If Nico hadn’t…he thought, and then,If I hadn’t…but that didn’t work. It was more,If Nico and Augustus and Baynes and Laxton and Miss Whitecross and Perreau and Perreau’s mother and Jeanne de La Motte hadn’t. A great tangled confusion with no way out.
Nico had tried not to tangle him up. He’d been caught in the web, and he hadn’t done the one thing that would free him, which was to ask Titus for two thousand pounds.I thoughtthat might give us a chance, he’d said, and he’d kept on his absurd, reckless course, risking himself and Perreau because he didn’t want to hurt Titus.
Of course it had been stupid. But he’d been in an impossible position, waiting for everything to fall apart, and he had still tried to find a way through the maze for Titus, and Titus wished more than anything in the world that Nico was here now.
It seemed to take forever for Alma to return, but eventually there was a knock at the door.
“Your painting, sir. Shall I bring it in?”
“Just give it to me.” Titus didn’t want her coming in, or seeing Laxton with his pistol. He didn’t want her as another hostage. “Thank you. The bank?”
“The boy has gone, sir. Shall I bring wine for you and your guests?” She peered into the room. “Or… guest?”
Laxton, behind the door, gestured violently with his pistol. “Glasses for three, please,” Titus said, resigning himself. “And something to eat.”
“Right away, sir.”
She did not come right away. In fact she was so long about it that Titus found himself feeling slightly embarrassed by the management of his household. He tried not to hope that she had gone for help; he didn’t even know what help she could bring. A constable with a nightstick would be of limited use against two dangerously determined men with guns. Would one fetch a Bow Street Runner?
It was a moot point. She was probably too preoccupied by her own spoiled love affair to care what the rich man was doing in his parlour, and Titus, locked in his own misery, couldn’t blame her at all.
Laxton muttered angrily about idle slatterns, his mouth twitching. Baynes sat and gazed at the portrait, mouthmoving silently, hand caressing the air above the painted bosom.
He had put his pistol on the settle next to him. Titus tried to picture himself lunging to get hold of it and pointing it at Laxton. He couldn’t make it work in his head, not least because he had never so much as touched a pistol in his life, and very much doubted he could brandish it convincingly. And what if he had to struggle with Baynes for the weapon? What if Laxton fired?
He tried not to look at the clock either. Vespasian was supposed to be visiting in the afternoon, and might be here at any time. He might become another hostage for Laxton; worse, he had a temper. If he saw Titus threatened and reacted badly, God alone knew what might happen.
If only this could be over soon, with nobody hurt. Titus didn’t care about the money, so long as Alma and Vespasian and his household remained safe.
There was a certain amount of coming and going in the hall. Was that Vespasian? The boy back from the bank?
“Where is the damned wine?” Laxton demanded loudly. His face looked a touch clammy, whether through tension or the need for drink. “Ring the bell!”
“It’s the butler’s day off,” Titus said. “Just wait.”
“I’ve waited long enough. If you’re playing the fool with me—”
There was a sharp rap on the door, and it swung open immediately. Laxton scrambled to conceal his pistol behind his back. Baynes’s was still on the settle next to him. He didn’t trouble to hide it; he was too intent on the painting.
The maid who walked in didn’t seem to notice the gun, and that was only the second most surprising thing about her, because she wasn’t Alma. This was an unfamiliar woman, of small stature and slim build, stiff-backed in an over-large dress,with straw-blond hair and bright chestnut eyes. She came in with a tray bearing an open bottle of white wine, three crystal glasses, and three linen napkins, deposited it on the sideboard, bobbed a curtsey, and departed without a word.
“What happened to the other wench?” Laxton asked, moving to pour himself an extremely generous glass. “She was prettier.” He downed most of the glass before troubling to pour some for Baynes and nodding at Titus. “Get your own if you want it.”
Titus took half a glass, feeling he needed it, and had a mouthful. He still wasn’t a connoisseur of wine, but it struck him as having a somewhat harsh aftertaste.
Laxton tossed off the rest of his glass, refilled it almost to the brim, had another gulp, and scowled. “Don’t think much of this. Is it corked?”
Baynes took a mouthful and shrugged. Titus decided he didn’t like it either, and dabbed at his lips with a napkin, which came away smeared yellow.
He blinked at the stain just as the door opened again. The unfamiliar maid entered with a tray of sandwiches and another of cake, one on each hand.
“Ah,” Baynes said, pleased. “How nice.”
The maid placed the tray of sandwiches on the table. Baynes got up to help himself without waiting; Laxton moved to do the same. The maid turned, holding the other platter two-handed, and smashed it viciously across Laxton’s face.
He staggered back in a shower of cake. The maid darted to the settle, swiped Baynes’s pistol, and pointed it at Laxton.
“Hands up,” she said in a decided French accent. “Up, all three of you, or I shoot!”