Page 28 of To Sketch a Scandal (Lucky Lovers of London #4)

Matty didn’t do as well as he might have hoped in the wake of Warren’s departure, which felt odd, because they lingered far longer than Matty would have ever expected.

But something about Warren’s presence and then absence from his home made the room feel very empty, the week ahead of him even more so.

He missed Warren immediately, a missing that spread out from his center and began to gather up other missings.

He missed the days when it was just him and Barrows doing as they pleased, and preemptively missed the old man himself, who’d be gone very soon.

Worse even than that, a stray thought of his mother, whom he’d not seen in years, made him wary that he might start missing her too, if he wasn’t careful.

And that wouldn’t do at all. Unlike Warren or Barrows, she did not deserve to be missed.

He distracted himself with another gallery visit and an irresponsibly expensive supper.

When he got home, he decided it was a good time to try that absinthe again, now that he had something he wanted to numb up properly.

Sadly, it still proved so disgusting that he could not achieve any interesting state with it before he gave up on everything and went to sleep.

The ghosts of bad decisions often followed Matty around in the wake of them, but the memory of the encounter with Warren proved far more pleasant company than most of his mistakes did.

Its only ill aspect was that it could not be repeated.

Warren had seemed very set on that, and Matty didn’t blame him.

Someone at Scotland Yard had seen him at his old haunt, after all.

There was no guarantee something like that wouldn’t happen again.

Warren didn’t know quite how close Matty was flirting with the edge of disaster right now, but it probably didn’t take a genius to know that a detective with a secret was a ticking time bomb.

He would do well to forget about all of it, but he was decidedly attached to his infatuation. He justified coddling it again by calling it an artist’s doomed obsession. It made for a painfully enjoyable way to pass quiet moments at home or awkward moments at the Met.

However, it also meant that when the day of the next class arrived and he found himself a few torturous feet away from the object of his new obsession, he was lost to rationality completely.

The improvement in the Bakshi family status was starting to show by this point, and he found Warren dressed in a finer jacket than he had been in before: a simple, dark velvet, nothing ostentatious, but well-fitted about the shoulders and worn with a soft, burnt-orange waistcoat that made his black hair and glittering topaz earring gleam as he set up his station like nothing had happened between the two of them at all.

“Good morning, Mr. Shaw,” he said, all casual friendliness as he flipped to a fresh page in his sketchbook. “How have you been?”

It took Matty a moment to find even the simplest greeting in return.

He hadn’t prepared himself for such a casual exchange.

He had expected to be ignored, maybe even for Warren to have found another spot across the room from him.

He’d sounded so serious about keeping to one encounter that it’d seemed likely he’d want to keep his distance from any temptation.

Though, perhaps Warren was not tempted. Maybe he really had been sated by the one-and-done.

Far from getting anything out of his own system, however, Matty felt more pull and heat in the space between them than ever before as Warren went on joking, settling into class like he always did, seeming unchanged aside from looking even more like some dream Matty’d pulled out of a confiscated opium pipe.

Never in his life had he tasted a man’s seed and then faced him in polite company.

Not once. The contrasting innocence of now and the raw pleasure of then had him flustered and heated and looking about for an empty seat he could move to, to save himself the torment of sitting here all afternoon.

He had to assume that Warren—who was telling a story of his sister-in-law’s unpleasantly doughy dinner rolls like it was the most interesting thing to happen all week—was doing better with the idea of simple friendship than Matty was in the wake of their tryst. And why shouldn’t he be?

The chap had more potential lovers than he knew what to do with.

Scratching that singular itch must have worked for him, and now he was ready to do just what he’d said: keep it strictly art between the two of them from here on out.

Mrs. Buttersnipe finally saved him from further small talk, the familiar clap of her hands signaling the start of class.

Matty fumbled with his sketchbook so badly he nearly dropped it in his haste to open to the better drawings he’d done this week.

That was the real reason for these mad little lessons, after all.

