“He’s not a mind-reader,” Nico said, although he well knew that Jacky Gaskin didn’t have to be a mind-reader. He had a whole lot of ruffians between the ages of seven and seventy who hung around the streets, watching your every move. “Anyway, we’ve plenty of use for fifty quid, so I’ll go to see this Pilcrow while you look into the other collectors and decide who I talk to first.”
Eve gave him a rueful, grateful smile. “Will do. Thanks, Nic. I am sorry about this.”
“You’ve got me out of stupider situations,” Nico pointed out. “Which were mostly more my fault than this is yours.”
“Yeah, good point, you owe me. Oh, no, hold on. Do you think you could sell this Pilcrow the painting? He’s just got rich; he’s probably spending like a sailor. And he might be interested in art, if he makes paints?”
That would definitely count as compensation, in a roundabout sort of way. “That’s a damned good thought. I’ll sound him out, and if he’s interested, that’s all our problems solved.”
“Would be nice.”
Nico looked at his cousin, all thin, hunched shoulders and bravely suppressed fear, and his heart hurt. “We’ll fix this, Eve, I promise. I’ll get the money. We’ll be all right.”
“Yeah. Course we will.”
It didn’t sound like Eve entirely believed him. Then again, Nico didn’t entirely believe himself.
Chapter Five
Nico headed up to Carey Street, aware he looked well. He dressed with more flamboyance than most gentlemen in London, as a French count and a Valois: not for him the tedious Brummell uniform of blue coat, white linen, beige breeches adopted by so many.
Mr. Brummell, who had ruled London Society for years, had decreed that the well-dressed man should be a model of plainness and understatement, but Mr. Brummell had lost a fortune at the gaming tables and fled England to avoid debtors’ prison. Nico had spent long enough in hells to develop a profound aversion to people who played and lost, in case it was contagious. He didn’t care to take Brummell as a model, and anyway, he had never been understated in his life and didn’t intend to start. Therefore his new coat was a rich brown, his new waistcoat, orange and pale gold, glowed under it, and he looked excellently. He should: his clothes accounted for a fair part of what they owed Jacky Gaskin.
Now was not the time to think about that. He needed to exude confidence, not desperation.
There were several idlers and lurkers on Carey Street, hanging around the door of number 14. Nico brushed through the beggars and knocked on the door with the head of his stick. It was opened by Thorpe, the overprotective butler, whose eyes widened. “Comte,” he said. “Are you aware—”
“Your mistress is dead,” Nico said, a little louder than he’d have liked, because the crowd of beggars had set up an instant clamour of whining and pleading. That was new since the old lady’s death. “My condolences. I require to speak to Monsieur—I believe the name is Pilcrow.”
Thorpe considered him with a dead-fish expression. Nico really thought he might be left on the doorstep, so he added, “Since I have not the honour of his acquaintance, you will kindly give him my card, and inform him the Comte de La Motte begs a moment of his time.”
“Perhaps you will wait in the parlour, sir.”
That’s “my lord” to you, Nico thought, but didn’t make the demand. French titles were rather devalued on the English market, what with all the émigrés, and claimants, and shameless frauds. He followed the butler in and sat in the parlour, where he waited for an exceedingly long time.
Finally, a lanky man came in, wearing a shabby, baggy, washed-out black coat. His head went back a fraction when he saw Nico, which might have been defensiveness, or a natural reaction to his physical charms and superb dress.
“Good afternoon,” the man said in a wary voice.
Nico stood and swept a bow. “Bonjour, monsieur. Nicolas-Marc de Valois-Saint-Rémy de La Motte, Comte de La Motte, à votre service.”
The man’s eyes widened. “I… thank you? My name is Pilcrow.”
He was tall, a little round-shouldered, and thin. He had wide brown eyes, a prominent nose, a wide mouth. His hairwas a few shades darker than his eyes, a touch over-long, and unfashionably straight except for a cow’s lick that flopped over his forehead and begged to be brushed away.
He wasn’t bad, actually. Not bad at all. Really quite appealing, if you liked the type. And if he were better groomed, and significantly better dressed, and looked more confident, and if he hadn’t walked off with the fortune that Nico desperately needed. The bastard.
“Monsieur,” Nico said. “Je vous en prie—”
“Mr., uh, comte. I don’t speak French.”
“Then I will speak the English,” Nico said with an extra helping of accent and another bow, since both of those clearly put the man on edge. “Will you sit?” He gestured politely, as though it were his house, and to his glee, Pilcrow said a reflex, “Thank you.”
Nico sat before he could be given permission. “Monsieur Pilcrow. Please, correct me if I am mistaken, but I am informed that you wed the lady Whitecross. Can this be?”
Pilcrow flushed a dull red over his high cheekbones. “I did.”
“You will forgive my asking how this came about.”