“I had this on Carnaby’s advice—he is a connoisseur of wine—but I should value your opinion,” Titus said, pouring Nico a glass. “Which is to say, I don’t know anything about it.”
“It is superb,” Nico assured him. “This is all magnificent.”
“I don’t always eat like this, by the way. I just thought,since it was your first night as my guest, we should do something a little special.”
“I feel entirely pampered,” Nico assured him untruthfully, because his overriding emotion was nothing so pleasant. It felt like guilt.
That was stupid. He’d got Titus dressed, hadn’t he? And was going to set him on his way to his new life, and otherwise had been extremely helpful to the man who’d taken his fortune. He’d done nothing wrong. Except for all the lies, of course, and the intent, but they couldn’t hang you for intent. Or could they? He wasn’t sure. Butotherwisehe’d done nothing wrong, yet.
If he sat here stewing about this, he’d waste an excellent dinner and provide poor return for Titus’s generosity. He shook the mood off before it could take a grip and set himself to talk, asking about the future of Titus’s beloved shop, which was when he learned that the lunatic had transferred his poisons, powders, and pungent-smelling oddments to a room in this very house.
“Is that a problem?” Titus said, looking at him with some alarm. “That is, you do seem to be rather, er, cautious about my materials. Which is very sensible, of course.”
“I am not so weak as to fear poisons stored in a room with a closed door,” Nico said loftily, and then ruined it by adding, “Is there a lock?”
“I can have one fitted. But they are pigment materials rather than poisons.”
“Arsenic is arsenic. No, I am being foolish. I understand it will not spring out and take me by the throat. Merely, poison is a thing that disturbs me in principle.”
“Is there any reason for that?” Titus asked, hastening to add, “Only if you care to discuss it, of course.”
“Oh, I was brought up by women of Versailles. Mymother, aunt, and great-aunts all lived at the court at one time or another, and they had a fund of stories.”
“Your mother? I thought—”
“I did not hear her stories directly,” Nico put in swiftly, “but Versailles was, how shall I put it, a family business. So I grew up on tales such as the Affair of the Poisons—the great trade in inheritance powder at the court.”
Titus’s eyes were wide and fascinated in the candlelight. It suited him. “Inheritance powder? What is that?”
“Arsenic, mon ami, and not for use in colours. It became the fashion to hasten the ends of those who stood between oneself and money. Courtiers took to disposing of first-in-line heirs, unwanted spouses, and inconvenient children. The midwife La Voisin is said to have had the bones of hundreds of babies in her garden. When it all came out, dozens of people were executed for murder. Even the king’s mistress was implicated. People were burned at the stake.”
Titus looked suitably awed. “Good heavens! At Versailles? Really?”
“Surely a man named Titus Caesar cannot criticise the conduct of a court.”
“You’re thinking of Tiberius,” Titus said. “Titus was of impeccable character, for a Roman emperor.”
“Of course. My apologies to your namesake. But yes, the Affair of the Poisons was a real thing, though how many people truly died, I cannot say. Probably it was exaggerated at the time, and more so in the telling afterwards. But as a child I believed every word, and my aunt loved to make our flesh creep with tales of secret malice and agonised death. My cousin Evelyn relished it all as a ghost story, while I lay awake at night consumed with terror. I once refused to eat for three days for fear my bread was poisoned.”
“And they kept telling you those stories even though you were so afraid?”
Nico shrugged. “My aunt was not a woman of great sensibility: I daresay she found it amusing. And children will have fears.”
“My brother Hadrian was terrified of the sea,” Titus remarked. “I have no idea why: we lived near Bury St. Edmunds, and I don’t think he’d ever seen the sea when he conceived the fear, but he hated the very idea of it. Augustus, our eldest brother, thought it was most amusing, and was continually telling him stories of shipwrecks and drownings until Vespasian called him a contemptible bully, and they had an almighty row. That’s my second brother; he always used to defend us younger ones. Augustus insisted it was just a bit of fun, and Vespasian said, ‘If it’s fun, why is he crying?’ I always remember that when people say something cruel then claim it was a joke.”
Nico would have bet ten pounds that Titus had someone in mind as he said that, but didn’t push. “Hadrian was somewhat younger?”
“Twelve years, so it wasn’t kind of Augustus to tease him. Though I suppose it was only to be expected.”
Nico looked a question. Titus made a face. “My father’s great concern was to raise the family’s position in the world, so he put every penny he could into land for Augustus to inherit. And it worked, because Augustus married a baronet’s daughter on the strength of his landholding and expectations, but it did mean Augustus became rather overbearing. Knowing he was the important one, you see.”
“One brother received all the inheritance? In France, it is not permitted. What was done for the rest of you?”
“Well, our uncle was a lawyer, so Father handed Vespasian over to him. He had wanted to become an actor—hewas always terribly funny, doing impersonations and making us younger ones put on little plays—but naturally Father would not countenance any such thing and insisted on a gentlemanly profession. I was awfully sorry when he left,” Titus said reflectively. “He was quite a fiery person, and he argued with Augustus and our father a great deal, but he was always kind to us younger ones. I missed him very much. Then Claudius’s godfather bought his commission as a lieutenant. He died in the Peninsula. And Hadrian was put in the Navy.”
“Hadrian, who hated the sea?”
“Yes.” Titus had been cutting mutton as he spoke. His knife paused for a moment, then restarted, in a careful, intent sort of way. “Claudius had always wanted to be a soldier, so at least he chose his path. But Hadrian didn’t want the Navy at all. He begged and pleaded to do anything else. I said I would go in his place as a midshipman—he was so frightened—but Father thought his godfather might take offence at the suggestion and not pay. So he was sent. Father said he would accustom himself to it, but his last letter said he was terribly seasick and hated it all, and he wanted to come home.”