Page 44 of To Sketch a Scandal (Lucky Lovers of London #4)

“Oh, come off it!” With the way he pushed the mess of pages and pen pieces and ink drops to the ground in a rage-filled sweep of his arm, one might think he had no skill at hiding his feelings at all.

But this one would not be hidden. Would not be beaten into submission by his own desperation to be wanted in this stupid place.

He wasn’t wanted here. But he was wanted elsewhere.

And that, he found, made all the difference.

“You are not my friend. You’re a power-hungry arsehole who would sell me out in a second if you had the evidence to do it.

Which you never will,” he added in a hiss.

“Never. Because you may have the smarter mouth between us, Ashton, but that’s the only thing you come out ahead on.

I am the better detective. The better man.

And certainly the better schemer between the two of us.

That promotion should have been mine, and it would have been if you weren’t all so bloody squeamish about what it takes to get justice in this stupid city. ”

From down the hall, Matty heard a door open, and some inquisitive mumbling. He’d been heard, clearly. He was too furious, just now, to care.

Not quite furious enough, though, to lose track of what this outburst meant.

But that was alright. In fact, perhaps it was for the best.

Before Superintendent Frost could come in here and make the choice for him, Matty dug his badge out from the pocket of his coat. Detective Ashton was wide-eyed as Matty approached his desk and slammed it down.

“ That , old friend,” Matty spat, quiet now, just for the two of them, “is what I bloody well think.”

* * *

Matty was, of all things, relieved.

As he’d been unaware of the structures that were keeping him aloft, he’d likewise not noticed how very heavy they were until he was shed of them, going back to his boardinghouse room feeling light to the point of unmoored.

It was not as unpleasant as he might have thought, to lose everything.

He could see that most of what he’d had was illusion at best.

Oh, there were other feelings too, of course.

While his lack of robust social life meant he had plenty of savings, he was clearly not going to be a working portraitist anytime soon, and had no idea what he was going to do for money.

While he was not currently being trusted with anything terribly secret, he did worry that some sort of security protocol might lead Superintendent Frost to his doorstep for some unpleasant final threatening.

But overall, the joys he’d found outside the Met had grown substantial enough over the past months that he simply could not focus on anything but the peaceful notion that he did not have to go into that dratted office tomorrow.

That is, until he got home. And saw the letter that his landlady handed him on his way up the stairs.

Seeing it was from Barrows, he tore into it while he was still climbing, pausing to lean on the hallway wall and read before he’d even gone into his room:

Dear Mr. S—

There’s something important we should discuss. Please come to see me at your earliest convenience. Wednesday mornings are best.

R.B.

Enclosed was his address on a card, as if Matty had not lived there for nearly two years and did not know it.

Matty took the mysterious thing into his room and looked at it again under the better light of a lamp like it might prove more forthcoming there. But no. It was just as terse. Just as impersonal.

And just as ominous.

Matty threw himself into his desk chair and tipped his head back against it, eyes closed against a nauseous wave of fear as a very dastardly notion came to him all at once.

Regarding the missing sketches, he’d considered Warren’s family, the other boarders, and fellow students in their art class.

He had not, however, considered the fact that someone at Scotland Yard might have had something to do with it.

Bloody hell. He turned the lamp up to its very highest setting, the gas hissing and flame blaring, and hunched over the letter.

He held it close to the glowing bubble of glass, praying to whoever might be listening to find some hint, some notion that what Barrows wanted to discuss was less than ruinous.

He did not think, of course, that Barrows himself meant any harm.

He’d done harm, frankly, in his dealings with Matty over the years, and plenty of it—harm Matty suspected he’d be cleaning up after in his psyche for a while yet.

But he did not mean harm. While Matty did not believe he was particularly special to the old man, he was at least well regarded.

Well-regarded enough that, if Barrows knew something about the missing drawings, something he could not put in writing, he might very well send Matty a letter just like this to initiate his warning.

Clearly, the letter was bad news.

