by KJ Charles
“I’m not very fond of it either.” Will didn’t want to say this next part, and made himself. “I can’t afford a hotel, though, not till I get probate, and I’d struggle to find a cheap room at this hour.”
“You’re welcome to stay with me,” Kim said matter-of-factly. “I’ve plenty of space and you need to get some sleep. Though, to be honest, I feel quite strongly you should reconsider letting the War Office in.”
“You think that?”
“Yes, with my dreadful Bolshevik past, I do. I don’t like this mob one bit, and I would prefer not to find you with your throat cut. I’m also going to hazard that the WO will find a way to lean on you sooner or later, and that won’t be pleasant. I don’t see this situation working out at all well for you unless you cooperate. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’d be dishonest not to say so.”
Will twisted round to examine his face. Kim opened his hands. “Sorry. But I can’t guarantee to turn up with a knife next time.”
“It’s my knife, and next time I’ll use it myself.”
“And who’ll run the bookshop when you’re arrested for grievous bodily harm?” He raised a hand at Will’s look. “All right, I hear you. You really are stubborn, aren’t you?”
“I don’t like to be pushed around.”
“As I said. Well then. If you aren’t happy leaving this place empty, I suggest I stay here overnight in case of further unwanted visitors, and tomorrow we search the blasted place from top to bottom. It’s Sunday so you wouldn’t be open anyway. Two men, twelve hours, partition it up: I think we have a fair chance. And if we don’t find it, I vote we keep going next week until we do.”
“Are you serious?” Will demanded.
“Why not?”
“I’m just wondering where you sprang from to make all my wishes come true.”
He realised approximately a second later how unfortunate those words were. Kim opened his mouth, closed it, and then lifted a brow with a rueful smile that did something sharp and painful to Will’s insides. “On which subject, we should discuss what happened earlier.”
“Uh,” Will managed. “Right.”
“Or if you want to pretend that incident never took place, we can.”
He sounded impossibly matter of fact. Will attempted to echo that. “Of course. If you want to, I mean.”
“Do you want to?”
I’m not the one with a fiancée, Will thought, but didn’t say. It was surely Kim’s responsibility to take that into account.
He knew a sudden, wicked urge to ask if Kim had learned to suck cocks from the Bolsheviks as well. He was having quite a lot of trouble reconciling that expert performance with the earlier shyness, or this dancing about. But that wasn’t fair. Kim was obviously torn in several directions, and making a fuss now would be an ungracious response to heroics that had saved Will a very nasty evening. “I...well, what do you want?”
Kim exhaled hard. “We appear to be locked in competition as to who has less of a spine.”
That was embarrassingly accurate. Will tossed back the remains of his whisky, took Kim’s tumbler from his unresisting hand, and put them both on the chair with the untouched mugs of tea. He shifted round as he sat back, and put his fingers to Kim’s cheek: the soft skin, the faint hint of stubble, the angle of his jaw and the tension of the muscle over it. They looked at each other for a moment, and then both leaned forward at once.
The kiss was a great deal gentler this time.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Will woke early the next morning, because it was bloody uncomfortable sharing a camp bed for one. It wasn’t particularly spacious on his own; with another man sprawled across him it was positively cramped, and that with about a third of Will’s body hanging precariously off the bed. The thought came to mind that he could get a bigger bed once he’d cleared an upstairs room for himself, and a less rickety one too, because he’d feared for its stability the night before. A bed you could fuck in, a bed you could share.
Whoever he might share it with. Kim was Lord Arthur Secretan, with a fiancée and a gentleman’s club and an upper-crust life doing whatever the upper crust did. He wasn’t going to be here long. If and when Will got a bigger bed, he’d be buying it for himself.
