“You utter sod,” Curtis said.
“Sorry.” Da Silva held a hand up to stop him from speaking. “I am sorry, that wasn’t fair. You—well, you’re quite the temptation, you know.”
“I want to see you again,” Curtis blurted out.
“See?” Da Silva’s well-shaped brow arched. Curtis was sure he plucked them, and didn’t care. They were beautiful. Da Silva was beautiful, and standing painfully close, and Curtis could have reached out and pulled him into his arms—
“You know what I mean.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve a favour to return.”
Da Silva’s eyes widened, lips parting, and now Curtis was quite sure that he could press his own lips to that tantalising mouth, that da Silva would meet him there, if he could only make himself take the step. He swallowed. “Do you—do you think they’re watching now?”
“Christ, I hope not.”
“Then—”
“No.” Da Silva’s smile was rather crooked. “That is—a delightful offer, my dear, and I can’t tell you how much I should like to accept, but, and I hesitate to point this out, not queer, hmm?”
Curtis couldn’t give a damn at this moment. He had other concerns. “Why don’t you let me worry about that?”
“Oh God, I’d love to.” Da Silva’s eyes were so dark, ridiculously dark. Eyes a fellow could drown in, and Curtis might not be practised in these matters but he couldn’t mistake the desire he saw in them.
“Then—” He made a fractional movement forward, and da Silva stepped back and away.
“I’d love to, but, believe it or not, I do have some decent impulses.” His mouth twisted. “You need to go to London tomorrow, and deal with your uncle, and do the things that gentlemen do. I have work to do here tonight. And the dinner gong has been struck. Duty calls.” He turned and whisked out of the room before Curtis could speak, leaving him staring.
He took a deep breath, bent, with some difficulty, to pick up the abandoned stud, then sat on the bed and put his head in his hands.
He was going back down to London tomorrow. He would tell Sir Maurice everything, or at least, most of it. He would ensure help was sent—able-bodied help, people who would handle things like professionals. That would be the end of his involvement.
He would never see da Silva again.
He could find him, of course. He could go among the Bohemian types, poets and painters and sculptors and arty sorts. He could seek him in the clubs where men danced with men. He could go into the East End, into the narrow, poorly lit lanes where dark faces filled crowded shops, looking for the locksmith’s son.
And what would he do once he’d found him?
They had nothing whatsoever in common, of race or society or taste or intellect. Velvet jackets and poetry readings were as far from his experience as shooting parties and military talk were from da Silva’s, and Curtis had never had any time for the Bohemian set.
No, this was not an acquaintance it would be possible or sensible to carry on.
And yet… He liked the man, that was the truth of it. It wasn’t just this—whatever it was, between them that he wanted to pursue. He liked his sense of humour and his quick intelligence and his dedication. Liked his mouth, and those clever fingers, and the desire, for him, that had smouldered in those dark eyes…
Stop this. You’ve work to do, he told himself. Concentrate on the job. Da Silva’s not sitting next door thinking about you.
That was the wrong mental image to have conjured up. For a brief moment Curtis pictured da Silva, naked and tousled, lying back on the bed with dark eyes hooded and one hand stroking himself, then cut off the thought savagely.
It took him several minutes to get his cufflinks in. His hand kept shaking.
Chapter Nine
Dinner was a noisy affair. Lady Armstrong and Mrs. Grayling both bubbled with high spirits, and James Armstrong was in a crowing, boisterous sort of mood. Fenella Carruth exclaimed at length on the wonders of the cave and assured da Silva he should have come. His appalled response seemed genuine.
“Good heavens, no. Not at gunpoint. I don’t take Underground trains, far less descend into the depths of the uncivilised earth.”
“Really?”
“Dear child, I can’t bear cellars.”
“Scared of the dark, are you?” said James.
Da Silva lifted his eyes in a soulful gaze. “Man was born to walk on the surface of the earth, not its underside. Our nature is to aspire to the sun, and gaze at the stars.”