“Arsenite—” The Comte stopped short. “Arsenic?”
“It’s just that you seemed rather shocked by orpiment, so I thought you might want to know.”
“I might indeed have liked to know that, and before I bought it,” the Comte said with feeling. “Is there—I ask merely for information—is there any colour that isnotmade of poison, ear wax, vomit, or death?”
“Oh, many,” Titus assured him. “Well, some. It’s just that the best colours do tend to be—”
“Of course they do. The colour is all. Scheele makes his green and cares nothing for the consequence. It is safe to wear, I suppose?”
“Uh…”
“What?”the Comte snapped, somehow sounding rather less French than usual.
“Many people do wear it. It’s wonderfully popular as a dye and a paint for all sorts of uses. It’s just, I might avoid”—Titus mimed brushing the front of his coat—“with your hands. Or wash them before you eat.”
“Before I—” The Comte’s mouth moved silently. “I’m wearing arsenic. My tailor sold mearsenic.”
“It is very popular,” Titus repeated. “And it’s really the only way to get that excellent green.”
The Comte said something emphatic in French. A passing governess recoiled.
They walked on, chatting as they went. The Comte was an immensely easy conversationalist. He asked pertinent questions, and listened to the answers with an interest that was wholly unfamiliar and mildly intoxicating, and Titus found himself talking far more than he was used to. The walk to Brook Street went by in a flash.
They stopped at a discreetly elegant establishment. Titus glanced at the sign, and felt his pleasant mood vanish in a twinkling, replaced by pure panic. “Mr. Hawkes? Really?”
“But of course. You have the funds, and to my mind he has the most imagination. Weston is the man for a plain cut, Scott for a military look, but Hawkes has flair.”
“Do I want flair?” Titus asked. His feet were suddenly very cold. “I wouldn’t wish to put myself forward—”
The Comte made a Gallic noise and pushed him to the door. Titus went reluctantly through, setting the bell jangling, and was greeted by a small and gloomy man.
“Good morning, sir. Ah. Comte de La Motte.” He didn’t sound enthusiastic. If anything, he seemed rather unwelcoming.
The Comte appeared not to notice. “My greetings, Mr. Hawkes. I bring you Mr. Pilcrow, of Carey Street, who requires clothing.”
“Mr.—Pilcrow, yes.” Mr. Hawkes executed a second bow, the far greater depth of which told Titus that his name had been recognised. “Yes, indeed. Good day, Mr. Pilcrow, it is a pleasure to have your custom. And what are you looking for today, sir?”
The Comte gave his wonderful, confident, all-conquering smile. “Everything.”
Chapter Seven
“You look smug,” Eve said, as Nico came in late that afternoon.
“So I should. Except—” He pulled off the green coat. “I have to rid myself of this damned thing.”
“That coat? It cost a fortune! What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s made of arsenic.”
“Sorry?”
“Arsenic!” Nico went to wash his hands on that thought. “Who deserves a painful death? Can we send it to Jacky Gaskin?”
“Your coat is made ofarsenic? What did you buy it for?”
“Nobody told me it was poisoned! They just said it was green!”
“Oh, the dye, you do make a fuss. It’s probably fine,” Eve said, with the insouciance of someone who wasn’t wearing it. “Just don’t eat it. Even better, do.”