Amberlough(34)

“Ten,” said Tito, crossing his arms.

“Fifteen or he goes home disappointed.”

They shook on it, and Aristide took his cash and stack of cards from Tito’s tray. What was Cyril up to? He had twenty minutes to figure it out, before the interval ended—Malcolm ran them long, to give his stars more mingling time.

Habit helped him locate Cyril’s immaculate head, bent over his usual table in conversation with some copper-haired schoolboy in an ill-cut jacket. Business sense and good manners bade him stop front and center first to pay his respects to the Honorable Baroness I Fa.

“I’m awfully sorry I can’t stay.” He kissed her bird-boned knuckles. “Something’s come up.”

“How much did they bid?” she asked, her smile teasing. She was gray-haired, but still an incorrigible flirt.

“My dear, I’m afraid this is a p-p-pillow matter, rather than a pocket one. I simply cannot be swayed.”

“Oh, my iris. It is a wonder you ever escape your boudoir.”

He dimpled at her endearment. Traditionally, comparison to the flower implied elaborate beauty without artifice, and was clearly meant in irony. “May I ask you to luncheon tomorrow, instead? Caviar and brown butter sole will hardly remedy my t-t-treachery, but…”

“No, tomorrow is not good for me.” She took a small diary from her beaded reticule. “In fact, I am hemmed in for ages. But I am giving a little soiree in a few weeks. Shall I send you an invitation?”

“Oh, my d-d-darling, that would be simply splendid.” He kissed her hand again, rose from the table, and bowed. “Until then.”

With her bright black eyes following him, he made his way between the tables, approaching Cyril from behind. The shabby young man was shredding the carnation from his boutonniere. When he looked up from its bruised petals, he saw Aristide and turned the same appealing pink as the bloody inside of a steak.

Aristide couldn’t help it—he licked his lips. The boy’s eyes went wide, and wider still when Aristide settled his hands on Cyril’s shoulders. His long, lacquered nails put dimples in the wool of Cyril’s jacket.

“The p-p-prodigal,” said Aristide, his lips touching the edge of Cyril’s ear. “You smell like foreign parts. How thrilling.”

Cyril cringed beneath Aristide’s grip. “Mr. Lourdes,” he said, the tone of his voice chill with warning. “I’d like you to meet Aristide Makricosta.”

*

Cyril ground his teeth. This moment was the most delicate piece of his plan, and Aristide was threatening to derail it.

“Ch-ch-charmed,” said Ari, slipping into the seat between Cyril and Finn. “Charmed, I’m sure.” He took Finn’s hand—offered for a shake—and brushed painted lips over the backs of his fingers. While Finn was busy stammering and trying to look anywhere but Aristide’s face, Aristide shot Cyril a glance from beneath feathered, gem-studded lashes.

“I meant to get to the bar before the mob,” said Cyril, light and conversational. “But I didn’t, quite. Mr. Makricosta, if you’d be so kind as to use your celebrity to jump the line, I’ll gladly pay and carry.” Before Finn could volunteer his services, Cyril put a hand on his arm. “What can I get you, Mr. Lourdes?”

“Oh, just—” He looked between them, surprise plain on his face. “Gin and celery bitters? With a little soda.”

“Excellent choice.” Cyril slipped his palm beneath Aristide’s elbow and drew him out of his seat, away from Finn and into the interval hubbub.

As soon as they were away from the table, Aristide pulled his arm free. “Cyril,” he said, in his most affected accent, “if this is supposed to be some kind of a sting, you’re making a c-c-complete hash of it.”

“Shut up,” said Cyril. He didn’t let his fa?ade slip—anyone watching would see him smiling over the crowd, following Aristide to the bar.

But Ari obviously heard the change in his tone, and paused to look back. “Then what is that c-c-copper top schoolchild doing at your t-t-table?”

“Keep moving,” said Cyril. “And don’t ask questions.” He could tell Aristide wanted to demand an explanation—the tension showed in the line of his shoulders, in his fingers curled around the cuffs of his dressing gown. But he flashed a rhinestone smile, as if Cyril had told an excellent joke.

As they approached their destination, Aristide dialed up the charm. “Pardon me,” he said, to a woman in blue-dyed fox fur. “I’m p-p-parched, and in a t-t-terrible rush. Interval only lasts so long, you know.”

She gave way, thrilled and tittering at his touch on her arm. Cyril slipped into Aristide’s wake. Crushed by giddy patrons, he had no choice but to press against Aristide’s side. Ari radiated heat, smelled of greasepaint and cologne.

“Ytzak, darling.” Varnish flashed at the tips of his fingers. “One celery snap, an absinthe on fire, and a d-d-double rye and soda.”

“Make it a single,” said Cyril. “Nice try.”

When Ytzak’s back was turned, Aristide took something from the pocket of his dressing gown and slid it across the bar beneath the pads of his fingers. Light skimmed over monogrammed silver.

“You left this,” said Aristide. “I thought about smoking them, but frankly, d-d-darling, you’ve got abysmal taste in tobacco. I can b-b-barely stand to k-k-kiss you sometimes.”