Think of England (13 page)

“I’ve no opinion on His Majesty’s conduct and I’m not acquainted with his set,” said Curtis stiffly. “As for the rest, I dare say you’ve a point.” A fair point, he might have thought a few days ago, and perhaps nodded along, but it was ringing rather hollow now. “Nevertheless—”

“Nevertheless what? You don’t approve of this sort of thing, do you?” Holt swept a hand, indicating the other members of the party, spread through the caves. “Blind pursuit of pleasure and self-indulgence, without a thought for their country. I should like to see them get what’s coming to them.”

“What is coming to them?” Curtis didn’t quite like the look in Holt’s eyes, which suggested the political fanatic, or possibly the religious kind.

“Oh, none of this will last. This country is heading for a crash, mark my words. There are other nations rising, ones with stronger, purer ideals and men who are prepared to work, to aspire. If we don’t set ourselves to join them now, it won’t be long before we face them on the battlefield. And we’ll be better off doing either without parasites sapping our strength from within.”

Curtis had heard this kind of talk a few times, and never from men who had actually put on a uniform. Normally a patient man, he had found armchair warriors almost intolerable since Jacobsdal, and there was a snap in his voice as he replied, “Yes, jolly good. So, when that conflict comes, will you be joining the army? Or, why not now, if you’re so keen?”

Even in the lantern light he could see Holt’s cheeks darken. “There’s more than one way for a man to serve his country.”

Curtis thought of da Silva’s secret, thankless work doing exactly that, serving his country while others talked about it, and felt his mutilated hand curl to a half-fist. “That’s right, there is. And there’s more than one way for a man to serve his God too.”

Holt’s nostrils flared with anger. “Well. Armstrong said you were getting tight with the fellow. If you prefer to mix with Yids and dagos, I suppose that’s your privilege.”

Curtis turned on his heel and walked off. The light bobbed along the cave walls, illuminating the lumps and bulges of slick stone, strange shapes springing from shadows. The beauty of it passed him by. There was a man’s low murmur and a feminine giggle from another passage, running off the mouth of the white gallery. He didn’t look round.

The fact was, he
would
rather have had da Silva’s company than Holt’s. He should have liked to see wonder on his face, and to hear what a poet might make of this extraordinary place. He should have liked to explain how the limestone shapes were created, since he felt quite sure that would fall outside da Silva’s area of expertise. He wanted to know how these weird sculptures of time would affect the imagination that had created things moving in the dark water of fishponds. He thought da Silva would enjoy it, and he thought his enjoyment would be real and interesting.

Miss Merton and Miss Carruth were perched on a rock in the main cave when he returned, marvelling at the ceiling. He headed for them rather than Mrs. Lambdon and Mr. Grayling, who stood together without conversation, examining the walls in a disconsolate fashion. Miss Merton gave her companion a frown as Curtis approached.

“No, Fen,” she said firmly.

“Oh, Pat, don’t be strict.” Miss Carruth pouted. “Mr. Curtis, I’m desperate to know. The account of the caves in that wonderful book—is it true? Was it like this?”

One of his uncle’s travelling companions had written a colourful account of the trip to the diamond mines that had made Sir Henry Curtis rich and famous twenty-five years ago. Curtis was used to being asked to verify some of the less plausible details. “It was true, yes. The natives used a cave very like this to entomb their dead kings around a table under drips of limestone. Turning them into human stalagmites.”

Miss Carruth shuddered pleasurably. Miss Merton gave him a look. “Are you
quite
sure that’s true? It seems very impractical and rather dramatic.”

“Mr. Quatermain did have a flair for the dramatic,” Curtis admitted. “Hence the success of the book. But my uncle is a very truthful man.”

Lambdon returned from a side passage, escorting Mrs. Grayling, who looked a little flushed. Miss Merton made a clicking noise with her tongue, very quietly. James and Lady Armstrong followed from the direction of the white gallery, with Holt behind them, and the party set off back down the hill and over the moors towards Peakholme and tea.

Curtis was dressing for dinner when there was a rap on the door. If that was that bloody encroaching servant Wesley come to offer his services… He called, “Yes?” in a less than welcoming tone.

