Think of England (10 page)

He went off to seek the subject of his thoughts and succeeded on the first try: the library, where Misses Merton and Carruth were exploring the shelves. Da Silva sat at the desk, hair slicked back into place, intent on his work.

Curtis came up, aware of the women. “Good game. You’re a fine player.”

“Years of practice.” Da Silva didn’t look up. He had two dictionaries and a pile of manuscript sheets in front of him, which he seemed to be annotating. Curtis came over to look. The original handwriting was execrable; da Silva’s additions were in a looping, elaborate hand and, regrettably, maroon ink. Curtis squinted to read them upside down.

“Editing Levy is not a spectator sport.” Da Silva’s pen scratched. He didn’t seem inclined to pay Curtis any attention.

“Who’s Levy?”

“The leading Fragmentalist. One of England’s greatest living poets.” Da Silva contemplated the word he’d written, crossed it out again, and added, “If you mention Alfred Austin, I shall strike you.”

“Mr. da Silva!” Fenella Carruth giggled. “Mr. Austin
is
the Poet Laureate.”

“Which demonstrates the artistic void of that appalling institution.” As da Silva, spoke, he wrote in clear print, on the paper, and the right way up for Curtis to read,
Folly—1hr
. The pen tapped the words to call Curtis’s attention, paused for just a few seconds and then scratched the message out. “Kindly leave me to my labours. I find the military stance unconducive to the pursuit of the Muse.”

“Sorry to interrupt you,” murmured Curtis, exchanging glances with Miss Merton, and went to see if the house would supply him with oilskins.

Chapter Seven

He arrived at the folly somewhat damp after a lengthy but refreshing tramp in the rain. His leg wasn’t paining him as much as usual. The doctors had long insisted that the kneecap had suffered no grave damage, and seemed to think he should have made a full recovery by now. Curtis had not let himself believe it, then or more recently. The wounds of Jacobsdal weren’t the kind that healed. But as he approached the ridiculous medieval tower on the brow of the hill, he was not thinking about the pain, or the blood on dry earth that it brought back, but about the ugly truths that lay under Peakholme’s smooth facade like the thing in da Silva’s fishponds, and the dark, slender man he was going to meet.

He let himself into the folly and shook the wet off his borrowed oilskins.

“Up here,” came a voice from above, making Curtis rear back like a startled horse. “Bar the door.”

Curtis dumped the oilskins on a chest, dropped the heavy oak bar into place in its big iron holders—one couldn’t fault Sir Hubert or his architect’s attention to detail there, the thick door would hold a small army out—and rounded the stairs. The mezzanine floor took up about half the breadth of the round tower, its thick oak warmer on the feet than the flagstones of the ground floor. Da Silva stood, away from the windows, shoulders propped against the wall and arms folded. He had his large fur-collared overcoat draped around his shoulders.

“It’s quite warm in here,” Curtis observed, shedding his own overcoat. “Solid construction.”

“One would hardly want a ruin to be inhospitable, would one? We should speak of last night.”

Curtis swallowed. “Yes.”

“Blackmail and treason. We need to get our information to the proper authorities without anyone here twigging what we’re up to, and we need to remove any evidence of last night’s efforts at alleviating suspicion.”

Alleviating suspicion
, Curtis thought. Da Silva’s hot mouth, sliding up and down his length, the clever tongue curling round the head of his cock, the nipple ring that had pressed briefly against Curtis’s bare thigh when da Silva had leaned against him. “Yes.”

“Like you, I accepted an invitation for a fortnight.” Da Silva spoke with his usual smoothness. If he was feeling the flood of sensory memory that was assailing Curtis, it didn’t show in his face. Had he sucked off so many men that one more left him unmoved? “I’d rather not wait that long before raising the alarm. Either of us might give our knowledge away at any time.”

“You mean that I might, I suppose.”

Da Silva shrugged. “However, I’m not sure how we go about calling for help. The house telephone goes through an exchange located here, via an operator, who is a servant of the Armstrongs and Peakholme.”

