Chapter Seventeen #2
Nico would have liked to give his cousin a stern talking-to about the ethics of involving someone in a relationship under false pretences, except it would make a cat laugh. “I am very much in favour of finding a brilliant solution,” he said. “Let’s do that. We should get back to the house.”
Nico had once seen a farce about a priest with a double life as a highway robber, who was constantly running out of one door as a bad man and re-entering through another as a good one. It was not an analogy he chose to dwell on as he came back to Carey Street.
He was sitting on his bed, thoughts circling around a fixed point of What am I going to do? when there was a soft cough at the door, and he saw Mr. Thorpe, wordlessly indicating that Nico should come with him.
He slipped out, and by silent agreement they headed to the end of the corridor before speaking.
“All well, monsieur?” Nico asked. “It is not the Morris?”
“No, that gentleman hasn’t been back,” Mr. Thorpe assured him. “It is another individual, asking for you.”
Nico didn’t invite callers. He wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see where he was living before this, and he had been careful not to treat Titus’s house as his own.
Not to mention he hadn’t been to any sort of party or event in some time—they were no use to him if Titus wasn’t interested—and was probably slipping out of people’s minds, which suited him very well. “Who?”
“The person in question gave his name as Gaskin.”
Shit. Shit. Nico put on a blank look and said, “Thank you. I will go down.”
Thorpe had left Gaskin in the parlour, alone but with a footman waiting outside, presumably so the man didn’t roam around the house stealing things. It was a very natural precaution.
Nico came in and shut the door. “Monsieur Gaskin. What can I do for you?”
Gaskin smiled without mirth. “You could pay me.”
“You will be paid. We discussed this and I have ten days more according to our agreement. Possess yourself in patience, monsieur.”
“I’m a very patient man,” Gaskin said. “But when someone owes me a lot of money, and then I hear about that someone planning to do a midnight flit out of the Lake District, you’d be amazed how my patience runs out.”
Nico stared at him. Gaskin looked smug, as well he might. Nico and Eve had had that conversation in rapid slangy French, no more than ninety minutes ago.
“I commend you on your information network, monsieur,” Nico managed. “You should work for the Government.”
“Wash your mouth out,” Gaskin said almost amiably. “So what I want from you and Perreau is my money within three days.”
“Seven,” Nico said, by instinct, and also panic.
“I said three.”
“You could also say an hour, and that wouldn’t be possible either.”
“You’re living in a rich man’s house, Mr. Fancy Breeches. Don’t tell me you can’t get the money.”
Nico could feel the weight of the navaja in his pocket.
He’d never killed anyone in his life—his knife-fighting technique was very much of the “startle them and run away” school—and he didn’t believe for a second he could overpower or intimidate Gaskin.
But at this second, with calamity and betrayal impending whatever he did, he knew a bright red impulse to take the moneylender with him when he fell.
“A week,” he said again.
Perhaps his feelings leaked into his voice, because Gaskin stared at him for just a little bit too long, and then gave a jovial smile that Nico didn’t trust for a second. “You’ve got nerve. Five days, and I’ll be making sure you don’t forget your obligations.”
“Monsieur—”
“Shut your face. And get me what I’m owed in gold before I take it from Perreau in blood and skin.”
“You will have your money,” Nico managed. “Do not visit this house again.”
Gaskin eyeballed him. Nico eyeballed him right back. The silent confrontation lasted for about a month, then Gaskin snorted. “Pay your debts, Count.”
He had a strong accent of the London streets. It made the title sound like he was calling Nico something altogether less respectful. Perhaps he was.
Nico waited for him to be gone, then sat and put his head in his hands.
He had no prospect at all of finding a new buyer who would pay a fortune for the painting within five days, and no other means of getting the money if Baynes didn’t come through. They didn’t stand a chance of making a run for it if Gaskin’s intelligencers were this good.
So this was it. He’d have to ask Titus for the money, and he’d have to tell the truth while he did it because if he took the money and kept pretending, he’d never be able to look himself in the face again.
Which meant he would have to leave, because the truth would poison the core of what they had and start everything rotting away.
I lied to you and now I want a huge amount of money, but it’s all right because I love you might work on some people, there being no bottom to the depths of human self-delusion, but Titus would never believe it.
Which was ironic, in a way that made Nico want to bang his head against a wall, because it happened to be true.
He didn’t want to watch Titus’s face as his image of the brave, confident Comte de La Motte collapsed and he saw what was really there. He didn’t want to see what he’d done.
And it was all his own fault, brought on by a series of bad decisions, selfishnesses, and stupidities that he could surely have avoided.
Titus ought to be appreciated and loved and treated well, and Nico could have done that; he could have been the man Titus deserved, if he wasn’t a stupid, greedy, semi-criminal, manipulative shit.
Four more days, he told himself. He’d pushed things past deadline too often.
He’d allow himself four days with Titus, and pray to Christ, Mary, and all the animal-headed gods that Baynes came through with an offer of a large sum of money.
And if he didn’t, Nico would tell Titus everything on the last day, beg for his help, and regret it for the rest of his life.