Chapter Nineteen
“Your brother Augustus?” Nico demanded at breakfast the next day. He had gone out with Eve the previous night, since the situation had called for heavy drinking, and got back after Titus was asleep. “But did you tell me he was coming?”
“No, and nor did he tell me,” Titus said sourly.
“Well, he did, but in a letter I didn’t read, still less reply to.
I sent him to the Star and Garter last night, which he was furious about, but I couldn’t possibly get the art room cleared in time.
We’ll have to do it today. I have no idea where all my things will go. ”
“You mean to put him in there?” Titus had his painting lessons in the room where he kept his poisonous ingredients.
He had never got a lock for the door, and Nico had made peace with that, but he didn’t want the ghastly substances moving around the house.
“But where will you paint? Is there a bed to put in the room? Where will your arsenic and extract of beetles go?”
“I’m hoping Mr. Thorpe will help with the last two, and I won’t leave any poisons lying around. It is horribly inconvenient, but I have to put him somewhere.”
Nico knew where he would consign Augustus, but it appeared Titus had decided to accommodate the man, so he bit back his opinion. He’d interfered quite enough in Titus’s family. “Then put him in your guest room. My things can be more easily moved, and there is already the furniture.”
“Really? Nico, would you mind? The inconvenience—”
“Is much the least to all parties this way, so it is the sensible course of action. I will stay at the Star and Garter if you prefer. Or there is space in your room for a truckle bed.” He raised a brow, and saw Titus’s eyes widen.
“Oh. Now you say that, and if you really don’t mind … that would be the perfect solution, wouldn’t it?”
“Much the easiest.” Nico winked at him. He loved the way Titus blushed when he winked. He didn’t want to lose that.
“Well, then, I’ll tell Mr. Thorpe. I don’t think he took to Augustus,” Titus added.
“Which is fair, since he is being rather overbearing. I expect he is unnerved by my change in circumstances, and he is very used to ruling the roost, but he did come all this way to see me, and I would like it if we could get on. If you could try to put up with it—”
Nico waved a hand. “I have doubtless been polite to far worse people. Tell me about your dinner.”
“Oh, it was marvellous! Elizabeth, Vespasian’s wife, is delightful.” He launched into an encomium of his sister-in-law, and how happy his brother seemed to be. Nico listened with one ear, taking pleasure in Titus’s happiness while his own fear bubbled under.
He had a powerful urge to stop clinging to the last floating spark of hope, give up on Baynes, and admit everything right now.
It would be a relief to stop waiting for the axe to fall.
But that would be grossly unfair to spring on Titus with his ghastly brother just arrived, so he pulled himself together, put a smile on his face, and did his best to be a support while he still could.
By luncheon, he was fast reaching the conclusion that the best way to support Titus would be to load Augustus into the next coach back to Sussex, by force if need be.
The eldest Pilcrow was a ponderous, proud, self-important man, deeply offended by his youngest brother’s good fortune.
He was not mollified by the vacated guest room: Titus should have given up his own room as apology.
Titus’s superb waistcoat met with disapproving mutters about dandyism and macaronis.
He looked at Nico with disdain as soon as he heard the accent and didn’t trouble to remember his name, addressing him as “sir” throughout luncheon when he addressed him at all.
He had nothing courteous to say about the house (a mean place, poorly situated) or the Star and Garter (most unsatisfactory) or the luncheon (Titus should have a male French cook, not an Englishwoman), and when Titus informed him that he was not attending fashionable parties, Nico thought the man might have an aneurysm.
“Not attending—? Good God. Why not?”
“I don’t have any ambition to claim a place in Society,” Titus said. “I went to a few events, but I was being invited for my money alone, and it wasn’t pleasant or entertaining.”
“Of course you were invited for your money. What else is there to recommend you?”
“To Society? Nothing,” Titus said, more calmly than Nico could have. “So it’s best I don’t trouble it, and vice versa. I have made some very interesting acquaintances in the artistic world—”
Augustus waved his hand to cut that off.
“I daresay you have mixed in any amount of peculiar company.” His gesturing hand pointed in Nico’s direction.
“But you must see the need to claim a more elevated position. It is past time I came to direct you, and fortunately you will have Mrs. Pilcrow to advise you too.”
“There is no Mrs. Pilcrow, monsieur,” Nico put in. “There was once, bien s?r, but alas. We regret her passing.”
Augustus stared at him. “Mrs. Pilcrow, sir, is my wife.”
“Ah, you speak of Mrs. Augustus Pilcrow. Forgive my misunderstanding.”
“Mrs. Pilcrow,” Augustus said furiously. “As the daughter of a baronet, she will be able to make some appropriate introductions.”
“There is no shortage of people willing to make your brother introductions for their own profit,” Nico remarked, and waited for Augustus to open his mouth before adding, “Though naturally, Mrs. Augustus would be acting in a manner the most disinterested and beneficent.”
Titus shot him a look that said, very clearly, Stop it. Nico sat back and concentrated on the excellent food.
“It is—would be—very kind of your wife, but I don’t require introductions,” Titus said. “I am very happy forming my own acquaintance.”
“And what about your marriage?”
“My what?”
Augustus tutted. “It is time you were married, since you are now in a position to make a superior connexion. We must consider this opportunity carefully.”
