Thorpe came in after the fellow. He looked decidedly ruffled in an unbutlerish way, and had a nasty red mark on his face from a blow. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said furiously. “Mr. Laxton, the footman will escort you out.”
Laxton ignored that, advancing on Pilcrow. “You damned wretched thieving swine! I’ve come for what’s mine, and you’ll give me my due, you puling shit!”
“Monsieur!” Nico said, making a swift grab for the moral high ground. “You forget yourself in a house of mourning.”
“Piss off, you damned Frog!”
“You are offensive, sir,” Nico said with great hauteur.
“Go to the devil. And you! You stole my money! I want my money!”
“It was Miss Whitecross’s money, and she made her choice,” Pilcrow said. His voice was shaky, but he wasn’t backing down. “And you will not have a penny of it, and if you continue to harass me, I shall—shall—I won’t stand for it.”
“I’ll sue you for slander,” Laxton snarled, ignoring that frankly weak effort. “I want my money. I earned it dancing attendance on the old bitch, and you’ll be sorry if you don’t give it to me, you turd!”
Laxton swung on that expletive, catching Pilcrow unawares and on the chin. He went stumbling back, and Laxton lunged after him. Pilcrow yelped, ducked, and flailed toward Nico like a grasshopper, all limbs. The butler shouted for a footman as Laxton threw another punch. It passed decidedly too close to Nico, who deflected the blow with his forearm and slapped the fist away.
“Bastard,” Laxton slurred, turning on him.
Nico had had quite enough of this. He sidestepped the man’s movement and slid a foot between his legs. Laxton tripped and fell forward; Nico caught him by the collar and coat-tails, swung him round, and used the momentum to ram his head into the wall, sending a china ornament tumbling off a shelf.
Pilcrow squawked. Thorpe said, “Lord!” Laxton made a noise suggestive of significant pain. It was all sadly inelegant for the Comte de La Motte.
Oh, well, in for a penny. Nico grabbed Laxton’s arm, twisted it up behind his back, and hauled the fellow round, keeping him doubled over with the pressure on his shoulder joint. He’d walked many a drunk out this way, and he did it now, including the classic “accidental” bang of Laxton’s head on the doorframe to keep his pain and confusion at a suitably high level. That let him march the man to the front door, which a gaping footman rushed to open. Nico pushed Mr. Laxton out and, as a small tribute to Miss Whitecross, sped him on his way with a boot to the arse.
“Good heavens,” Pilcrow said behind him. “That was very efficient.”
Nico turned and bowed deeply. He could probably pass it off as Gallic temperament if he Frenched it up sufficiently. “A thousand pardons, monsieur. The offence, his language, all of the most outrageous.” He flashed a rueful grin. “And my temper, the most lamentable.”
“Not at all, Comte. Quite understandable, and very welcome.” Pilcrow sagged suddenly. “It’s the third time he’s come round, and he gets angrier every time.”
“He does not accept the disposition of Madame’s fortune?”
“No, he does not. He thinks I have no right or reason toinherit her money, which is absolutely true in every sense but the legal one.”
“Which is all that matters, sir,” Thorpe observed. “She didn’t want him to have it.”
“Indeed not, but he says the most appalling things, and—are you hurt, Mr. Thorpe? Did he hit you? Oh no, that is outrageous. He must not be allowed in again.”
“I was attempting not to allow him in,” the butler pointed out. “That was when he hit me.”
“Yes, of course. Do we need to hire men with cudgels? Great heavens, this is appalling. If I’d known a fortune meant nothing but people turning up begging and cozening and demanding money— Oh, I beg your pardon, Comte!”
He looked so horrified, and the insult was so clearly unintended, that Nico had to repress a snort of laughter. “Pas du tout, monsieur.”
He was doing some very rapid rethinking. He’d hoped Pilcrow would hand over a nice little sum to avoid trouble, but if the man wasn’t paying Laxton off, Nico didn’t stand a chance. However, you caught more flies with honey than with vinegar, and this looked like a marvellous opportunity to apply honey.
“You are shaken, monsieur, and no wonder. A glass of wine, perhaps?” He took Pilcrow’s arm solicitously, and felt a violent twitch.
An expectation of being manhandled? Or the reaction of a man who was not used to casual touch? Either way, it suggested nerves to be soothed. Nico loosened his hold to fairy-light, gave a soothing murmur, and urged Pilcrow back to the parlour with extreme gentleness. “Come, sit, recover yourself. That was most unpleasant. I gather it has been a difficult time?”
“Ghastly,” Pilcrow said, sitting heavily. Nico pulled a chair close, examining his face. He really might be quite alluring ina gangly way, with those big brown eyes and that sensitive, expressive mouth, if he were a little—or a lot—better presented. Someone ought to do something about that: It seemed a waste. “Utterly ghastly. I didn’t expect any of this. I only came to deliver some paint, and now I’ve got a fortune, and a house, and investments, and my name is in all the scandal sheets, withcaricatures. There are political cartoons representing me and Miss Whitecross as King and Parliament! And everyone who isn’t laughing at me is begging from me! There arequeuesoutside the house!”
He sounded fraught, as well he might. A man of shame or sensibility would doubtless feel his position painfully. Nico reflected that it served him sodding well right, and gave a sympathetic nod. “Ah, yes. The mendicants, those with their charitable subscriptions or their poor ailing mothers or their business opportunities the most wonderful…”
“Yes! It started as soon as it was in the papers, all ‘Strange Marriage’ and ‘Great Inheritance’ and so on. People are coming uninvited to the house, and Thorpe tries to keep them out, but when it’s Lady This with her subscription list, or Mrs. That with her daughter, it is so hard to decline. Really, that is the worst. To come here to solicit my hand, as it were, with Miss Whitecross barely in the ground— I beg your pardon, Comte. I am rambling.”
“Not in the least,” Nico assured him.