Amberlough(36)
He tore his false eyelashes away and slashed cold cream across his face. A quick dash of plum lipstick, and he was out the stage door with his coat still unbuttoned. A few admirers waited with programs and flowers, but he slipped between them, turning up his collar before they realized who he was.
His anger had cooled by the time he made the front of the theatre. Taxis queued against the curb, ready for the audience streaming across the pavement; their doors popped open and slammed shut. Aristide briefly considered blending in with the punters and going home to a book and a stiff drink. Then again, Central had been known to pick up people of interest in cabs, and Aristide didn’t want to risk that, thank you. Rumor had it you couldn’t bribe the Foxhole cabbies if you shat solid gold.
Still, there was always the trolley, or a hack if he could find one. Maybe it was better to leave things lie. But then he spotted Cyril and Finn coming through the gilded doors, and he made his choice.
They headed for the trolley stop at the end of the block. Aristide followed. The northbound would be along in—he checked his watch—two minutes, headed for the transfer at Heynsgate. The transfer that Cyril would take to get back to Armament. Who knew where Finn was headed? Unless they were going out. Or Cyril was taking him home. Or … oh, none of it mattered, because Aristide was about to dash whatever plans they had.
Cyril cracked his cigarette case and put a straight between his lips. When he offered the case to Finn, the younger man fumbled and dropped it. Drunk? Good. Aristide took three quick steps, knelt, and offered the case to Finn.
“Yours?” he purred, though the monogrammed DP was clearly visible to both of them.
“No, sorry.” Then, Finn recognized him. “Oh my.”
“That would be mine.” Cyril’s hand closed on the case. “Thank you.”
Aristide stood and leaned against the trolley schedule, taking a cigarette from his own cache. He made a great show of searching for matches. “I d-d-don’t suppose you’ve got a light?” he asked, looking at Finn.
“I don’t smoke,” said Finn, helpless.
“Ah! Never mind.” Aristide “found” his matchbook and struck one, drawing deep as he lit up. “D-D-Don’t smoke? You’re a rare gemstone, Mr. Lourdes. A veritable cabochon of virtue.”
Cyril made a small sound that might have been a snort. Aristide ignored it. He could see the light of the trolley coming up Temple Street. “Come here,” he said to Finn, curling the hand that held his cigarette.
Finn looked back at Cyril, who gave a nearly imperceptible shrug.
Aristide reached for the lapel of Finn’s greatcoat and tugged him forward. “You’re a grown man, Mr. Lourdes. You d-d-don’t need a chaperone.”
The trolley bell rang out, and the car slid to a stop on its cables. Outbound passengers poured onto the Temple Street footpath. Aristide took another drag, and the flare of his straight lit Finn’s face crimson. He wrapped a hand around the back of Finn’s neck—soft-prickly with the stubble of an old haircut—and kissed him. Rich, dark tobacco smoke twisted between their mouths.
Over Finn’s shoulder, Aristide saw Cyril look back, once, as he boarded the northbound trolley. Under the brim of his hat, his face was blank. The trolley began to pull away. Finn broke the kiss.
“I’ll miss the tram,” he said, putting a protesting hand against Aristide’s chest.
“But I’ll hire a cab.” He could call a hack from the theatre.
“A cab?” Finn’s heavy eyebrows drew together. “But how will I—oh.” Then, as Aristide pushed a knee between his thighs and slipped a hand beneath his coat, he said it again, like another breath of smoke. “Oh.”
*
Sleep didn’t come. An hour passed, and then another, and then Aristide’s bad back wouldn’t let him lie still anymore and he had to get up. Finn stirred. His bright, shaggy hair flopped across his forehead as he turned in his sleep. Unthinking, Aristide reached out and brushed it back, then cringed away lest Finn wake. But he didn’t.
The bedside clock read quarter to four. Aristide wrapped himself in a dressing gown and padded to the front parlor. He poured a schooner of port and stood in front of the tall windows, watching a few determined revelers weave across the footpath below. Thin clouds blurred the moon, hanging over the river.
Something was wrong with Cyril. Now that his fury had abated, Aristide could acknowledge that. If it had just been Culpepper forcing Cyril to break it off, none of tonight’s chicanery would have been necessary. Then, there was the election to consider. The unexpected result stirred things up for many Amberlinians—Aristide had spent the afternoon reassuring contacts, delaying or expediting certain clandestine shipments, speculating in back rooms, variously calming hysterical tempers and leveling stern warnings at anyone who didn’t take the upheaval seriously. Everyone knew the outcome had been thrown. It was the only way to explain an Ospie victory in Nuesklend. And Cyril had been there, sent on Central’s bidding.
Or had it been official, after all? Cyril had never said “Culpepper’s sending me.” Only, “I have to go.”
Aristide set down his drink and put his palms together, pressing his index fingers against his lips. After a moment of contemplation, he slipped back to the bedroom.
He dressed quickly, trying not to make noise. Finn slept like a sated child. At least he wasn’t a snorer. Oh, plague take it, he was all right, in his own meek way. Aristide felt almost guilty about using him as an instrument of revenge. Almost, but not enough to stay by his side through the night.