Only unease, though, rather than the profound unhappiness he’d felt before. Maybe that was the passage of time, but Titus rather thought it was Nico.
Titus tried not to dream about Nico. Inheriting a fortune had been merely unlikely, whereas to have Nico in his bed would be an impossibility, or at least far more good fortune than one man could deserve. Nico with his radiant eyes, his effortless competence, his intent attention. His presence in Titus’s house that felt more natural every day, even while being a constant miracle. In fact, Titus was hopelessly smitten with a man so far out of his class it was absurd, and mooning over him was an entire waste of time and energy, except that it was a surprisingly effective salve to the open wound of Henry.
Because the worst thing about Henry, in the end, had been his good qualities. He could be sparkling, exciting, full of life, and that was why it had hurt so much when he had instead chosen to be cruel. There was nothing like the man you cared for saying, in effect,I could be wonderful to you, but I don’t want to, to make you feel utterly worthless, and that was exactly how Titus had felt.
And then Nico had landed in his life like a meteor, and he was all the things Titus had admired in Henry, and so much more. Considerate of Titus’s feelings, fierce in his defence, interested in his thoughts. Henry had treated him as an object to be played with. Nico treated him as though he mattered, as though it were an acknowledged truth of the universe that he mattered, and every time he did it, the open wound hurt a little less.
They might only ever be friends, but a good friendship was so very much better than a bad love affair, and he should remember that, even if the yearning sometimes felt it might kill him.
On that thought, he added Henry’s latest letter to the guilty heap, topped it with a new letter from Augustus that he also didn’t have the strength to open yet, decided that was quite enough administrative work for the day, and rang for tea. Mr. Thorpe brought the tea and cakes in himself.
“Oh, is it Alma’s half day?” Titus asked. “I thought that was tomorrow.”
“She took it today.” Mr. Thorpe hesitated a fraction. “May I speak to you, sir?”
That sounded slightly worrying. “Of course. Would you sit down? Tea?”
Mr. Thorpe gave him a look that indicated how inappropriate the latter would be in this room, but took one of Miss Whitecross’s spindly chairs. He was a large man. Titus considered new chairs, and reminded himself not to run mad with spending. “What is it, Mr. Thorpe?”
“Your valet. Mr. Perreau.”
That was an unexpected subject. Perreau was Titus’s man and, unlike other male staff, did not report to the butler. Obviously he would have to fit into the complex weave of below stairs, but Titus hadn’t thought twice about the matter. He’d assumed the servants arranged it between themselves.
The valet was a short, thin, somewhat fragile-looking fellow with a pale, sharp face, straw-yellow hair, and chestnut eyes very like Nico’s own vibrant shade. Titus supposed that was a French characteristic. He was a very competent valet so far as Titus was qualified to judge; he took care of clothes well and could tie a cravat and wield a razor far better than Titus. He spoke rarely, in a light voice with a strong accent.Titus had heard him talking to Nico in French sometimes, at terrifying speed. It always sounded disturbingly argumentative to his English ear.
“What about Perreau?” he asked. “I hope there isn’t a problem?”
“That is for you to decide,” Mr. Thorpe said. “Alma and Mr. Perreau are walking out.”
Titus considered his options. “That’s nice?” he tried.
Mr. Thorpe didn’t quite roll his eyes. “Most households don’t permit the staff to have personal affections, sir.”
“You can’t stop people having affections,” Titus said. “That is, you can try but it doesn’t work. I was apprenticed myself, you know.” He had no idea if his master would have enforced the rule against courting young ladies—the situation hadn’t arisen—but plenty of his peers had found ways around the restrictions of their indentures.
“I don’t really know what is considered proper or normal in this situation,” he went on, feeling his way. “I assume you would act if you feared any risk to Alma’s well-being, and otherwise I don’t think it’s any affair of mine, is it? Unless there is anything else I should be considering.”
Mr. Thorpe tensed a little. He was rather red in the face. “You might not be aware, sir, that Alma left us for a place as lady’s maid at Mrs. Stukeley’s a couple of years ago. There was…” He hesitated. “A falling-out with another servant over matters of affection. Mrs. Stukeley wouldn’t give her a reference after, but Miss Whitecross very kindly took her back here.”
A below-stairs love affair gone wrong, Titus interpreted. Hardly surprising, since Alma was very pretty and clearly strong-willed, but very much the sort of thing that could ruin a girl’s reputation, professional and personal. No wonder the Thorpes were protective; no wonder they had loved Miss Whitecross.
“The mistress put a stop to any criticism she heard, so the chatter died down,” Mr. Thorpe went on. “But the neighbours may start talking again if Alma is seen courting, and—well, gossip spreads, sir.”
Titus knew that very well. Red Lion Street held houses as well as shops, and life with his neighbours had been underpinned by a continual buzz of critical observation: this slatternly maid, that unmanaged household, the other unruly apprentice. People held strong views on keeping the lower orders in line, and Carey Street was a superior address to Red Lion Street so that would be all the more important here. If Titus’s household was seen to encourage loose behaviour, his neighbours would talk, and Titus hated being talked about.
Nico ignored talk. Miss Whitecross hadn’t cared about it. And Titus owed his fortune to Mr. Thorpe.
“People will always gossip about something,” he said. “I cannot see anything wrong here. Alma performs her work excellently, and what she does in her free time is none of my business. I see no reason at all for anyone to express an opinion and so I will tell anyone who does. Unless you and Mrs. Thorpe have concerns? Which is to say, I, er, hope Perreau is behaving.” Or, at least, behaving as Alma wished, but Titus wasn’t discussingthatwith her father.
“I’ve no concerns for now. Thank you, Mr. Pilcrow. Thank you very much.” Mr. Thorpe’s shoulders relaxed suddenly. “She’s a wilful, headstrong young madam and the apple of our eye, and I just want her happy.”
“Of course.”
“And that young Frenchy seems a very decent fellow, even if he is a hop o’ my thumb.” Mr. Thorpe mimed Perreau’s short stature with a hand. “You know, sir, all round I’d say the Comte’s done this household a fair bit of good.”
It wasn’t quiteYou were right all along, but Titus took that as his meaning, and glowed. “Yes, I think so too.”
That encounter put him in a good frame of mind. He indulged in a second cup of tea in peaceful solitude, and was just reading the newspaper when Mr. Thorpe returned once more. “Excuse me, sir, but you have a visitor in the front room.”