They’d made it slow the second time. That was a rare treat for Will, being able to take his time. His encounters with men had mostly been in wartime, and the odd back alley at night since demobbing: all hurried, none safe. It had been good to explore at his leisure. Kim was lovely in his way, pale and lean, with a fair few thin white scars on his forearms to suggest his lessons in knife-fighting had been practical ones. Will hadn’t commented, in the hope he wouldn’t have to field remarks about his own more numerous scars, including the ugly one on his thigh from a splinter of shell that had nearly done for him. Kim hadn’t raised the topic either. He had touched the raised, jagged line on Will’s belly very gently, but he didn’t ask.
They hadn’t talked about anything, in fact, awkward or otherwise. They’d just touched and kissed, hands and mouths moving in silence but with building intensity, until Kim had pulled Will over him, directing him with fingers rather than words, and Will had fucked him between closed thighs, bewildered and joyous.
And now it was some time before six in the morning, with birds singing for the not-yet-broken dawn, Kim’s arm was heavy across him in quiet-breathing slumber, and he was excruciatingly uncomfortable.
Bugger it. Will attempted to manoeuvre himself out of bed without falling on his arse, waking his companion, or knocking over the chair with its load of mugs and tumblers. He achieved precisely none of those goals.
“Christ,” Kim said, muffled, as Will cursed and grabbed for a dishcloth to mop up the spillage. “Bit early for house removals?”
“Sorry.”
Kim kicked off the blanket and stretched, an uninhibited movement that Will couldn’t help watching for the play of muscle under skin. It was hard to ignore that they both had a fair case of morning wood, but he did his best. “Tea?”
“Thanks. What appalling hour is it?”
“Five to six.”
“Oh God.”
Will put the kettle on and went about getting washed and dressed. Kim lay in bed, arm over his face, a picture of decadence.
“I don’t have much in for breakfast,” Will remarked apologetically.
“There must be a cafe somewhere, Sunday or not. We should fortify ourselves for the day’s work. And I need to fetch a change of clothes, too. Knife fights are one thing, but damned if I’m searching a bookshop when I’m dressed for the Savoy.”
He was still intending to do it. That was all the fortification Will needed, though a large breakfast would undeniably help.
There was something he’d wanted to ask and forgotten about last night. In fact, there were a few of those, and in the light of day, driven neither by desire nor the aftershocks of fear and anger, they seemed rather more urgent. “There’s a good cafe down the road. Why didn’t you want to call the police last night?”
“Good Lord, Will, at least give me tea before wrenching the subject around like that. What?”
“You didn’t want to call the police last night.”
“Well, nor did you, or you would have done,” Kim said unanswerably.
“But you said there was no point. Why not?”
“Ah, I see.” Kim swung himself to sit up, casting a hopeful glance at the teapot. “To be honest, I didn’t imagine it would be any use after what you said about reporting the first attack. I could have backed up your account of events, but I don’t suppose my record would make me a terribly helpful witness. And, from a selfish point of view, I was a little concerned at the thought that only one person out of the four of us last night actually injured anyone, and that was me.”
“You were defending me.”
“Under highly implausible circumstances. And suppose we had been taken seriously? You’d have to say what you thought your attackers were up to, and then we’d have th
e Metropolitan Police tangled into this with the War Office, and I bet I know whose side they’d take and...ugh. The fact is, if you’re determined not to cooperate with the War Office you can scarcely expect help from the other organs of the state.”
“So you’re for handling this ourselves.”
“If you want to keep control, I don’t see an alternative. If you want this to go away—well, I’ve told you what I think. It’s your choice.”
Will nodded. “Thanks.”
“What, for supporting your pig-headedness against my better judgement?”
“Well. Yes.”
“My pleasure,” Kim said with a quick smile. “Is that tea brewed yet?”
KIM WENT HOME TO CHANGE while Will nailed his back window shut, and returned to take him out for a slapping breakfast before they embarked on the search. He proved to be remarkably good at logistics, dividing up the bookshop into areas and allocating tasks. They worked together, Will going through the papers while Kim shook out books methodically and put a few aside if they were particularly interesting or valuable.
It was boring work, repetitive, dusty, and unrewarding, and it was the best day Will had had since Armistice.
