“Set with diamonds. They’re not exactly inconspicuous.”
He knew the jewels. He’d told Sofie to hold onto them; they were less valuable than some of the other pieces, and more recognizable. “Cyril, believe me. I never asked Cordelia to move them. I have no idea how she—no. That’s a lie. I know how she got them. But if she’d had any sense she wouldn’t have accepted.”
“Don’t,” said Cyril.
“What? Call her a fool? You’re not falling for her, are you? I thought your tastes were more refined.”
Cyril made an ugly, scornful face. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re putting me in danger, and you’re putting her in danger. She’s not going to run anything for you anymore.”
“I think that’s something she can decide for herself.”
“You can’t have it both ways, Aristide. Either she’s a vacuous tart or she’s clever and keen.” He shut his mouth and Aristide saw a muscle in his jaw flex. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter and more controlled. “I know which one I’d pick.”
“You think she’s smart,” said Aristide. “You’re right. But you can’t have it both ways either. Don’t come to me and tell me what Cordelia can and cannot do. It’s not your place to decide. If you feel endangered by her association with me, then you can end your own with her.”
The set of Cyril’s shoulders collapsed. “No,” he said. “She’ll need somewhere to go, when the Ospies take over.”
“I can see her safely out of Amberlough.”
“Be realistic. Your influence is shrinking with every Ospie gain. You’ll be lucky if you can get yourself out.” He paused, dug his nails into the rotted tabletop.
“Yes?” prompted Aristide.
“I—I didn’t want to tell you, but…” Cyril ducked his chin to one side, his expression rueful. The same recalcitrant piece of hair fell across his forehead.
This time, Aristide didn’t stop himself: He reached out and combed it into place with his fingers. “Didn’t want to tell me what?”
Cyril put his hand on Aristide’s forearm. His mouth moved, but he didn’t speak.
“Didn’t want to tell me what, Cyril?” Aristide asked again, almost whispering. He traced the strong, straight line of Cyril’s cheekbone and jaw, ending with his fingertips arrayed just beneath the edge of Cyril’s chin. He felt an indrawn breath, the movement of Cyril’s larynx just before he spoke.
“They’re out for smugglers’ blood,” he said, his tone flat and defeated. “When Acherby’s position is firm, they’ll be coming after you like a pack after cubs.”
There was something false about the sentiment, though the statement was credible. Aristide sighed, tired of Cyril’s games, and moved to stand. Cyril’s grip tightened and drew him closer, across the table. Aristide felt the warmth of the candle on his shoulder, swiftly eclipsed by the smoke-limned heat of Cyril’s mouth on his.
“Mother and sons,” said Cyril. Aristide could taste the words, and feel the movement of his lips. “I’ve missed—”
Aristide didn’t let him finish. He put his hands around the back of Cyril’s head, digging his fingers into the carefully waxed waves of hair. He pressed their faces close, jaw aching with the force of the kiss. Cyril didn’t fight; he reached for Aristide’s lapels, pulled him nearer, gasped into his open mouth.
A clatter of dropping crates, and accompanying stream of curses, alerted them to a presence in the corridor. Like children caught at naughtiness, they pulled apart. Cyril’s pulse hammered so hard Aristide could see it: The flushed skin of his throat fluttered against the oily calico kerchief.
“I need to go,” said Aristide.
Cyril nodded, and looked away. Candlelight picked out his eyelashes like gold filament.
“We can’t do this again,” said Aristide.
Another nod.
As he walked away, Aristide curled his fists so tight his long nails bit into his palms. The small pain was like a pinch to distract from the agony of a broken bone.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Cordelia had barely got into her dressing room before Tory came skidding down the hall and caught himself in her doorway.
“You’ve heard?” he asked, breathless.
“You think there’s anybody in the city who hasn’t?” She threw her purse into the corner of the room and fell into her makeup chair. “Afternoon edition of the Telegraph had a headline about five inches tall. But they always do lean dramatic.”
“I’ve had to do up a whole new routine. People are sticking close behind Hebrides. I can’t feature any jabs at him flying high with tonight’s crowd.”
“You think we’ll have much of one?” She belied her reservations, starting to undo the buttons on her blouse.
“Course we rotten will.” Malcolm appeared behind Tory in the doorway and gave them both an appraising glance. “It’ll be a madhouse.” He looked down at Tory. “You. Go run your new material with Liesl. She wants to get the beats right for tonight’s jokes.”