Pilcrow’s brows drew together a fraction. “Perhaps you will first tell me why you ask. What business is it of yours?”
“A cat may look at a king, as I believe you English say.”
“And you may ask what questions you choose, but why should I answer? What is your purpose here?”
He wasn’t folding nearly as easily as Nico had hoped. Nervous but not spineless. “Monsieur, I must in return ask, do you know who I am?”
“I am informed that you were—uh—a close friend to Miss Whitecross.”
“Aclosefriend. Oui, monsieur: as close a friend as you, it seems. Miss Whitecross was affianced to me.”
Pilcrow’s lips moved to a round, and almost immediately pressed into a line. He’d probably wanted to ask if it was a love match, and been too polite.Missed your chance there, Nico thought. “It was an arrangement of a type perhaps commoner in France than England. Miss Whitecross wished to be Madame la Comtesse, and I—” He gave a Gallic shrug. “You understand. A bargain was struck. You, monsieur, broke it.”
“I beg your pardon, but I did not. Miss Whitecross was dying, and she wanted to secure her fortune—er—”
“Away from her nephew, the Laxton,” Nico said helpfully. “She confided her circumstances to me too. She was not shy to express her thoughts, hein?” That got a wary smile. “Alors, she had the accident. She found herself in grave circumstances, and the disposal of her fortune was of the importance the very highest. And you happened to pass by?”
“I came to deliver some paints.”
“Bien sûr, and then she gives you the order: ‘Marry me, save my money from the Laxton.’ Yes?”
“More or less.”
“And you find yourself married on the spot. By special licence?”
“That’s right.” He was relaxing into the conversation, happy to be agreeing. Letting his guard down.
“A special licence,” Nico repeated. “The licence she obtained to marryme.”
“Oh.”
“I was to wed her on my return from important business, monsieur. She had accepted my hand; she was to wed me this week. This very day,” he added with more emotion than truth. “Monsieur, you see my disappointment, my displeasure. The wrong you have done me.”
“I didn’t—”
“What is the English term? ‘Alienation of affections’?”
“Oh, come,” Pilcrow said. “Affections?”
“I had a promise of marriage, which was broken by you, monsieur, wedding my intended bride, and claiming her fortune along with her hand. You will understand my sentiments.”
“I’m sure you’re most annoyed, Comte, but I broke no oath to you. Any promise was made by a lady who is now dead, and I don’t believe that is legally enforceable.”
Nor did Nico, sadly. “I speak not of law, monsieur, but of honour. You have deprived me of a great fortune: the injustice is clear. I believe you intended no harm, but harm has been done nonetheless, is it not so?”
“I understand you are disappointed. I cannot accept any liability for your disappointment.”
In other circumstances, Nico would have admired the man. He was clearly uncomfortable, but sticking to his guns and defending himself with impressive steadiness where Nico would have resorted to taking offence, withering insults, or bad language some time ago.
These were not other circumstances, and this bloody shopkeeper was not making himself a friend. “I do not speak in these pettifogging terms,” Nico informed him haughtily. “I prefer to talk as one gentleman to another, in the hope we may redress an admitted injustice without recourse to sordid law.”
It was a good line and he was pleased with it. It would have been even better if some prick hadn’t started making a racket in the hallway halfway through, distracting Pilcrow just when Nico needed his full attention. “Monsieur, I pray you will hear me,” he added, slightly louder, because he’d distinctly heard an oath, followed by a cry. “I do not wish to—”
The door slammed open. A man stormed in shouting, “Pilcrow!”
It was Matthew Laxton, Miss Whitecross’s nephew. Nicohad met him while visiting the old lady, when he had appeared gentlemanly enough. Now he was dishevelled and red-faced, and reeked of brandy although it was not yet noon.
Pilcrow jumped up. “Mr. Laxton! I am engaged with the Comte de La, de— I am engaged. I must ask you to leave.”