He’d missed companionship more than he’d realised, being in harness with others and working together. Someone to talk to, someone who’d share your grumbles as you laboured to a common goal. He’d been bloody lonely since he’d come to London, at first because he barely knew anyone in the metropolis, then because the more your money dwindled, the harder it was to make and keep friends. You couldn’t go out for a drink, you were ashamed of the shabby state of your clothes, you feared people might expect you to touch them for cash so you withdrew first rather than endure that additional humiliation on top of poverty’s many other insults. Will’s mother had kept the doorstep scrubbed even when she’d struggled to put food on the table, and he’d inherited that drive to put pride before all.
And here he was now in his own bookshop, well fed, usefully busy, and enjoyably partnered. It made the violent assault and threat of torture seem quite worthwhile.
Kim seemed to be in his element as well. He whistled intermittently and tonelessly—Will found it mildly satisfying that he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket—and seemed entirely satisfied to flick through book after book, with occasional little grunts of approval. They talked sporadically, not about anything that mattered much. Kim mostly commented on what he found in the books: cheques, shopping lists, newspaper clippings. He found a ten-pound note at one point, which Will took for the petty cash, and several letters, each of which caused them both to sit up with excitement before the inevitable letdown.
“Got something—no, Gertie thanks Claudia for the lovely Christmas card, damn her,” Kim would announce as he pounced on them, or “This might be it—blast, it’s a recipe.”
“What sort of recipe looks like a secret weapon?” Will demanded.
“Stewed tripe and onions.”
“Fair enough.”
An hour after that Kim made an explosive noise. “Got something?” Will asked.
“Define ‘something’.”
He sounded odd. Will’s ears pricked up. “What is it? What does it say?”
“I’m too embarrassed to tell you. And that’s coming from a man who’s sucked your prick.”
Will choked. “What?”
Kim wordlessly presented a piece of notepaper covered in spidery handwriting redolent of forty years ago which reminded Will of his old schoolteacher’s, at least until he started reading. It was a letter addressed to ‘Snookums’ from ‘Booby’, which recounted their last meeting in staggeringly explicit detail along with Booby’s hopes for the next. The hopes in question appeared to involve every orifice both of the ladies possessed.
“Bloody hell,” Will said, awestruck. “That’ll teach me to underestimate the Victorians.”
“Their ladies, at least. I stand in awe at Booby’s turn of phrase.” Kim’s dark eyes brimmed with laughter. “I hope she had a highly successful career in some sapphic niche of the publishing trade, and that she satisfied all her desires with the delightful and accommodating Snookums. Except for the one in the last paragraph, because that’s a bit much.”
Will checked the last paragraph and winced theatrically. “No, I wouldn’t if I was Snookums. That’s got to sting. What did you find this in?”
Kim bit his lip, an absurdly boyish gesture, his eyes alight. “You won’t believe me if I tell you.”
“Where?”
“The Book of British Birds,” he said, and doubled over as Will howled.
They stopped for ale and sandwiches at lunchtime, eaten companionably on the shop floor, and worked through the afternoon. It was profoundly soothing, even if it turned up no mysterious scientific discoveries.
Will called a halt around six. They’d got through a good half of the shop floor and most of the boxes of paper in that time. It was dark, he was tired, and they were both saturated in paper dust. It was tickling Will’s nose, clogging his fingers, drying his eyes. Kim’s once-white shirt was tinted yellow-grey and his hair coated, like a stage performer trying to look old.
“I will be sneezing until 1940 at this rate.” He blew his nose on what had long ceased to be a spotless handkerchief. “Well, that was a good start. Another two or three days should surely do it, assuming the information is in a book. If it isn’t, I may weep.”
“Same.”
“I have also indulged myself as reward.” Kim pointed to a small stack of books he’d put aside. “May I purchase those?”
“I think you can have them.”
“Nonsense. List price. No, I absolutely insist,” he said over Will’s protestations. “Those are valuable, and I would have bought them otherwise.”
