“I want it to be over, so much. Jacky Gaskin scares the shit out of me.”
“Same.”
“I’m dreaming about it,” Eve said thinly. “When Gaskin lent me the money, he had this woman brought in for punishment at the same time. I don’t want that to be me, Nic. She was screaming, there was this man dragging her out, nothing I could have done even if I had the guts— Fuck. Taking his money was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I was so angry at Baynes, and it seemed such a brilliant idea.”
“It always does,” Nico said. “Next time you have a brilliant idea, I’m going to sit on your head till you calm down.”
“And I am grateful for all you’re doing, truly; I just want you to do it faster. Can’t you wave a magic wand and make it happen?”
“Left it in Paris.”
“Typical.” Eve set slim shoulders, shrugging off the mood. “How was Rankin, anyway?”
Nico grimaced in lieu of reply. “They’re a greasy lot, aren’t they?”
“What, collectors? Yeah. It’s the drooling, isn’t it?”
“It’s revolting. You mention Marie Antoinette, and they go weird in the eyes. The woman’s dead, for God’s sake, and she didn’t have a chin when she was alive, but from the way they talk about her— Baynes couldn’t stop slavering about her bosom, which was bad enough, but Rankin started on aboutherneck. Her smooth white neck extended for the soft kiss of the guillotine. He actually said that.”
“Eurgh,” Eve said, with both accuracy and economy.
“I don’t know if that means they deserve to be cheated of a fortune, but—” Nico paused to summarise the ethical nuances of his position. “Fuck ’em. Look, don’t panic. I’ll follow up with Rankin, I’ll meet Roud soon, and—oh God—I’ll write to Baynes again.”
“Seriously?”
“I daresay he’s regretting letting the painting go by now. I’ll tell him the offer’s still open, see if we get anywhere. He can send the money by messenger, though: I’m not going near the maniac. Iwillmake this work, Eve. I can’t make you rich—”
“I don’t care about being rich. I don’t even care about revenge. I just want to get out of this mess before Gaskin’s men hammer nails into my knees.”
“That won’t happen,” Nico said. “I promise.”
Nico turned over ideas and possibilities as he came downstairs for breakfast. Titus was already there, nursing a cup of tea.
“Good morning,” he said, with a diffident smile that was far more appealing than it had a right to be. “Let me ring for your coffee. Did you sleep well?”
“Very, thank you. And you?”
Titus sighed. “Not really. I thought a great deal about what you said, and I believe you were right. I am overwrought, and I need to restore my balance of mind and reconsider what I am doing. I wondered— But first, would it be very rude of me not to go to Mrs. Spode’s afternoon tea today? I did say I would attend.”
The Spodes had three daughters on the market, and a hefty sense of the respect due to their well-connected family. They would be enraged if Titus failed to present his purse for their consideration. “Not in the slightest,” Nico said untruthfully.
“Good. In that case— You see, I was fourteen when I came to London and had no money or time to explore. I have barely looked around or taken a holiday since. I have never had an ice at Gunter’s, or seen the Egyptian Hall, or the wild beasts at the Tower, or visited Westminster Abbey, or seen the Panorama, or walked in Hyde Park, or been to the gardens at Kew, or to Greenwich or any of it.”
“You have seen nothing, and you should like to see—?”
“Everything,” Titus said. “I thought about what I wanted to do with myself, and I don’t quite know that yet, but I know I want a holiday. I have had quite enough of playing at being a gentleman.”
“But you have not been doing that,” Nico said. “You have been working at it.”
Titus gave a surprised huff of laughter. “Yes, perhaps that’s true. I’m so used to working, I scarcely know how else to go on. I’m not even sure I know how to take a holiday. Er, by which— Are you busy today?”
“A few letters I must write; nothing more. Why?”
“Well, I wondered—only if you’d care to, of course—might you like to come sightseeing?”
Titus looked hopeful, and determined, and he was wearing the deliciously violet waistcoat on which Nico had insisted, and really, after he’d sent his letters, he couldn’t do anything useful today. “Mon ami, there is nothing I should like more.”
Nico had never been a tourist of his own accord. “Holiday” was not a useful concept to a man who lived on a combination of his wits and the skin of his teeth, and ithad never occurred to him to go anywhere in London that wasn’t in service of his goals. But he had once been obliged to act as a dragoman and show an English nobleman the sights of Paris, so he knew the sort of thing one did, and he was nothing if not resourceful. A quick trip to the nearest bookseller secured a copy ofThe Picture of London for 1810, which was a little out of date but had an excellent table of contents. Titus drew up a list while Nico composed his letters.