Page 28 of Rears & Vices

Vitaliy nodded. “You can have it. Ask me whatever.” He went back to the basin and rinsed his face, then dried each hemisphere with the towel Thom had left.

Of course then Everard couldn’t think what to ask.

“This—what I’ve done,” he began, after a moment, “it doesn’t tie us together irrevocably, regardless of motivation. You can of course go your own way, as you have done. You don’t owe me a thing, going forward.”

Vitaliy lowered the towel.

Everard thought: maybe it hadn’t been to evoke an angry response in Vitaliy that had thrilled him, but instead the simple fascination of watching the man think, watching emotion ripple across his face in degrees.

What settled there now looked like understanding—and resolve. Decision.

What decision? Everard wondered.

“Do you say what you mean?” Vitaliy murmured. He felt at his newly clean face with fingertips. “Because I also prefer truths. And I think what you mean is that you don’t wish to be left behind.”

Everard blinked, taken aback. It was a little too close of a hit. “Good God.” His face felt shot-hot again. “One doesn’t just declare what one feels!”

Vitaliy smiled, a mischievous curl. “But why not say what you want? It’s not a problem, wanting. And…” There, that resolute look again: wide-eyed and sincere. “You haven’t yet heard my proposal.”

“Proposal? Oh, ‘what after’?”

“Mm,” Vitaliy confirmed. “Are you hungry? The lieutenant had his breakfast already, but you have not.”

“He’s not my…” Everard waved. “Yes, I am.”

“There is a safe, and good, coffeehouse… unadvertised…”

“Safe for a pirate? Or safe, like…” Everard gestured between them.

“Safe, like that.” Vitaliy’s smile spread, broad and soft. “This time, we neither of us have hats.”

Nine

The coffeehouse looked nothing like a traditional club. The door opened to the parlour of what appeared to be a modest private residence. It even had a kind of butler, who stood immediately when Everard walked in, his eyes flashing warning. He looked Everard up and down and stepped forward, hands casual at his hips—the casualness that betrayed the presence of some kind of weapon.

Definitely not a traditional club.

“That door’s not the one I think you were wanting, sir.”

He was big, white, and, from his accent, Welsh. And when he met the man’s black eyes, something in Everard threw up signal flags. Same?

The man seemed to return that strange recognition without a lick of surprise; he jerked his head in an acknowledging nod. Same.

Nonetheless, when Everard refused to turn round and leave, the man spread his hands and said, “We’re invitation-only, friend, not a penny club. I’m sorry, but I don’t know ya. Owner won’t allow walk-ins.”

“Er…” Everard began, about to explain that he did have an invitation of sorts, or he thought he had—where was Vitaliy?

He appeared at last, shutting the door behind. He slid his hand on the small of Everard’s back, making him jump, and coughed politely. “Hello, Aedd.”

The Welshman’s entire manner changed. He exclaimed “Vee!” and pulled Vitaliy into a fierce, slapping hug. “’Twas said you were for the hulks!”

Vitaliy nodded. “Hanging, too.”

Aedd laughed. “Should’ve known they wouldn’t get ya. Coffee!” he declared. “That’s what you need.” He turned away, beckoning them down a hall, at the end of which stood a door. “Who’s the waistcoat?” he threw over his shoulder.

“’s’James,” Vitaliy said. The stark affection in his voice startled Everard more than the falsehood.

Aedd chuckled. “Ought to be more careful. James here almost saw the end of my knife.”