Page 92 of The Business of Blood

“ButIdo,” he purred, closer, I think, to Grayson’s neck than any other man had ever been allowed to venture. “Take lovers, that is.”

As if that point needed any clarification.

Croft’s expression warned that Oscar’s life was in mortal danger.

Hastily, I clutched at my friend’s elbow and dragged him away from the querulous inspector. “Let’s have some tea in the garden,” I suggested. “I can’t send you up to your wife like this.”

“She and the boys are visiting relations in Dublin,” he informed me with a plaintive sigh. “I’m all alone in the world.”

“We’ll talk about it inside.” I shoved all six feet and three inches of him up my front steps.

“Will the inspector be joining us?” The third word came outinshpecter.

“No.” My gaze clashed with Croft’s. “He was just leaving. He has a murder scene to return to.”

“Howghastly.” Oscar shuddered. “Tell me everything.”

“Good night, Inspector,” I said firmly.

I detected a hint of reluctance in the lines of Croft’s body beneath his long coat.

“This isn’t over,” he rumbled.

“I know.” It never was.

“Good night, then.” He hesitated before swinging back into the carriage. “Lock your doors. And your windows.” He settled in and shut the coach door decisively before opening the window and commanding, “And your grates.”

“I always do.” Unlocking my door, I shoved Oscar inside and did, indeed, lock the portal behind us.

Oscar made a derisive sound. “Grayson. What an apropos moniker. He’s like a giant, fierce storm cloud.”

“Tell me about it,” I grumbled.

“I don’t know whether to be frightened or fascinated by him.”

I didn’t, either.

“Youshould be frightened,” I admonished. “It’s reckless to all but proposition an officer of the law. He could have arrested you.”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained!” Oscar sing-songed through the foyer and down the hall toward the back kitchen, where he’d find the garden door. “I need a smoke.”

I followed him, retrieving bits of his expensive attire as he abandoned them along the way. His cufflinks, his tie, his hat, his jacket. “I don’t think Benjamin Franklin was referring to homosexuality when making such a declaration.”

He paused to roll his eyes at me before letting himself out to the garden. “You think that degenerate didn’t sodomize a few beautiful boys in his hedonistic romp through life?”

I wrinkled my nose. I’d never really considered the private antics of great men. And why should I? Though now that the opportunity had presented itself, I’d imagine their tastes were often vast and varied.

I deposited Oscar’s things on a table and joined him on the back stoop. I smoothed my skirts beneath me before settling on the steps, shoulder to shoulder with him. His legs were almost comically long next to mine, even though his feet rested a whole two stairs lower.

“He’d have not arrested me in front of you,” Oscar said with more sobriety than I’d accredited him. “He wants you too much.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I snorted. “He’s that intense with everyone.”

“It’s a wonder he doesn’t explode,” the playwright murmured.

“He probably does, sometimes.” Though I’d not like to bear witness to it and pitied anyone who did. I breathed in the threatening scent of autumn frost and expelled all the horrors of the day on a world-weary sigh.

Nudging me with his arm, Oscar asked, “Are you all right, darling?”