Speak Its Name: A Trilogy (10 page)

Had it not been for a slight irregularity of birth, Darling might have met that qualification. His sire had provided generously for Mrs. Darling, had seen to it that Jack had a comfortable home and respectable schooling, but due to the unfortunate situation of his being already married to someone else, that gentleman could give the mother of his son neither his name nor the benefit of his social standing. So instead of being the younger son of a man well-placed in the nobility, Jack Darling was raised as the son of a widowed officer’s wife... a widow who had never actually been married. Her lover had influence and money enough to arrange for her to move to London with a new name and a carefully constructed history; Mrs. Darling raised her son under a mantle of genteel respectability.

It wasn’t until Jack had actually joined the army that his distraught mother revealed any of this. Up to that point, he’d believed what she had told him, that his father had been a captain in the cavalry and had been killed in action just before his only child was born. In the few minutes it took her to explain, he was transformed from hero’s son to bastard.

So much for illusion. He had already enlisted, though; it was too late to do anything about that. “At least let your father get you a commission!” his mother had wailed.

Anger made him snap, “My father’s dead. You told me so yourself,” before making his escape. It had been a dramatic exit line, but he could have kicked himself afterwards for the missed opportunity. He’d had plenty of time to regret his rash decision, even though he had made amends with his mother.

Luckily, his army-mad boyhood had prompted him to learn all he could about the job, and he proved to be good at it. It was not until he met his Waterloo at Maiwand, and knew that he would follow Lord Robert Scoville to the ends of the earth, that he realised just how comprehensively stupid he had been. What might have happened if he could have met Lord Robert as a fellow officer?

As the years passed and hope died, Jack learned to make the best of things. He enjoyed the travel that was part of his job. He expanded his mind in museums and his soul at concerts and the theatre. He lived in comfort and ate the best foods, becoming something of a chef along the way. He enjoyed the intimacy of those shared meals, prepared and eaten without the bother of a cook or other domestics. When the physical frustration became unbearable, he would indulge in a casual
pas de deux
with another man who shared his inclinations—not infrequently those who worked for Lord Robert’s acquaintances. There had never been anyone special, though, and he never allowed the indulgence to become habitual.

Lord Robert had once made a mild joke about Darling’s dallying with housemaids, and Jack had cultivated that inaccuracy. He might not be deemed worthy of his lordship’s attention, but his pride would not allow him to let it look as though he might want it.

By now, Jack felt that his position as indispensable manager of Lord Robert’s household was fairly secure. He was relieved that his employer had never made any effort toward acquiring a wife to keep up appearances, and was equally grateful that his lordship lacked any interest in the aesthetic set that circulated around the flamboyant Mr. Wilde.

Taken altogether, Jack’s life was a pleasant one. If he had the occasional pang of longing as he’d had this evening, a wish that he could slide into bed beside that strong, slender body and gather it into his arms... well, how many men really got everything they wanted?

It helped that he could remind himself that Lord Robert was far from constant in his affections. He had gone through a string of temporary, occasional lovers. Jack had seen them all—and he had seen them leave. It was better to be the one who stayed. Not perfect, perhaps. Not his heart’s desire. But better.

The gentle rocking of the car eventually lulled him into a dreamless sleep that was disturbed, much too soon, by a faint but insistent tapping. Jack opened his eyes in pitch darkness, which at this time of year meant well before five a.m. And the porter wasn’t supposed to wake them until a quarter past six.

The tapping stopped. Ten seconds later, it resumed.

As quietly as he could, Jack extricated himself from his bedroll and went through the connecting door to his own compartment. Pistol? No, the noise would bring unwanted company. But he did snatch up Lord Robert’s ebony walking stick, with its heavy silver handle. The rumble of the train’s movement muffled the slight sounds as he pulled the trunk aside and cautiously opened the second compartment’s door into the corridor.

A short, well-dressed man was standing, slightly hunched, outside the door to Lord Robert’s compartment. Darling could not see his face beneath the brim of a dark homburg, but as the man raised his hand to tap on the door once again, he closed the other door behind him. “May I assist you?”

