Page 13 of Infernal Vices

CHAPTER 7

STILL LIFE

Five o’clock came and went and yet I remained at my desk. Ink leaked from my pen, dripping in obsidian splashes across the letter I was supposed to be focusing on. “Damn it,” I exclaimed in a roar of frustration as I reached for the blotter. My mind was elsewhere and that would not do. I should still be basking in the secret freedom and elation of finally finding a lover who accepts me as I am. I smiled dopily as I recalled how Sebastian professed his love for me last night, how desperate he sounded when he said “Christ, I love you Benedict, love you, love you, love you—” For hours afterward he had adored me with words, kisses, and the most lubricious, satisfying lovemaking of my life. However, my wish to drift toward pleasurable thoughts of our coupling was superseded by a dark wave of doubt that blocked out the sun. I was drained by this day, pulled asunder by the strands tugging at my soul; strands linked to Euan the betrayer, and tangled with Fratres Seminis. I removed my pocket watch, which today was a fourteen carat rose gold Elgin full hunter. It was a lovely, elegant piece, purchased from the estate of an American. I sighed and my shoulders slumped, it was now a quarter past the hour and if I was being honest with myself, I was stalling, reluctant to go home and face predatory looks and prodding questions from Charles Ashe’s. I was a damnable coward. I knew that Mrs. Twigg would be delighted that I had acquired yet another new friend. I winced at the thought of the maidservants quivering at the sight of the handsome, rugged, silver-tongued artist.

My secretary knocked and then opened the office door. “I’m heading off now. Are you alright sir?” Annie asked with concern. “It’s been an awfully long day, do you not think it would be best for you to go home too?” she mother-henned. It was good of her to care and I knew she was right. Annie was always right!

“Thank you. It has been a trying day. I’ll just finish this letter, could you hail a growler for me when you leave and tell him I’ll be ten minutes. Goodnight my dear.”

As soon as I heard the auction house front door close I let out the breath. My bothersome situation was a tangle I could not see a way out of, and so the only conclusion was to go against my very nature, to false face, to pretend to embrace my new brothers as friends, become a useful, trusted member of their, shudder, social circle, and to try my damndest to dodge their intimate advances.

I abandoned all thought of finishing the letter, and instead extinguished my gas fire, collected my greatcoat, gloves and hat, and bid a good evening to Eric, the watchman who would remain overnight to ensure the treasures for the next auction remained secure.

The growler was waiting for me at the curb, which was quite the relief. It was a dismal night, and with the downpour came the belching stench of overflowing sewers and roads turning to glistening filthy rivers. The ride to Bloomsbury was blessedly short. Mr. Wilkins opened the front door as soon as the hack pulled up outside my residence. He then he ran down the steps with an umbrella held aloft to collect me and keep me dry. I was most grateful, for the rain pummelled down with biblical ferocity. I’d tipped the cabbie three times the fare for I pitied any soul who needed to work on such a frightful evening.

Once the front door was closed, with a shiver I said, “Goodness, that was quite an unexpected storm.” I turned my back; Wilkins assisted me in shrugging out of my greatcoat and took my hat and gloves.

“Indeed sir. But in all honesty it’s been a blessed relief as it got the reporters away from the door. They’ve been rather troublesome, trying to get a scoop about the burglary.”

I’d had a feeling that would happen. I turned to face him. ”If they come back, call for the police and say they’re causing a nuisance.”

“I don’t know if coppers will be required. Mrs. Twigg chased one fellow down the street with her broom,” he chuckled. I grinned at that vision.

“Dinner will be served in thirty minutes, sir. And, your friend, Mr. Ashe awaits in the parlour,” he informed in his usual flat manner. My hackles rose on hearing this. I saw how Wilkins hazel eyes gleamed and he appeared to be fighting a smile. “He’s…very good sir. Mr. Troy is delighted with his likeness.”

Oh no, no… this could not be. I had not given permission for Charles to sketch my valet while I was not in residence. It was most presumptuous of him to do so. My mind sped as I rushed to the parlour and threw the door open to find…a rather wholesome scene. The fire blazed giving the room warmth and a welcoming golden light. Charles was seated on the couch, a folio open on his lap. His jacket had been removed, displaying a lovely green and gold embroidered waistcoat. His cravat and top button were undone, and his white shirt sleeves were rolled up exposing well defined, muscled pale forearms dusted with freckles and ginger blond hair. I could not take my eyes from the smudges of charcoal upon his pale skin. Charles had a glass of claret on hand and appeared quite at home. Surrounding him on the floor and occasional table were loose sheets of paper with graphite and charcoal renderings of my parlour from different vantage points. There were sketches of the window through which the thief escaped, and of Mr. Troy, portrait and full body, as he dramatically held a lamp aloft.

