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.”