Page 49 of To Sketch a Scandal (Lucky Lovers of London #4)

Mother’s manners would have dictated pulling Mr. Sanford Binks quietly aside after class.

But between the party, the odd meeting with Barrows, and an evening spent not-smoking with Matty in his home parlor with no less than a dozen interruptions from Mother, Harry, and Anjali, even after they’d all had ample time to get to know his new “art friend,” Warren’s other side—his sex-club-and-alley side—was feeling a little cooped up by the time he got to class and saw the sniveling, blackmailing little thief walking ahead of him toward the building.

“Oy.”

He grabbed Binks by the shoulder and spun him round.

“Excuse—”

Warren snatched Binks’s sketchbook and took a few steps back. When Binks gasped and came after his precious baby, Warren darted into the alley beside the house. Once in the shadows, he dropped the book near the dustbins and shoved the arsehole up against the wall.

Binks…well, he squeaked when his back hit the brick, more mouse than man.

Warren squinted into his eyes. He was still holding Binks’s lacy shirt, but his notion of getting rough was deflated by that pathetic sound.

Warren didn’t fear a scrap, but he didn’t go around picking fights with people not itching to fight back.

He didn’t let go, but he did loosen his grip with an annoying surge of pity.

“You took my pictures,” he hissed. The fellow screwed his eyes up and winced like he’d been hit. “You fuck, look at me.” Binks opened his eyes the barest possible slit. “You’re a bloody thief, aren’t you?”

“Please,” he said. “I don’t—”

“Admit it.”

“Yes!” Binks said. “Yes, I took them. Alright? You were busy with Mr. Shaw, and I took them.”

“I want them back,” Warren said. “Do you understand me? I want them back now. If you think you can squeeze so much as a bloody tuppence out of me for them, you’re barking, but I will promise not to do this again, eh?

” He tightened his grip. Didn’t even need to jostle the bloke against the wall to get another squeak out of him. “Pretty good deal, if I say so myself.”

“Pay me for them?” Binks repeated, high-pitched and panicky. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t steal them to sell them—last thing I’d do is start driving up more enthusiasm for your work, Bakshi.”

Warren gave his head a confused shake. “What?”

“Goodness, Warren,” came a calm voice from behind him.

He turned and saw Matty had arrived, looking all innocence in his patched coat and the familiar scarf that Warren had left behind last time, sketchbook tucked under his arm.

Innocent except for his eyes, which were alight with laughter and vindication as he took in the scene before him.

“How did I know I’d find you causing trouble in an alley this morning? ”

“I was right,” Warren said. “He’s our thief. He admitted it.”

“Oh my.” Matty winced. “In that case, Mr. Binks, I suggest you give the pictures back before this escalates. Blackmail remains more illegal than drawing pretty pictures, I’m afraid. As a former officer of the law, I can assure you that you won’t come out on top if you pursue your intentions.”

“Who the devil said anything about blackmail?” Binks said wildly. “I burned those pictures, Bakshi, so you couldn’t bring them to the showcase at the end of the class.”

Warren was speechless for so long that Binks began trying to edge out of his grip. Warren tightened it back up to the tune of another squeak.

“You stole my pictures,” he said slowly, “because you didn’t want me to look good at the Buttersnipes’ end-of-class showcase? The bloody showcase where our own mums and a few half-baked amateur artists will ooh and aah and try to get us to buy more classes?”

Binks, at last, drew himself up a smidge. “Some of us take our opportunities seriously, Mr. Bakshi.”

Truly shaken by the sheer pettiness of it all, Warren finally let the chap go. Binks gathered up and hushed and shushed his poor dear sketchbook, glaring at Warren for the indignity he’d cast upon the precious thing.

“So, they’re really destroyed?” Warren asked.

“Of course they are,” muttered Binks as he nursed the sketchbook on his hip, wiping the dust from it with his handkerchief like the specs were dribbled milk.

“And look. While you may possess a streak of incidental talent, you’re new to this world.

