Warning (and slight spoiler): Hopkins kisses a guy in this installment.
The very first words that came to Hopkins' mind were 'large' and 'extravagant', in regards to both Arkwright's home and the gathering to be found within. The cloak-room alone could probably fit his entire apartment without trouble. Adjectives like 'sumptuous' and 'ostentatious' quickly followed, though he reined in that line of thought before it could cover any more of the thesaurus.
"Not bad for a broker," he murmured.
The house truly was beautiful, even if it did toe the line between elaborate and gaudy, furnished all in honey-gold shades offset by hints of off-white ivory. The gold-leaf trimmings all swirled and coiled into flowers and fleur-de-lis, reminding him of nothing so much as a cathedral he'd once visited in the Continent, when his father was rich and they could afford such a trip. The 'baroque' style, he remembered it being called. He was almost disappointed when Hinchley lead him into the ballroom and its ceiling wasn't vaulted.
That aspect, however, was the only disappointing thing about this ballroom. In here all the gold practically glowed, light refracting through champagne-colored crystals draped around the chandeliers overhead. And down below, the room was filled with the well-dressed elite, gentlemen in their uniformly tailored black suits with flashes of colored waistcoats, no doubt matching the ladies they'd escorted, who were themselves layered in all the colors of a flower garden. In the center, couples twirled in time to the quadrille band's cheerful strains, while other guests took advantage of the seats and tables arranged around the edges of the room.
Hopkins plucked at Hinchley's coat to get his attention. "A lady's first dance is always with the man in her company," he said sweetly. "And I can't see dear Arkwright from here."
Hinchley, who was really acclimating quite well to this whole situation, did not hesitate to lead Hopkins onto the dance floor, nor to settle his right hand against the small of Hopkins' back. "I apologize in advance if I step on your toes," he said with a sheepish smile.
"Just be careful. These aren't my boots."
They joined the other couples and began to make their way around the room. Hopkins focused the majority of his attention on finding their host. He'd never personally seen the man before, but they'd had a photograph at the Yard, from some article run three years earlier.
They'd crossed the room - and Hopkins was distracted twice by Hinchley fumbling a step - before seeing him, standing near the far corner and engaged in conversation with a circle of other men. He looked almost exactly as he had in the photograph - tall, handsome and smiling, with sun-kissed skin, a pointed chin, and round eyes that gave him an oddly youthful appearance. He certainly didn't look like a heartless kidnapper.
As it happened, the man himself glanced at the dance floor just as they were gliding by. Hopkins watched him until their eyes met, held the gaze a moment, and then dropped it shyly. When he looked back again, Arkwright was still watching him.
It made his skin crawl, but at least he had the man's attention. It might prove useful before the night was through.
"Will you be alright on your own?" Hopkins asked as the set wound down. "It's a bit unseemly to dance with the same gentleman twice in a row."
"So long as I'm not required to dance with anyone else and make an even bigger fool of myself."
"Just say you have a bad hip."
Hinchley stepped back and bowed, offering his right arm to escort Hopkins back to the seats. Once there, Hopkins urged him toward one. "You sit down and rest a minute, Uncle, I'll be back in a moment. I promise I won't get in any trouble." He winked at Hinchley and slipped out of the ballroom, intending to explore a little before he did any major socializing.
There were a few other guests in the front hall, and a couple of open doors lead to the refreshment room or outside, into what Hopkins assumed would be a garden walk. None of that was what he was here for. He headed for one of the closed doors, finding it unlocked, and with a quick check that no one was watching, stole inside.
The room appeared to be a study, with shelves lining the walls, a writing-desk in the corner, and an oriental rug on the floor. It was much less vividly colored than the hall and ballroom but no less well-furnished, all in a well-varnished dark red wood. All that, Hopkins noted in the back of his mind, for the forefront of his attention was captured by the shelves, or rather the rows upon rows of books they contained. Forgetting himself a moment, he glided over to a shelf, almost reverent as he brushed his gloved fingertips over the spines. Continental gazetteers, banking law, histories, the full twenty-four volume ninth edition Encyclopedia Britannica, a full complement of Nietzsche, Carlyle's translation of Goethe's Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship - the titles mattered little to him, just that they were books, and he had precious few of them himself, and here there was a whole room full of the most beautifully bound specimens that he'd ever seen. It almost felt wrong to slip one off the shelf - a third-edition printing of Walter Pater's The Renaissance: Studies in Art and Poetry - like he was somehow disturbing a sacred space, but all the same, he couldn't help himself. He let it fall open on its own, and began to read.
'For us the Renaissance is the name of a many-sided but yet united movement, in which the love of the things of the intellect and the imagination for their own sake, the desire for a more liberal and comely way of conceiving life, make themselves felt, urging those who experience this desire to search out first one and then another means of intellectual or imaginative enjoyment, and directing them not only to the discovery of old and forgotten sources of this enjoyment, but to the divination of fresh sources thereof - new experiences, new subjects of poetry, new forms of art.*'
So absorbed was he that he didn't hear the door open behind him. He did, however, hear the amused question, "You like books better than people, do you?"
