“I am. You did not come here to listen to my troubles.”
“No.” Nico gave him a long, considering look, mainly to gain a few seconds’ thinking time. “No, that is quite true: I did not. Rather, I arrived with certain assumptions, and I begin to see I was mistaken. I wonder, monsieur, if I might speak to you in confidence?”
Chapter Six
Titus wasn’t sure what to do about this.
He’d been warned about the Comte. Mr. Carnaby had called him “soi-disant,” which meant he wasn’t convinced by the title. Mr. Thorpe had taken him aside when the man arrived to say that he was probably here for what he could get.
It had initially seemed that way, although the Comte’s clothing gave Titus pause. He was no expert on dress, but even he could see the Comte’s appearance dripped not just good taste, but money. He wore a perfectly cut coat of a lovely russet brown, matched with a fascinating waistcoat of shimmering pale gold and flame-coloured satin. The colours sang together, and Titus would have found it hard to look away if it weren’t for the Comte’s face demanding his attention.
He was extremely, almost excessively handsome. Near-black hair; chestnut eyes so lit with orange highlights they were close to bronze (and that would be why the waistcoat made such an impact); a perfect, curving mouth; a confident, charming, slightly lazy air. He was somewhat belowthe medium height, but elegantly shaped, and clearly strong, given the remarkable expediency with which he’d dispatched Laxton. In fact, he was outrageously attractive, the sort of man who generally looked through Titus as though he didn’t exist.
Doubtless he was a cicisbeo, or whatever one called men who sold their looks and charm. That was meant to be a shameful way to go on, but frankly, Titus applauded Miss Whitecross’s taste. If he had eight thousand a year, he could imagine spending it on someone like this.
Hedidhave eight thousand a year.
He jerked his mind away from that thought. “Speak to me? If you wish. Yes, of course.”
“Merci.” Titus wished the Comte wouldn’t keep dropping into French. He clearly spoke very good English, and surely words like “sir” and “thank you” were among the first one would learn. “Are you familiar with my history?”
“Er, no. Not at all.”
“But you know I am Nicolas-Marc de La Motte, yes?”
“Yes?”
“Oui. The son of Jeanne de Valois de La Motte.”
He waited expectantly. Titus waited back at him, for lack of better ideas. The Comte gave a tiny sigh. “The woman blamed for l’affaire du collier de la reine. The Affair of the Diamond Necklace?”
“For—” Titus’s jaw dropped. “Thatwas your mother? I mean—her?”
Everyone knew the story. La Motte, a Versailles courtier, had persuaded the Cardinal de Rohan that the Queen of France would grant him great favour if he arranged the secret purchase of a huge diamond necklace on her behalf. He duly guaranteed payment to the jewellers, and La Motte took possession of the necklace to give to the Queen. But no payment was forthcoming and when the jewellers appealed to MarieAntoinette, she denied all knowledge. Rohan was arrested, and the scheme unravelled quickly from there.
La Motte’s trial for the theft of the necklace had been an international sensation. She was convicted and gaoled; the necklace had never been seen again.
Titus’s shock must have been clear, because the Comte spread his hands. “But yes. My mother was the go-between for Marie Antoinette. It was she who took the blame when the Queen kept the necklace and refused to pay.”
“The Queen had nothing to do with it,” Titus said. “It was all a trick perpetrated by the—by, uh, Lady de La Motte. Wasn’t it?”
“The King and Queen decreed my mother was a fraud and liar, and the court found accordingly. Naturally you believe that to be the truth.”
“Well, yes,” Titus admitted. “Isn’t it?”
The Comte gave a wry, sad smile. It was heart-wrenching on a face made for joy. “My mother was caught up in the machinations of the powerful. There were intrigues upon intrigues, plots within plots. In the end, the courts preferred to condemn my mother rather than the Queen of France, and thus Jeanne de Valois-Saint-Rémy, Comtesse de La Motte, was publicly whipped, gaoled, and branded as a thief.”
He put his hand to his shoulder with an expression of pain that made him look exceptionally handsome. Titus found his own hand mimicking the gesture in unconscious sympathy. He took it away again.
“She escaped prison and fled to London, hoping to reclaim her character. She died a lonely death here, just two years before her erstwhile mistress went to Madame la Guillotine.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it,” Titus said. He had an idea that Madame de La Motte had died after jumping out the windowto avoid debt collectors, but the two fates weren’t incompatible, he supposed.
The Affair of the Diamond Necklace had changed the world. The French Queen’s reputation had been ripped to tatters despite the court’s verdict, her chastity and honesty relentlessly attacked. The French monarchy’s semi-divine status had been thoroughly brought down to earth, and just a few years later, the people’s discontent tipped into revolution. Titus couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be linked to the woman who had lit that spark.
Still, at least it proved that the Comte was not soi-disant, whatever else he was. Nobody would voluntarily link himself to Jeanne de La Motte.
Titus cleared his throat. “I am very sorry for your family’s troubles. Did you live with her here?”