“Seven,” Nico said, by instinct, and also panic.
“I said three.”
“You could also say an hour, and that wouldn’t be possible either.”
“You’re living in a rich man’s house, Mr. Fancy Breeches. Don’t tell me you can’t get the money.”
Nico could feel the weight of the navaja in his pocket. He’d never killed anyone in his life—his knife-fighting techniquewas very much of the “startle them and run away” school—and he didn’t believe for a second he could overpower or intimidate Gaskin. But at this second, with calamity and betrayal impending whatever he did, he knew a bright red impulse to take the moneylender with him when he fell.
“A week,” he said again.
Perhaps his feelings leaked into his voice, because Gaskin stared at him for just a little bit too long, and then gave a jovial smile that Nico didn’t trust for a second. “You’ve got nerve. Five days, and I’ll be making sure you don’t forget your obligations.”
“Monsieur—”
“Shut your face. And get me what I’m owed in gold before I take it from Perreau in blood and skin.”
“You will have your money,” Nico managed. “Do not visit this house again.”
Gaskin eyeballed him. Nico eyeballed him right back. The silent confrontation lasted for about a month, then Gaskin snorted. “Pay your debts, Count.”
He had a strong accent of the London streets. It made the title sound like he was calling Nico something altogether less respectful. Perhaps he was.
Nico waited for him to be gone, then sat and put his head in his hands.
He had no prospect at all of finding a new buyer who would pay a fortune for the painting within five days, and no other means of getting the money if Baynes didn’t come through. They didn’t stand a chance of making a run for it if Gaskin’s intelligencers were this good.
So this was it. He’d have to ask Titus for the money, and he’d have to tell the truth while he did it because if he took the money and kept pretending, he’d never be able to look himself in the face again. Which meant he would have toleave, because the truth would poison the core of what they had and start everything rotting away.I lied to you and now I want a huge amount of money, but it’s all right because I love youmight work on some people, there being no bottom to the depths of human self-delusion, but Titus would never believe it. Which was ironic, in a way that made Nico want to bang his head against a wall, because it happened to be true.
He didn’t want to watch Titus’s face as his image of the brave, confident Comte de La Motte collapsed and he saw what was really there. He didn’t want to see what he’d done.
And it was all his own fault, brought on by a series of bad decisions, selfishnesses, and stupidities that he could surely have avoided. Titus ought to be appreciated and loved and treated well, and Nico could have done that; he could have been the man Titus deserved, if he wasn’t a stupid, greedy, semi-criminal, manipulative shit.
Four more days, he told himself. He’d pushed things past deadline too often. He’d allow himself four days with Titus, and pray to Christ, Mary, and all the animal-headed gods that Baynes came through with an offer of a large sum of money. And if he didn’t, Nico would tell Titus everything on the last day, beg for his help, and regret it for the rest of his life.
Chapter Eighteen
Titus was living in a haze of bliss. Nico was so close, so affectionate, almost urgently hungry for him, not just to fuck but to touch. Titus had lived with reasonable content in a world of colour, but now he had so much more. Nico’s taste and smell, the sound of his little gasping breaths, the feel of him under Titus’s hands, and the way his own hands roamed Titus as though he were trying to memorise his body.
He’d have liked to spend all day every day in bed with Nico. In his former life, he could have closed the shop and done just that. He wouldn’t have, because he was a responsible shopkeeper and every penny counted, but he could have, and it would have been so hard to resist.
He had no such freedom now because his days were filling up with appointments and invitations. They were all good things—a conversation with the house agent about properties for hire in the Lake District; a meeting with the Indigent Artists’ Society, which had now asked him to sit on the board. (He had a number of ideas for improving the way the charity was organised, starting with not having artists do it.) Today hehad a visit to the collector and patron Dr. Thomas Monro to see his paintings and meet some of the artists he supported, and then dinner with Vespasian and his wife in the evening. He had greatly looked forward to all those things when he arranged them, but now he only wanted to cancel everything and be with Nico.
He put that feeling behind him as foolish and clinging—Henry had liked to accuse him of being clinging whenever he had not been in the mood for company, and the word still rankled—and was glad of his resolution when he went to meet Dr. Monro. Several of his protégés also attending the luncheon had used to buy their paints from Titus, and it felt like a pleasant reunion with old friends. He found himself quite at home in the conversation as it roamed over the current scandals, disagreements, and gossip of the art world. He contributed to the discussions of Mr. This or That’s latest work, discussed his plans for the Society, argued about the merits of the Royal Academy Exhibition, and was embarrassed but flattered by a rather drunk watercolourist who insisted on making a toast to Mr. Pilcrow of Red Lion Street, for both the excellence of his colours and his sympathetic stance on invoices.
It was a delightful luncheon, so much so that he had a glass of wine more than was his habit. He walked home in a pleasant haze, and it was almost six when he turned into Carey Street. Plenty of time to dress for dinner and make his way to Vespasian’s lodgings; perhaps even time to steal half an hour with Nico in the guise of asking his advice on clothing.
Mr. Thorpe opened the front door. “Mr. Pilcrow,” he said, sonorous and very formal. “Good evening, sir. I venture to hope you had a most pleasant afternoon.”
“Er, yes?” Titus said. “And you?”
A tiny grimace crossed Mr. Thorpe’s face. “You have a visitor in the drawing room, sir.”
Titus froze. Surely not Henry, surely he would not dare—
“Not the other individual, sir,” Mr. Thorpe said swiftly, reading his mind, or perhaps his expression. “A gentleman intending to stay as your guest.” He gestured behind him to where a trunk and two travelling bags lay.
“Guest? Who on earth has turned up demanding to stay in my house?” Titus asked, and then the answer came on him like a blow, even as Mr. Thorpe spoke. “He requested to be announced as Mr. Pilcrow, Mr. Pilcrow. Mr.AugustusPilcrow.”