Page 3 of To Sketch a Scandal (Lucky Lovers of London #4)

She clucked her tongue, but he’d won this small victory. She picked her thread back up.

“No extra shifts, then,” she said. “I won’t rearrange furniture, but only if you don’t work extra. I want you back Monday night to help me figure out the sleeping arrangements. You won’t be needing the money anyway, will you?”

The notion that he would not need his position at the club anymore was briefly chilling, until he remembered it was Harry they were talking about here.

He’d believe in this so-called fortune when he saw it.

Until then?

Bawdy business as usual.

* * *

The Curious Fox was much like Warren, in that it had two distinct modes.

At night, the crystal chandelier was lit up like stars against a fabric-draped ceiling; the lamps were shaded in devilish pinks and reds; the tables were filled with friends in all manner of unseemly dress, gambling and drinking; while the curtained alcoves were occupied by illicit lovers awaiting their turn in one of the four back rooms. There were paintings on the walls that might each be passable as a one-off, but that gave a distinct impression of a Greek way of thinking when taken as a collection.

It was not technically a brothel as there was no staff of that sort, but that nuance might be lost on an outsider if they saw the place dressed in its nighttime best.

Now, though, as Warren hung up his coat and hat and approached the bar, the Fox was in its other state.

Its respectable daytime state. Lit with glowy gas lamps and cautiously cracked curtains, it was all much as a theater set might seem to those preparing the evening’s show.

The chaises and rugs were a little worn; the artwork was not comprised of pricy originals—the sketch of a satyr above the keg being no more than a doodle Warren had done and tacked up as an in-joke with Forester.

While the wide variety of liquor bottles gleamed by night, by day you’d see that a few of them were nearly empty and likely to stay that way—since practically everyone drank the same two gins or whiskeys, there was no point paying to keep up with the level of variety they projected.

While Warren would tend the bar later, first it was his job to transition the place from one mode to the next.

After the events of the afternoon, he was half-starved.

Fortu nately, the manager—no, owner, he was the owner now, thanks to a little leeway from some renegade copper last year—was the sort to have thought of that.

Warren let himself into the quiet club to find that David Forester had procured a nice little tea for them and spread it out on the bar, spinach pies and lemony bean salads, the signature fare of a club member who gave fellow Foxes a discount at his Berwick Street food cart.

Warren looked over the food that had been laid out so nicely on the bar. It wasn’t the first time he’d come in to a spread like this, but he couldn’t say it was an everyday occurrence, either. He eyed it hopefully but a little suspiciously.

“You’re here already. Brilliant.” David Forester came out of the kitchen carrying a pot of tea. “And may I say, you are looking especially sharp. That waistcoat is divine on you.”

Forester was a tall bloke with a tidy beard and fine watch chain he’d hung on to from the better life he’d led before Warren knew him.

He was protective and kindhearted, but inclined to flattery when he needed something.

A meal was one thing, but a perfectly timed pot of tea and a compliment on a waistcoat he’d worn as recently as last week?

Warren eyed his friendly smile sideways.

“What’s all this?” he asked.

Forester put the teapot down and sat on one of the stools.

“A little sustenance for the party-planning party, of course.” He filled two mugs and patted the stool beside him.

Warren reluctantly obliged. Forester seemed to sense Warren’s suspicion, and added, “We’re planning the drag ball today, aren’t we? ”

“Yes,” said Warren slowly.

“Well, the party planners rarely get to enjoy the festivities as much as the partygoers,” he said, full of false pep. “I wanted to make this part of the process a little extra enjoyable for us, while we put something together for the others. I got your favorites.”

He pointed them out, gently nudging one of the teacups toward Warren.

Warren was too peckish to argue with food put out in front of him, but he clocked the martyr talk nonetheless.

That sort of thing was Forester all over—to be fair, a taste for self-sacrifice was good for the owner of a place like this—but it was less appealing to Warren.

Particularly when the subject at hand was a drag ball that Warren himself had suggested and already half-bought an outfit for.

“Are we still having the party, then?” Warren asked.

“Certainly, yes,” Forester said adamantly.

