Nico’s counsel, he’d initially accepted three invitations to afternoon tea, one to a conversazione, and two to routs. They had all sounded ghastly.
And indeed his first trials, two afternoon teas and the conversazione, had been exactly that.
At the first tea, his hostess had eyed him up in a jaundiced manner, then produced two daughters.
The elder had been silent in a way that suggested simmering indignation at being obliged to meet him; the younger had made painstaking and excruciatingly polite conversation.
He’d sat stiffly on an uncomfortable chair among strangers, horribly aware of his gloves, which he couldn’t take off because of his betraying, stained commoner’s hands.
The second tea was even worse. Everyone had spoken to Titus with extreme clarity of enunciation and ve-ry sim-ple words, apparently believing that former shopkeepers were to be classed with deaf old uncles and foreigners, or commended him on his unexpectedly elegant appearance and educated speech with such patronising surprise that his toes curled in his expensive boots.
The conversazione had made both teas seem a pleasant memory.
It was quite literally conversation: a lot of people sitting around talking about books, plays, politics, and mostly their mutual acquaintances’ indiscretions, with occasional musical breaks.
Titus hadn’t read the books, seen the plays, or followed the politics; didn’t know the people; quite liked the music but had no idea what to say about it.
He’d felt like a tongue-tied fool, and that was before he noticed the people glancing at his bright, beautiful waistcoat and whispering to one another with clear amusement.
He’d wanted to cringe into nothingness with shame. Why had he not dressed like all the other men, or even kept to a shopkeeper’s shabby black? What was the point of wearing things that were lovely if they got you sneered at?
Nico had encouraged Titus to buy the fabrics his heart longed for, and looked at Titus in his new clothes with delighted admiration. But Nico was a flamboyant man who liked to be noticed. Titus was not and did not.
He had been on the verge of deciding that he would have to buy new clothes in blue and buff when someone had walked up to him and asked point-blank, “I say, where did you pick up that waistcoat?”
Titus had replied honestly, “Mr. Hawkes.” The man’s eyebrows had gone up, the timbre of the whispering had changed, and the next comment on his waistcoat had been a compliment.
As simple as that, as though the beauty of the fabric lay only in the man who cut it and how much he charged.
That was not unlike the art world, he supposed, but it had always felt wrong, and it still did.
He was wearing evening dress now, because apparently a rout demanded a white waistcoat. He wished he could have worn colours. He might have felt more like himself, rather than a stranger in stiff new clothes wandering round a house of people he didn’t know, pretending to have a good time.
What was the point of this? He was supposed to be mixing in Society, but nobody wanted to meet a jumped-up shopkeeper.
He wasn’t here because anyone thought he’d be interesting or likeable, and indeed nobody was trying to find out if he was either of those things.
Rather, his wealth had been invited, with himself as its regrettable spouse.
He’d come anyway, because he was a gentleman with eight thousand a year, this was what wealthy gentlemen did, and he had no idea at all what else he might do with his time.
And, he had to admit, he’d also come because it gave him Nico’s company.
Nico had spent the last couple of days out of the house from dawn, or at least ten, till dusk—on business, he said.
He hadn’t given any more detail, and Titus hadn’t wanted to press.
But he’d barely seen his houseguest in that time, and, in contrast to his usual feelings about people in close proximity to him, he regretted it.
The unexpected intimacy of that dark, wine-fogged evening had stayed with him all the next day.
Nico’s warm voice and delightful accent, his startling honesties, the way he listened and thought and took Titus’s side as though he belonged there. Titus wanted more.
So they’d come here together. “Nobody will enjoy it,” Nico had assured him. “People go in order to spend the next few days complaining about the terrible crush and inadequate supper, and gossiping about whose dresses got torn and who snubbed whom.”
They’d have plenty to complain about. The Farjeons’ house was probably very elegant in normal circumstances, but it currently resembled a wallpapered warehouse, with all the furniture removed except for school-like benches set against the walls, the better to accommodate three hundred of the Earl and Countess’s closest friends.
It blazed with candles and reeked of perfumes and wine and people, all of them talking except him. The chatter was a roar.
