Page 53 of To Sketch a Scandal (Lucky Lovers of London #4)

Since, according to the papers, the art fraud scandal had turned out to be a major Continental operation that completely cleared all English suspects, the Twentieth Semi-Annual Student Showcase of Buttersnipe’s School for Artistic Enrichment (Pencil Portraiture, Section One) was held as planned in the pretty and far less turpentine-smelling parlor on the bottom floor of the art school building.

Each student had selected his or her best piece to be matted, framed, and displayed on easels and walls for their friends, family, and a rather…

particular segment of London’s artistic community.

One that, like the Buttersnipes themselves, prioritized payment and practicality over things like, well, skill and artistry.

To the surprise and dismay of everyone except Matty and Warren, the visiting portraitist “Rex Harris” found himself otherwise engaged, and did not grace the event with his presence.

“Ready for it?” Warren asked, adjusting Matty’s tie and smoothing the jacket he’d recently bought to ensure that at least one piece of clothing he owned had been picked out for Matthew Shaw and not some character.

They’d stepped into a hallway, not fully out of sight, but they’d mastered the physicality of “inseparable companions” over their last few weeks together.

While Matty might have done alright with a more isolated and consistently passionate way of seeing each other, Warren needed that public companion aspect to be happy, as he tried to create careful links between lives that weren’t an especially tidy fit.

Dishonest though it was around the edges, Matty was determined to be that for him—even if it meant getting his clothes fussed over without revealing how much he enjoyed it.

“Ready, I think.” Matty glanced over his shoulder to the gallery beyond.

They’d put their pictures beside each other, which made for a very silly-looking corner of the room.

Warren had put hours in, perfecting the sketch he’d done of Matty and his mother.

He’d shaded it until it moved and breathed, and added an interesting geometric border inspired by a tea tray of his parents’ that had nearly the same pattern as a vase at The Curious Fox.

It was, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing in that room.

Whilst beside it, Matty’s sketch was… “I don’t know why I wouldn’t be ready.

It’s not like anyone’s going to be looking twice at what I’ve done. ”

“Oh, stop,” said Warren. “I like it, actually.”

“Yeah, yeah, something about your wanted poster—”

“No, I mean it,” he laughed, and dragged Matty over to the piece, making him look at it.

He’d done his picture of Barrows after finally agreeing to talk to the fellow about how they might go forward in each other’s acquaintance, after all that had happened.

Portrait making had proved a good way to go about it—stuck in the same room, but without having to make consistent eye contact as Matty tried to explain how much Barrows had meant to him, and how little he’d seemed to mean in return as the career that linked them began reaching its end.

There were needed confessions, and even-more-needed apologies, and by the end, Matty felt that the relationship was shaping up very similarly to the portrait: shaky and clearly not created by experts, but maybe better than could have been expected, all things considered.

That said, even if the portrait hadn’t been hanging beside Warren’s masterpiece, it wasn’t pretty by any means.

It was a little wonky, actually, and complicated; hard to put your finger on where to look or how to feel about the man in the portrait.

It was, in the end, a rather perfect representation of Matty’s confused feelings about the fellow who’d both saved and exploited him.

A man he was planning to take tea with again very soon, to meet each other’s eyes and see what came next.

“You’re getting at something, I think,” Warren went on. “It’s not all got to be pretty all the time, eh?”

Matty smiled as Warren gave him a friendly, perfectly appropriate nudge that spoke volumes under the surface. Volumes he was already becoming eager to explore the next time they found themselves safely out of the inseparable-companion sphere.

But in mere moments, they were far from alone. It was a small school, with a small class, but the outpouring of enthusiasm from acquaintances was not small at all.

Especially not for Warren, whose entire family and a handful of family friends came to see where he’d been studying and how he’d progressed.

“You’ve done wonderfully,” his mother said with great affection for him, but a side-eye for the more Buttersnipe-ish portraits. “Though, of course, it’s not The Royal Academy…”

Warren put up a finger and said, “In my defense, I never told you it was The Royal Academy. Not this time.”

“Maybe next time?” Harry Bakshi teased, sharing a look with Anjali, who was still just shy of having to confine to the house if she wound her sari right.

