Amberlough(49)

FOURTEEN

Standing on the boardwalk in front of the Fischer Building, Cordelia squinted against the wind. Her hair snaked around her face, lashing her cheeks. It was nearly four in the morning, and the harbor spread out before them, cold and black.

A crowd of party guests spilled into the street, looking for cabs. One of them wolf-whistled, and the others looked where he pointed—toward Cyril and Cordelia.

Feeling showy, she gathered him closer. “Wanna go to yours?” she ventured.

He was still staring at the group that had followed them out of the party. His pale eyes narrowed, sharp as the steely edge of a razor. The skin at their corners puckered into faint, nervous wrinkles.

“Someone over there prettier than me?” she asked, jostling his elbow. “Come on. Take me to your place.”

The edge of a smile flirted with his mouth, and then was gone. “All right. Sure.”

They took a cab. She could get used to late-night car rides. The trolleys were fine, when the weather was. But on a windy night like this, the breeze cut something wicked.

Leaving the harbor behind, the hired car took them north, up Armament. They drove past the spires of the university, black against the city-lit night haze. Cordelia wondered what sort of place Cyril called home. She was guessing just west of Talbert Row, maybe somewhere south of Seagate Hill, when the cab drew up at the corner of Mespaugh—not quite as swell as she’d been thinking, but Mespaugh ran straight into the Sergia Vailescu Arch, the eastern entrance to Loendler Park. No wonder Cyril knew his way around the place.

He handed her out of the cab and paid the driver. “I’m afraid my landlord only offers hot coffee until midnight,” he said. “But I can rustle up a glass of something, if you like.”

“Don’t you have a domestic?” asked Cordelia. “Somebody to dress you, and do your breakfast?”

He shook his head. “No. I live alone. No servants.”

“You’re a curious swell,” she said, and took his arm.

Cyril lived up on the third floor. The sleepy lift attendant had to be told twice. When Cyril opened the door, the drawing room was dark. Cordelia reached for the light switch, but he stopped her.

“Wait,” he said. “It’ll ruin the view.”

He led her across the sitting room. The curtains were drawn, but he pulled one set back to reveal Loendler Park and, far away across the dark expanse of green space, the cherry trees of Talbert Row. Streetlamps lit them from below, so they glowed like rosy eggs candled with a torch.

“Gorgeous,” she said.

“I had them make it up, just for you.”

She snorted. “They fall for that one?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Bet I wouldn’t. My line of work, I seen people do some dumb stuff when they’re dazzled.”

“Are you calling me dazzling?”

“You’re smooth as an elver, I’ll give you that.”

“And just as long and slippery.” He winked. “What can I get you?”

“A little gin’ll never go amiss.”

He disappeared into another room—library? Study? She heard the hollow whoop of a cork withdrawn from the bottle. He called out, “Tonic?”

“Hang it. Why not?”

In the quiet after the hiss of the siphon, she tried to pick out the sound of his returning footsteps but only heard the scratch of a needle on a record. The gramophone whirred to life behind her, soft trumpet and a crooning tenor. With no warning, cold glass pressed against her back where her dress dipped low. She gasped, and rounded on Cyril.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I took off my shoes. Did I frighten you?”

“Gave me a chill, is all.” She took the glass from him and knocked it back.

Cyril was a little shyer with his whiskey, tipping the glass so the rye caught the light from the streetlamps. He took a small sip and set it aside, staring after it. He didn’t come closer to her, though she saw his eyes move and knew he was watching.

Mother’s tits, but she was tired of waiting on him. He was a fine piece and knew it, but the way he danced around … If he was angling for a ride, well: the poor jockey didn’t have the first notion how to mount up. She set her glass down and stepped forward. When he lifted his face, startled by the movement, she kissed him.

He froze, and she drew back.

“Oh, for queen’s sake, DePaul.” She slipped her hands beneath his jacket and pulled him closer. “I ain’t made of glass.”

He nearly laughed. Encouraged, she drew his face down and kissed him again, running fingers beneath the straps of his backless waistcoat. His shirt was warm and damp with sweat where the linen tape trapped it against his skin. She tugged his jacket away and finessed the buttons at the top of the vest, pulling the tape through his collar loop. The waistcoat fell from his chest, hanging awkwardly until she opened it at his back and unhooked the trouser tab. The piqué crumpled on the floor.

He pulled back, eyes wide. “You’re fast at that.”

She pushed his braces down the curve of his shoulders, relishing his embarrassed flush when she asked, “What is that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t answer: just tugged his bow tie loose, smiling ruefully.

She pushed his collar stud from its hole and his collar sprang away. Slipping one button free, and then the next, she pulled the fabric of his undershirt down at the neck to rest her lips on his collarbone. His breath caught. He seemed to like the water all right, now she’d pushed him in. She finished unbuttoning his shirt and dropped it to the floor with his jacket and waistcoat.