Page 22 of To Sketch a Scandal (Lucky Lovers of London #4)

Warren was unclear whether Matty’s invitation was truly innocent, or if it was some kind of insinuation. The fellow was damned hard to read. But those bloody dimples simply could not be argued with; Warren was in it for a pint, like it or not.

And he found that he very much liked it.

“To the nearest pub, then?” Warren asked as he did up his coat and Matty wound his scarf about his own neck. “I passed one on my way here.”

“I think I know the one you’re talking about,” said Matty, the ghosts of his dimples still playing upon his cheeks. “Wainwright and…something. Let’s—”

“I hear you’re continuing the class this afternoon,” came a voice from behind Warren. He turned to find the rectangular bloke standing at his shoulder. The chap hadn’t closed his sketchbook yet, and held it on his hip like a baby, so no one could miss the sketches he’d done. “At the pub?”

Warren wasn’t pleased to be interrupted.

Really, was his every interaction with poor Matty doomed to be barged in on by someone or other?

But, seeing as they were all stuck to gether in this heady room for eight more weeks—more if they were chosen to progress to the next level—he decided to remain civil.

“I’m just going to share a few tips with Mr. Shaw, here. Nothing formal.”

Interest lit up the bloke’s face.

Fuckin’ hell.

“My name is Sandford Binks,” he said, clutching his sketchbook and rather tellingly not offering a hand along with his introduction. If he were only speaking to Matty, Warren thought he might have handled that differently. “Might I tag along with you?”

It was astounding how much Warren and Matty could communicate in a silent second of eye contact already. Matty was clearly no more interested in a third wheel than Warren was.

“Mr. Bakshi was my partner in today’s lesson,” Matty said, polite with just the barest hint of morning frost. “I’m afraid the tips he has to offer are specific to my own artistic deficiencies, and will be of no use to one of your skill—”

“Oh, I don’t need any outside help from him.

” Sandford Binks dismissively waved the free hand not busy bouncing and coddling the dear little one on his hip.

“I just thought I could give a few tips of my own. This isn’t my first drawing class, after all.

” His voice pitched up as he turned the face of his sketchbook toward them.

Isn’t she adorable? Just like her papa. “It’s good to get a lot of different perspectives on these things, don’t you think?

Rather than limiting yourself to the first one that comes along? ”

Warren’s temper flared at the veiled insult, but while he was flaring, Matty was frosting right over. His shoulders looked fit to shatter. When he spoke, his voice was a perfect match for his eyes.

“Mr. Bakshi’s perspective is quite good enough for me,” he said. “Good afternoon, Mr. Binks.”

He turned sharply and started toward the door. Warren shrugged his non-apology to the fuming chap and followed.

“Why, Matty,” he said as they took the stairs. “I’m shocked you so rudely rejected private instruction from someone who’s taken at least one other drawing class. What a wasted opportunity.”

“Arsehole didn’t want to teach me anything,” Matty muttered.

He looked ill-tempered as he pulled the front door open.

“Didn’t you notice how he kept glancing at your work all through class?

He’s jealous of you. Wanted to learn from you himself, I think, but was embarrassed to admit it.

He’s a coward. At best. Trust me, I’ve seen his sort a thousand times; let us be grateful we’re dealing in matters of shabby portraiture, and not some more lucrative enterprise.

” He glanced darkly over his shoulder. “That type can get ugly.”

They went out onto the street, in the direction of that pub they’d both passed on their way.

Though the street was filled with foot traffic, roaming sellers with their baskets, and the occasional clopping coach, Warren hardly noticed any of it as he suddenly saw what had been mostly hidden in Matty up till now—a real detective’s eye for detail.

He was even walking different, more clipped and efficient.

It wasn’t as fascinating as his smile, but it came close.

“Wants to learn from me, you think?” Warren asked as they dodged a cab.

He narrowly missed getting his shoes soaked by the puddle on the other side of it in his distraction.

“Awfully silly. I have no idea what I’m doing.

My father never taught me shapes or shading. We just drew things. Very unofficial.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re still better than him,” Matty said simply. “I’m probably not the only one who’s noticed. I’m just the only one you’ve said yes to having a pint with.”

