How to Fake It in Society by KJ Charles is m/m historical romance about a dashing con man and a man entirely out of his depths.
It’s 1821. Titus Pilcrow makes paints for a living. He’s quiet, kind, and seriously overworked. Abruptly inheriting a massive fortune courtesy of a dying elderly woman who is not about to let her murderous nephew inherit is both going to make his life easier and infinitely more complicated.
Enter Nicolas-Marc, Comte de Valois de La Motte. London Society believes he is the son of an infamous French noblewoman who stole a diamond necklace. In reality, Nico is an actor in an immense amount of debt with gangsters on his tail. His plan had been to marry a certain elderly woman, but someone beat him to the punch.
Titus becomes the target of every scammer in London. How is Nico to resist? It’s a fair exchange, really. Nico can teach him how to be a gentleman, and in the process, secure a solution to his looming woes. It is a flawless plan, just so long as neither of them falls in love.
Read an excerpt from chapter one below.
Titus Pilcrow read the note with disbelief. Then he read it a second time in the hope he had misunderstood. It still said the same thing.
“You’re throwing me out?”
“I’m not throwing you out,” Mr. Henry Morris said. “I am giving you notice that I have found someone who will pay a higher rent for the shop, and it is all of a piece that you must make me the villain for it. Have I not kept the rent absurdly low for years? Am I not entitled to earn my bread as well as you?”
“How much more?” Titus demanded. “That is, can I not match it?” The words gave him an instant qualm. His rent was not in fact low at all, and his work had never been greatly profitable. The raw materials were costly, and though people loved the quality of his products, they were less keen to pay for them.
“An extra three shillings a week.”
“A week?”
“If you have not the funds, there’s really nothing I can do.”
Titus wasn’t a shouter, and the thought of another argument with Henry made him feel sick, but he would have liked to shout and argue all the same. His throat was closing. “I have paid my rent in full, on time, for six years and you’re giving me a month’s notice?”
“You’re supposed to pay your rent on time; it’s hardly praiseworthy,” Henry said. “And if you had not treated me with such unkindness, always casting blame—” The familiar complaints went on, buzzing like bluebottles in Titus’s ears as he tried to think.
Henry had the right to raise the rent by whatever extortionate sum he chose. He was the landlord, the property owner, and money always flowed in the direction of those who already had it, like streams flowing down to a lake. For whosoever hath, to him shall be given, and he shall have more abundance, Titus’s father had often repeated to his four younger sons, but whosoever hath not, from him shall be taken away even that he hath.
His shop was being taken away. This was calamitous.
The premises in Red Lion Street, a quite respectable address a little way off bustling Holborn, were small, the bull’s-eye windows rather obstructive of light, but it did for Titus’s needs. He ran Pilcrow’s Improved Colours, making up his cakes of watercolour paint and his oils, slept in the cramped back room amid sacks and boxes and a clutter of canvases, and tried not to be irritated by the jeweller with his family of nine who lived upstairs. He spent more of his time wrist-deep in noxious substances than he might have liked, but he found the work satisfying, and took pride in his reputation for supplying reliable, well-made colours. He spent untold hours in conversation with artists about shade and permanency, what pigments could not be used together, the minutiae of hard work and technical knowledge that underlaid inspiration and vision. He’d built Pilcrow’s into something to be proud of.
And now his shop, his home, his income, his whole little world would be snatched from him, because he’d been fool enough to sleep with his landlord.
Henry Morris had taken over the management of the property from his father three years ago. He was a charming man, witty, lively, a sparkling talker—not, perhaps, a very good listener, but Titus was used to letting people do all the talking. That suited Henry well, and his attentions had become marked. They’d had a few drinks, Henry had taken him to bed, and it had all been thrillingly far from Titus’s quiet routine.
It took a couple of months for the cracks to show.
The problem was that Henry wanted passion in his life, and any sort of passion would do. Sometimes he would fuck wildly, or make extravagant declarations of feeling, but on other days, which became more and more frequent, he was only happy making them both miserable. He would snipe and complain, then throw around accusations, insults, and verbal cruelties that escalated until Titus was finally provoked into protest, and then the onslaught would really begin. There would be tears, screaming, throwing things, breaking things. Afterwards he would weep, and say that his feelings and Titus’s lack of sensibility drove him to these extremes, and then he’d mope in a sad, distraught manner until Titus gave him the reassurance and apologies he needed. And it would be all love and flowers until Henry felt the urge to do it again.
Titus had spent an increasingly unhappy year buffeted by Henry’s alts and rages, bewildered, guilty, and unhappy, desperately trying to extricate himself from the affair without making things worse. He had finally said a firm No more a few months ago. Henry had not taken the rejection well, even by his standards. And here they were. Titus should probably have seen it coming.
In truth, he’d give a lot to get away from Henry, but this would cost him everything. He would have to pack up his pots and powders and poisons, find affordable premises in this horribly crowded city, advertise everywhere in the hope some of his customers would follow him. It would mean starting all over again. The prospect was appalling.
