Page 11 of To Sketch a Scandal (Lucky Lovers of London #4)

Nearly paralyzed with embarrassment, Matty leaned against the alley wall once he’d escaped the place. How could he have been so foolish? What did he think would happen?

He’d gone into Mr. Forester’s home last year, posing as a valet with instructions to tolerate anything nonfatal that might come his way.

Due to the nature of the kingpin Mr. Forester had been working under, a nasty trafficker and manipulative letch with hired killers in his pocket, Matty had essentially agreed to be harassed and abused for months until he and Barrows could scrape together enough evidence to crack the case at last.

But he’d not had to tolerate anything of the sort at Mr. Forester’s hand.

In fact, some days had been so pleasant compared with the desperate scrambling that comprised the actual detective work that Matty had taken to dreaming he could forget the case and just become a pretty, mediocre valet for real.

While Mr. Forester had an obvious weak spot when it came to weighing the worth of a valet’s skills versus that of his countenance, the fellow hadn’t subjected him to anything worse than small talk, friendly compliments, and, most novel of all, a whole slew of barely-coded “club gossip.” The bloke was almost delusionally devoted to The Curious Fox, this little club that, though technically illegal, had proved to be the very least of Lord Belleville’s crimes by such a wide margin that Matty had gotten away with sparing the place.

It would be impossible to hear Mr. Forester chatter on about the intricacies of his club without becoming curious indeed.

Sentimental too, what with the way he described his care of friends and enablement of lovers that he so charmingly called “matchmaking” when the rest of the world would call it something very different indeed.

He spoke of safety. Community. Scandal too, of course; scenes and spats.

If there was anything Matty took away from those mostly one-sided conversations, it was that Forester did not necessarily like everyone who came through his doors, but he took interest in and shielded them all the same.

Somewhere along the line, Matty must have gotten the mistaken impression that there might be a place for him there too.

But no. He was a misfit among misfits.

He ought to have known better. Just because he had a fuzzy feeling about a place or a person didn’t mean it was reciprocated. In fact, it almost never was. Hard to believe he’d fooled himself into thinking otherwise. Must be the exhaustion and stress, making him forget how the world really worked.

At last he gathered up enough stability to walk on.

This ousting, in retrospect, was inevitable, but he couldn’t help being disappointed that it had happened so early in the evening.

He’d heard plenty of stories about the handsome, naughty “Warren the barkeep” and his exploits.

Mr. Forester hadn’t explained them explicitly to his valet, but Matty’d been able to catch the gist. Though he’d not gone in tonight certain that exploits were on the table, he’d been enjoying the one that was just being made of him when Mr. Forester found him.

It was hard to keep Warren out of his mind as he went back along the increasingly misty alley toward Soho Square.

He was different than Matty had expected from the stories.

Handsomer, even, than described, hair glossy black and impolitely long in the front, a well-shaped chin, and big dark eyes with long lashes that he knew how to use, clearly communicating he was up to no good without a single incriminating word or gesture.

But he’d also been kind, hospitable, funny, and his sketch of the satyr really had been lovely.

Mr. Forester had never mentioned Warren’s artistic abilities, nor, in fact, any of the gorgeous paintings he’d hung on the walls.

Matty had a sense, though, that if he were actually the aspiring artist he needed to be, he could have enjoyed the place as a gallery, devoid of all company…

except, perhaps, for a handsome guide who didn’t even realize he was one of the most interesting artists featured in the place.

One who might show him the special collection behind closed doors…

“Mr. Shaw!”

The Curious Fox was tucked back in a dirty Soho alleyway.

It was deserted at this time of night, though Matty knew there were more eyes on the place than its shadow-denizens realized until it was too late.

Still, it was dark and the fog had come thick tonight, so when he turned, he didn’t see anyone right away.

It made him nervous. He hated the thought that some of those quiet eyes—ones that could potentially recognize him—might find him here alone.

He’d been spotted at the coffeehouse. He knew the Fox was not under suspicion, but that was only on his and Barrows’s decreasingly respected word.

It was not a coworker who finally emerged from the mist, however.

It was Warren Bakshi.

