“Who?”
“You don’t know?”
“No, I do not. What is going on?”
“A man named Henry Morris arrived an hour ago. Mr. Pilcrow has mentioned his name before, not in a happy manner. He has been closeted with Mr. Pilcrow in the parlour ever since and there have been raised voices.” The butler hesitated, then lowered his voice even further. “I went in to offer wine, and Mr. Pilcrow appeared extremely distressed.”
“You think something should be done?”
Thorpe didn’t drop his gaze. “It seems necessary, Comte.”
Nico handed over his hat. “Excuse me.”
He could hear the voice through the parlour door. He couldn’t make out words, but the tone was insistent.Hectoring, Nico thought, so he gave a perfunctory knock and walked in before anyone could tell him not to.
Titus was hunched in a chair, his head bowed and his clenched fists up by his ears. He uncurled at Nico’s entry and looked up, and his face was a horrible combination of misery and despair and a sudden glimmer of wild hope that flickered out almost at once. His eyes were wet.
There was a man standing over him, some pointless piece of shit in an ugly waistcoat. He was looking at Nico with a resentful expression that came naturally to his stupid fucking face, which Nico was going to punch because Titus wascrying.
“Mon ami. I trust you excuse my interruption,” he said, forcing the urbane words through a throat thick with rage.
“Who’s this?” said Ugly Waistcoat. Nico didn’t like his coat either. Or his boots. Or his existence.
Titus looked like a man in a nightmare. “Uh—this is—it isn’t—”
“Nicolas-Marc, Comte de La Motte,” Nico said, curling his lip. “You may address me as Comte. Who are you?”
“Comte?” Morris repeated.
“Oui, monsieur?”
Morris looked from him to Titus. “Well? Are you not going to introduce me? Am I not good enough for your new friends?”
“I’m sorry,” Titus whispered. “Comte, this is Mr. Henry Morris.”
“Mr. Henry Morris,” Morris parroted mockingly, in the annoying manner of an annoying schoolchild. “You might put a little more effort into the introduction for afriend.”
And, oh, the note in his voice. Nico hadn’t needed to see Titus’s flinch to recognise that note and the way it conveyed a whole hinterland ofYou never do anything rightandI shouldn’t have to tell youand most of allNobody else would put up with you, which was, really, always the message. One of the girls in the gambling hell had had a man like that. He’d been affable in company, but Nico had paused outside doors and heard his mosquito-drone of reproach and complaint for months as he slowly sucked the life out of her.
She’d finally agreed to let a few of the portiers swat him. Nico had very much enjoyed putting the boot in, and he wasn’t waiting that long again.
“Monsieur Morris,” he said with a bow. “I wish a word with Monsieur Pilcrow in private. Perhaps you will await us outside.”
“I will do no such thing.Iam a guest here. Who is this man, Titus? What is he doing in this house?”
“A peculiar tone to take with its master,” Nico said coldly. “Mon ami, step out with me for a moment. I am quite sure Monsieur Morris will attend your return.”
“Nico—” Titus managed.
“‘Nico’?” Morris repeated. “Oh, ‘Nico,’ is it?”
Nico ignored him, locking eyes with Titus. “Allons-y,” he said gently, and extended his hand.
There was a very long minute when he feared Titus wouldn’t move. Then he got up, mumbled, “Excuse me—moment—” in Morris’s direction, and followed Nico out. They left the room in silence.
The hall was empty. Nico grabbed Titus’s elbow and dragged him through to the next room, kicking the door shut. “Merde alors, quelle charogne. I will get rid of him, yes?”
“You can’t.”