Chapter Seventeen
Nico sat in a low-ceilinged coffee shop a discreet distance south of Carey Street, watching Eve read a letter and reflecting that his life was what one might call a heavily qualified success.
On the plus side, Titus was happy. Nico loved to see him uncurling, shedding the self-effacement of the fifth son, Henry Morris’s punchbag, the awkward paint-stained oddity. He’d kept his head down for so long, it could have become a permanent stoop. It was a pleasure to see him stand and breathe.
And it was in part Nico’s doing. He was proud of his work as a support, a watchdog, an encourager of every tentative step on the path to Titus finding his feet for good.
He had done his best for his lover, which, by chance, was also exactly what a calculating fortune hunter would have done, down to the fucking.
Nico would have very much liked to say, hand on heart, that nothing could be further from his thoughts.
He couldn’t. He had intended to take advantage of Titus initially, lied to position himself where he was, and kept on lying once he was there. Not to mention the small matter of his urgent need for two thousand pounds, which was what qualified the success into something closer to catastrophe.
Nico was trying very hard not to think about how badly he’d fucked all this up, because that raised the question of whether he could possibly unfuck it by any means that didn’t involve lying to Titus for the rest of their lives.
That—the “rest of their lives”—was a ridiculous thought.
They had known each other for a few weeks and been fucking for a few days, and Titus was nothing like the sort of people, men or women, with whom Nico normally indulged.
Admittedly, he’d never thought “the rest of our lives” about any of them.
He had always conducted his love life in a way that allowed for easy parting on good terms (except when enraged spouses turned up), and nobody had ever seemed disappointed.
Possibly he mostly attracted shallow people, perhaps he was shallow himself, but either way, he had never looked for anything deeper, and if he had, it wouldn’t have been with an awkward paint-stained shopkeeper who talked about colours as though they were friends.
It would be much more reasonable for Nico to fall in love with someone dashing, roguish, reckless.
Someone who wasn’t Titus, who didn’t have that quiet, suppressed world inside him of which Nico got only brief, tantalizing glimpses.
Who wasn’t awkward and reserved and thoughtful, who didn’t need Nico to chase off leeches and look at him like he was a hero.
Who wasn’t six inches taller. That did rankle a bit.
Titus was nothing like any fantasy lover Nico might have drawn for himself.
And yet here he was, feeling his heart race as though he were eighteen again because Titus had invited him to go to the Lake District, a place he couldn’t find on the map, in order to see landscapes.
He wanted to go and look at scenery with Titus. He might be going mad.
No, he wasn’t. He had just accidentally fallen heels over head in love with a thoroughly good man who happened to be immensely rich, and everything about that was perfect.
Except the height issue, but perhaps he could find a pair of discreetly heeled shoes.
Or even indiscreetly heeled ones, in the old French style.
He wondered if Titus would like him to wear those. Maybe in red?
Titus’s height wasn’t the problem. The problem was the lies.
These thoughts came upon him fairly heavily as Eve read Mr. Rankin’s letter for the third time, presumably in hope that the contents might change. “They talked to each other. The bastards. They aren’t supposed to talk to each other!”
Nico had told Mr. Rankin that Sir James Roud had offered him a large sum for the portrait.
In what he could only consider a frankly shameful display of suspicious-mindedness, Rankin had written to Roud, who had informed his supposed rival by return of post that he had made no such offer.
It was enough to make you lose faith in human nature.
“Well, what now?” Eve demanded. “Because if Rankin tells everyone you lied about this—”
“I sent him a surprised note, suggesting that Roud is trying to prevent him making his own offer and pushing the price up.”
“You think he’ll believe you?”
“No.”
“Shit.”
“We’re not out of the game yet,” Nico insisted to them both. “Baynes wrote back.”
Eve sat up. “You didn’t say! With an offer?”
“No offer yet. Come to that, no apology for attempting to kill me, which I would have thought is the least—”
“Get over it,” Eve recommended. “What did he say?”
“He’s thinking about it. He’ll be in touch in a few days.”
Nico did not want Chilcott Baynes to get in touch.
He would have strongly preferred never to go near the man again; he could still see the black void in the muzzle of Baynes’s duelling pistol as it was pointed at his face.
He had no idea how he could arrange the transfer of Baynes’s money to his own pocket without risk.