Matty was nearly knocked sideways by the deep hunger that rolled through him at the man’s approach.

It was different from the attraction in the bar, which had been slower and softer.

This feeling was the automatic, opportunistic arousal of a man who had to make the most of sparse, speedy encounters.

It was a feeling he knew well; Warren probably did too.

It was a shame, considering the more lingering, maybe even more personal moment they might have shared back at the bar.

Those moments were rarer. More precious.

But this, he supposed, would be better than nothing.

As Warren closed the distance between them, the chorus of sounds—voices and hooves and the occasional clatter—from the more populous streets beyond their dark little alley seemed to fade to nothing.

“You forgot something.” Warren sent something soft and scratchy over Matty’s head, where it landed against the back of his neck. That lumpy scarf, the ugly fruit of his first forays into artistic passion. What had felt like a dreadful waste of time suddenly seemed like hours well spent indeed.

“Thank you,” Matty said. “Don’t know how I could have lived without seeing it again.”

Warren tugged on the scarf, drawing him closer.

The flirtation between them at the bar was clearly not forgotten; in fact, it seemed it was the fellow’s primary purpose.

Matty positively burned at the deft, brazen movement—as an expert in the calculus of seduction, he could appreciate skill when he saw it.

Seductive and gorgeous and kind and funny…

And completely off-limits, of course, no matter how badly he wanted to ignore that fact.

“You should go back,” Matty whispered even as they were stepping in like the toes of their shoes contained magnets. “You’ll get in trouble.”

Warren shrugged like he enjoyed trouble well enough, his handsome smirk just visible in what little moon and thoroughfare lamplight had strayed down this alley along with the fog.

The air was damp, cold, and stinking, but Warren was warm as he pressed Matty against the wall, smelling of the smoke and incense of his club.

The look in his eyes was absolutely unmistakable.

There wasn’t much time in places like this, and Warren clearly knew better than to waste what they had.

Their purpose, at this point, was straightforward.

Moving the ends of the scarf to one hand like they were reins, he used his other to cup Matty’s face.

For a breathtaking second, he thought Warren would kiss him right on the mouth—he was staring at Matty’s lips, his own parted.

But of course he didn’t, it’s not what one did out here on the street.

At the last second, he tipped Matty’s head back against the brick to take advantage of his bared throat, kissing and nipping there instead, all that stupid-looking stubble Matty had grown making it a more sensitive enterprise than the last time he’d taken company, and he clenched his teeth and dug in his heels to keep from making a fuss that might see them found out.

Warren’s kisses trailed up to his ear, filling Matty’s awareness with hot breath and naughty teeth.

“Tell me the truth before I take this further, Detective,” he whispered, flicking his tongue so Matty gasped. “Did you really come to the club for a drink? Or have I made a dreadful mistake coming after you?”

“No mistake.” Matty’s eyes dropped closed.

Warren was still doing something to his ear that would be hard to explain, something soft and welcoming, interspersed with bursts of perfect, nippy pain.

He struggled to speak, but knew if he didn’t, the touch would stop and he would perish with wanting right here in the alley.

“I promise you, the idiocy I displayed in coming here tonight was one-hundred-percent genuine. Though I confess…” He noticed he was holding Warren by the hips already, and dragged him deliciously closer, pulsing his palms in the rhythm he wanted more than anything.

“I was hoping for, perhaps, a bit more than a drink if I could find it.”

“You’re a real devil, then, aren’t you?” Warren whispered. “You like that? Everyone out there thinking you’re a respectable lawman, only to come back here and just fucking melt when some bloke does this to you?”

All the heavy fears that had dogged Matty for weeks finally receded as Warren dragged a practiced hand down Matty’s neck, his chest, his belly… .

“God, yes.” Matty caught himself halfway through, changing from groan to hiss as quickly as he could manage. “I mean…not yes. I don’t… What I mean is…”

“What are you saying, Matty?” Warren asked, his lips shaped in near-laughter against Matty’s neck as his hand explored the contours of Matty’s excitement. “I’m afraid you’re not being entirely clear for some reason.”

Matty squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m saying I’m not sure anyone’s convinced I’m respectable, actually.”