“But he’s taken at least one other drawing class,” Warren joked, diffusing the compliment. It made him oddly uncomfortable.

“Well, he’s going to have to take a few more.”

“Not with me,” Warren said. “Bloke wants an art lesson, he’d best be willing to shake my hand and ask straight up.”

“You know, now that I think about it, I don’t think I ever did shake your hand.”

“Maybe not, though to be fair, I think our earliest meetings were suitably intimate as it was.”

Matty glanced sideways, enticingly scolding.

Weeks later under the sunlit afternoon sky, it was hard to believe he’d been about thirty seconds from rutting this exact same Matthew Shaw in an alley.

He’d been nice enough to look at that first night, but was so incredibly handsome right now that Warren almost felt jealous of his past self for getting so far with such a pretty catch.

Though, as they went into the pub together, settling in at a warm table by the well-tended fire, he felt his present self wasn’t doing so badly, either.

When was the last time he’d shared a moment like this with someone new and intriguing?

Anyone who fit that description was usually enjoyed briefly in a back room with little conversation.

Half the time they left for a fresh drink when they were done, assuming Warren was perfectly happy putting the room back together by himself.

Pubs and pints and being treated fully human were the domain of his well-established chums.

“This is a nice place,” Matty said. His voice was mild, but Warren was starting to catch on that the calmer and more unflinching the fellow sounded, the more nervous he was in actuality. “If the ale’s good, I could see myself returning.”

There was something under what he was saying. Something pleasant and hopeful that warmed Warren’s cheeks.

“Well, let’s find out, then.” Warren raised a hand to catch the attention of a serving woman. They got beer and bread, stuffed olives, and fried oysters. Once she was on her way, Warren admitted he was always starving after these classes.

“Same,” said Matty. “I think it’s the turpentine that does it.”

Warren leaned in over the table, realizing when he got there that he’d automatically slipped into flirtation even though that was decidedly not why he was there. Matty didn’t fluster, though his eyes did light up. Warren opted not to correct his mistake.

“So, how’s the class going for you?” Warren asked. “Do you think you’ll learn what you need to learn in time?”

“Honestly?” Matty sighed, fiddling with the gold-and-black ring he kept around his neck.

“No. I don’t think I will. And that, um.

That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about.

I wasn’t… I regret very much that I have to say this, Warren, but I lied when I said I wasn’t investigating the school.

I am. For potential fraud. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you before, but you have to understand, I need to be very careful about things like this. ”

The back of Warren’s neck prickled. That was, more or less, why Forester didn’t want him involved with a detective, even one with good intentions.

They were liars by nature. By necessity.

Like Warren was, though on the opposite side of things.

You never really knew what you were going to get with someone who could not speak plainly about his life.

To have it confirmed by Matty himself lent a bit of legitimacy to that idea that they probably shouldn’t be here together.

“I understand,” Warren said, and he found he meant it in spite of his misgivings.

He certainly did not give the details of his job to blokes he hardly knew.

While that first part of him felt this conversation was proof that he should leave, another part started to feel very flattered that Matty was taking a risk with him like this.

Another risk. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I need help, and I don’t have anyone else to ask.”

Warren was shocked silent, wariness and interest at war within him.

His first instinct was to say fuck no and walk out.

Warren lived half his life very much on the wrong side of the law.

He did not “help” people with the power to lock up him and all his friends with a snap of their fingers.

Never mind that Matty had proved that he meant no harm to Warren’s precious little pocket of criminals; the idea of it still sat wrong.

But there was that interest as well. Matty was investigating the art school for fraud, nothing dangerous to Warren personally or unsettlingly hypocritical on Matty’s part. That made it more palatable, but also more confusing: What sort of help could Warren be, in a fraud case?

Their beers arrived, the distraction giving Warren a moment to work through his curiosities and misgivings.

“I shouldn’t,” he admitted, once the server was gone.

“Shouldn’t help me?”

“That’s right.”

Matty sighed and sipped his beer. Based on his face, it must have proved pretty bitter. “I understand—”

“Though,” Warren interrupted, leaning in closer, own glass in hand. “If I did, hypothetically, what would I be doing?”