Page 2 of To Sketch a Scandal (Lucky Lovers of London #4)

Warren grimaced when she passed it to him. Not again…

Buttersnipe’s School for Artistic Enrichment.

Pursue your passion and be part of the aesthetic revolution.

The advertisement made its claims in swirling letters, complete with an overwrought sketch of a man standing at an easel and a new-and-reduced price for a season’s worth of “premier instruction.”

“You know he’s such a good artist,” she said wistfully to Mrs. Ahuja, nodding at one of the paintings that hung near the doorway, a bright and busy rendition of London Bridge done up in shades of turmeric yellow. “Like his father was.”

Warren rolled his eyes, not kidding himself for a second. While his father had indeed possessed artistic talent cut short by the practicalities of earning a living, doodles like the ones Warren made when he had nothing better to do made an artist only in the eyes of said doodler’s mother.

“It’s probably a scam anyway,” he said, not daring to disagree with her assessment of his “talent,” but not wanting to get her hopes up, either. “What proper school sends tripe like this through the mail willy-nilly?”

He tried tossing it aside with the bill, but Mother took it from him with a glare.

She got up and went to the many-drawered desk where household papers were kept.

From one of the drawers, she procured nearly half an inch of other advertisements.

“If you don’t like this one,” she said, “I’ve got plenty of others. Take your pick.”

“Mother, where are you getting all those?” he asked. She brought this subject up often, but when had she made a whole bloody collection out of it?

“Here and there,” she said mysteriously.

Very mysteriously, since she rarely left the house, and never left it alone.

He narrowed his eyes at Mrs. Ahuja. Was she bringing these things around as part of some conspiracy to see him paint-stained and married off?

She did not, suspiciously enough, meet his eyes, very busy all of a sudden finding a bead that had rolled off under the dress.

Meanwhile, Mother added the Buttersnipe’s advertisement to her stack before spreading the lot of them on top of the desk for easy perusal.

He avoided rolling his eyes through sheer force of filial will.

“One more to go.” He waved the final piece of mail. Mother took her time coming back, but something changed in her eyes when she spotted the return address, and the rest of the journey became a rush. She all but threw herself back onto the sofa beside him.

Warren peered over as she held the letter out in a state of shock, blinking at the name of the sender. Perhaps a few too many late nights at The Curious Fox had left him permanently bleary.

Hari Bakshi. New South Wales.

“It’s been months!” Mother clutched the letter to her heart before holding it back out. “I was starting to worry.”

Warren didn’t mention that he’d already passed through worry and into a solid assumption that another set of Bakshi bones was decorating the sea floor.

His brother, Harry ( Hari formally on letters and documents, but called Harry from the start to ease his London upbringing, same as Varun on birth records had become Warren in practice), did not write often enough to keep Mother happy, but this last stretch had been quite a bit longer than usual.

Warren was, of course, always pleased to know his brother wasn’t dead.

Beyond that, however, he found Harry’s letters insufferable, self-indulgent, and filled to the brim with useless promises.

“Well,” he said. “Open it. Let’s hear his excuse.”

Dearest Mother and Brother,

I know that pleasantries would be most polite here, but I find myself at present too enthusiastic about the point of this letter to do anything but get straight to it.

Warren had to roll his eyes before using them to read further.

It has been years now since I left England in hopes of bettering our family’s fortunes after Father’s misplaced dedication to a company that cared nothing for those of us left so desperate in his tragic absence.

As if Warren and Mother did not know this, needed yet another retelling of how Harry would save them all by chasing treasure halfway across the world. Warren suspected Harry added these prologues so that strangers would know of his chivalry if the letter were intercepted.

While the temptation of despair and defeat has been ever with me on this journey, my sense of duty to the two of you has spurred me on—

God, what a prick.

—to success at last. I am thrilled to—

Mother, perhaps slowed less by rolled eyes, must have read faster. Before he could see what Harry was thrilled by, she pulled the letter to her heart again, eyes very wide.

“Mother?”

“Married?” she whispered to the floor, eyes shining with tears.