A bit of colorful expression won’t get you blackmailed by itself.

Not yet anyway.” His eyes darted, and Warren realized what it seemed Binks had already surmised: that they all had at least one thing in common other than the class.

“In any case, if you really want to keep from making enemies, I suggest you stop showing off. Not everyone you meet will have my level of integrity.”

With that, he drew himself up, resituated his little darling, and went off to class.

“The showcase,” Warren said. “Nearly drove us both to Bedlam and back over the stupid showcase .”

“At least he has a high level of integrity,” said Matty dryly. “Only stealing and destroying your art so as to hobble your career before it even begins. Very dignified stuff.” He turned to Warren. “What are you going to display, do you think? Looks like you won’t be getting those old ones back.”

“Sorry, love. I should have shown you before. I know you wanted to see them.”

“That’s the life of a muse, I suppose. I am disappointed, but I think I’ve got the gist. I’ll make do with whatever comes next.”

“I am working on something new actually,” Warren admitted. He’d started it last night, after his worlds had crashed together and not a single thing had been left burning. It was not a scandalous piece, but it was an intimate one. Even thinking about it made heat rush to his cheeks.

“Can I see this one?” Matty asked. “Before your sketchbook is subjected to further integrity?”

“I think, if you’re comfortable risking what might happen in the meantime, I’d like to put the finishing touches on it and show you when I show everyone else on Saturday.”

Matty looked surprised. “At The Curious Fox?” he said. “You still want to go through with all that, then? After everything that’s happened?”

“If you do.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” said Matty. “As is my usual custom, I mostly get to stand there and look pretty. You’re the one who has to make an arse of himself.”

“Well, maybe,” said Warren. “Something occurred to me, you see, as I was starting out the new sketch last night. Something that might make you change your mind about the whole thing.”

“Stop being ridiculous—”

“I’m not. You see, I…recalled something of an idiosyncrasy of Mr. Forester’s. One I’d forgotten, since I didn’t believe it would ever apply to me.”

“Something unpleasant? If it doesn’t work?”

“Something unpleasant, yes,” said Warren. “But it is actually a risk we face if our plan does work.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

“I don’t know if you picked up on this, when you worked for him,” said Warren. “But Mr. Forester…well…he likes…”

“Likes what?”

“He likes weddings,” Warren concluded. “Really, really likes weddings.”

The widening of Matty’s eyes showed that he understood the gravity of the situation immediately.

“Oh dear,” he said. “So, you think…if he is moved by your confession…”

“I don’t think, Matty,” said Warren grimly. “I know .”

Matty thought it through. “So there really is no dignified way to move through this, is there? Either we do it and look like fools, or skip it and look like traitors.”

“Correct. I’d say it’s a bit more dignified than nicking pictures from your rival’s sketchbook,” said Warren. “But just barely. Do you still want to go through with it, now that you know what you’re in for?”

Much to his surprise, Matty gave the most blinding dimpled grin Warren had seen on him yet.

“Warren,” he said, awfully flirty for the hour. “Are you asking for my hand in marriage?”

This narrow spot between the art school and the café next door was shadowed indeed, but no true back alley.

A good sliver of sun made it back here, brightening Matty’s face, turning his eyes to that dreamlike color they took on when the light hit just so.

That joke, though—it would transition very easily to the red-lit parlor where his friends traded in the same sorts of quips and punch lines all night long.

Being ignored for fifteen years and then used for another ten had made Matty Shaw a bit odd, cautiously reserved, and more than a little mad.

But Warren knew right then that if the others would give him a chance, he’d fit right in with the rest of the crew at The Curious Fox.

“In some sense, Matty,” said Warren, “some strange, convoluted, completely ridiculous sense that I couldn’t adequately explain if you paid me, I think I am.”

Matty was still grinning as he stepped in close. He took the scarf off and finally returned it to its spot around Warren’s neck, where they both knew it belonged.

“In that case,” he said. “I think I accept.”