Think of England (9 page)

“Yes, poor you, it must have been awful.” Da Silva’s low tone rang with icy fury. “You’re a martyr to your country. You underrate your skills at dissembling, though, I could have sworn you were able to endure the disgusting business without too much agony.” He gave Curtis a vicious fake smile. “After all, you came.”

That was just bloody rude, and Curtis found himself retorting, “You made me come!”

Even as he realised how childish that sounded, da Silva was on his feet. “Well, I beg your pardon for imposing myself on you. Next time you may pick your own locks, solve your own problems, and suck your own cock. Good night, Mr. Curtis.”

He stalked out. Curtis stared after him.

After a few moments sitting on the bed, looking at nothing, he readied himself for sleep with automatic movements. He tried not to look into the mirror, not to think, not to hear any noises from across the hall—of course there weren’t any, this was da Silva.

He turned off the light and lay in bed, looking at the dark.

He’d had to do it, of course. There was no question about what they had found, or the Armstrongs’ ruthlessness in keeping their secrets. Armstrong’s men had been watching, suspicious. He—they—had had to do
something
. Curtis wouldn’t have thought of da Silva’s solution in a hundred years, but since he hadn’t come up with an alternative then or now, he could hardly complain.

He couldn’t pretend it had been a hardship, of course. Granted, he’d enjoyed it, but who wouldn’t? Any man would have felt the same pleasure, he was sure of that. Anyone would have come under those astonishing ministrations, that tight, hot throat, the exploring tongue. Especially a man who had been bereft of companionship for so long. A fellow had needs, and da Silva certainly knew how to satisfy them.

He was sure da Silva had taken pleasure in sucking him too. Those sounds he’d made, the purr in his throat, the little moan… Did that change things? Make it, well, queer?

Surely not. It could make no difference to Curtis whether da Silva had enjoyed the act or not. And the fellow might be a pansy but he seemed a decent sort of chap at heart, underneath the mannerisms and the hard, prickly shell. Curtis wouldn’t have wanted him to find the act disgusting.

It would have been a great deal worse if da Silva
wasn’t
a queer sort, now he considered it. What then? What if Curtis had had to kneel in front of da Silva, to take him in his mouth…

His mind was wandering. He needed to sleep.

He’d had too many disturbed nights here to stay wakeful for long, and the years of campaigning had taught him to empty his mind, no matter his daylight concerns. As he drifted off, the one thought that stayed with him wasn’t the cabinet’s contents, or the later events. It was that caressing, intimate rub of da Silva’s face against his leather glove.

Chapter Six

The next morning, it rained.

Curtis sat at the breakfast table with his fellow guests. Da Silva, who seemed to be an unrepentantly late riser, was not among them. He was glad of that. He needed to speak to him, of course. They needed to work out how to bring their information to whoever might listen and act, and Curtis knew he should get things back on an even keel after last night’s drama, but he wasn’t sorry to put it off a little longer. Coming in a chap’s mouth made it rather awkward to look him in the eye.

It was bad enough making polite conversation with the Armstrongs.

The servants would have told their masters about last night, he was sure. One or the other Armstrong, maybe all three, would know what he’d done with da Silva. That was not a comfortable thought. Of course, the Armstrongs would not let on that they knew—if they said anything, it would be as the opening to extortion, and Curtis had resolved to deal with that promptly and forcefully. It would be something of a relief. But if the Armstrongs were keeping up the facade of normality, even the most compliant host might object to his guests setting off alarms with indecent, illegal behaviour in the library, and if Sir Hubert decided to have a quiet word of rebuke, Curtis would have to endure it, apologise even.

He had spared da Silva a few unkind thoughts as he came down to breakfast, braced for humiliation, but so far it appeared that the country-house rules of pretended ignorance applied. Sir Hubert was genial, Lady Armstrong wonderfully lively, rippling with laughter as she made mock lamentations about the rain. Lambdon and James Armstrong spoke like decent English fellows.