Not pleasures. Not friendship. Simply to drum up something he could show the Buttersnipes that might get him even a few moments alone with them.

He was increasingly convinced that his intuition was correct, and that whatever crimes they were committing—if any—were well beneath the notice of his unit.

One conversation. He was certain if he could just…

Another round of clapping drew his nose out of his pages.

“If I could have everyone’s full attention, please! We have a guest with us today, one who warrants the setting aside of all distractions.”

Matty realized he hadn’t even looked at the front of the room yet, too busy flipping through his sketchbook, fidgeting with the ring round his neck, and sneaking glances at the station beside him.

He finally took a more reasonable assessment of his surroundings.

When he did, he found Mrs. Buttersnipe’s annoyance had been for him alone.

He was the only one distracted—every other face was turned in rapt attention to the instructors, who had been joined by someone new.

As Matty finally took in the sight of the newcomer, every drop of blood seemed to drain from his face, leaving it cold and tingling.

A slim, heavily-mustached bloke in a frilly coat peered around the room with a sharp, monocled eye. He’d styled his hair different and trimmed his mustache to something decidedly stylish, but Matty knew him instantly.

Detective Ashton.

Ashton, as promised, had come on to the case part-time to keep an eye on Matty and Barrows’s handling of it. And while Matty had resented his intrusion from the start, he’d been generally harmless, if a bit smirky and opinionated.

Or so Matty thought, before Ashton, apparently, invited himself into the plainclothes aspect of the case without so much as mentioning it to Matty until this very moment.

“I am so pleased to introduce Mr. Rex Harris,” Mrs. Buttersnipe announced, clearly unaware of whom she was truly standing beside.

“While obviously our higher-level instruction is renowned, it’s not every day that such a well-respected member of the Portraitists Guild takes an interest in the goings-on of our beginner’s class.

He got in touch to let us know he plans to attend our end-of-session gallery night, but found himself with a free day to come preview the work our students are doing.

He’s going to provide some advice for those who really want to shine and find further instruction or even work through that showcase. ”

Matty could have kicked himself. Why the devil didn’t he think of that angle sooner? Or why hadn’t Ashton mentioned it before Matty came in as a dreadful aspiring artist on day one? Rustling up some phony credentials would have been a good deal simpler than trying to display any skill…

But the notion fizzled as Matty thought it through.

How could he manage it himself? Renown in a man his age couldn’t be drummed up out of nowhere as simply as it could for an older fellow like Ashton—Matty would have been heard of around the art scene well before he could drop his name to sit in on a class. It wouldn’t have worked.

The truth of that, however, did not keep Matty from seething as he stared up at the front of the room.

Through the whispers, Detective Ashton—or, rather, Mr. Harris to the others—waved a hand that quickly brought everyone back to earth. His eyes did not fall upon Matty even once.

“I would ask you to simply carry on with your class as if I am not here,” he said in a casual but somewhat grim tone. “I shall be around in due time.”

His presence, however, seemed nearly as big a disturbance to most of the class as it was to Matty.

They all sat straighter, stayed quieter, and marked up their papers more decisively as the instruction began—shading today, now that they’d all ostensibly mastered pure shape.

They did not know that impressing this man was useless.

That he knew less than the worst student in this class.

Less than Matty, who had finally, with Warren’s help, improved himself to the level he needed for the next step in assessing the Buttersnipes on his own.

Today. He’d have done it today, the better drawings his excuse, his way in, the salvation of his career…

That fucker .

“You alright, mate?”

Matty looked to his right, to where he’d grown so accustomed to the shape of Warren—not bloody circles and squares but something unique and astounding—that the sight of him proved a dangerous comfort.

Matty had no right to have anything of comfort just now.

The fact that Ashton was here without telling him meant he was clearly in trouble, deep over his head, and it was all of his own making.

But against all odds, he had a friend. For the moment, at least. And under the circumstances, he couldn’t resist acting like it.

“He’s no artist,” Matty whispered, barely moving his lips. “Don’t react.”