“Henry,” he said, trying to sound calm and reasonable. “Please. Can we not find a compromise? I have been a good tenant for a long time. I can pay more—”
“Five shillings a week more?”
“You said three!”
“That’s the other offer. You need to improve on it. We all have to work, you know. You can’t expect to live on my goodwill after you treated me so callously.”
“I—”
Henry’s mouth curved in the smile Titus knew well, eyes glittering with gleeful anticipation, and Titus realised abruptly that he couldn’t do this one more time, not even at the price of his shop. He simply couldn’t bear it.
“All right,” he said. “A month’s notice it is.”
Henry’s mouth dropped open, shocked at the lack of resistance. “What—is that all? You can’t even scrape together a few shillings? Or do me the courtesy of a proper farewell?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Titus said. “Goodbye.”
Henry reacted as poorly as might have been expected. Titus ignored the tempest; the scale of the disaster was such that he simply didn’t have it in him to care for Henry’s reproaches. He just stared through Henry as he raged, and felt a twinge of unkind satisfaction in watching him storm out, frustrated.
It didn’t last. He had a single month to find new premises, and no idea what he was going to do.
He had come no nearer to a solution two days later when he went to call on Miss Whitecross.
She was one of his most lucrative clients: an elderly lady of immense wealth, and an amateur painter of limited talent who used supplies with wild abandon. As an artisan who put a lot of hard work into the colours she splashed about so wastefully, Titus found that somewhat grating. As a shopkeeper, he could only applaud.
Her latest order was for brown pink, vermilion, ultramarine, orpiment, and violet lake. It was a large and costly set of paints, and she would probably interrogate him on whether he had adulterated the vermilion with cheap red lead. Miss Whitecross was a suspicious woman who liked to feel that she was up to every rig and row. Titus had realised early on that her frequent accusations of dishonesty sprang rather from her own fears than any real doubt of him, and he had learned not to take offence. He feared he might struggle to find the necessary patience today, but he needed the money.
Her house was in Carey Street, not far from Titus’s shop. It was a wide and airy street that skirted the Inns of Court, a very pleasant address but decidedly not one for a fashionable lady. Miss Whitecross made no claim to that. Her father had made his money in manufacturing and she wore her lineage with pride rather than trying to disavow the taint of industry. She dressed and lived well, but she had never aspired to move westwards, where the height of the Ton was based, and her house was spacious without grandeur.
Titus pulled the bell. The door was answered by a worried-looking butler.
“Hello, Mr. Thorpe. Is all well?”
“Mr. Pilcrow?” the butler said blankly. “What is it?”
“I’ve an order for Miss Whitecross. Is something wrong?”
“She’s not well. You can’t see her.”
Oh, no no no. It was a four-guinea order because of the expensive materials. He couldn’t lose four guineas now. “I’m sorry to hear it, but—well, it is a very big order. Would tomorrow—”
“No,” Mr. Thorpe said, the word heavy. “She . . . she had a fall yesterday. She went right down the stairs, and her hip is broken. It doesn’t look good.”
“Oh, heavens. I’m so sorry.” Titus was, truly, for a woman he liked despite her obstreperous ways; selfishly, the loss of a good customer was one more blow in a week that was already quite bad enough. He glanced down at his expensive parcel with regret. The paints would last a little while in their bladders; perhaps he could find a buyer while also finding a new shop. His heart sank at the thought, but it couldn’t be helped. “I won’t disturb you further. Please pass her my very best wishes, and I will pray for her recovery.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pilcrow. That’s very gen—” The butler stopped dead, mouth open.
“Mr. Thorpe?”
“Yes. Yes. Would you have a moment to come in? Just for a short while. I, uh, may be able to get you the money.”
“Oh, don’t trouble her with that now,” Titus said, heart overriding brain. “Really, her health is far more important.”
“Please, Mr. Pilcrow,” Mr. Thorpe said, sounding positively urgent. “Half an hour of your time, that’s all. The mistress would want it.”
Titus followed him inside. It felt horribly intrusive, as though he were dunning a woman on her deathbed, but Mr. Thorpe had been with Miss Whitecross forever. If he thought it would make her feel better to pay a bill, he was doubtless right.
Mr. Thorpe showed him into the parlour and disappeared. He remained absent for so long that Titus began to feel quite uncomfortable. He didn’t have anything to read or a pencil with which to scribble, so he sat, bored and uncertain, on a spindly chair too small for the well-sized room, surrounded by little tables bearing china vases and statuettes and dishes, and some truly dreadful watercolours on the walls, which he recognised as being perpetrated by his hostess.
The room had a good high ceiling, large windows. If it were his house, Titus would hang oils in here. Then he thought about Miss Whitecross’s oil paintings and felt relieved she hadn’t.
Well, it was her home so her taste ruled. And Titus could only respect a level of self-esteem that allowed its possessor to decide My work is worth displaying in the teeth of the evidence. He hadn’t pinned a scribble of his to the wall since he was a child, making sketches and showing them to his brothers. That had been “drawing attention to himself ” or “giving himself airs,” cardinal sins for the younger Pilcrows and strongly discouraged.
