Page 10 of To Sketch a Scandal (Lucky Lovers of London #4)

“It is beautiful, actually. More so than I was expecting. I didn’t think there’d be so much artwork. It’s a bit taunting, honestly, given how dreadful my own pursuits have been.”

“Oh yeah,” Warren said. “Lost a lot of the art last year, actually. A shame, but not too bad an outcome, given we were nearly shut down entirely. Legal trouble, you know. Place like this.”

Matty nodded. “Oh. I know.”

“Anyway, a couple of people here are good at sourcing that kind of stuff. I think it looks better than it did before. You’re lucky to have come now, if it’s atmosphere you’re after.”

“I like that one.”

Matty pointed over Warren’s shoulder, past the liquor bottles, to the sketch over the keg that had been there so long, Warren had nearly stopped seeing it.

Not a painting, not even a real piece of art, but that silly little doodle Warren had thrown together, much like the doodles in the pantry at home.

He’d tacked it up over the beer tap in response to some nearly-forgotten in-joke with Forester—a satyr with laurels round his head and pile of orchids obscenely situated over his lap, lifting a goblet into the air.

“That?” Warren chuckled. “That’s not art. It’s a joke.”

“It puts me at ease.” Matty shrugged. “Can’t say why.”

Warren glowed a little at the compliment in spite of himself. This chap was really too alluring to be allowed, wasn’t he? If Forester were the sneaky sort, he might wonder whether his boss had sent Matty along to see if he’d behave.

But Forester wasn’t sneaky.

And so Warren wasn’t sure what benefit there was to behaving.

He leaned farther, more suggestively, over the bar like he had earlier—in jest with Miles and for tips with his customer—but this time, it was for the third reason. His favorite reason.

“If you like that silly old thing,” he murmured, doodling with his finger on the bar hardly a hair’s breadth from Matty’s wrist, “then you ought to see the pieces we keep in the back. We’ve got a very nice one of Apollo over the mantel in the big room I think you’d like. I could show it to you, maybe.”

Matty’s hand went very still upon his pint glass, and he appeared to be holding his breath. Most importantly, though, his eyes did not leave Warren’s. Did not even blink as the meaning passed between them. He was new to this club, but clearly not to everything. “In the back, you say?”

“Indeed I do,” Warren confirmed. “I can’t leave my post for long tonight, admittedly. But…maybe long enough for a brief tour.”

Those lips curved slightly upward, teasing the possibility of a real smile again. Warren hung on the sight, more desperate to watch that grim, measured facade crack wide open than he was to get the bloke alone. He flashed one of his own, a wolfish one, hoping to see it mirrored—

“What the devil are you doing here?”

Matty remained steady, but Warren nearly jumped straight to the moon as David Forester’s voice slashed through the moment.

Surprise quickly turned to jealousy as Warren awaited the embraces, handshakes, and who knew what else would happen now that these two old friends were reunited. Forester here to ruin more of his fun. Figured.

But it took only the span of a breath and one look at the horror on Forester’s face to realize that Matty—if that was his real name—had lied.

He might know Forester, but they were far from friends.

“You promised,” Forester whispered, harsh, alarmed, not toned for anything resembling friendship. “You promised you wouldn’t bother us.”

“I’m not.” Matty spread his hands in a show of innocence. “I simply wanted a drink.”

“Why here?”

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Warren prickled, confused. “Who is this bloke?”

Forester glanced around to ensure the others were occupied, before whispering quietly: “Warren, may I introduce you to my former valet, Detective Inspector Matthew Shaw.”

Oh. Bollocks.

Last year, Forester (and Warren by extension) had avoided prison due to the benevolent meddling of some pretty detective who’d posed as Forester’s valet while seeking the prosecution of the Fox’s former owner, a nobleman with enterprises far more destructive than this little bar.

Of all the close calls the Fox had seen, that had been the closest by far.

Matty—Matthew Shaw—must be that pretty detective.

How else would he know the knock and passwords, the names of Forester’s lover and his barkeep?

Warren felt like a fool, but impressed in spite of himself.

Matty was convincing. He blamed Forester a little less for falling for the chap’s tricks during the case.

He had fallen just the same. Hard not to, with a face like that.

Made one want to believe anything he said.

Which, Warren figured, was probably the whole point of him.

“I swear to God, Mr. Forester,” Matty piped up before the potential nastiness of the situation could fully sink in. “I’m not here to cause you trouble.”

“Then what are you here for?” Forester asked, running a troubled hand down his own face. “It’s not to warn us of anything, is it?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“What, then?”

Matty’s gaze darted a bit, not with anything dodgy, but with what might have been embarrassment.

“Why does any fellow come into your club, Mr. Forester?” he said.

“I was alone, and didn’t want to be. So I came to the only place in the city where I might encounter a friendly face, a pretty bartender, and one discreet drink before I went back to spending my every waking hour trying to pretend worse than ever that I’m something I’m not. ”

Forester caught Warren’s eye. Understanding passed between them. The reason sounded good, but how could they trust someone who lied for a living?

And yet how could they suspect someone who’d gone so far out of his way to save their arses?

