“Ah, no, monsieur. My parents had separated for my father’s safety; they met only once after she escaped her prison, an encounter resulting in—” The Comte gestured modestly at himself. “My mother bore me in London in the utmost secrecy and sent me as a baby to France, where my father lived in necessary obscurity. I grew up under the rule of l’Empereur, who had no love for the deposed king or his wife. But times change. Once again a Bourbon king sits on the throne of France; once again agents of the monarch turn cold eyes on la famille de La Motte.” He gave a shrug—both shoulders, palms turning up—that was the most Gallic thing Titus had ever seen. “France is an unhappy country for one bearing my name. I fled to England.”
“How unpleasant for you.”
“Merci. But I beg your pardon, I rattle on. To introduce myself is not the affair of a moment.” The Comte flashed him a smile. It was such a smile, a curving, confidential, conspiratorial smile as though they were sharing a private joke, and it left Titus breathless. “I have told you all this—at such length,mon Dieu! You are very easy to converse with—because there is a similarity between our positions.”
Titus blinked. “There is?”
The Comte waved a hand. “I have seen the—what do you call them—the scandal sheets on the subject of your marriage and fortune. It is not pleasant to be held up to ridicule and abuse by strangers.”
“No, it is not,” Titus said with feeling. “It is dreadful. But I brought it entirely on myself by my marriage, whereas you cannot help your parentage, and it is quite wrong you should be insulted for it.”
The Comte cocked his head. “You are most kind, monsieur. I see you as a fellow sufferer, and I should normally have regarded you with the greatest sympathy. But here we come to the matter of Miss Whitecross. I shared certain evidence with her which would prove the Queen’s complicity and vindicate my mother if I made it public.”
“Goodness,” Titus said, but could not prevent himself from adding, “Um, if you have such extraordinary evidence, why have you not used it already?”
The Comte gave a twisted smile. “Because I dare not. The agents of the King have not forgotten the La Mottes. To bring myself to their notice at all is a danger. To restore my mother’s reputation could cost me my life.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Titus said politely.
“I am resigned to my fate, monsieur. Or, I was, until Miss Whitecross gave me hope. She wanted me to use her fortune to clear my mother’s name.”
“Miss Whitecross took an interest in French intrigues?”
“She took a very great interest in a woman wronged by men.”
That was much more plausible. “Of course.”
“She intended to wed me to spite the Laxton, naturally.But she also liked the idea that her money would let me reveal the truth. And perhaps I might have, but the wheel of Fortune turns; my chance is gone.” He puffed at his fingers, as if blowing the seeds from a dandelion clock. “You may imagine my disappointment. I came here in anger—my temper, the most lamentable!—believing you had cozened Miss Whitecross, and cheated me. Monsieur, I am ashamed of those thoughts. I ask your pardon.”
“Not at all, Comte.”
“But yes. I saw my own behaviour in the Laxton as in a mirror, and I regret it. Miss Whitecross’s fortune was hers to dispose of, and her need was urgent. You owe no apology that you were the man on the spot, and I must be glad for my good old friend that therewasa man on the spot. She died content, knowing her fortune was snatched from the Laxton’s grasp?”
“I think so.”
“Then I am grateful,” the Comte said magnificently. “I accept this as my mother accepted far greater reversals, I congratulate you on your advancement, and I rejoice that you eased the last hours of a lady for whom I felt the greatest affection and respect.”
“That is most handsomely said. I am very thankful for your understanding.” Titus wasn’t sure how he might have persuaded the Comte that he was innocent of plotting and scheming, but at least they weren’t arguing now. He also had no idea how the man could speak in such flowing periods in a foreign tongue: he couldn’t do it in his own language.
Flowing speech in a warm tenor, and that thrilling accent. Titus had lived in London for many years, and heard all kinds of accents, but there was something about the Comte’s speech that made his nerves prickle delightfully. Unless it was the speaker doing that.
He had a small, sensible, shopkeeper feeling that he oughtto end the conversation here, now the Comte had said they had no quarrel, but he didn’t want to. He could quite see why stolid Mr. Thorpe thought the man a rogue, but he was unquestionably entertaining and charming, and so lovely to listen to, and painfully handsome. And he had helped Titus with Laxton, so it would be dreadfully inhospitable to send him away without ceremony. He cleared his throat. “Ah, perhaps we could have that glass of wine, if you would care to?”
The Comte’s responsive smile went straight down his spine. It was an astonishing smile: his lips curved and parted slightly, his eyes hooded a little, and he looked quite as though they were sharing a filthy joke. “Monsieur,” he purred, “I should be delighted.”
Titus rang for wine and gave the order, trying to do so with aplomb, or at least without obvious embarrassment. Ringing for anything was still a novelty, as indeed was wine. He was used to fetching himself small beer.
Mr. Thorpe brought the wine, looking stately apart from the bruise coming on his cheek, and set down the tray. He also cast Titus a meaningful look, which he decided to ignore.
The Comte’s story was, to put it politely, implausible. Stranger things had happened, but so had an awful lot of much more likely ones. But it was a good tale delivered by a remarkably good-looking man; Titus didn’t actually care about the rights and wrongs of a long-ago scandal; and mostly, the conversation had given him a brief but much-needed respite from his own troubles.
The last few weeks had been dreadful. Between the impending loss of his premises, Miss Whitecross’s shocking death, and the turning of his life on its head, Titus had felt buffeted from all sides. His new home had been besieged by mendicants, claimants, marriage proposals, fictional bills on the estate, remote acquaintances presenting themselves as hisbest friends, people he had considered friends making blunt demands for money, and total strangers soliciting his attendance at their houses, parties, events, exhibitions, and plays. He’d been ridiculed and caricatured in the newspapers. Laxton had harassed and abused him; Henry had written to him proposing a celebratory dinner, for all the world as though they were still lovers. He scarcely dared go out. He hadn’t spoken to anyone except the Thorpes and Mr. Carnaby in days.
The Comte had removed Laxton with a kick Titus had felt privileged to witness, and if he intended to touch Titus for money, at least he’d worked for it.
He raised his glass. The Comte tapped it lightly with his own. “You are gracious, monsieur. I understand you were—what is it—a maker of paints?”
“An oil and colourman.”