“Noah’s got his dress nearly done. Not to mention the wedding we’ve got planned—the pair is pretending to be reluctant about it, but you can tell they’re nearly as excited as…

well, as I am.” Forester chuckled. He was an incorrigible matchmaker, and got a real kick out of enabling—or, occasionally, half-forcing—rowdy little “molly house weddings” on matches that had gone particularly well.

Part genuine celebration, part bawdy hazing ritual, it was certainly good fun so long as one was on the right side of the makeshift altar.

“So what’s with the party planners not having any fun, then?” said Warren. “Enough with the buttering up. What’s the bad news?”

Forester sighed, running a hand down his face.

“It’s the security plan, mate,” he said with a little thread of defeat in his voice, not unlike the streaks of gray that had cropped up in his beard after a year dealing with new laws that substantially increased the risk of their work.

“We can’t just have a party without considering that anymore, you know that.

Things that were nothing or a slap on the wrist last year are good for two years’ hard labor now, hardly any evidence needed to prove it, and it’s twice as easy to justify a raid in the meantime.

If we want to have a good time of it, we’re going to have to take it to the back rooms and the upstairs parlor, get some layers between the gowns and the doors. ”

“Gowns, I think, are still a slap on the wrist.”

“In and of themselves, yes. But they’ll count as evidence for the rest, I’m sure. And anyway, how many blokes do you know who are on their best behavior once the petticoats go on?”

There was no arguing with that. Forester’s own lover, Noah Clarke, became a menace in his drags, which was probably the impetus for Forester’s nerves in the first place.

“Fair enough,” Warren said. “Bit snugger than if we did it out here, but I doubt snugness is going to be high on anyone’s list of complaints. What’s the real bad news?”

“Well,” Forester began carefully. “If the party is back there.” He pointed to the door to the hall and staircase in question.

“And the front door is out here.” He gestured again, to the front entrance this time, like he hoped these unneeded movements would buy him time.

“Then the best way to deter nosy eyes from seeing what’s happening back there is to make sure the space out here looks like a perfectly normal night at a perfectly normal club.

Meaning we stay open to patrons who aren’t interested in the party.

Which would entail…well…” He winced. “Having my very best, most capable, most loyal employee behind the bar.”

“That so?” Warren asked slowly. “And who, may I ask, might that be?”

“It would be…you.” He lifted the pot with a forced smile. “More tea?”

Warren slapped a hand down so hard the cups rattled. “Forester!”

“Look—”

“This whole thing was my idea!”

“I know.” Forester topped off Warren’s cup like that could fix everything, throwing a little extra sugar in there while he was at it.

“A brilliant idea. And because you are the brilliant soul behind the brilliant idea, I know you want to see it done right, even if it means taking a different role than you’d have preferred. ”

He pushed the cup a little closer to Warren.

Warren ignored it. “So, I’ll just be down here with the sad saps who’d rather mope around with some gin than have an actual good time?”

“Miles Montague will keep you company,” Forester said with as much brightness as he could muster.

“He’s not a sad sap, eh? And you get on well with him.

” When that didn’t help, he said, “Look. You can pop up now and again. I’ll cover for you when I can.

But I need someone I can trust to look out for signs of trouble down here, so you can warn everyone early if we need to cut it short. ”

“Then why pick me?” Warren snapped. “You know I ain’t trustworthy.”

“You may have fooled some of the patrons into thinking that, Warren, with the way you sneak off to the back rooms with them halfway through the night. But I know better. You’re my right-hand man in this place. If we want this to work, I need your help. Please?”

“Oh, bugger off,” Warren muttered, finally picking up the tea. He shot it back, wishing it was something else entirely.

“So you’ll do it?”

“Fine. I’ll do it. But I won’t like it.” He took up the last of the little triangular pies and pointed one of its sharp ends at Forester. “And you owe me the cost of the sari I already bought.”

He hadn’t bought it yet, strictly. But he wasn’t about to promise money to a neighbor and never come back with it. He had a reputation at the markets. It was different than the one he cultivated here, but until such time as his brother’s “fortune” was proven, it mattered just as much.

Forester sighed. “Of course. How much?”

Angry as he was, Warren opted to report the price charged to the socialites so he could pocket the difference.