Not happy ones. “My son is married ?” She sprang up to show her friend, nimbler than ever, suddenly vibrating with so much nervous energy that Warren’s whole body tensed, preparing to catch her if she suddenly went the other direction just as dramatically.

Somewhere under his fear that heartbreak might send Mother into a nasty spell, an ungenerous thrill ran through Warren at the news.

Harry had gotten married? Abroad? Without any input from Mother on the match or involvement in the wedding, telling her through a letter ?

Harry had done a lot of dodgy things—he’d been dodgy to the core from day one, so far as Warren could tell—but this ?

This was bloody scandalous. Finally, Warren’s “generous” brother, who had so “generously” abandoned them, was about to be seen for what he really was at last—someone who spoke a lot about how he cared for his family, but was really only devoted to himself.

“Married,” Mother said again. Her voice was shaking.

She clearly wasn’t happy, but seemed to be trussing her disappointment up tight.

If Father were alive, Harry would never hear another word from the family after this, no question.

Yet his mother, on her own in a country where, legally speaking, she was at the mercy of her sons, was clearly tempering her reaction.

Tears were slipping down her cheeks, but as she met Warren’s eye across the room, she did something very unexpected. Though her lips trembled through it, she managed to smile.

“Married,” she repeated. “And rich.”

Rich?

Now Warren got up, somehow managing to get the letter out of Mother’s grip so he could catch up to what the women were suddenly gushing about beside the sewing that was apparently as forgotten as Harry’s most severe transgression.

As he so insufferably reiterated in all his letters, Harry had run off to chase treasure in New Zealand and Japan, an absurd abandonment that he justified by saying it was for the ultimate care of his family.

Complete bollocks. Harry wanted adventure and freedom that could not be had eking out a living here as the oldest son of a moderately successful sailor and part-time painter.

So he’d taken what little they had to spare and run off, claiming he’d make it back a hundred times over before he was done.

Warren had figured he’d never see his brother again.

He certainly didn’t expect to ever see a significant amount of money.

But as Warren read the rest of the letter, he found Harry claiming to have made a genuine fortune investing in various enterprises and properties across the south and east. Enough of a fortune that he was coming back to England, to settle down and enjoy the fruits of success with his beloved family.

A family that now included a rather hastily acquired new wife named Anjali.

“We must get things ready,” Mother insisted.

“You’re going to have them?” Mrs. Ahuja asked, like she wouldn’t herself but was amused by Mother’s choice.

Mother wiped her eyes and nodded. “The circumstances at sea are different,” she said, determined. “I’m sure he had his reasons, and will explain them to me when he gets here. He’s a good boy.”

If he weren’t afraid of getting caught at it, Warren would have rolled his eyes again, right into next week this time.

Harry, it seemed, really could do no wrong.

Mother started moving to make the house fit immediately, scooping up the mail and piling it with some other papers that had been left out beside the now-forgotten splay of art school advertisements.

“Mum,” Warren said, trying to be noticed above her sudden bustling.

His anxiety built with her momentum, eyes drawn to every table corner and windowsill her head could reach on the way down if she took faint.

“Mum, he’s not coming in this evening from the next town over.

He’s on a boat from New Zealand.” He checked the letter’s date.

“Can’t be here for at least two more weeks, and you know how these ships are. Could be a month. Could be two.”

Or not at all, he did not add.

“And they ain’t going to fit in the house anyway,” he added, unable to stop himself once he had her attention.

He had to take the omnibus into Soho this weekend where he’d stay through a few shifts at The Curious Fox before returning home, tension eased and pockets padded.

While the other women kept an eye on her while he was gone, he hated the thought of her bustling about rearranging furniture for a son who still had plenty of time to drown on his way here.

“Have him use his new ‘fortune’ to take a nice room. Sounds like he can afford it.”

Mother glared like he’d suggested drilling holes in the bottom of his brother’s boat.

“You’d have your own family sleep in some strange bed?”

That was something Warren did frequently, and it wasn’t so bad. But he faltered under the fire in her stare.

“Just wait till I get home to start rearranging things, yeah?” he huffed. “You shouldn’t go outside your usual routine when I’m gone.”

“I’m stronger than you think.”

“Please. For the sake of my nerves.”