The inconsiderate visitor jumped at the sound, and looked up; it was Jack’s turn to be surprised. The last time he’d seen this gentleman, they both had been in uniform. “Captain McDonald?”

“No names, if you please.” He took a few steps toward Darling. “I must speak to Lord Robert immediately. It’s a matter of greatest urgency.”

He was speaking in a low tone, which suited Darling perfectly. “That will not be possible. His Lordship is unwell.” Even if Lord Robert had been in perfect fettle, Darling would have discouraged this particular visitor.

But McDonald was a man accustomed to getting his own way; he didn’t budge. “His Lordship could be a damned sight worse than unwell if he’s not careful. There’s a man aboard this train who’s a danger to all three of us. Will you open this door?”

“No, sir, I will not. In any case, I believe your warning may be several hours too late.”

Alarm flickered across McDonald’s handsome but peevish face. “Unwell, you said—was he attacked? Injured?”

“Not seriously. However, the doctor prescribed a good night’s sleep and I intend to see that his orders are carried out. If you would care to return at seven a.m., or perhaps join his Lordship in the dining car for breakfast—?”

“No. We mustn’t be seen together. That’s why I came by at this ungodly hour.”

“If you would be so good as to entrust me with the particulars, I will convey the information to his Lordship when he awakens. The name and description of—”

“Stuffy as ever, aren’t you, Darling?” McDonald smirked, looking him up and down with a more than casual eye. “You really should have stayed in uniform—it lent you a certain air of authority.”

Jack said nothing. Cecil McDonald had been one of those officers who stayed overnight at Major Scoville’s quarters. The association had been short, to Darling’s relief, and the break had been complete. He did not know what had caused it, nor did he care.

The army captain’s uniform McDonald wore back then had lent him a certain air, too, but he had been slimmer then, and better looking. What once was youthful charm had deteriorated into a petulant childishness, and his insults were no more clever now than then. The only thing to do was ignore them and wait him out.

“Oh, very well,” McDonald said, when it became apparent that Jack was neither going to let him in nor respond to his gibe. “I’ll return at seven—and you’d better drop those airs, if you know what’s good for you.”

“As I told you once before, sir, I answer to Lord Robert, not to you. You may discuss my behaviour with his lordship at any time you choose.”

For a moment Jack thought—hoped—that McDonald might be about to strike him, but he was cheated of the opportunity to defend himself when the other man whirled and stormed off down the corridor. Jack waited for several minutes to be sure McDonald was well and truly gone before returning to his compartment. So that was the familiar face that his lordship had hinted they might see. Damn. So many good men they’d known, and it had to be that arrogant bastard.

Jack found his watch where he’d left it, and by the light of a match he saw that it was twenty minutes shy of four in the morning. He might yet salvage a couple of hours’ rest; best to get back under the covers before a brass band and a troupe of acrobats paraded down the corridor. Snug in his blankets, he ordered himself to go to sleep and not think about this new turn of events.

Easier said than done. He could remember the first encounter with McDonald as though it were yesterday. The regiment had been stationed in India at an established outpost, which meant actual barracks instead of tents, cisterns that held rainwater, some rudiments of civilization. If one took care to avoid the cobras and nastier vermin, one could achieve a minimal degree of comfort.

Then Captain Cecil McDonald had ridden through on his way to a new posting. Major Scoville had greeted him in a friendly manner—a
very
friendly manner—and told Darling to put McDonald in the room beside his own, after he got him a bath and saw to his comfort.

McDonald jumped to a conclusion that took far too much for granted. “Darling, is it?” he said as he followed the sergeant into his quarters, then laughed in a way that made Jack want to knock him flat. “Well, then, Darling, I could use a bit of comfort—” He began to undo his uniform trousers, and Darling stepped back.

“Captain, I fear you have come to an erroneous conclusion.” He slapped the tin washbasin down on the rattan table and placed the heavy pitcher of water beside it. “Here is your washwater; I will see to it that food is brought to you.”

McDonald grinned and tilted his head. It was clear that he thought himself irresistibly charming. “Come, now, Darling—what a perfect name!—I’ve seen the way you look at him. Surely you don’t expect me to believe it’s all platonic!”