They were all so pleasant that last night took on even more of a dreamlike quality as he ate. He couldn’t reconcile these companionable, civilised people with the foul cabinet and its sheaves of betrayal, treachery and death. He could hardly believe anything of the events of last night, except that his black leather glove was still shiny where he had gripped da Silva’s brilliantined hair.

Da Silva drifted in halfway through the meal. His deep-set eyes were ringed with dark circles of sleeplessness, but he was impeccably dressed, hair sleeked back. Curtis wished he wouldn’t wear the stuff. He had a momentary mental image of da Silva’s tumbled locks last night, and blinked it away.

He gave an awkward nod of greeting and received a blank look.

“I was just saying to everyone, Mr. da Silva,” said Lady Armstrong in her silvery tones, “if it clears up this afternoon, I propose a walk to the limestone caves. They’re just a couple of miles away and so dramatic, I feel sure you’d be inspired.”

“I must decline. I abominate the subterranean, and my editorial labours call me. Do enjoy your explorations.” Da Silva helped himself to a kipper, apparently unaware that one should not contradict a lady, let alone one’s hostess. Curtis had to give him credit for sheer effrontery. The other men exchanged “what can you expect?” glances.

“In the meantime, do please resort to the games room,” Lady Armstrong went on. “Cards, billiards, and perhaps, if the weather sets in badly, we could plan a round of charades?”

“Oh, wonderful,” said Miss Carruth with enthusiasm. “I adore charades.”

Curtis couldn’t help glancing at da Silva. He was eating the smoked fish with catlike delicacy, a man with nothing more in his mind than avoiding pin bones.

Charades, indeed.

After breakfast Curtis, Grayling and Holt repaired to the billiard room, somehow bringing da Silva in their wake. James Armstrong and Lambdon had gone off with Miss Carruth and Mrs. Grayling, both ladies giggling with flirtatious amusement. Lady Armstrong had watched them with a smile that had seemed to Curtis just a little fixed.

“Do you play, da Silva?” Holt asked sceptically.

Da Silva didn’t react to the tone. “Less than I used to. I remember the principles.”

“Who’s playing who?” asked Holt.

“I’ll give you a game,” said Grayling with obvious haste to avoid being partnered with the wrong man. Da Silva’s mouth curled.

Curtis said, “Then it’s you and I, da Silva.”

“Can you play with that?” Da Silva nodded at his hand as Curtis chalked his cue.

“I’ve had plenty of practice. Don’t worry, you won’t be at an advantage.” He made a good break and straightened, pleased.

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” da Silva said, and proceeded to pot the next two balls.

Curtis stood back, moving from surprise to respect as da Silva worked the table. His hands were as deft on the cue as on the lockpicks, and he was obviously assessing the whole game as he moved round the table with economic grace, setting up the next shot each time he struck a ball. Curtis, a decent enough player but no strategist, watched with frank admiration.

Da Silva leaned over for a tricky shot. A lock of black hair fell loose, and he shook it away with a toss of his head. They had all stripped to waistcoats and shirtsleeves, and his cuffs were rolled back to reveal brown forearms. He was bent forward over the table, the position pulling his clothing tight over his slender, elegant body, those close-fitting trousers outlining a taut, very well-shaped backside. His lips were slightly parted in concentration, and Curtis had a sudden, powerful image of himself taking hold of the dark head as he lay sprawled on the table, of pushing his cock into that inviting mouth—

Curtis heard the hitch in his own breathing. Da Silva’s head jerked up as he struck, and his shot cannoned off the cushions.

“Blast. Your table, Curtis.”

He sounded nothing more than a touch annoyed at himself. Curtis nodded dumbly, fouled his next shot, and lost the game by a wide and deserved margin.

“Yes, well, very good.” Holt was looking over at them. “How are you against a fellow with two hands?”

“Still very good.” Da Silva’s smile glittered.

“Is that right. Would you care to put a wager on it?”

“No.”

“Not that confident?”

“On the contrary.”

“I’ll back da Silva, if we’re placing wagers,” Curtis offered, trying to keep the atmosphere pleasant. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so trounced.”

