Page 9 of To Sketch a Scandal (Lucky Lovers of London #4)

Well, there it was. For better or worse, one of those customers was thirsty.

Warren went over to him, turning on his trademark charm to get his order.

The external motions were the same, whether he was joking with a friend, courting a tip, or trying for actual trade.

The difference was how much fun he was having while he did it.

And this fellow? A regular, sure, but not a friend in any sense of the word, though his eyes always drifted up and down Warren’s body in a way that surpassed friendship significantly.

He’d given the fellow a try once. He’d give pretty much anyone a try once (even Charlie, against all odds, though they had a pact not to speak of it).

This one was firmly in tip-courting territory, and would remain there until he could muster up even the slightest interest in anything Warren had to add to his interminable monologues.

A rustling tinkle came from the belled curtains in the entryway just as he was pushing the bloke’s refill back across the bar.

Busy as he was trying to secure his money by feigning interest in his current customer’s boring babble—he was a good tipper, if not a good tupper—he hated to break eye contact just now.

Still. He was supposed to keep an eye out for trouble; if he was going to be stuck down here, he really ought to do the job right.

He flicked his eyes toward the entrance to see who’d come in, just for a moment…

Or it would have been a moment, if his eyes hadn’t gotten quite stuck on the newcomer.

He didn’t recognize the chap. Strange. New blood wasn’t allowed at the drag party, and those down here would find it an odd night to bring a guest along to check the place out.

Not forbidden. But curious indeed. He glanced around the room, trying to spot the fellow’s escort, but no one made any moves to greet him.

Warren did his best to watch the new chap while still making the old one think he had some ounce of Warren’s continued attention.

It was too dark in here to make out much of the newcomer’s appearance, aside from a slim build beneath a pathetic, patchy coat, the pockets of which were straining under the force of his fists shoved deep within them.

He’d kept his hat on—many did—and was wandering into the club step by careful step, head tilted to look round at the various nooks of décor.

He stopped here and there to admire pieces of furniture or artwork, but didn’t appear to be seeking out any particular companion.

Very odd. He couldn’t have gotten in without a reference on the inside.

Warren was interested. Whether this interest stemmed from suspicion or attraction remained to be seen.

All smiles and eyelashes, he finished up serving the bloke at the bar. Suspicion or attraction—either way, Warren had to go see what had come into his club on this night of all nights. He was too bloody bored to ignore anything interesting, after all.

He crossed the parlor, that thrill of disobedience that so often lured him from his post taking charge.

He had no interest in the crowd who’d balked at the idea of a little upstairs fun, but a newcomer still had a chance at being novel.

If the fellow passed muster, maybe Warren would end the night with a little more data on the bedpost for his accountant after all.

He said he’d be on the lookout for trouble tonight.

He had not, strictly speaking, promised not to cause any himself.

As Warren approached, the new man turned to meet him.

Though he didn’t show much outward sign of interest, Warren fancied he could sense the heartbeat the chap missed when his eyes fell unblinking on Warren’s.

Determined to win a better response from him, Warren pretended to brush a little something off the man’s patchy shoulder and let his voice go flirty.

“Good evening,” he said. “Haven’t seen you here before.”

The newcomer did not flinch, nor did he lean in.

Rather, he went on peering at Warren very mildly from beneath a simple cloth cap.

He had a youthful, handsome face set with light eyes—blue maybe?

Hard to tell in red club lighting—and a scraggle of scruff that looked out of place on him, like some imp had taken a pen to one of the smooth images of Grecian beauty depicted in the painting he had been admiring.

“First time,” the man said, very polite, very quiet. He didn’t seem nervous or itchy or new to the whole business of a club like this, but he wasn’t projecting a lot of confidence, either. Warren had seen the varying responses to a first night here, and this one didn’t quite fit the models.

Interest, or suspicion? The thrill of feeling in Warren’s belly tipped decidedly toward suspicion.

Still, he smiled. Welcoming. Willing, if it came to that.

And maybe it would. “Who are you here with tonight, gorgeous? Who’s speaking for you?

Maybe I can help you find him, if you’re a little lost. You are here with someone, aren’t you? ”

“Old friend of David and Noah,” the man said calmly.

