But Nico had disappeared, and without him, Titus had no idea how to insert himself into anyone’s company. So he stood wretchedly, shoved and buffeted by the press of loud people in fine clothes, until someone seized his arm. “I say. Pilcrum, isn’t it?”
“Pilcrow. Who—?”
“John Etheridge. Delighted to make your acquaintance. Lost your guard dog?”
“My—?”
“The little Frenchy. Saw he’s got his hooks in you already. Means to get the old besom’s funds one way or another, does he?” The man Etheridge laughed loudly. He was a little younger than Titus, smartly dressed in evening breeches but smelling of brandy. “Come and mix with some Englishmen, eh? A few of us are going to rattle the bones.”
He tugged insistently. Titus hated people pulling at him. He might have pushed the importunate fellow away if he were at a public house on Red Lion Street, but did gentlemen do that? Was it normal to touch strangers if you were fellow guests? What if he caused offence? It seemed unlikely that anyone would start a fight here, but drunken gentlemen were known to indulge in fisticuffs…
“Do come on,” Etheridge said. “There’s a set of good fellows all waiting to play.”
He would turn this away politely, Titus decided. “Thank you, but I don’t gamble.”
“Eh? You don’tplay?”
“No. I don’t know how.”
“Well, it’s time you started! The recreation of gentlemen. Tell you what, I’ll introduce you to some friends of mine, all excellent good fellows. You will like to know them, and then if you care to play, you’ll be welcome. We’ll have a drink first, eh?” He tugged insistently, and Titus perforce followed.But I don’t want to meet your friendswould give offence, and Etheridge had not been rude enough to justify that. He would say good evening as requested, and then make his excuses.
They headed out to an anteroom, where quite a lot of men were huddled around tables, and over to a group playing dice. “Ah, gentlemen,” Etheridge said jovially. “Look who I have: Tiberius Pilcrum. The new man, you know.”
“Titus Pilcrow.”
“The Whitecross fortune?” one of them said, with a big smile. “Sit down.”
“Thank you, but I don’t play.”
He turned, catching Etheridge mid-wink and mouthing something. The man he’d been speaking to said, “That’s no difficulty: We’ll teach you. Sit.”
“Yes, sit down.” Someone pulled at his sleeve as a chair bumped hard against his legs. Titus could feel panic rising. He’d been robbed at knifepoint once; this was a conversation at a rout in an earl’s house, but it was giving him very similar sensations. “Actually—”
“Good to meet you,” his neighbour said, thumping a heavy arm round his shoulders. He was a fleshy man in his forties, well spoken in a loud sort of way but poorly shaved, with a sadly slapdash cravat. “Pilcrow, yes? I’m Wells—Sir Oliver, if you’re to be formal, and these are—” He recited a lot of names too quickly to be remembered, indicating the men around the table. Two more of them were Sirs.
“Now, you’re a novice?” Sir Oliver said. “You’ll have the hang of it in no time. Take up the dice.”
They were all looking at him. Etheridge was standing behind his chair so he couldn’t shift it back. He swallowed. “Really, I prefer not to play. Do carry on your game without me.”
“Is there something wrong with our company?” asked a sharp-faced man across the table.
“Uh, no—”
The man leaned in aggressively. “We’ve offered you a place at our table, and you don’t find us good enough to play with? Perhaps you don’t trust us? Damme, sir, this is offensive.”
“Now, Hinton,” Sir Oliver said. “Pilcrow is new to Society: He doesn’t know the form yet. You don’t mean to be rude, do you? Of course not: You’re a gentleman. Well, a gentlemanplays when invited, if he doesn’t care to make implications about his companions.”
“I don’t wish to imply anything!” Titus protested.
“So take up the bones.”
There were seven of them. They were all looking at him. He didn’t know what to do.
Titus picked up the dice.
He’d lost eighty pounds by the time he heard a yelp of pain behind him, followed by a rush of smooth, apologetic French-accented speech. “My sincerest apologies, Monsieur Etheridge, my clumsiness of the most insupportable. Ah, Pilcrow, mon ami, you have forgot the hour. We must make our excuses. Allons-y.”
Titus had heard that phrase before, and took it to meanLet’s get out of here. “Yes, I must go,” he agreed, weak with relief. “Do excuse me.”