“What you believe is not my concern,” Jack had shot back, mortified that his feelings were so obvious to this oaf. “I take my orders from Major Scoville, and he has never given me an illegal order. Nor do I expect him to. You are, of course, free to report any dereliction on my part.” He turned on his heel and left, and made arrangements to have McDonald’s meal taken to him by an elderly servant afflicted with broken teeth and boils.

He’d spent the night wound up in a knot of anxiety, wondering what sort of report Major Scoville would hear. Should he have put his aversion to one side and acquiesced? A bad report from an officer could ruin a soldier’s career, and he had not served with Major Scoville long enough to guess what his reaction might be to McDonald’s complaint.

As it turned out, there’d been no reaction at all. Jack had never dared ask whether a complaint had been lodged, and of course he had held his peace regarding McDonald’s imposition. Scoville’s only comment, when his fellow officer left the following morning, had been to the effect that people could change in ways one would never expect. Jack guessed from the customary neatness of Major Scoville’s bed that if McDonald had expected to spend the night there he had been disappointed, which would account for his poisonous attitude at the breakfast table.

Why had McDonald survived the war, when so many good men were dead?

And here he was back again, ruining what was left of another night’s rest. Jack sat up and flipped his pillow over, seeking a more comfortable position. He could not find one, and finally gave up on the prospect of getting to sleep. He wasn’t going to relax until he knew why Cecil McDonald was here and what he was up to.

~

“McDonald!”

“I’m afraid so, my lord.”

“Damn.” Scoville closed his eyes again. He’d awakened feeling quite well, much better than he’d expected to, but Darling’s announcement was a headache all by itself. “Didn’t he tell you anything?”

“Only that he believes there to be a man on board who is a danger to us all. I could not determine whether that was all he knew, or simply all he would tell me.”

Scoville rubbed his forehead. “If we’re in danger, it’s stupid to play guessing games. What if he were killed before he told us?”

“Well, my lord, should that happen, I suppose we would at least know that he was telling the truth.”

“He’s a damned fool.”

“I would certainly never contradict your lordship’s assessment of the gentleman’s character,” Darling said with an ironic look. “Ready for a shave, my lord? I’ve heated the water on the spirit lamp.”

“Very well, Darling. I suppose if he’s going to inflict himself upon us I’d better be prepared. Seven, you said?”

“That was the hour I suggested. I have no idea whether or not he will appear.”

It was true that reliability had never been one of Cecil’s virtues. Hard to remember, now, whether he had actually been possessed of any apart from a willingness to engage in bedroom sport. That was all Scoville himself had been interested in when they were at Oxford, but he should have put the youthful indiscretion aside when he’d graduated. Allowing it to continue when they’d both entered the service had been a mistake.

“Let’s make ourselves presentable, then. Or, rather, I must let you make me presentable—you are never anything less.”

Their conversation ceased while Darling shaved him—sensible in any case, more so when the train’s movement made the ordinary task just a bit hazardous. If anyone else had been wielding the razor, Scoville would have postponed the shave until they reached their hotel. He considered being shaved a silly ritual—he could have done the job himself—but Darling did it better, his sure, deft hands scraping away the stubble with a surgeon’s skill. And the hot towel he drew across Scoville’s freshly-shaved face felt wonderful, easing the lingering headache from yesterday’s misadventure. By the time Darling patted on the bay rum, Scoville was feeling ready to take on the world.

But seven a.m. came and went with no sign of a visitor. After they’d waited for half an hour, Darling went off to locate breakfast while his lordship gazed out the window at the scenery speeding by and mused on the night’s peculiar visitation.

Cecil the ever-unreliable. Why the devil had he appeared on the train, instead of the café in Vienna in two days’ time? Why hadn’t he simply handed his parcel, whatever it was, to Darling? Surely he had to know that passing the information to Darling was every bit as secure as—

No
. Scoville’s thoughts hit a bump just as the train did, going over switch points. Perhaps he should consider the event in a different light. What if Cecil were not the courier?