“I’m not getting married,” Titus said. “Not now, I mean. I have barely had time to accustom myself to my good fortune as it is; I am not going to rush into further changes.”
“Nonsense. It should be at the forefront of your mind: You must be nearly thirty. Of course you could not consider matrimony in your previous condition, and we may now count that a blessing.”
“I’m thirty-one, and I don’t know if I would call it a blessing that I couldn’t afford to support a wife before,” Titus said. “And I’m not looking to marry at any time soon, so please don’t put yourself or Mrs. Pilcrow out.”
“Nonsense,” Augustus said. “You have a duty to advance the family. I trust you realise your good fortune has come at the cost of exposing our name to ridicule and contempt? My neighbours read about your peculiar match in the newspaper.” He enunciated the word with distaste.
“I expect you to redress that. Your marriage will link our name to a worthy family and offer suitable opportunities for future matches.”
“Future?” Titus repeated. “How many do you expect me to make?”
Augustus made an irritated noise. “I beg you to remember you have two nieces. Your choice of wife could make all the difference to them.”
“Two? There is Augusta, who must be five, but—”
“Julia was born last year.”
“Congratulations,” Titus said blankly. “I didn’t know.”
There was the sort of awkward pause one might expect. Augustus cleared his throat. “Yes, well, you have two nieces. I trust you will bear their needs in mind.”
“They are a baby and a five-year-old. I don’t suppose anyone will remember or care about my marriage to Miss Whitecross by the time they are old enough to consider matrimony.
I’m very sorry about any ridicule attaching to our name, I am aware how it looks to marry a dying old woman for her fortune, and if I had been in a more secure financial position, I would not have done it. But I was going to lose my shop.”
“Then you should have conducted your affairs more responsibly,” Augustus informed him. “Really, you must consider matters better. You are slapdash in the extreme; it will not do.”
“I don’t think we should discuss this any more now,” Titus said, in a voice that shook slightly. “Perhaps you will think about what you would like to do in London during your visit. We might walk down to Bond Street or Rotten Row and see the people, or if you would like to visit any of the sights…”
He went on, doggedly enumerating London’s attractions. Augustus made critical observations. Nico used a silver fruit-knife to cut up a pear, rather than stabbing Augustus in the leg with it. It took an effort.
Titus spent the afternoon out with his brother. When he returned, in good time to dress for dinner, Nico made sure he was waiting in the bedroom.
“You look tired, mon ami.”
“I am exhausted,” Titus said, sitting heavily on the bed. “Ugh. Could you— No, Perreau will be here any moment, but—”
“Perreau will not. I am your valet this evening. And…” Nico walked over, straddled his lap, and wrapped his arms around Titus’s tense shoulders. He held him there until Titus exhaled long and hard, and Nico felt him relax, bodies melding together as though they’d been lovers for years, not weeks.
“Ugh. Nico. What a day.”
“Did things improve?”
“No. He keeps talking about all the things I am obliged to do for his family. A suitable marriage is barely the start of it: I must provide a town house which Mrs. Pilcrow can use, and start considering my nephews’ careers, and so on.
He seems to see me as an open purse into which he can reach his hand at will. It is so lowering.”
“Does your fool brother understand he cannot take what you do not care to give?”
“He assumes I will be happy to give it,” Titus said. “No, that isn’t true; he hasn’t thought about my feelings at all. He simply assumes I will give it, because refusing would be an affront to the order of things.”
Nico tightened his arms. “Mon coeur, I know you would prefer good relations with your brother, but if that means agreeing that he is the absolute master—”
“No. I don’t want to do that either. But he is used to being this way; he only knows to treat the rest of us as lesser.
And if he were to change that with me, to treat me as an equal, then he would have to think about Hadrian’s death, and Ves not speaking to him, and I quite understand why he doesn’t want to face that. ”
“So do I, but it does not stand in his favour.”
Titus’s shoulders slumped. “No. Still, I would like to change things between us, if I can. I have found Vespasian again, and I think I am changing myself, so is it not possible that Augustus could do things differently too?”
“Bien s?r, if he wanted to,” Nico said. “For that, I think you must tell him what you require of him, and see if he cares to give it.”
“I want him to stop assuming he is master in my house, or of my actions, or of my money. If he could be more respectful, or even just less demanding, perhaps we could talk.”
Nico found that exceedingly unlikely. “You can only try.”
“I will. I will say that, and I hope he will consider it. Thank you, Nico.” He leaned back a little, settling both hands on Nico’s hips. “You are marvellously helpful, you know. I daresay I should find it easier to assert myself but … well, I have had a lot of practice at being unimportant.”
“You are anything but unimportant,” Nico said, aching. “You are important to me.”
“And your opinion overrules the rest?” Titus suggested. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever felt unimportant.”
Nico rocked a hand. “The world has often failed to acknowledge my importance. I find that most tiresome.”
“Outrageous,” Titus agreed. “Well, I am tired of being a poor second in my own life, and I am not going to let people make me that any more.”
He looked so determined, so serious. Nico leaned in and kissed him, and Titus kissed him back, and moved his hands down onto Nico’s arse.
“I quite agree you are not second,” Nico said, muffled against Titus’s lips. “In fact, I think you should come first. First and also quickly, because we have a mere twenty minutes before dinner, but I have faith in myself to achieve that.”
“I believe in you,” Titus said, and let Nico push him onto the bed.