There were footsteps and muffled voices in the hall, but nobody came in. Titus wondered if he’d been forgotten. He wondered why Mr. Thorpe had felt it necessary to bring him in. He wondered about his shop.
Out by the end of the month. He wouldn’t find new premises without closing up his current place and dedicating himself to the search, but that would cost him business he couldn’t afford to lose. Maybe a fellow colourman might lend him an apprentice? But that would take time to arrange, and it would all need to be done so quickly, and he hated to be rushed. It flustered him, and he always seemed to do the wrong thing when he was flustered.
He had no choice. If he didn’t find somewhere, he would soon have neither shop nor home.
What would he do if he couldn’t find new premises in time? Where would he put his tools and supplies? He had friends who would give him a space to sleep, but he couldn’t bring his many boxes of poisons and powders into people’s houses. He might have to sell off some of his stock or tools, but if he did that, clawing his way back would be even harder. He’d seen all too often the frightening speed with which people could fall from comfort to destitution; one bad accident or stroke of misfortune could send you sliding inexorably downwards. The void was yawning beneath his feet.
He was wondering whether he could appeal to his brother for help, and if there was any chance the appeal would be heard, when the door opened and Mr. Thorpe came in.
The butler was wearing an extraordinary expression, something almost like excitement. “Please come upstairs, Mr. Pilcrow. She wants to see you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Please. This way.”
Titus gave a mental shrug and followed him. Perhaps Miss Whitecross wasn’t so badly hurt after all. That would be good. The hope dwindled as he was admitted into her bedroom, where she lay with a lawyerly sort of gentleman sitting by her. The old lady’s face was cut and bruised in a way that looked obscenely wrong on elderly features, and her skin was otherwise an unpleasantly pale grey-yellow shade, almost isabelline.
“Miss Whitecross,” Titus said. “I’m so sorry. How are you?”
“Bad,” she said, voice thin. “Dying. Murdered.”
“What?”
“Laxton tripped me,” she whispered. “My nephew. At the top of the stairs. His foot between my legs. I fell.” Titus’s mouth dropped open. He looked round at the lawyerly man, who grimaced. Miss Whitecross caught that and glared at them both. “I’m not a fool. He tripped me, I tell you, and I fell and broke, rot these bird’s bones of mine. He’ll go unpunished for my murder, and be a rich man for my death. Damn him. Damn you all.”
Titus cast a desperate glance at the butler and the lawyer, but neither was looking at him. “And God rot the Laxtons, all of them,” Miss Whitecross went on, voice shaky but intent. “His father made my sister’s life a misery, and his son is like him as peas in a pod. I had such a scheme to spite him—it would have been a grand jest, but he got wind of it, and he killed me.” She paused there, gasping for breath, and finally got out, “And you fools are doing nothing!”
“We have brought Mr. Pilcrow, ma’am,” the butler said gently.
“Er—” Titus said.
“Yes.” Miss Whitecross’s thin fingers were clutching spasmodically at her sheets. “Pilcrow. You’ll scotch the snake for me. You’re a gentleman born, ain’t you?”
“Yes? My father was rector of a parish in Gloucestershire, but—”
“And you’d like to be rich.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She glanced up at the lawyerly man. “Tell him, Carnaby.”
He bowed in his seat. “Madam. Mr. Pilcrow, I am George Carnaby, Miss Whitecross’s attorney. What she proposes—I must say, this is irregular—”
“Get on, fool,” the old woman croaked. “I might die while you talk.”
Mr. Carnaby sighed. “Miss Whitecross proposes that you marry her. Now.”
“. . . what?”
“You will marry her, and become heir to the Whitecross fortune, without encumbrances or restrictions.”
“But,” Titus said. “But—the circumstances—”
“Irregular, but I am happy to swear that Miss Whitecross is of sound mind.”
“As am I,” Mr. Thorpe said strongly.
“Her reasoning for this action, is of course—”
“Hate,” Miss Whitecross said. “My money will pass to the Laxton toad if I’m not married. He can go to the devil and say I sent him. What about it, Pilcrow?”
“But—what—”
“Don’t gibber,” she said with a feeble shadow of her usual acerbity. “Won’t ask you to bless the marital bed. Not with my bones. Snap like twigs.”
Mr. Carnaby’s expression was indescribable. Titus groped for a response. “Don’t you need a licence?”
“Got one already. I was going to make myself a lady, but the fool’s gone away, so fill in your name. It’s your lucky day.”
Titus had no idea what she meant by that, but he was more concerned by “lucky” in this context. “Miss Whitecross, please,” he said. “You’ve time yet. You’re well cared for. Please don’t give up.”
Her eyes met his properly then, faded and full of pain. “I’m dying, and we all know it. Help me, Pilcrow. Laxton broke my sister’s heart and his son has broken my bones. Let me spite him and I’ll rest easier.”
Titus contemplated the proposal. To marry a woman close to fifty years his senior on her deathbed, for no better reason than money on his side and malice on hers—it was contemptible. He’d be a laughing stock.
He’d be a rich contemptible laughing stock.
“All right,” he said.