As much to Matty’s surprise as anyone else’s, Warren scratched the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe it will be.”

Everyone stared at him.

“What’s that mean, mate?” said Matty (it was mate here, but Warren would hear it for what it was).

A little yap by their feet startled them all as Miss Martha Buttersnipe inserted herself into the conversation, followed by the gliding form of Mrs. Buttersnipe.

“I do hope,” said Mrs. Buttersnipe, “that what dear Mr. Bakshi means is that he’s planning to attend our private instruction in the new year?”

“As happy as I am to have taken your class, Mrs. Buttersnipe,” said Warren with a brief glance at Matty.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I actually was accepted into an Academy Class.

” There was a group gasp, and he held his hand up.

“Not full admission. They said I’m not ready for that.

But I was offered a chance to sit in and catch up my skills a bit, so I can apply properly next year. ”

It was all congratulations and proud mums for a moment, a moment that was joined by Miss Martha, who yipped her own approval of Warren’s success. Once that all died down, Warren’s family began to circle the rest of the parlor out of politeness, and Matty was able to steal a squeeze of his palm.

“Good job, love,” he whispered.

“Thanks,” Warren said. “There’s only one problem.

I don’t know how to tell Mr. Forester I have to quit the bar.

It was a really hard decision. I love it.

I do. But there’s more to me than who I’ve become behind it, and I want to see what that is.

I’ll stay a member, of course, but—” He cut off, staring at something over Matty’s shoulder. “Oh, bloody hell.”

“What?”

Matty whipped around to see another little crowd coming in and headed right for them.

Warren’s friends—David Forester, Noah Clarke, Charlie Price, and Miles Montague, along with two women he had not met yet, one in an alarmingly tight bun who looked quite like Mr. Clarke and another that was wearing pin-striped trousers.

“What the devil are you lot doing here?” Warren asked, with an incredulous laugh and shake of his friends’ hands.

“We wouldn’t miss your showcase, amore ,” said Noah. “What sort of friends do you take us for?”

“Dreadful ones, most of the time,” said Warren.

But he was clearly pleased, even when he was subjected to the horror of introducing his family and his friends to each other for the first time.

( “You were right,” Mrs. Bakshi would say of them later.

“I don’t like your art friends much.” To which Anjali would reply with a grin, “Well, I do.” ) Matty was pleased too, and found he enjoyed the showcase much more than he’d expected.

His world had expanded very rapidly in the past few months, and for the first time since his career came crashing down, he had a lot of hope for what the future might hold.

“What about you, Mr. Shaw?” Mrs. Buttersnipe asked him quietly, as Warren was fielding questions from some interested amateur artists who’d stopped by. “I’m not sure I can offer you a place in our private instruction—”

“I wouldn’t dream—”

“But I do hope you’ll be joining us for Pencil Portraiture, Section Two?”

Matty looked demonstrably at his drawing. “I don’t know…”

“I think you should,” she said kindly. “I have rarely, in all my years of doing this, seen someone make the level of progress you have over the course of our time together. You do not, I think possess any talent,” she added bluntly.

“But if you chose, you could come to possess skill. And if it is the ability to preserve a face or a moment, rather than a spot at The Royal Academy, that you’re after, I think your determination may very well be the ticket. ”

Matty was flattered by the words, and for the first time, he really considered it.

“If I can find a way to afford it,” he said, “perhaps I will.”

“Afford what?”

It was Mr. Forester. Who knew how long he’d been listening for, nosy as he was.

Nosy and helpful.

Helpful and sentimental.

Sentimental and pleasant to work for, in Matty’s opinion.

Matty glanced at Warren, who was laughing and charming the artists he was speaking to. Beautiful Warren Bakshi, his lover, an artist, and very likely, a barkeep no more.

“Say, Mr. Forester,” Matty said carefully, as Mrs. Buttersnipe glided off along her way. “I have a question for you.”

“Oh?” Forester said. “What’s that?”

Matty felt the smile spread across his face against his will as the next few months took shape in his mind, far better than any he’d had in…ever, probably.

“Hypothetically,” Matty said. “If The Curious Fox suddenly found itself in need of a new barkeep…”

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