Titus had heard of people who pretended their hard work was effortless, but he wasn’t sure he’d met one before. No amount of gratitude had ever sufficed for Henry.
“He is married to a lady who makes theatrical costumes, and she is expecting a child in the autumn, so I shall be an uncle! Well, I am already, but I shall know this one. And he is—I was going to say just as he was, but actually he is much happier. He was so often angry before.”
Nico raised a brow. “It sounds as though he had reason.”
“He said he should have escaped the family a long time ago, but he could never quite stop hoping for Father’s recognition. And when he died and left us nothing but hisaffectionate remembrance, Ves realised that if he ever could have mattered,it was too late now. He needed to get away from all of it, of us, before it soured him entirely. I understand that, although I wish he had not included me.”
“No. That hardly seems fair.”
“But it was probably necessary,” Titus said. “As the second son, he always had the possibility of Father’s attention dangling in front of him, like a carrot. At least I never hoped Father might notice me: I always knew he wouldn’t.”
“Your father—” Nico said, and visibly stopped himself.
“Ves said Father should have just hired child actors for the roles of Younger Sons: It would have been cheaper and easier. That felt… Anyway, I quite understand why he had to make a clean break, but I am very glad we have met again. I am to go to dinner with him and his wife soon. And he made me promise I would not try to reunite him with Augustus.”
Nico blinked. “Did you intend to?”
“It hadn’t crossed my mind, but it’s the kind of thing one might do in my position, I suppose. Except I don’t greatly want to see Augustus either. I daresay I will have to at some point, so it is best that I know Ves’s wishes, though I hope Augustus never finds out. The important thing is that I have Vespasian back, and I realise I have thanked you, but really, Nico, that you thought to do that for me—it means everything.”
Nico smiled. It wasn’t his usual shining confident smile, but something a little more hesitant, quieter, and it squeezed all the breath from Titus’s chest. “I am glad you are happy, and pleased I could do you some good, mon ami. You have been very good to me.”
Titus didn’t know how to reply, except by saying things he had no right to say. He extended his wine glass wordlessly instead, and Nico reached out with his, and the two crystals met with the lightest chime, the sound of a fleeting kiss.
Chapter Fourteen
Nico hung on to the good feelings the next day. He needed them.
He had very nearly made a bad mess of finding Vespasian. Titus could easily have taken umbrage about what might, in some lights, seem like a gross, unsolicited interference in his personal affairs.
He really needed to think things through more, he told himself for the thousandth time. It was his besetting sin: A thing needed doing, so he did it without considering the consequences.Yes, of course I’ll abandon my life in Paris and come to London to commit fraud with Eve. Oh, that very large man is kicking a dog or bullying a woman, better step in. Titus wants his brother so he must have him!And never mind that he was embroiled in a nightmare, that he’d got into multiple fights, that he’d stuck his nose into Titus’s private business.
He should have told Titus what he intended. Although, in fairness, he had no idea when he could have said,I’m trying to find the brother you lost. It would have been a broken promise if he hadn’t been able to track the man down, and once hehadfound him, he hadn’t wanted to introduce yet another nagging parasite into Titus’s life. Especially given he’d received more of those letters that made him flinch.
Nico badly wanted to know about those letters. Despite the volume of correspondence he received, most of it nonsensical demands for money, Titus had refused to hire a secretary or pass it all to Mr. Carnaby. He wanted to open every letter himself. That led Nico to conclusions he didn’t like about people who extorted and manipulated and leeched money off good, decent men with absurdly kissable mouths.
He’d make his own manipulation right once he’d cleared Eve’s debt to Jacky Gaskin. He’d come clean about living here under false pretences and feeding Titus lies; he’d apologise for all of it, and wipe the slate clean so that they could write other things on it. And until then he would pretend he didn’t see how Titus watched him, or think about the way their fingers curled together so instinctively. He wouldn’t touch his hand again, come to that. Nico was a toucher, and Titus was a man desperate for touch, and it came so very naturally to reach out to him.
He had to stop doing it. He’d seen the flare in Titus’s eyes; he knew damned well he could pull him over whenever he chose. But Nico was lying to him, and though he couldfeelTitus’s wanting, with his yearning eyes and delicious mouth and fingers that would cling and clutch, he was not going to respond until he had a right to.
Once he’d got the money. Unfortunately, his faith that he could do that was starting to dwindle.
Chilcott Baynes hadn’t responded to Nico’s letter upping the price by five hundred pounds, an addition he’d made for verisimilitude and also because he could really use five hundred pounds. Sir James Roud wasn’t interested. Mr. George Rankin was interested but not enough, and Nico couldn’t force his hand without competition.
Which was why he was currently on his way to visit Mr. George Rankin and explain that Sir James Roud had made him a generous offer for the painting. He hoped the scuttlebutt that they didn’t talk to one another was true.
It would be another set of lies piled on his immortal soul, which must be staggering under the weight at this point, but Nico couldn’t afford to worry about that now. He just wanted the whole horrible business over with.
He returned to Carey Street four hours later feeling like a wrung-out dishcloth.
There was something peculiarly unappealing in collectors of Marie Antoinette artefacts. They were, to a man (they were all men), a little bit too avid, a little bit too ready to dwell on the imaginary picture of the Queen of France being pawed by a lover in a dark garden, or the very real image of the widowed Queen in dirty clothes, being dragged to sharp-edged death in front of a crowd screaming hate. Nico didn’t give a damn for royals dead or alive, but the way Messrs Baynes and Rankin talked about Marie Antoinette in the tumbril made him want a bath.
He’d listened to the fellow, though, and smiled, and lied, and please God Rankin would take the bait. For now Nico only wanted to go home. It had been a long afternoon, and he’d missed teatime.
Titus had had a painting lesson today. Maybe he’d be ready for a late cup of tea, or an early glass of sherry. He would probably want to talk about it in the fascinated, detailed way he had which Nico found deeply soothing, especially when he had no interest in the subject. Titus could care about things for them both, and it settled Nico’s abraded nerves wonderfully.
So he came back to Carey Street in hope of peace, took one look at Mr. Thorpe’s face in the hallway, and demanded, “What’s wrong?”
“Henry Morris is here,” the butler said, voice low.