Amberlough(48)

*

In the quiet of the foyer, Cyril handed the two coupes of champagne to Aristide and took his money clip from his pocket. He slipped several bills from the center of the fold and handed them to the footman.

“Find somewhere else to be,” he suggested.

“Elegant,” said Aristide, as the footman disappeared into the party. “Are we supposed to k-k-keep out the gate-crashers, too?”

Cyril took back one of the glasses and drained it, then scowled at Aristide over the rim. “What were you and Cordelia talking about?”

“We work together, Cyril. I was surprised to run into her, especially since she wasn’t invited.” He flicked his fingers in a dismissive gesture. “Anyway, we were just having a ch-ch-chat.”

“Excuse my skepticism.”

Aristide tched. “Mr. DePaul, so suspicious. It’s a p-p-party. At least try to enjoy it.” He crossed his arms, hanging his wineglass above his elbow with elegant fingers. “How did you manage to get in, anyhow? As I said, I happen to know Cordelia was not invited; whether the b-b-baroness remembers it is another story entirely.”

“How much does she know, Aristide?”

“The baroness?”

“Don’t be obtuse. What have you told Cordelia?”

“That you need some female company.” He made it sound like a disease.

“Queen’s sake, Ari, I’m not a john.”

“P-P-Preferable to an Ospie.”

Cyril’s fingers tightened on the stem of the coupe. “Aristide.”

“Are you going to t-t-take her home?”

“I don’t want to talk about this with you.”

“It would serve me right, if you did.”

“I’m not going to knock her to put a pin in your ass, Ari. That’s your style, not mine.”

Aristide rolled his eyes, his disdain caricaturesque. “I haven’t told her anything,” he said, “if that will p-p-put your hackles down. You needed a girl; I found you one. Obviously you like her well enough; she’d never b-b-buy that p-p-perfume for herself. Alain de Nils, isn’t it? Very nice.”

“Well my mistress couldn’t exactly wear attar of roses to a party like this, could she?” Cyril put his free hand to his face, fingers pressing into his forehead. “You could have told me it was going to be her, Aristide.”

“You t-t-trusted my judgment. I’m t-t-trying to help you.”

“By spying on me?” He checked himself, bringing his volume down. “Do you think you can get my secrets out of her? Why would you suppose she knows them? I’ve always done an excellent job of hiding what needs to be hidden. It’s my rotten job.”

The second champagne coupe smashed against the dark parquet. Aristide shoved Cyril against the wall, using the height and strength he usually downplayed in favor of effete elegance. “Not from me.”

“Yes,” said Cyril, hating how hungry he sounded. “Even from you.” It was a patent lie, and they both knew it. But it was a lie that went both ways.

The wainscoting scraped Cyril’s scalp. He looked up into Aristide’s face, watched his hard-lined snarl collapse into desire. Aristide slipped his knee between Cyril’s thighs. He let Cyril’s jacket free from his grasping fists and put a hand on the wall to either side of Cyril’s head.

“Ari,” said Cyril, nerves strung taut. “Ari, not here.” But his voice was weak, breathless, and belied his words. He opened his mouth. Aristide’s face was very close; Cyril could feel the warmth of him, smell his sweat. Like Cordelia, he hadn’t bathed between the stage and drawing room, though he’d touched cologne to his throat: a Padgett and Sons vanilla musk, redolent with cinnamon and ambergris, leather and white flowers. Cyril took a ragged breath, inhaling as Aristide exhaled, drawing the other man into his lungs.

He closed his eyes against a sudden scent-memory: Aristide’s big hands unstoppering the bottle, the sheen of drying perfume on each pulse point, his nakedness in front of an open window. It was his special scent, for occasions and indulgence.

Aristide’s tongue traced the burning skin of Cyril’s ear.

“Not here, Ari.” His voice broke.

Aristide laughed, quietly, against Cyril’s temple. The sound made his knees buckle.

“This is I Fa’s house.” Aristide dropped his pitch to an animal growl. “Who will care?”

Cyril gathered his wits, shoved Aristide back, and wiped his ear. The cuff of his shirt came away stained with lipstick. He pulled his jacket down to hide the purple smudge. “You know as well as I do that someone will. I’m here on business, and there are Ospies in that crowd. The baroness may not realize, but you and I both do.” Shaking himself, he settled back into his clothes, then touched the back of his head. His fingers came away slick with blood. “Damnation.”

Aristide shook out his pocket square and gestured for Cyril to turn around. He pressed the linen to Cyril’s bleeding scalp. “Hold it there,” he said, and Cyril did.

Toeing the broken glass, Aristide drew an arc of spilled champagne across the floor. “Shall we get someone to clean this up?”

“This is I Fa’s house,” said Cyril, bitterly. “Who will care?”





CHAPTER