“It’s dangerous if one is careless, yes: Most paints are. But it does look wonderful.”
The Comte shook his head. “Monsieur, you are yourself an artist.”
“Oh, no. An artisan only.”
“But you have the appreciation, that is evident. I quite see how you would not care to leave your work, with such passion. And yet—”
Titus sighed. “And yet it would be ridiculous to continue, and I should embrace the advantages of my new situation. I know.”
“You say that without enthusiasm,” the Comte observed.
“Honestly, it feels like the last thing I want to do. I should far rather go quietly back to my shop.”
He felt a pang of longing as he said it. Speaking of pigments to an intelligent listener had briefly recalled the comfort and security of his old life, where he knew who he was and what he was for. Immense wealth had signally failed to provide that so far.
He hadn’t even managed to go to a tailor yet: he simply didn’t dare. He owned two coats, both old, paint-stained, and shabby, and he found himself embarrassed by them to the point that he’d given serious thought to sending out for a ready-made set of clothes to wear when he went to order some better ones.
It was infuriating. He was a successful shopkeeper, a gentleman born, thirty-one years old, incredibly rich, but he was afraid to spend his money because the shopkeepers would all know he was an ignorant jumped-up cit. He didn’t know which he dreaded more: that he’d be laughed out of the tailor’s shop, or that they would save their mockery for when he left.
The Comte was nodding sympathetically. “A great change in your life. I feel quite sure you will find your feet, but if you would care for a helping hand, pray consider me at your service.”
“That’s very kind,” Titus said. “Er, do you mean it?”
The Comte looked startled for a second and then smiled again, with that look of complicit amusement.Intimate, Titus thought, and felt his face heat. “But of course, monsieur. How may I be of assistance?”
“Well, could you possibly recommend a helpful tailor? One who could advise me on what I should wear?”
“I can recommend tailors all day and all night,” the Comte assured him. “Clothing is my greatest recreation.” His lips twitched as he indicated his own finery. “Or even my downfall. If you wish for advice, I will gladly offer it—or perhaps I might keep you company in making a visit?”
“Really?”
“It helps infinitely if one knows the vocabulary. I will offer the translation while you find your feet. I should assuredly beg for your assistance if I were to require paint.”
Titus had no idea if noblemen were normally so helpful tostrangers. This one seemed peculiarly kind, if a little volatile. And he did need assistance, and had nobody else to turn to, and at some point he’d have to take a risk unless he was to sit here alone with his money till he died.
Plus, no tailor would laugh at the Comte. Titus could only dream of dressing in such glorious colours: he must stand out in a crowd like a jewel on a beach of pebbles. Titus had never stood out in a crowd in his life, or wanted to, but the Comte had the confidence of a man for whom attention was a birthright. It was compelling.
And the proposal meant spending time in his company. That was more enticing than Titus wanted to consider. “That would be marvellous. If you’re sure it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”
“But none at all! I enjoy nothing more than to buy a new coat, even if it is not for myself. I shall relish your wardrobe as though it were my own. And I have a great fancy to hear your thoughts on colours. Shall I attend you tomorrow?”
“That would be very good of you,” Titus said with a disproportionate thrill. They were only to go shopping. “I am extremely grateful. Really, I cannot thank you enough.”
“Not at all, mon ami. It will be the pleasantest of recreations. I shall visit you tomorrow at eleven of the clock.”
The Comte was there the next morning as promised, in a coat of intense green. It suited him wonderfully and Titus glanced at it a few times as they walked together to Brook Street, enjoying the sunshine.
“I hope you admire my colour?” the Comte remarked quizzically.
“It is an excellent colour, in itself and on you.” He couldn’t resist making the compliment, because it was exquisitely true:The green was a perfect foil to the Comte’s dark hair, and set off his bronzed eyes in a way that made Titus shudder with pleasure. Honesty forced him to go on. “I just wondered, do you know it’s Scheele’s green?”
He got a bright-eyed glance. “Who is Scheele, and what is his green?”
“A chemist: he invented it. I wasn’t sure if you knew what it’s made of.”
“An Indian tree? A sea-creature, like the famous purple?”
“Murex. No. No, it’s copper arsenite.”