“Good evening,” murmured da Silva, slipping in.

“Oh,” Curtis said. “Hello.”

“Nominally, and in the unlikely event of watchers through the mirror, I’d like to borrow a collar stud.”

Curtis fished one out. “Here you are. Any progress?”

“I have plans for this evening.” Da Silva pocketed the stud. “Rub your leg a bit tonight, as if the knee hurts, will you? I thought we might send you back tomorrow needing to see your specialist. Overexertion with that unwise trip to the caves.”

“That’s a jolly good idea, but—tomorrow?”

“The quicker you get to Vaizey, the better.”

“Of course.” Curtis swallowed. Naturally he wanted to leave this hellish house of intrigue and its good chaps and charming ladies. Naturally, he knew that crucial information had to be carried and he was the man to do it. It was just…

Da Silva was speaking. “If you ask him to wire me warning of the relief’s arrival, he’ll know what to say.”

“Right. Will do.”

“You look like a Viking who’s been hit on the head without the benefit of a helmet. Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Da Silva gave him a slight frown. Curtis managed a smile. “Fine. A little annoyed, that’s all. I had a rather unpleasant talk with Holt earlier.”

Da Silva’s eyebrow flicked up. “Is he capable of any other kind?”

“Not to you, I should think. How do you tolerate that sort of thing?”

“I’m terribly rude, in situations where people can’t hit me. What did he say to annoy you so?”

“Oh, nothing worth repeating. I’ll get that excuse underway for tomorrow.”

“Good.” Da Silva hesitated by the door. He was sleeked and primped, dressed for elegant battle, with an outrageous frilly bloom in his buttonhole, but the undone collar, wings loose, revealed the hollow at the base of his neck, and Curtis couldn’t take his eyes off it. He wanted to see da Silva undressed, dishevelled, undefended. He could almost feel the sensation of pulling open his white shirt, popping stud after stud, to reveal that pierced nipple, and pressing his face to the smooth skin. The need was on him out of nowhere, so strong that he could barely breathe.

“Do you need assistance?” da Silva asked, and for a fraction of a second Curtis couldn’t tell what he was offering.

“The collar studs? No. I can manage.” Curtis cursed himself as the words left his mouth. Of course he could manage, of course he didn’t need those agile fingers working around his neck and down his chest, but…

“Are you sure?” Da Silva’s eyes were on his, and his voice was just a little breathy. Curtis’s mouth went dry.

“It, uh…” He couldn’t think of anything to say but he held out a hand, his own studs in the palm, towards da Silva and saw his eyes flicker down and up again.

Da Silva plucked the studs off his palm and moved over, softly, standing very close, so close Curtis imagined he could feel the warmth of his slim body. He lifted his hands to Curtis’s throat, nudging his chin up with a knuckle, and then, very slowly, ran the back of his finger down his neck, over his Adam’s apple, delving just a fraction under the cloth of his shirt.

Da Silva reached up to fix the stud. He hooked a finger into the front of the collar and tugged gently, and Curtis swayed forward in helpless response.

“Mmm.” Da Silva’s breath was warm, tickling his skin. “I should probably apologise.”

“What for?” Curtis managed.

“I distressed you.” Da Silva’s fingertip stroked the beginnings of stubble. “That business earlier was a trifle hectic. It wasn’t my intention to cause you upset.”

“You didn’t.” Curtis felt the skin of his throat moving against da Silva’s finger as he spoke.

“I think I did, a little.” Da Silva’s lips curved in that secret smile. “I hope it was upset of the pleasanter sort.”

Curtis gave a convulsive swallow. Da Silva made a face, looking a touch annoyed. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t come in to bring that up.” He slipped the stud deftly, impersonally into place, closing off Curtis’s neck with the starched material. “Quite seriously, I’d hate you to worry on my account. Be assured, you need not.”

“I shan’t. Wait.” Curtis reached out as da Silva made to move, putting a hand to his shoulder before he was even sure what he was going to do. Da Silva stopped at once, unnervingly motionless, eyes watchful. “May I assist you? In return?”