“They’ll listen in, you think?”

“I’m quite sure they will. It
might
be all right to send a telegram or a letter, but I wouldn’t put it past them to open their guests’ post, and I am sure that they’d open yours and mine, in the hope of written admissions, or even other names to pursue.”

“I expect they might. Well then, one or the other of us will have to cut our visit short.”

“It’s the best option. It would be terribly rude to our hosts, of course.”

“I’m sure you could manage that,” Curtis said.

A glimmer of amusement lit da Silva’s eyes. “Doubtless.” He hesitated. “Not to embarrass you, but we should address the question of any compromising photographs that may have been taken last night. I think we have to assume they
were
taken.”

Curtis nodded. He could imagine what the damned things looked like as if he held them in his hands. His thickly muscled bare chest, his face contorted with pleasure, the slim dark man kneeling between his thighs, head bowed.

“The problem is not just finding the films, and any photographs made from them. It’s that removing them makes it obvious that we know what the Armstrongs are up to. Then either they will have to deal with us, or they will destroy the evidence in that cabinet, or both.” Da Silva removed his heavy overcoat and laid it down with care. “It is warm, isn’t it. What I would prefer is to take the evidence of all the illegal activity, ours and theirs, and depart without ceremony. Did you motor here?”

“Can’t,” Curtis managed. How could he talk so casually? “My hand. I can’t grip the wheel. Can you drive?”

“No. We could, I suppose, walk, but I don’t imagine you like the idea of a thirty-mile tramp across rough terrain in this weather any more than I do, and Armstrong’s men will doubtless move faster and know the country better.”

“The ground’s too open for that, if you’re worried about pursuit.” This at least was familiar stuff. “Very little cover, long lines of sight. Have you any experience with stalking?” The slender, velvet-coated form lounging against the wall did not seem to belong to a man used to open spaces.

Da Silva shuddered. “God, no. I don’t hunt. Very well, we’ve no means of a quick exit. I think, then, you should return to London for a chat with your Uncle Maurice. This is his sort of business. Warn me by telegram—I’ll give you some innocuous wording to use—and I will remove those pictures before the troops get here.”

Curtis frowned at that. It was casually put, but what it came down to was da Silva alone, risking discovery by dangerous men
. “
Why don’t you go to London and I’ll stay?”

“You can’t pick locks.”

“You can’t deal with the alarm.”

“I watched you. It was hardly a complicated process. You could teach me.”

Curtis probably could, but that was still unacceptable. “I think the risk of attack from the Armstrongs is far greater for you than for me.” He didn’t need to spell out why. If something happened to well-born, wealthy war hero Archie Curtis, important people would care. The redoubtable Sir Maurice Vaizey and the old warrior Sir Henry Curtis would not rest till they had found their nephew, alive or dead. Da Silva had no birth or social standing, he was unlikely to have influential friends, and the Armstrongs would not expect the disappearance of a
demimonde
Portuguese Jew to cause concern in any circles that mattered. Curtis would make one hell of a fuss if anything happened to the man, of course, but by then it would be too late.

Da Silva was shaking his head. “I wouldn’t be so sure. I think you may underestimate the ruthlessness at play here, and if you’ll forgive the plain speaking, you are not well equipped to deal with that.”

Curtis stared at him, almost speechless. How dare the bloody effeminate say—how dare he imply—? He took a very deep breath. “I can look after myself, and a damned sight better than some prancing pansy.
You
take this information out. Talking’s what you’re good at.”

“Oh dear God, the British soldier, heroically setting his jaw against overwhelming odds. You don’t have a Gatling gun here.” Da Silva’s tone was caustic.

“I’m not afraid of the bloody Armstrongs.”

“This is not about fighting. This is about evidence, and how we transfer it from them to us, so that at the end of this farrago, they are arrested and we are not. If the Armstrongs destroy everything in that cabinet before the authorities see it, we’ll have failed. If they use those damned photographs against us, you’ll be looking at a scandal at best, two years hard at worst.”