That casual use of first names calmed Warren’s suspicion somewhat.

It was a standard impropriety at the Fox, and those first names were very good ones for him to have on hand.

“I got the knock and passwords off David a while back—that’s how I got in, if you’re worrying about my lack of an escort—but I’m afraid I never did get around to checking the place out. ”

The hands went even deeper into his pockets, bringing his shoulders up higher.

Something in the movement shifted the way the dim light caught his face, deepening a set of obvious circles under his eyes.

The suspicion receded further—the chap wasn’t as young as he first appeared.

Though he had that particular blond-and-blue look that the bobbies assumed every molly was helpless against, Warren had yet to encounter an entrapper sporting dark circles who had not even bothered to shave.

Of course, an entrapper was the most miserable sort of creature on the planet, but they at least tried not to look it until their job was done.

The man seemed legitimate enough, for now.

“Is he here?” the fellow asked, again very mild, hard to read. “David Forester?”

Before Warren could answer, the world answered for him, a whole wave of laughter drifting down through the ceiling, along with bit of stamping, the shatter of a dropped glass, all the signs and sounds of a lot of people having a lot of fun without them upstairs.

“Sure is,” Warren said dryly, pointing upward. “Busy, though.”

For a second, it seemed the man would grant him a smile, but the turn of his lips was so slight it was hard to call it that. It struck Warren low in his belly, like the full smile was some explosive pleasure that the fellow was teasing.

Suspicion was gone. Attraction, however, remained in full force.

“My name’s Warren Bakshi,” he said. “The barkeep.”

“I had a feeling.” The fellow got even closer to a smile, as he looked Warren up and down obviously. “Mr. Forester speaks highly of your…sense of hospitality.”

Warren couldn’t help but grin. His reputation, it seemed, had preceded him.

“He’d better. So, love, shall I fix you a drink while you’re waiting?” Warren asked, sweeping a bit more imaginary dust from the fellow’s coat. “On the house?”

“That,” said the chap, “would be the best thing to happen to me all week.”

* * *

Warren learned that the chap’s name was Matty and that he went for ale over liquor, even though the brighter light near the bar further revealed that he was as frayed up around the edges as his clothes.

The scarf he unwound from his neck and placed on the seat beside him was a particularly pathetic thing, lumpy and irregular.

“Girlfriend make that for you?” Warren asked with a smirk.

“Oh, yes,” Matty said without missing a beat. “You can see the steadfastness of her love in every stitch, can’t you?” He got closer to smiling this time, the lips lifting, eyes brightening. But again, he backed off before Warren could get his prize. “Actually, I made it.”

Matty might not have been ready to smile, but Warren couldn’t help a bark of laughter. “You?”

“I’m in a highly irregular position at the moment.

Trying a lot of new things, let’s say. Hard to explain.

” He wiggled his fingers, showing Warren a bit of staining on a few of them.

“But if you think the scarf is bad, you should see the painting I did. And the sculptures… I’ve yet to find my new calling, I’m afraid. ”

Warren nodded, a bit solemnly in spite of the bitter joke. He knew, by now, how to read the undercurrents in the words blokes chose to share with their bartender. “Lose your job?”

“Not quite yet,” he said carefully.

“But it’s coming?”

“Considering it’s based largely on whether I can manage to make something look halfway decent?” He prodded the scarf as if worried it might spring to cursed life. “It’s hard to say for sure, but the end is definitely a bit too close for comfort.”

Warren leaned over the bar, hoping to cheer the fellow up. “You’ve made yourself look more than halfway decent, love. So no worries there.” When Matty didn’t even hint at a smile, Warren dropped the cheer for genuine pity. “Is that why you’re here tonight?” he asked. “To ask Forester for work?”

“Hadn’t occurred to me,” Matty admitted, looking around the bar like he was considering it for the first time.

“No, I just… It’s been a rough couple of weeks.

I needed somewhere to be , somewhere other than my own stupid room and my own stupid head.

He used to tell me how beautiful it was, this club, back when I was…

seeing him more regularly. When I found myself with an itch to go and no idea of where exactly I ought to be going, I remembered him telling me. I became, let’s call it curious.”

“Yes,” Warren said with another smile. “Let’s.”