He took a deep breath. “You know, one of Henry’s worst traits was that he never apologised. He never accepted fault, or admitted wrongdoing; he always tried to turn it back on me. I appreciate that you are saying you’re sorry. I do believe that you are.”
“I truly am. Titus—”
“I believe you didn’t want to hurt me,” Titus went on as steadily as he could. “I feel less stupid knowing that I was a minor part in your scheme rather than its target. But I am tired of being pushed into minor parts. You have listened and thought about what I wanted more than anyone else ever has, but even you didn’t let me choose my own role in my own life. I owe you a great deal for everything you did for me. I don’t think I would have the strength to say all this now if it hadn’t been for the ways you’ve helped me. But what you did was wrong, in a way I cannot bear. You manipulated me and tried to direct how I thought as much as Henry ever did, and I cannot let that happen any more.”
No,” Nico said, eyes huge and dark. “No, of course you cannot. I didn’t think I was doing that, but— I’m sorry. I’m glad I did something well at least, and… I will not forget you, mon coeur.”
It hurt so much. Titus wanted to demand of Nico why he had had to do it, and more, demand of himself why he cared. Why he could not just let it go, forgive and forget, ignore the bad because the good was so very good, and simply hope Nico didn’t do the same thing all over again.
He knew why. He’d lived through that once already.
“You should go,” he said, and was distantly proud his voice didn’t wobble.
Nico nodded. He stood, looking at Titus for a silent moment, and then he turned and left without a word.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Titus had acted decisively, with strength and self-respect. Two days later, all those things felt grossly overrated.
He was lonely, and he was sad, and he was very much not consoled by having done the right thing. One day he would feel that consolation, but in the aching emptiness of Nico’s absence, all he felt was that if his erratic lover walked in, he would fall into his arms.
So it was for the best Nico wasn’t going to walk in. Alma had told him this morning that the cousins would be heading to Dover tomorrow, on their way to France. She had added, “And good riddance,” but her eyes were red.
Nico was leaving the country, it was over forever, and that was all there was to it. Titus had restarted his painting lessons, and gone to see the collection at Northumberland House, where he had lost himself in the art for up to three minutes at a time, and if he continued behaving like a man who was content with his life, eventually he would feel like one again.
Right now he was going through his heap of correspondence. The volume of invitations had dropped precipitately, with most of them now coming from artists and collectors rather than matrimonially minded parents. That was welcome, even if the number of begging letters had not greatly diminished. Titus was still dealing with it all for fear of Henry’s intemperate correspondence starting up again, although he hadn’t heard from the man since Nico’s intervention.
He would have to deal with Henry himself if he popped up again, and was surprised to realise that he didn’t find the thought intimidating. Perhaps Nico’s lack hurt so much that he had no other feelings to spare. Perhaps standing for oneself was like any other skill, and had to be learned and practiced.
There was nothing from Henry in the current pile, but there was a letter from Matthew Laxton, written in a barely readable hand on dirty paper. The text, once deciphered, was incoherent, but its gist was that Laxton would consider all matters settled if Titus gave him five hundred pounds at once. He wrote a curt response, and picked up the next letter, which was from Chilcott Baynes. Titus groaned aloud.
Baynes’s letter indicated that he did not accept Titus’s repeated refusals to sell the picture. It had been promised to him by the Comte de La Motte, in what he considered a binding verbal contract. He would be very happy to pay Titus five thousand pounds for it; he trusted he would not be obliged to have recourse to the law to enforce his agreement with the Comte.
Titus had no idea what the law was supposed to do, considering that Mr. Baynes had not paid Nico anything and had nothing in writing. He was also deeply unhappy to notice that according to the letter, the homicidal Mr. Baynes was staying in a hotel just half a mile away.
Titus sent him a note of courteous but absolute refusal,hoped that would be the end of it, and was therefore horrified that afternoon when Mr. Thorpe came in to announce that Mr. Chilcott Baynes had called and was waiting on the step.
“Oh God, no!” he yelped.
“Is there a problem, sir?”
“Apparently he’s dangerous. I don’t suppose he can be planning to attack me in my own house, but—”
“Attack?”
“He tried to murder the Comte, and Perreau.”
Mr. Thorpe’s expression suggested he had nothing but sympathy for Mr. Baynes. “Shall I call the footman?”
“Yes. Actually, no. I should deal with this, but, er, could you keep an ear out in case of trouble?”
The imperturbable butler didn’t blink. “Certainly, sir.”
Mr. Chilcott Baynes did not improve on a second meeting. He opened proceedings by demanding that Titus should sell him the painting, explained that he considered himself the guardian of the late Queen’s honour, and then launched without provocation into an impassioned speech about Marie Antoinette’s history, character, and, inevitably, bosom.
“And thus, you see, it is necessary I have the painting,” he concluded. “It must remain secret. I cannot have the world cast more blame on her. The La Motte bitch entrapped her in some manner, whore and harlot as she was. I have no doubt of that. You cannot put it on public display.”
“I don’t intend to. I will keep it quite safe.”