Curtis was laughing too. “‘Broken Down: A boy’s adventure among the Fragmentalists.’”
Da Silva snorted inelegantly, shoulders shaking. Curtis felt rather pleased to be holding his own against the other man’s quicksilver wit. He hadn’t noticed anyone else at this party making da Silva laugh.
He grinned, and da Silva smiled back, and then the smile faded, and tilted, and now it wasn’t boyish any more. It was…intimate. Inviting. And this was not Curtis’s line at all, but even he could see that the dark eyes on his were taking him in, the gaze sliding over him with clear appreciation.
He was alone in a room with a chap who preferred men, and the fellow was looking at him.
Curtis couldn’t think of a damned thing to say.
Da Silva’s mouth curled in that secret smile of his, enjoying a joke that nobody else could hear. He began, “You know,” pushing himself forward from his lounging stance, then looked round quickly as the door opened.
“There you are, Curtis.” Holt and Armstrong clattered in. “What say that game of billiards?”
Neither man included da Silva in the invitation, but he was already drifting over to another set of bookshelves, light on his feet as ever, features blank, oblivious to everyone present.
“What the devil’s that?” demanded Armstrong, prodding at the book on the arm of Curtis’s chair. “Poetry? Good God, you aren’t reading that tripe, are you? The Fish-pond?” he read out with heavy contempt. “What rubbish. Oh, I say.” He’d clearly registered the author’s name. “Let’s have a look.”
If Curtis wanted to see bullying, he’d go back to school. He pushed himself upright, swiped the book from Armstrong’s fingers before he could open it, and limped over to return it to the shelf, feeling the stiffness in his knee that came after sitting for too long. He flexed his leg with annoyance. “If you’re after a game, let’s play.”
He didn’t know if he was anticipating one o’clock or dreading it. Both, perhaps. He went up to his room early with a plea of tiredness, needing to get away from the boisterous young men who proposed game after game of billiards, bridge or whist, and lay on his bed fully clothed. He was uncomfortably aware of the mirror that occupied so much of the wall opposite, its blankness gazing down on him.
Was there someone watching him now? No, that would be absurd. But he couldn’t help thinking of the pretty maid who he had surprised in his room earlier that evening. Was that chance, or had she been waiting for him? Or if Mrs. Grayling’s smiling flirtatiousness had caught his interest? Would someone be watching then?
The party broke up downstairs around half past eleven. By a quarter to one, the house was silent. Curtis waited a few minutes more, then had to go before his nerves got the better of him. Clad in black trousers and a dark pullover under his navy dressing gown, dark lantern in hand and wires in his pocket, he slipped down the stairs as silently as he could.
He examined the storeroom door to satisfy himself his planned rig-up would work, then waited in the library for a couple of minutes, tense and impatient, not sure if he should start without da Silva, or if he should be here at all. What if this was some sort of scheme? What if da Silva couldn’t be trusted? What if his host came down and saw him, here— He shuddered at the thought.
In the hall and over the house, clocks let out a single chime, and the door slid open with a whisper of air. Try as he might, Curtis could barely hear da Silva’s footfall as he slipped in.
Da Silva shut the library door before switching on the flashlight. “Hello,” he murmured. “Ready? Very well. Shall I pick the lock first or will you need to do your electrical wizardry?”
“Can you pick the lock without opening the door? Good, then do that. Don’t open it, even a little.”
“Understood. You watch for the hall. Listen out.”
Curtis nodded, and held out the dark lantern to his partner in crime. He stood sentry, in the dark, listening for noise in the hall, watching the deft, precise movements of da Silva’s hands in the pool of light surrounding the lock, since he could see nothing else. In just a couple of moments, he heard a quiet click.
“All yours,” da Silva said softly. “I’ll watch out.”
Curtis made his way over, feeling like some great galumphing beast next to his light-footed companion. It was the work of moments to attach the wire he’d taken from a workroom to the contacts with the putty he had also picked up, ensuring that the circuit would remain connected.
“What’s that?” Da Silva spoke close to Curtis’s ear, breath tickling his cheek, making him jump.
“God’s sake,” he hissed. “Make some damned noise, can’t you?”
“Certainly not. What is it?”
“I’ve rigged a wire. It’ll keep the circuit complete, I hope. It’s long enough to maintain the connection as we open the door. Just don’t dislodge it.”
“I see. You, ah, ‘hope’?”