Heat ran through Rory, and he clenched his fists to keep from throwing his arms around Arthur’s neck. “I dunno,” he said, gaze fixed on Arthur. “Does it have monks?”
Arthur laughed, a low, rich sound. “No monks. No other Kenzies, even.”
He was too handsome to be real when he laughed. Rory forced his hands behind his back to keep them to himself. “What happened to your church talk?”
“Oh, it’s coming,” Arthur promised softly, then said, more loudly, “Good day, Mrs. Brodigan,” getting an answering farewell in return as the door swung shut behind him.
John’s club was two blocks from City Hall, hidden on the fifth floor of a high-rise with only a small plaque next to the door to mark it. A white-gloved host led Arthur into the club, the wood paneling on the wall nearly black, the tablecloths bleached to arctic white, and the smell of cigars in the air. It was dimly lit and packed with men in heavy wool suits, but Arthur didn’t have to wait; the host led him straight to a private booth in the back, where John was already seated, a sizable stack of papers on the table.
John glanced up as they approached. His eyes returned to his papers almost instantly. “You’re late.”
“What’s that?” Arthur said, as he took a seat on the leather bench across from John, their host vanishing. “Why yes, there was bad weather, and it was frightfully decent of me to still come all the way down to Lower Manhattan to talk to you.” He picked up the glass already waiting in front of him, and the scent of ginger ale wafted up. “Would you mind terribly if I bribed the waiter to spike this?”
“Yes.I don’t need that scandal.” John abruptly looked up. “Is that what’s keeping you busy? You better not be involved in bootlegging—”
“And break the laws you and Father work so hard to pass? Perish the thought.” Arthur picked up the menu. “What’s good here?”
“You’re having pigeon with jellied tomato cream and asparagus au gratin,” said John. “I ordered for you.”
Arthur, who’d been eying the flavorless offerings and wishing he’d managed to fit in a stop at Zhang’s teahouse, sputtered. “You ordered my dinner? Were you planning to cut it into bite-size pieces for me too?”
“Be on time to our next appointment.”
To think he could have had dim sum. Arthur tossed the menu aside. “What do you want?”
John hesitated. “I—” He snapped his mouth shut as the waiter materialized at the edge of their table and set their plates before them.
John had ordered himself a steak. Naturally. Arthur narrowed his eyes over his own anemic fowl and sickly green vegetables. Well, he’d eaten worse. He picked up his fork. “You what?”
“Nothing.” As John turned his head to track the waiter’s retreat, the restaurant’s lights caught the purple bags beneath his eyes, the shadow on his jaw, the tenseness in his neck. “Walter Hartman’s wedding is Saturday. It’s been in the papers.”
Harry had mentioned that too, although Arthur would have bet all the family heirlooms that John had been about to say something else. “What of it? I hate society events; I threw the invitation away.”
“He’s the governor’s son. You’re going, Father won’t hear otherwise,” John said, without sympathy. “Mother already accepted for you and a plus one.”
For one brilliant moment, Arthur imagined showing up at the wedding with Rory. He could bear a dreadful upper-crust event with Rory on his arm: illegally cute in a tuxedo, playing with the scores of nieces and nephews, maybe dancing or singing along with band—
Then John snorted. “I don’t know why she gets her hopes up. You’ve never brought a girl around, not even once.”
The fantasy shattered, leaving only an ache in Arthur’s chest. “A girl,” he said tonelessly. “Of course.” He pushed his plate away.
“But since you still don’t have a sweetheart, you’re available to shepherd another guest. This one is coming from London at the last moment and he’s apparently titled and a rather big deal. Walter’s bride is having fits on who can entertain him and who to seat his party with. So I offered you.”
Arthur barely swallowed a loud groan. “Why would I escort a guest I don’t know to a wedding I don’t want to attend?”
“Because he’s around your age, also a bachelor, and British ex-military while you were military too. It’s perfect, Arthur, it makes sense to pair you two.”
The last British military man Arthur had known had also been titled, a viscount with a handsome face, gilded words, and a frigid heart. He had no interest in dredging up those memories. “Try harder.”
“Because you have to go anyway,” said John. “And because Walter’s my friend.”
And because Walter is one of the governor’s sons, and if you can bail him out of a tight spot, the governor will remember you when you make your play for the Senate.Arthur bit it back. Politics was an ouroboros of favors and friendships too intertwined to separate. John and Walterwerefriends, and their friendship came with perks, and on it went.
John had no idea that Arthur had someone else he wished he could bring or an awkward history with peers of the Realm. He rubbed at his eyes in frustration. “Did you really make me drive to Lower Manhattan to learn I’m condemned to a wedding and assigned a plus one?”
John opened his mouth—then shut it, glancing at the next table. “My car is waiting at City Hall. You can walk me back after dinner.”
The sun had set while they’d been in the club, the Woolworth Building stretching endlessly up to vanish into the dark sky. Unlike the dirty mounds of snow still decorating Hell’s Kitchen, the sidewalks here were already bare beneath the glow of the streetlamps. Arthur and John drew second looks from the passing cars as they made their way through the small green space of City Hall’s park, two broad-shouldered men in black coats and hats, a matched set.