“You’re really just here for a drink?” Forester said carefully.

“I figured you owed me one.” Matty lifted his glass, the whole thing so dry it was hard to tell if it was supposed to be a joke.

“However, I understand that this is very awkward. That perhaps…” He faltered.

“Perhaps the fond feelings I still hold for my time in your employment are not reciprocated. Given that I was being false at the time and you were not, I suppose that’s more than reasonable.

I shouldn’t have come here tonight. I apologize; it’s been a very trying week. Say the word, and I’m gone.”

After a pause, he started to get up. Forester put his hand out.

“Just give us a minute, will you?”

Forester nodded toward the open door to the kitchen. War ren followed him, the two of them standing tilted like stage actors so they could talk to each other while still peeking out the doorway at Matty, now alone at the bar.

“Bang-up job keeping the cops out, Warren.”

“Oh, piss off.” He watched Matty drink his ale. If he avoided Forester’s eyes, perhaps his sheepishness would be missed. “Do you believe him?”

“That depends. How’s he been since he came in? Anything suspicious?”

“Not really. He’s an odd bloke for sure, but hasn’t caused any trouble.”

“Tried to lure you into anything you shouldn’t do with a detective?”

“No.” Warren gave Matty another lingering once-over. He managed to look an absolute treat even slouched at a bar in a patched jacket. “Unfortunately.”

Forester watched the fellow with something between guilt and admiration.

“It’s very likely I owe that man my life,” he said.

“We both owe him our freedom. And the rest of the patrons owe him their peace—he had the club ledger in his possession, at the end. He burned it when he could have used it to justify mass arrests. If he wanted to hurt us, he’s had much better opportunities than this. ”

Warren smirked. “He can have his drink, then? No harm in it?”

Forester tensed, catching the undercurrent, the exchange of energies he’d interrupted with his untimely arrival downstairs. He turned from the doorway, an actor no more, to look Warren square in the eye.

“He is a detective, Warren,” he said seriously. “He may be other things as well, but he’s too close to the mechanism of our potential ruin to take risks. Even if he’s not planning to cause trouble, he’s in league with the troublemakers in a very dangerous way.”

“Meaning…?

“Give the poor bloke his pint, Warren,” Forester went on. “But keep the drink to yourself, for once.”

Warren envied Matty his blank face as he felt his own go obviously sulky.

“I mean it,” Forester reiterated. “You’ve had your pick in this place since you got here, even when you’re supposed to be working.

All good fun. But there is a line here that you cannot cross.

No back room. No upstairs. I can take enough pity on him to give one night at the bar—I do owe him that much—but he needs to find somewhere else to hang his hat next time.

I hate to be like this, but I don’t see another option. ”

He fell silent at last. Sounds from the party Warren had been banished from creaked and cackled above their heads.

“You’re no fun anymore, you know,” Warren snapped.

Forester smiled, then clapped Warren on the shoulder. “That’s the ticket, mate. Thank you.”

The words were as friendly, casual, and equal as ever they were with Forester, but as he went back upstairs and Warren returned to the bar, the truth of it sat heavy—he was playing the boss card, and while Warren could technically appreciate why, it still rankled.

His resentment at having been left out of the party festered in the heat of being told what to do yet again.

At least with the party, he reluctantly agreed with the necessity; in this, though, Forester was being cold toward someone who was clearly having a hard time of it.

Such stringent rules didn’t seem necessary.

This club wouldn’t even exist without Matty’s involvement.

Not to mention, it wasn’t every day someone complimented Warren’s sketches. It made Matty…of unique interest.

Not that it mattered, because when he got back to the bar, the pint was abandoned, two tuppence gleamed, and Matty Shaw was gone.

“Figures, anyway,” Warren muttered to the satyr that Matty had shown a liking for.

He took up Matty’s empty glass, looking at the spot where his lips had touched it.

With an angry thrill, Warren took a sip, the vague perversity the best fuck-you to Forester as he could manage.

See? You think you can keep me from tasting him tonight, but you can’t. Not really.

But as he pulled the glass from his lips and was about to go clean it, he spotted a shadow trailing from the bar stool toward the door. Matty had left his bedraggled scarf. Left it rolled out like a carpet to lead Warren to the door, to the alley, back to him.

The idea that he might have done it on purpose had Warren’s baser instincts waking back up. But to follow him…now that would be a lot of rules smashed at once. Too many, maybe.

He might not have done it if Miles Montague had not chosen that moment to retreat back to the quiet safety of the downstairs parlor. Before he even made it to the bar, Warren took up the scarf and grabbed him by the arm.

“Watch the bar for me, yeah?” he said. “I’ve got to return this.”

Miles, who only begrudgingly spoke to strangers and eyed anything but snooty wine with disdain, blinked wildly. “What?”

“The bar. I bequeath it to you.” He couldn’t help the grin that spread over his face as responsibility and rules fell away and something more fun took its place. “Our safety, freedom, and drunkenness are in your hands till I get back.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Warren pecked him on the cheek to soften the blow before he went for the door. “Have I ever told you you’re my favorite?”