Bad enough that he should probably let Warren know right away that he might not be dealing with blackmail, but the hand of the law itself.

* * *

But unfortunately…well, when Warren came calling to practice their drawing the next day as he usually did, Matty did not say anything about it at all.

The more pressing thing seemed to be the update that he’d left Scotland Yard.

It would seem dishonest to go more than a minute or two without telling him that.

To which Warren said, “Brilliant, mate,” and did not kiss him at all given their location, but clearly would have were they somewhere else.

“That might make the rest of the bloody…performance,” he said vaguely, referring to their deal with Mr. Clarke to make a romantic declaration, “go a little smoother with Forester. No guarantees—I suppose his worries about your recognizability are still valid enough, but it’s better, I think. What do you think?”

After all Detective Ashton’s nasty little remarks, it was so refreshing for Matty to be genuinely asked his opinion, that for a while, that was all the talking he could manage.

He could have done it after that, when they got round to sketching together, but he didn’t do it then, either.

He told himself it was because Warren didn’t seem as worried, and he hated to disturb his peace.

He still smiled his blindingly beautiful smile in the light of the parlor window, posed Matty at the piano bench, and carried on with his usual tales of the family and neighbors he was so perennially surrounded by, including cheerful speculation that he might become an uncle soon, though no one had confirmed it.

What sort of monster would interrupt talk like that with a cloud of fretful gloom?

But even when Warren brought the conversation round to the missing pictures himself once they were alone, mentioning that the conversation with his brother had gone nowhere as expected, Matty still couldn’t do it.

And when he still couldn’t do it, it was hard to kid himself any longer about his motivation.

If he admitted how serious he believed the situation was, it would call into question Warren’s desire to bring him into the fold at The Curious Fox. It would mean Mr. Forester was right. That Matty was more trouble than he was worth.

Given that Warren was trying to get something drawn that would speak to his friends, wow everyone at the showcase, and keep them both on the right side of trouble, he needed more time with Matty as a model in the week that followed.

Which was convenient, since neither of them now had dedicated daily employment, and also meant that Matty had several very good opportunities to bring his fears to Warren.

If he’d had the guts to take advantage of any one of them, perhaps it would have gone better.

They were in Matty’s room when it happened, having expressed for anyone who might be listening that the sun wasn’t at the right angle in the parlor for their purposes.

If any potential picture thief suspected that the second the door was shut behind them, Warren would lean Matty up against it to steal a kiss, they certainly made no sign.

Unfortunately. Matty would much rather the perpetrator be someone here than what he was now thinking…

He pulled back from the kiss, guilt riddling his stomach too much to carry on.

“Warren,” he said. “I—”

“I know, I know,” Warren said with a teasing sort of lilt, squeezing Matty’s arse for good measure before disengaging.

“I’m the one who said we should keep that to the Fox.

But we don’t have the Fox for a few more days, and then only if our ridiculous scheme with Noah goes over.

Forgive me for being a little eager. Let me just sharpen up my pencil, and I can get back to business. ”

“That’s not quite…”

But there was no power behind the protest, and Warren did not seem to notice it. Comfortable here now, and not the sort of chap who deeply overthought his every move and those of the people around him, he went straight to the desk without asking to rummage in the mug for the penknife.

He paused, picking something else up from the desk very casually. Something, Matty realized with a terrible jolt, he’d left out without meaning to.

And this time, it was nothing quite so charming as a wayward jar of hand cream.

“You’ve heard from your old mentor,” Warren said, all innocence himself as Matty swelled near to bursting with guilt. He flipped the note over to check the back. “Not a chatty chap, is he?”

“N-not especially,” Matty said.

“What’s he got to tell you, d’you think?”

Matty paused long enough that Warren finally looked over at him. He clearly caught right away that something was amiss; a few days away from the Met and Matty, it seemed, had lost all his well-practiced ability to hide his feelings, at least where Warren was concerned.

“What’s he got to tell you,” Warren said again, more slowly, each word enunciated with a hint of accusation, “d’you think? Matty? Talk to me.”