“What?” She was looking warily over one shoulder, back to Malcolm chatting up punters at the bar. She was definitely sleeping with Tory. When Malcolm found out … well, that would be an interesting week at the Bee.
“Maybe next time.” Aristide inclined his head graciously, letting the weight of his pin curls pull it forward.
Tory shrugged. “Suit yourself. We all know you can find your own fun.”
The chandelier dimmed and the footlights flared, illuminating the gold tassels hanging below the proscenium.
“That’s us,” said Tory. “See you up on the planks, lad.” He disappeared between the hips of the audience. Cordelia turned to follow, but Aristide caught her wrist.
“Cordelia,” he said, “must you really?”
“Ah, go yank yourself.” She shook free of his grip and slunk away, the red glass beads of her costume shimmering.
Aristide stood, smoothing the folds of his dressing gown. “Will you last through the second act?” he asked Cyril. “It’s Ilse’s night off, but I can get you my k-k-key.”
“Oh, I’ll be all right. I need some cheering up, and you look good under the lights.”
Aristide pushed his gin across the table, toward Cyril. “What happened today?”
“I’ll tell you later.” To Aristide’s satisfaction, Cyril came to some agreement with himself and tossed back the larger portion of the cocktail. “Go play up there. You’re killing them.”
“Stop flattering me. It will make my head swell.”
Cyril gave him a significant, downward-sweeping glance. “I’m counting on it. Now, go.”
Aristide went.
When the heavy black curtains pulled up and away, he was blind again, to everything but the spangles of his own glitter and gems. Still, he knew where Cyril was and he smiled brighter to stage right, flirted crooked, canted his hips.
He wasn’t an idiot; he knew Cyril didn’t love him and, stones, he was sharp enough not to fall for Cyril. But if Cyril was in a better mood, he’d open up. Aristide might get a few more drinks in him, might find out what had put that charming worried wrinkle between his eyes. And it might be useful.
Oh, perdition, but he was handsome, too. And if Aristide had to have the foxes on his tail, at least he’d ended up with an agent he didn’t mind stuck to it.
*
Several hours later, in a dark niche of Amberlough’s best absinthe bar, they were both well into a green-tinged haze and Aristide had related his observations about Cordelia and Tory.
Cyril howled with laughter, burying his face in Aristide’s neck. “Never,” he said, his mouth against Aristide’s skin. “I know you: You’re a perfect liar.”
Aristide grabbed Cyril’s shoulders and propped him straight against the leather upholstery of the booth. He had nearly six inches and a few dozen pounds on Cyril, but he was still dizzy enough that he overbalanced and fell half into Cyril’s lap. When he tried to sit up, Cyril tangled his hands in Aristide’s curls and held him close.
“I’m glad you find it so amusing.” Aristide’s cheek pressed against Cyril’s waistcoat buttons. “You’re much p-p-prettier when you smile. Much easier to put up with. Now let me go.” He plucked at Cyril’s fingers where they tangled his hair. “Cyril. Cyril.” He sat up, pulling free. “Why are you in such a foul temper?
“Oh,” he said, all his laughter fleeing in a violent sigh. “The Ospies had a march in Loendler Park today.”
“What?”
Cyril ran a fingertip around the edge of his glass, then licked it clean of sugar. “I’m sure it’ll be all over the Clarion tomorrow,” he said. “There weren’t so many of them, but a fair number of police. And hecklers. Turned into a brawl. Someone ended up in hospital. The streets were jammed up all around, and they had to shut down the trolleys. I couldn’t walk through it to get home.”
Aristide pulled a face. “Well, have another drink. You need it.”
“I really shouldn’t,” said Cyril. “I should try to get back to my flat. I still have work to do, before tomorrow. And an early appointment.” He reached for his watch, but Aristide put a hand on his wrist, curling his fingers around the protruding bones. Cyril’s pulse stuttered under Aristide’s fingertips, and quickened. Smiling with the corner of his mouth, Aristide raised Cyril’s hand and brushed a kiss across his knuckles. He left a smudge of dark red lipstick behind, coloring the skin like a burn.
“Come home with me,” he said.
“Ari, I know I said…” He stopped, and shut his eyes. “But I really can’t. Not tonight.”
Turning Cyril’s hand, Aristide kissed the center of his palm, then let his tongue trace the crease of Cyril’s life line.
“Ari—”
Aristide opened his mouth, pressed his teeth into the swell of muscle at the base of Cyril’s thumb. Cyril drew a sharp breath. On the table his free hand jumped, fingers flexing, scratching at the satin finish on the wood.