Da Silva hesitated. Curtis said, in the lightest tone he could, “Do allow me. Please.” It wasn’t nearly light enough.

Da Silva’s lips parted, then curled. “I’d be most grateful.”

He took the stud from his waistcoat pocket with two deft fingers and dropped it in Curtis’s extended palm, then lifted his face, eyes on Curtis’s, mouth so close. Curtis’s breath caught. If he just leaned forward now—

He’d never kissed a man in his life, that bit of playacting in the library aside, and that had been none of his choice and over before it began. To do it himself, to lean forward and bring his mouth to another man’s…that was unthinkable. Or, at least, he’d never acted on any such thought. Tossing a fellow off was one thing, a practical matter, but to kiss a man, as a lover—that felt like an irrevocable step, a terrifying one.

He wanted to do it. He wanted to kiss da Silva, wanted to see what he would taste like, how his lips would feel. He had no idea if da Silva kissed other men.

Da Silva was still watching him, waiting. Curtis swallowed, throat tight in the constraining material, then took the wings of the collar, allowing his fingers just to touch the warm skin. He could feel the pulse fluttering in da Silva’s neck.

“You’ve very careful,” da Silva murmured. “Interesting.”

“Why interesting?” Curtis threaded the stud through the hole, conscious of the ugly shape of his leather-clad, mutilated hand.

“Well. That Viking build.” Da Silva’s eyes flickered down the length of his body and up again. “That delightful, masterful, soldierly way of yours. I expected a more, shall we say, bull-at-a-gate approach. Conquering by brute force. And instead you’re sliding it in, bit by bit, so very carefully and gently that I can hardly feel the penetration—”

Curtis fumbled the stud. The back half sprang from his fingers and dropped to the floor. He stared at da Silva, open-mouthed, and saw him glance up from under long dark lashes with unmistakable mischief.

“You utter sod,” Curtis said.

“Sorry.” Da Silva held a hand up to stop him from speaking. “I
am
sorry, that wasn’t fair. You—well, you’re quite the temptation, you know.”

“I want to see you again,” Curtis blurted out.

“See?” Da Silva’s well-shaped brow arched. Curtis was sure he plucked them, and didn’t care. They were beautiful. Da Silva was beautiful, and standing painfully close, and Curtis could have reached out and pulled him into his arms—

“You know what I mean.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve a favour to return.”

Da Silva’s eyes widened, lips parting, and now Curtis was quite sure that he could press his own lips to that tantalising mouth, that da Silva would meet him there, if he could only make himself take the step. He swallowed. “Do you—do you think they’re watching now?”

“Christ, I hope not.”

“Then—”

“No.” Da Silva’s smile was rather crooked. “That is—a delightful offer, my dear, and I can’t tell you how much I should like to accept, but, and I hesitate to point this out,
not queer
, hmm?”

Curtis couldn’t give a damn at this moment. He had other concerns. “Why don’t you let me worry about that?”

“Oh God, I’d love to.” Da Silva’s eyes were so dark, ridiculously dark. Eyes a fellow could drown in, and Curtis might not be practised in these matters but he couldn’t mistake the desire he saw in them.

“Then—” He made a fractional movement forward, and da Silva stepped back and away.

“I’d love to,
but
, believe it or not, I do have some decent impulses.” His mouth twisted. “You need to go to London tomorrow, and deal with your uncle, and do the things that gentlemen do. I have work to do here tonight. And the dinner gong has been struck. Duty calls.” He turned and whisked out of the room before Curtis could speak, leaving him staring.

He took a deep breath, bent, with some difficulty, to pick up the abandoned stud, then sat on the bed and put his head in his hands.

He was going back down to London tomorrow. He would tell Sir Maurice everything, or at least, most of it. He would ensure help was sent—able-bodied help, people who would handle things like professionals. That would be the end of his involvement.

He would never see da Silva again.

He could find him, of course. He could go among the Bohemian types, poets and painters and sculptors and arty sorts. He could seek him in the clubs where men danced with men. He could go into the East End, into the narrow, poorly lit lanes where dark faces filled crowded shops, looking for the locksmith’s son.