Hopkins spun, snapping the book shut, to find Arkwright smiling at him from the door, which he had left just a few inches ajar. "I-I'm sorry," Hopkins stammered, his fluster only slightly exaggerated. "I was looking for the washroom and found the wrong door, I shouldn't have-"
"Don't worry," Arkwright interrupted, closing the distance between them and glancing at the book. His thick brows arched in surprise. "You like Pater?"
"I... I like what I've read so far, though I admit I'm not quite sure of his meaning at times."
He chuckled. "It's not the most appropriate fare for young ladies."
"If you say so, mister Arkwright." Hopkins smiled and handed him the book, deliberately allowing their fingers to brush. Arkwright met his gaze for a moment, and his eyes, Hopkins noted, were a distinctive shade of rust-brown, like dried blood. Arkwright returned the smile with his own admittedly charming one before turning to re-shelve the book.
"I don't believe I know your name, Mrs...?"
"Miss," Hopkins corrected him. "Miss Stella Romilly. Mister Romilly, my uncle, is escorting me."
"Ah, yes." Arkwright pretended that the name meant something to him, though Hopkins could see he was mostly just intrigued by the 'miss'. "Well, miss Romilly, I had rather hoped to ask you for a dance, but if you'd rather spend a little more time away from the crowd, I would be glad to keep you company."
"Oh, I wouldn't like to monopolize the host, mister Arkwright. Besides, a gentleman and young lady off in a room on their own? People will talk."
"Let them, it only proves they haven't anything more worthwhile to do with their time."
Hopkins giggled. "I'll bow to your discretion, mister Arkwright. Tell me, which of these would be appropriate for a young lady?" He circled the room, running his fingers over more spines. Arkwright's gaze followed.
"I'm afraid I haven't many of those."
"Then recommend one that isn't."
His brows arched again. "Do you not have many books of your own, miss?"
"Not as many as I'd like," he said truthfully. "Mother says it's unseemly for a young lady to spend her days reading." Hopkins' path had brought him around the desk, and he turned to look at the desk-top itself. A dark green blotter protected the cherrywood surface, and atop that was what looked to be a ledger.
"Your mother sounds rather boorish, if you'll forgive my saying so."
"Just this once, but you shouldn't make a habit of it. What's this one?" Feigning innocent curiosity, Hopkins flipped the ledger open to where the ribbon book-mark denoted the latest page. Arkwright was quick to close it again.
"That's just my work accounts. Names and figures, nothing of interest."
Hopkins looked down and played with a curl of hair. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be snooping. Mother says it's my worst trait, curiosity."
"No need to apologize. I like a woman with a little curiosity."
"Mister Arkwright, I do believe that was shamefully forward," he admonished with a coy smile, considering Arkwright's well-tailored suit and his green-and-gold damask vest.
"Yes, it was. Do you mind?"
"I haven't decided."
Arkwright rounded the desk, catching and holding Hopkins' gaze as the distance between them shrank. "If I may be a little bolder, miss Romilly, you have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen."
Hopkins retreated a step. "I'm flattered, mister Arkwright."
Arkwright took another step forward. "There's something more than that, though. I can't quite put a name to it. Something... entrancing, about you." Hopkins held his ground this time, turning so as to put his back to the shelf. Arkwright followed, closing in another few inches.
"Mister Arkwright, I don't think this is at all proper."
"Do you mind?" he asked again, tipping Hopkins' chin up a little.
"I haven't decided." Hopkins' eyes fluttered shut as Arkwright finally closed the last bit of distance. Their lips met in a kiss that quickly turned less than chaste, and gave Hopkins an excuse to bring his hands to Arkwright's waist. After a moment he made to pull away, but the man pressed his attention, leaning forward so that Hopkins was all but trapped between him and the bookcase.
Alarm bells screamed in Hopkins' head. His stomach gave a warning lurch, his heart rate spiking and breath quickening through his nose. His kidskin boots suddenly felt horribly unstable; the spring-steel bustle became the bars of a cage pressing into his back; the silk ribbon choker was strangling him; the tightly laced corset held him stiff and immobile. He shoved Arkwright ungently away, watching with wide eyes as the man stumbled back in surprise. "I-I'm not f-feeling very well, mister Arkwright. I think I'd better go." He all but ran out the door, silently praying that the man wouldn't follow him.
Hinchley was still seated where Hopkins had left him. He grabbed the Constable and pulled him to his feet without a thought for propriety. "Come on, we're going."
"What's wrong? Are you alright?" Hinchley asked, clearly concerned.
"I got what I need," Hopkins said in lieu of an answer, swallowing hard and trying to keep back the wave of dizziness that threatened to overtake him. Fresh air, what he needed now was fresh air. "Get our things, I'll meet you outside."
Poor Hopkins has a few small issues.
*Actual sentence - yes, that is a single sentence - from the prologue of the aforementioned book, as provided by Amazon's LookInside thinger. I'll let you decide if it's actually related to the story, but I had to share it anyhow. Maybe it's just me, but holy crap, that's damn near pornographic - and near as I can tell, the ENTIRE BOOK is like that.