But he would find a way, because if Baynes coughed up enough to settle Eve’s debt, it would solve everything.
Eve would be avenged, Gaskin paid, Nico free.
He would tell Titus about the lies, throw himself on his mercy, and start again clean.
He could triumph in the teeth of all adversity, if Baynes just sodding paid up.
Eve wasn’t looking happy. “I don’t like it, Nic. He’s a lunatic. I ought to have cut my losses at the time, not dragged you across the Channel to score off him and nearly get you killed.”
“Yes, you should. But you didn’t, and if Rankin and Roud are out—”
“I know. I’m just saying, you ought to be snuggled up in bed with your boy friend, not running around with murderers and facing down Gaskin, and I’m so fucking sorry to be asking all this of you.”
Eve was using “ton copain” to avoid saying Titus’s name in a public place. It didn’t make it less irritating. “Could you not talk about him?”
“We’ve got to talk about him. You and I are living with a rich man, so we have access to money. Gaskin will expect us to rob the house if need be. I don’t know if I’d put it past him to have the place robbed himself.”
Nico clenched his hands till his manicured nails dug into his palms. “Why did you borrow money from this bastard again?”
“Who else was going to lend me that much?”
Many people would call Nico a reckless, feckless, impulsive adventurer prone to ill-considered acts. Those people didn’t realise he was the sensible one in the family. “I can’t have this shit on—my copain’s doorstep. We need to think about what we’ll do if Baynes doesn’t come through.”
“Couldn’t you borrow the money?”
“No.”
“You could, though. He’s round your little finger. He all but drools when you walk in—”
“Shut up,” Nico snapped. “And I said no. It’s not fair.”
“Oh, fair. Sorry, I forgot about fairness what with waiting to have my legs broken! Jesus Christ, Nico, he’s rich as Croesus! He can afford it; he’d barely notice it!”
Nico was fairly sure Titus would notice a quarter of his yearly income. And even if he did have it to spend, two thousand pounds was more money than most people saw in their lifetimes. It was a year’s running costs for an aristocratic household, far more than Nico would ever be able to repay.
Titus would still give it to him, he thought. If Nico told him what Jacky Gaskin would do to Eve, if he begged for help, Titus would come up with the money. He could have it for the asking, at the low, low cost of ruining everything between them.
Nico might get away with his lies to date if he found the money himself, or at least he was choosing to believe that was a possibility, but if he asked Titus for two thousand pounds, that would be the end—maybe not at once, but soon.
He was absolutely sure of that. Titus had years of experience of people not giving a damn for him, plus a recent but intensive education in what they would do to get their hands on money.
If Nico asked him for a vast sum, Titus would never again be able to believe he was wanted for himself.
“That’s a last resort,” he said. “We can surely think of something else.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Oh. What about when we go up to the Lake District for summer? Suppose I say we should go right away?”
“Why?”
“So you can flit, idiot. I suppose Gaskin’s men will follow us, but they should be easy enough to spot on our travels. I’ll deal with them; you sneak away and get a boat to France. Easy.”
Eve contemplated him. Nico said, “What?”
“Two things. First, what will you do when Gaskin learns I’ve cleared off and comes after you with a mallet?”
Nico had no idea. “I’ll work something out.”
“Oh, right. That puts my mind at rest. And second … you don’t know where the Lake District is, do you?”
“No.”
“The wrong side of the country, you tosser. If I did manage to get on a boat from there, it would be going to Ireland. Or America.” Eve patted his hand. “Still, I enjoyed the five seconds where I thought you actually had an idea.”
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault. Well, your lack of geography is your fault. Oh fuck, Nic, it’s so unfair.”
“My geography?”
“All of it. You’ve got your copain, which—good?”
“Yes. Yes, it is. He’s something special, Eve.”
“And there’s Alma, and my God, she’s wonderful.”
“You’re officially courting, I hear?” Nico slanted a brow.
“I told her the important parts,” Eve said.
“She knows and she’s happy and she’s … she’s perfect.
She’s the woman I’ve always wanted, so it’s not just about the money, or not getting my legs broken: I don’t want to mess this up with her.
And you’ve got your copain, and can we not think of a brilliant solution? ”
“I’m trying. Out of interest, did the ‘important parts’ you told her include us owing Gaskin a fortune and maybe needing to flee the country?”
Eve winced. “Not as such.”