“A quid says otherwise.” Holt looked at da Silva with an unmistakable sneer. “Not backing yourself? Of course, you people are careful with the pennies.”

Da Silva’s eyes hooded, but the smile stayed on his lips. “Increase your stake, Curtis. I have your honour to uphold.”

“I shouldn’t.” Grayling looked uncomfortable. “Holt’s awfully good.”

Holt gave a modest shrug. “I can hold my own.”

“I dare say you have to,” murmured da Silva.

“I’ll make it a fiver,” Curtis put in, before anyone else thought twice about that remark.

“You’re a high flyer. It’s a shame to take your money. Here.” Holt handed a coin to da Silva to toss for first strike. “Don’t ‘forget’ to give it back.”

Da Silva, who had been about to flip the coin, took it between finger and thumb and dropped it onto the baize of the table. “You go first.”

Holt gave him a hostile look, then picked up the coin. Da Silva smiled. “Buy me a drink from your winnings, Curtis.”

“Really, what side,” muttered Grayling.

Holt was a good player, Curtis had seen that earlier. The two men seemed evenly matched at first. Holt took a serious approach to the game, with frowning concentration. Da Silva did nothing to break it—one couldn’t have accused him of the slightest failure of sportsmanship—but his affected stance while Holt worked, hand on hip, head tilted, could have been calculated to annoy any red-blooded man. In fact, Curtis realised, it probably was.

With the table half-cleared, the clock chimed. Da Silva, about to strike the ball, gave a breathy gasp and straightened, lifting his cue dramatically. “Was that the half-hour? Good heavens, time does fly in such charming company. I’ve
so
much work to do, you know. The Muse demands sacrifice.”

“You’re not abandoning the game?” Holt demanded.

“Heavens, no, not at all. But I
can’t
dally any longer.” Da Silva chalked his cue again, bent back to the table and proceeded to clear it without missing a shot.

The Englishmen watched open-mouthed. Da Silva moved like a snake, sinuous, unhesitating and absurdly fast, bringing his cue to each ball without waiting to see if the previous one had dropped into a pocket. The silence in the room was absolute except for Holt’s stertorous breathing, the whisper of ball on baize, and the click of ivory meeting ivory.

The last ball spun into its pocket, and da Silva straightened. “There,” he told Holt. “All done. Don’t ‘forget’ to pay Curtis, will you?”

He slotted his cue back into the rack, donned his coat with great care, adjusted his cuffs and strolled out.

“Well, I say,” said Grayling into the silence. “Honestly.”

“I knew it.” Holt was scarlet. “The man’s nothing more than a sharp.”

“Nonsense,” Curtis said.

“Nonsense? Did you see that?”

“He was toying with Holt,” said Grayling, undiplomatically. “Could have thrashed him any time he wanted.”

Holt glared at him. “A sharp, I tell you. They play like that in Jew-boy billiard halls in the East End—”

Curtis cut in. “They may do, but you can’t accuse a man of sharping you when he refused to play for money.”

“I don’t see why the devil you’re taking his side.” Holt looked startled and a little hurt by Curtis’s defection. Curtis felt somewhat startled himself, but a fact was a fact.

“He beat you fair and square, and not for money either. He’s a damned good player, which leaves the rest of us to be good losers.” Curtis let that sink in; a poor loser was a much-despised creature. Holt pressed his lips together. “Now, do you want to try and win back some of that fiver you owe me?”

They played two more games, and Curtis lost a fair amount of his notional winnings. It smoothed Holt’s ruffled feathers somewhat, but he still seemed aggrieved. Curtis couldn’t blame him.

He couldn’t really blame da Silva either. Holt hadn’t said anything much out of the ordinary, and one might have thought da Silva would be used to that sort of banter. He would hear it often enough, after all. But Curtis had fought the Boers, a handful of ill-equipped farmers who had almost defeated the British Empire through sheer obstinate pride, and he had recognised the flash in da Silva’s dark liquid eyes. A Latin tag that he’d learned as a schoolboy came to mind, along with its doggerel translation.
Nemo me impune lacessit
.
If you cross me, you’ll regret it.