Alleviating suspicion, Curtis thought. Da Silva’s hot mouth, sliding up and down his length, the clever tongue curling round the head of his cock, the nipple ring that had pressed briefly against Curtis’s bare thigh when da Silva had leaned against him. “Yes.”
“Like you, I accepted an invitation for a fortnight.” Da Silva spoke with his usual smoothness. If he was feeling the flood of sensory memory that was assailing Curtis, it didn’t show in his face. Had he sucked off so many men that one more left him unmoved? “I’d rather not wait that long before raising the alarm. Either of us might give our knowledge away at any time.”
“You mean that I might, I suppose.”
Da Silva shrugged. “However, I’m not sure how we go about calling for help. The house telephone goes through an exchange located here, via an operator, who is a servant of the Armstrongs and Peakholme.”
“They’ll listen in, you think?”
“I’m quite sure they will. It might be all right to send a telegram or a letter, but I wouldn’t put it past them to open their guests’ post, and I am sure that they’d open yours and mine, in the hope of written admissions, or even other names to pursue.”
“I expect they might. Well then, one or the other of us will have to cut our visit short.”
“It’s the best option. It would be terribly rude to our hosts, of course.”
“I’m sure you could manage that,” Curtis said.
A glimmer of amusement lit da Silva’s eyes. “Doubtless.” He hesitated. “Not to embarrass you, but we should address the question of any compromising photographs that may have been taken last night. I think we have to assume they were taken.”
Curtis nodded. He could imagine what the damned things looked like as if he held them in his hands. His thickly muscled bare chest, his face contorted with pleasure, the slim dark man kneeling between his thighs, head bowed.
“The problem is not just finding the films, and any photographs made from them. It’s that removing them makes it obvious that we know what the Armstrongs are up to. Then either they will have to deal with us, or they will destroy the evidence in that cabinet, or both.” Da Silva removed his heavy overcoat and laid it down with care. “It is warm, isn’t it. What I would prefer is to take the evidence of all the illegal activity, ours and theirs, and depart without ceremony. Did you motor here?”
“Can’t,” Curtis managed. How could he talk so casually? “My hand. I can’t grip the wheel. Can you drive?”
“No. We could, I suppose, walk, but I don’t imagine you like the idea of a thirty-mile tramp across rough terrain in this weather any more than I do, and Armstrong’s men will doubtless move faster and know the country better.”
“The ground’s too open for that, if you’re worried about pursuit.” This at least was familiar stuff. “Very little cover, long lines of sight. Have you any experience with stalking?” The slender, velvet-coated form lounging against the wall did not seem to belong to a man used to open spaces.
Da Silva shuddered. “God, no. I don’t hunt. Very well, we’ve no means of a quick exit. I think, then, you should return to London for a chat with your Uncle Maurice. This is his sort of business. Warn me by telegram—I’ll give you some innocuous wording to use—and I will remove those pictures before the troops get here.”
Curtis frowned at that. It was casually put, but what it came down to was da Silva alone, risking discovery by dangerous men. “Why don’t you go to London and I’ll stay?”
“You can’t pick locks.”
“You can’t deal with the alarm.”
“I watched you. It was hardly a complicated process. You could teach me.”
Curtis probably could, but that was still unacceptable. “I think the risk of attack from the Armstrongs is far greater for you than for me.” He didn’t need to spell out why. If something happened to well-born, wealthy war hero Archie Curtis, important people would care. The redoubtable Sir Maurice Vaizey and the old warrior Sir Henry Curtis would not rest till they had found their nephew, alive or dead. Da Silva had no birth or social standing, he was unlikely to have influential friends, and the Armstrongs would not expect the disappearance of a demimonde Portuguese Jew to cause concern in any circles that mattered. Curtis would make one hell of a fuss if anything happened to the man, of course, but by then it would be too late.
Da Silva was shaking his head. “I wouldn’t be so sure. I think you may underestimate the ruthlessness at play here, and if you’ll forgive the plain speaking, you are not well equipped to deal with that.”
Curtis stared at him, almost speechless. How dare the bloody effeminate say—how dare he imply—? He took a very deep breath. “I can look after myself, and a damned sight better than some prancing pansy. You take this information out. Talking’s what you’re good at.”
“Oh dear God, the British soldier, heroically setting his jaw against overwhelming odds. You don’t have a Gatling gun here.” Da Silva’s tone was caustic.