Charles looked up from his sketch and as he met me his eyes smiled in a familiar way that made me uncomfortable.

“Ah, there you are old chap. Sorry, I couldn’t wait. As soon as I saw this room and talked with Mr. Troy the muses would not be denied,” Ashe said chirpily. I clenched my jaw to hold in the uncharitable rage I was feeling. I did not like this intimate way of talking he had with me, as if we had been friends for years. We had not. I strode across the room bullishly and paused at his back to peruse the page he was working on that showed the dramatic ghoulish thief hiding pilfered items under the opera cloak. After a simmering moment the rage began to ebb away and I found I was disarmed by what I saw. The drawings were lively and pleasing to the eye.

“They’re very good,” I conceded. It never ceased to amaze me how a skilled artist could, in just a few lines, render reality to the page.

“Oh, these are nothing, just preparatory sketches. I’ll ink them when I get back to my studio,” Ashe said, almost shyly. “I love the addition of the opera cloak. None of his past victims ever mentioned it. It’s very dramatic. My editor will be delighted,” Charles preened. “This story is Friday’s front page, an exclusive, yes? You haven’t spoken to—“

“No, I haven’t spoken to any other journalists.” I reassured, mollified and surprisingly charmed by his talents. “I sent telegrams in response to all enquiries declining to be interviewed.”

“Good man, good man! I knew we would come to an understanding and be the best of friends. Now, come, sit, and let me draw your portrait.”

Presently there was an understanding with Sebastian and in all honesty, he owned my heart. I would not be pulled from his path, but, at that moment I was a little dizzied with exhaustion and flattered by Charles’ wish to sketch me. Therefore, vanity overtook my reluctance to entertain a member of the brotherhood in my home. I unbuttoned my jacket and sank into the Louis XVI armchair Charles directed me to. I noticed how fondly he smiled at me as he put down the folio which he used as a drawing board, then rose and stepped towards me.

“You don’t know what to do with your hands, do you?” Ashe said with fond humour in his tone. “There’s no need to be so nervous, Benedict. Here, let me position you.” Charles leaned in as if he was going to kiss me. I eased my head back. Charles’ moustache twitched as he repressed a smile.

“I do love how you play hard to get, you are quite the tease,” he admitted, then manoeuvred my left arm to fold at the elbow and lean on the upholstered chair arm, placing my thumb to hitch in the small pocket of my frock coat. “Nice straight back, that’s right,“ he directed, then adding in an audible whisper, “I shall have you one of these days.” My skin blazed at his touch and I knew my face was the shade of beetroot! He placed my right arm on the other chair arm, my hand on the carved scroll terminal, which I gripped as anxiety flooded my body.

“I said sit straight backed, not rigid, man! You are flesh and bone, not a statue,” Charles scolded gently, and to my horror he adjusted some of my dark inky curls away from my brow and then, in moving my head to the correct position, caressed my cheek.

“And such handsome flesh at that. Yes, yes…that’s it, perfect. Don’t move,” Charles instructed as he stepped back, observed me for a moment, smiled appreciatively, and then returned to his seat. My jaw was so tight that I feared my teeth would crumble to dust as I sat, straight backed as required and watched as his pencil danced on the page. His penetrating hazel eyes flicked with precision from his sketch to me. I felt as if he were peeling the very skin from me, mapping how muscle bone and sinew connected and made me who I am. The first sketch was thrust aside speedily, and as if in a fever Charles began again, his eyes pinning me to the chair. I was a specimen that he was attempting to understand, his hand and pencil flitting on the page, hypnotizing me.

The sketching session was halted twenty minutes later after Charles had completed ten studies. Mr. Wilkins knocked, entered the room, and informed that dinner was ready. I had not invited Ashe to dine with me and now, it would be rude to tell him he had to go out into the dreary night with not even a meal to fortify him.

“You will dine with me?” I asked.

“Thank you, yes. It would be an honour. I must admit, the scents of cooking have been rather tantalizing. I’ve heard tales of your Mrs. Twigg and the exceptional fare she used to produce for Hadleigh House. She was quite the catch.”

“Mrs. Twigg is indeed a credit to my household,” I agreed. “Please ensure place settings for two, Wilkins.”

“Very good sir,” the houseman said and then retreated from the room.