“But you’ve done a solid day’s work here, so—”
“Really, no,” Kim said firmly. “If you are minded to reward me, could I have this?” He indicated Booby’s letter.
“Of course. Er, why?”
“It will make the perfect Christmas present for a friend. She’ll adore it.”
Will picked up The Book of British Birds, slipped the letter inside, and handed it over. “It needs the packaging. And that’s definitely with my compliments.”
Kim calculated the cost of his purchases and paid up. His thumb left a smear of grime on one of the notes. “This must be what they mean by filthy lucre. You need an army of maids to clean this place, and I need a wash. I suppose there’s no bathroom here?”
“Just the sink. There’s a public bath a little way away.”
Kim grimaced as if a public bath were an intolerably tedious thing. “You’ll need your clothes cleaned, as do I. Can I offer you my facilities? I live on Holborn, it’s not too far.”
Will hesitated, torn between a strong desire to say yes, concern about leaving the shop unattended, and a deep sense he’d taken as much help as he could reasonably accept. Kim evidently saw the debate on his face and gave a smile that fell somewhere between apologetic and hopeful. “Just a bath. Really, it would make life a lot more pleasant and I think we both deserve a little comfort.”
If today had proved anything, it was that nobody was going to lay their hands on the information without a lot of time and effort. “All right.”
Kim’s smile twitched. “Jolly good.”
KIM HAD A SERVICED flat on the north side of Holborn, on the second floor of a grand yellow-brick block called Gerrard Mansions. Will hadn’t seen the inside of one of those before. It was very nice indeed.
“Comfortable,” Kim said when he commented. “I’ve a man who lives downstairs, and there are housekeepers for all the cleaning and cooking. It’s a great deal easier than keeping one’s own staff.”
“I’m sure it is,” Will said drily.
That at least meant he didn’t have to come into these clean, elegant rooms in his dirt and face the person who’d clean up after him. Kim went to run a bath, assuring Will the geyser would provide limitless hot water. Wi
ll took the chance to look around as best he could without leaving dusty fingerprints as evidence of his curiosity.
Kim had a good-sized sitting room with large windows giving a good view over the street. His furniture was all in the new style, with smooth modern lines and flourishes that seemed vaguely Egyptian to Will’s eye. The many lamps had elaborate stained-glass shades. That was a little surprising: Will had assumed Lord Arthur Secretan the marquess’s son would have piles of antiques. Possibly he was inclined to modernity, although the few paintings and pencil drawings on the wall were all pre-Raphaelite in style. In fact, as he looked closer, he saw they were pre-Raphaelites.
“This says Rossetti. Is that an original?” he demanded as Kim came back in his shirtsleeves. He’d washed his face, though his hair was still dusty.
“Yes, and that’s a Burne-Jones.” Kim indicated an exquisite little painting of a youthful medieval knight in yearning pose. “I know the style is terribly outmoded to modern sensibilities but I don’t—whisper my shame—I don’t like modern art. I prefer paintings to resemble the thing they depict, and I’d rather they depicted ideals and beauties than Dawn over an Industrial Graveyard or The Cost of War. I realise that my views are so naive as to be contemptible.”
“Are they?”
“According to artistic friends. I mix with Bohemians, you understand, the cutting edge of Chelsea, and to be honest, most of them are dreadful. I buy their paintings as a friend must, but don’t ask me to pollute my home with the things. If you want to give me your clothes, I’ll have them cleaned as far as possible while you bathe.”
He said that in quite a straightforward way, not at all like stripping bare was a prelude to more interesting activities. That reminded Will he wasn’t clear why he’d been invited to this elegant flat. Just for the bath? For more? Did Kim quite know himself?
Well, he’d find out, and meanwhile his clothes were a disgrace. “Thanks. I will.”
As a first step, he set to emptying his pockets, removing a handful of silver, a box of matches, an old bus-ticket, and a folded paper, which he realised was Draven’s letter. “Better keep that safe.”