Chapter Twenty #2
Nico was watching his face. Perhaps he even read it, because he said, very calmly, “If I may interrupt, mon ami?”
“Your opinion is unwelcome, sir,” Augustus spat. “This is a family matter.”
“He didn’t ask you, and this is not your table,” Titus snapped back.
“Gentlemen,” Nico said loudly. “A great deal has been said on both sides. I suggest you both let tempers settle before you continue.”
“It is not your affair!”
“Monsieur Augustus, your brother is my dear friend, and his well-being is my affair until he tells me otherwise,” Nico said. “Titus, mon ami, I believe you have said all you need. I fear you will regret it if you say more.”
Titus took a long breath in. He wanted to brush Nico’s words aside and keep shouting the most hurtful things he could manage.
And if he did that, any chance of repairing things would be gone. Probably it was gone anyway, but he would rather it wasn’t entirely his fault.
He let the breath out, slow and steadying. “Thank you, Nico,” he said. “Augustus, I apologise for losing my temper—”
“I should hope so. Your manner—”
“I had not finished,” Titus said loudly.
“I apologise for losing my temper, but I meant what I said. We have a great deal to discuss if we are to have a civil relationship in the future, including what we expect of one another. I don’t think we can do that tonight: I am tired, and I daresay you are too.
So we will speak tomorrow, and now I am going to sit down and eat my dinner.
If you would rather have a plate in your room, I can ask for that. ”
He sat as he spoke. Augustus hesitated, weighing up the need to keep equal dignity against his obvious desire to storm out, and finally sat, saying, “Nonsense. I eat at a dining table, and I am quite happy to have a civil conversation at any time.”
“Excellent,” Nico said. “Let us have one now.”
“You were speaking of a painting,” Titus said, grasping for the closest topic. “I have not seen it, have I?”
“Did I not show you? I daresay it is not worth your notice.”
“A Madame Le Brun?”
“Merely an unfinished work,” Nico said, with unfamiliar humility. “Its value lies in the subject.”
“The French Queen was a frequent subject of the paintress’s,” Augustus instructed him. “And I must dispute your description of it as a personal work. The Queen is wearing an immense diamond necklace, so it is hardly an informal composition.”
“A diamond necklace?” Titus repeated. “An immense—Nico?”
Nico shot a look at him that Titus couldn’t read. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then said, “Oui, mon ami. That necklace.”
“You are joking.”
“What necklace?” Augustus demanded.
“Why have you heard of my mother, monsieur?” Nico retorted. “You know what necklace. The one for which the Queen of France lost her honour, Jeanne de La Motte her liberty, and the French royals their divinity. And, eventually, heads.”
“But it shows the Queen wearing it!” Augustus protested. “The courts said she never had it!”
“They were wrong.” Titus’s skin was prickling with excitement. “You said so, Nico, you said you had proof that Marie Antoinette took possession of the necklace. Is this your proof? Madame Le Brun painted her wearing it?”
“But that is not proof,” Augustus said. “A painting is an affair of the imagination. I could paint Mrs. Pilcrow wearing the same necklace, and it would not prove she was involved.”
“You, monsieur, are not Le Brun,” Nico said acidly. “The painting shows Marie Antoinette wearing the great necklace she claimed never to have coveted, still less to have had in her possession. Why would Le Brun have painted such a damning thing of her sovereign and friend?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“I do,” Titus said. “If the Queen went to such lengths to possess the necklace, of course she would want to see herself wearing it, if only in private.”
“But if you are correct, this painting implies the Queen’s guilt and your mother’s innocence,” Augustus said. “Why have you not made this public? Your family name—”
“Monsieur, the present King of France also values his family name,” Nico said. “He prefers not to have it known that his martyred sister-in-law was guilty of theft and perjury. If I made it public that I had evidence of the Queen’s guilt, my life would not be worth a month’s purchase.”
“You are in danger?” Augustus said, alarmed. “But is that not to put anyone who associates with you in danger? I was not made aware of this when I came to stay!”
“We have not seen any French spies here, Augustus,” Titus said.
“Well, you would not see them if they were here,” Nico pointed out. “Les mouchards are good at their work. But they are not here because I am not attempting to retrieve my mother’s reputation. Jeanne de La Motte is long dead; so is the Queen. Let the whole business pass into history.”
He sounded weary. Titus felt guilty. Nico had told him some of this when they’d met, and he’d dismissed it as implausible in the extreme. He’d let himself forget all about it, and as a result he hadn’t even known his lover carried this burden. No wonder he looked troubled.
“It is a terrible position for you,” he offered inadequately.
“Many people are in worse,” Nico said. “Did you hear—” He moved the conversation on to gossip and crim con stories with clear intent, and soon had both Titus and Augustus sufficiently entertained that the rest of the evening was quite tolerable.