“And if the Armstrongs or those men of theirs catch you sneaking around?” Curtis demanded. “What about that shallow grave under the redwoods?”

Da Silva winced. “I shall attempt to avoid that. This isn’t worth the argument. Just go to London and leave the rest to me.”

“The devil I will.” Curtis took a furious stride forward. “If you think I’m coward enough to hide behind your skirts—”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I will not protect my honour at the risk of another man’s life,” Curtis gritted out. “That is not what honour means. Do you understand that?”

“In fact, despite being a mere dago, I understand very well what honour means.” Da Silva looked rather white around the mouth. “I forced you into that encounter last night. I’ll deal with the consequences.”

“I’m not a bloody woman and I don’t need your bloody protection from a compromising situation, like some tart in a melodrama!” Curtis glared into his face. “Who the hell do you think you are to give me orders?”

“Dear sweet heaven. This is not the moment to reclaim your masculinity.”

“
What?
”

He was right up against da Silva now. The slighter man had his back to the wall, and there was alarm in his dark eyes, but no sign of retreat.

“I’m sorry I infringed your manliness last night,” da Silva bit out. “I apologise for sucking your cock. I realise you would prefer to act the noble hero after such an unmanning experience, but
I
am more concerned with getting the Armstrongs to the gallows without either of us suffering in the process. Understand?”

Curtis was choking on everything he wanted to say. Angry denial jostled with the desire to put the bloody encroaching sod in his place, to stop him talking. And worst of all was the awareness sparked by da Silva’s crude, shameless words. He wanted to hit him. He wanted to grab him and drag him forward, as da Silva had seized him back in the library last night. He had no idea what he’d do when he got hold of him.

“I
apologise
,” da Silva hissed, sounding more like a Cape cobra than a man expressing regret. “I abase myself, I grovel, is that what you need to hear? Would it help if I fell to my knees?”

Curtis’s heart stopped. The image in his mind was all-consuming. He couldn’t speak, and he knew his face must be betraying him but he couldn’t seem to control it. There was a tiny, ringing moment of silence.

“Ah,” said da Silva.

Curtis couldn’t quite breathe through the tightness in his chest. Da Silva’s eyes were unreadable, and his lips were parted, and very close.

“Is that it? If I went to my knees, is that what you want?”

This was outrageous. Unjustifiable. No excuse now. Curtis was as stiff and hard as a gun barrel, and he was quite sure that da Silva knew it.

Da Silva straightened away from the wall so that he was no more than a few inches from Curtis’s face, his body a whisper away. “Conditions, Curtis. If I do this, it is because you want it. You ask me for it. You do not accuse me of forcing anything on you against your will.”

Curtis made an inarticulate noise of protest at the very idea. Da Silva’s eyes were dark on his. “I mean it. If it would salve your bruised manliness to have your cock sucked, then say so.”

Curtis had no idea why da Silva was accusing him of feeling unmanly. He hadn’t felt so masculine in years. Desire was another thing Jacobsdal had taken from him, along with fingers and career and friends; he had barely summoned up the energy for the relief of his left hand in months. Now, as he stared at those parted lips, knowing what they could do, he felt as though da Silva had blown up a dam and set a torrent thundering through a long-dry course.

But he wasn’t a poet, so he didn’t say that.

“Tell me what you want.” Da Silva’s voice was tight, breathing hard.

“I want…I want you to do it.”

“Do
what
?”

“On your knees,” Curtis said. “Suck me.”

Da Silva flicked a handkerchief from his pocket and spread it on the floorboards, kneeling on it. Curtis watched his movements, frozen with incredulity and need. Then da Silva, without looking up, took hold of his waistband. Buttons flicked, cloth was pushed aside, and his rigid cock was out, achingly hard. It looked huge next to da Silva’s handsome features.

“What do you want? Do you want to come in my mouth?”

“Oh God, yes. Please.”