Nico had done a manful hour at his side on arrival, introducing him to people and running the subsequent conversations.
That had been a little awkward too, because Titus felt even more uninteresting by contrast to the Comte de La Motte, and also because, although Titus was sure that everyone looked at him with a sneer, a lot of them seemed to be sneering at Nico too.
Perhaps he was wrong about that; certainly Nico didn’t appear to notice anything.
He was relentlessly social and charming, ignoring remarks that Titus couldn’t help thinking were pointed and looks that felt contemptuous.
Titus should do the same. Probably he was just imagining it, making himself miserable with self-consciousness, while nobody was thinking about him at all.
Perhaps the origins of his wealth would be a nine days’ wonder, soon forgotten.
He couldn’t quite make himself believe it, but he smiled doggedly at people anyway.
But Nico had disappeared, and without him, Titus had no idea how to insert himself into anyone’s company. So he stood wretchedly, shoved and buffeted by the press of loud people in fine clothes, until someone seized his arm. “I say. Pilcrum, isn’t it?”
“Pilcrow. Who—?”
“John Etheridge. Delighted to make your acquaintance. Lost your guard dog?”
“My—?”
“The little Frenchy. Saw he’s got his hooks in you already.
Means to get the old besom’s funds one way or another, does he?
” The man Etheridge laughed loudly. He was a little younger than Titus, smartly dressed in evening breeches but smelling of brandy.
“Come and mix with some Englishmen, eh? A few of us are going to rattle the bones.”
He tugged insistently. Titus hated people pulling at him.
He might have pushed the importunate fellow away if he were at a public house on Red Lion Street, but did gentlemen do that?
Was it normal to touch strangers if you were fellow guests?
What if he caused offence? It seemed unlikely that anyone would start a fight here, but drunken gentlemen were known to indulge in fisticuffs …
“Do come on,” Etheridge said. “There’s a set of good fellows all waiting to play.”
He would turn this away politely, Titus decided. “Thank you, but I don’t gamble.”
“Eh? You don’t play?”
“No. I don’t know how.”
“Well, it’s time you started! The recreation of gentlemen.
Tell you what, I’ll introduce you to some friends of mine, all excellent good fellows.
You will like to know them, and then if you care to play, you’ll be welcome.
We’ll have a drink first, eh?” He tugged insistently, and Titus perforce followed.
But I don’t want to meet your friends would give offence, and Etheridge had not been rude enough to justify that.
He would say good evening as requested, and then make his excuses.
They headed out to an anteroom, where quite a lot of men were huddled around tables, and over to a group playing dice. “Ah, gentlemen,” Etheridge said jovially. “Look who I have: Tiberius Pilcrum. The new man, you know.”
“Titus Pilcrow.”
“The Whitecross fortune?” one of them said, with a big smile. “Sit down.”
“Thank you, but I don’t play.”
He turned, catching Etheridge mid-wink and mouthing something. The man he’d been speaking to said, “That’s no difficulty: We’ll teach you. Sit.”
“Yes, sit down.” Someone pulled at his sleeve as a chair bumped hard against his legs. Titus could feel panic rising. He’d been robbed at knifepoint once; this was a conversation at a rout in an earl’s house, but it was giving him very similar sensations. “Actually—”
“Good to meet you,” his neighbour said, thumping a heavy arm round his shoulders.
He was a fleshy man in his forties, well spoken in a loud sort of way but poorly shaved, with a sadly slapdash cravat.
“Pilcrow, yes? I’m Wells—Sir Oliver, if you’re to be formal, and these are—” He recited a lot of names too quickly to be remembered, indicating the men around the table. Two more of them were Sirs.
“Now, you’re a novice?” Sir Oliver said. “You’ll have the hang of it in no time. Take up the dice.”
They were all looking at him. Etheridge was standing behind his chair so he couldn’t shift it back. He swallowed. “Really, I prefer not to play. Do carry on your game without me.”
“Is there something wrong with our company?” asked a sharp-faced man across the table.
“Uh, no—”
The man leaned in aggressively. “We’ve offered you a place at our table, and you don’t find us good enough to play with? Perhaps you don’t trust us? Damme, sir, this is offensive.”