~
The bath was indeed open and would be for another hour, time enough. When they stopped at the desk to drop off their room key, Scoville took a moment to send a message to Sir James at the Embassy. It wasn’t likely that McDonald had let anyone else know of his arrival in Vienna, and if he went missing again, it would be Woodward’s job, not theirs, to set the hounds on the trail.
It wasn’t until Scoville was in the changing room of the men’s bath that he felt a faint shock at the change reaching into the very core of his life. He was no longer performing a relaxing ritual of hygiene with his manservant; he was undressing beside a potential lover. He had never felt self-conscious around Darling before, but he felt naked, not merely unclothed, when they exchanged their garb for voluminous white robes of Turkish towelling. Jack was unusually silent and had turned away slightly. Scoville wondered if he, too, was feeling exposed.
They put on cloth slippers and followed the attendant through the bath’s anteroom. A few other men, pink as boiled shrimp, were sitting wrapped in robes and towels, letting their bodies cool before they put their clothes back on and ventured out to the hotel proper.
Beyond that area was the low-ceilinged steam room itself. Heat and moisture swirled around them as they stepped inside. Despite being tiled in dazzling white the room was dim, since the only light came through a thick plate glass panel in the door. Two heavyset older gentlemen were sitting on the bench to the left of the doorway, so Scoville automatically turned toward the one on the right. Jack sat down beside him, a judicious foot away. Scoville leaned back cautiously against the warmth of the tiles and took a slow, deep breath of the heated air. It was only when his body began to relax in the comfortable quiet that he realised how thoroughly tense he had been.
The chamber’s other occupants were conversing quietly in German, not his best language. What little he could understand suggested that they were concerned with the quality of last year’s hops, and speculating on the coming season. It was good to know that despite international intrigue, unreliable colleagues, and sudden emotional revelations, someone was still looking after life’s real essentials.
He stole a glance to his left. Jack was leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed. The poor chap must be exhausted, though he never showed it. No matter where they went or what he had to contend with, Darling was always alert, always on hand with the answer a half-second before Scoville uttered the question, always ready with a neatly phrased quip to turn attention away from his deeper feelings.
Until this evening. “He was not mistaken about my nature. Nor my feelings for you.”
Dear God. Scoville closed his own eyes. Darling had first met McDonald when, ten years ago? No, closer to twelve. It wasn’t that long after he’d assumed command in India. Had Jack been carrying a torch all this time?
That would answer one of the perennial questions, though, wouldn’t it—why Darling had been willing to settle for a position so far below his potential. Love could do that to a man. If Darling had been a woman, his motive would have been clear as daylight. Of course, if Darling had been a woman, the question would be moot.
Scoville knew men who could deal perfectly well with marriage. Most of the men he’d shared favours with had been married, in fact, and some even spoke affectionately of their wives. He’d envied them that ability to have a lifemate who was a friend as well as a sexual partner, though he suspected the wives would be horrified to know their husbands were stepping out on them, let alone with a man.
Or perhaps not. One of his own aunts made no secret of having ordered her husband to get himself a mistress after the birth of their sixth child. Scoville didn’t pretend to understand women; they were simply outside his frame of reference. Bedding one? He didn’t think he’d be able to accomplish the act.
So... marriage with a woman was impossible, marriage with a man was illegal. He had adjusted his personal expectations accordingly, and avoided forming deep attachments with any of his lovers. It had been surprisingly easy; he already had a steadfast companion.
Who loved him.
Robert Scoville had not expected that anyone would ever love him, except perhaps in the physical sense. It was a rational policy for a man of his sort, and the men he consorted with had similar expectations. Except for Aurelio, that summer in Rome. Aurelio had told him he was a fool, that he could trip over treasure and never see it for what it was. Aurelio had kissed him farewell and said, “I pity you English. So clever in your heads, so blind in your hearts.”
Right you are, Aurelio. Blind as a bloody bat.
He had not been paying attention to the two Germans; their quiet conversation was a kind of background murmur, and he noticed only when it stopped. They were standing now, wrapping their robes more closely around themselves and preparing to leave.
He was pleased to see them go. It meant he could look at his companion without arousing their curiosity. Jack looked terribly young asleep in that big robe, his hair ruffled, his lashes two black crescents on his cheeks, his mouth open just a little. So different from the alert, competent aide-de-camp or the impeccable gentleman’s gentleman. So different, too, looking at him with the full knowledge that those parted lips were no longer forbidden fruit. That in time, maybe soon, they might become lovers.
Scoville lost track of time, just watching him sleep.
But they did have that rendezvous upstairs, and it wouldn’t do to be late. The sooner those papers were in their possession and McDonald sent on his way, the sooner they could finish the job and have their lives back.
Scoville rose, tightened his belt, and glanced through the plate-glass window. Yes, the attendant was just outside, damn him. It wouldn’t do to steal a kiss, much as he might want to. Instead, he put out one tentative hand and brushed the side of Darling’s face with the back of his fingers.
Jack’s eyes flew open. Wordlessly, he reached up and covered Scoville’s hand with his own, leaning into the touch. Their fingers wove together as though they’d done this a thousand times. It was nothing that could be seen outside the room, but Scoville thought the attendant must surely hear his racing heart. He cleared his throat. “Duty calls, Sergeant.”
Jack’s smile flashed in the muted light. “Doesn’t it always?”
It was a strange response, that of a lover, not a servant. Scoville rather liked it. “Yes, but not forever. The job’s nearly done.”
“Mm.” Jack sighed and released his hand. “Yes, my lord.”
Things were changing between them. He didn’t know what was going to happen. That was unsettling, but he didn’t mind. He could not imagine going to bed with Jack as a subservient partner. Or anyone, really—but especially not Jack. Their roles would have to be reconsidered, somehow.
They had already shifted; he suddenly found himself unable to think of the man beside him as “Darling.” Yes, that was his name, always had been, but in the privacy of Scoville’s his own mind it now sounded more like an endearment. He wondered what they would call each other when they were alone.
But they were not alone yet, so they went through the rest of the bath ritual, declining a massage but submitting to being sluiced down by the shower-room attendant. At least they had the choice of warm water or cold, and Lord Robert saw no point in subjecting himself to a case of goosebumps.
He permitted himself a quick peek at Jack’s nicely shaped backside while they were dressing. He’d seen it before—the Army left no secrets—but this was different, too. He was no longer just another soldier having a wash. Scoville wanted very badly to touch and had to turn his mind firmly back to their mission. His mind was obstinately resistant to such discipline, and his body wasn’t doing much better. He pulled his trousers up with only seconds to spare.
Retracing their steps, they stopped at the desk for the room key and the briefcase. Scoville had his suspicions about the silver box that it contained, and he felt certain Darling shared them. He hoped to hell he was wrong. He didn’t want to have to bother with
any other business tonight. He wanted to sit down with Jack—better, lie down with him—and explore the future that was opening up for them. He really, most sincerely, wanted to be wrong.
Neither of them said anything on the way back to their rooms. Jack put the key in the lock, pushed the door open, and turned up the light. He froze, and turned to Scoville wordlessly, his jaw set and his eyes angry.
“Damnation.” Scoville followed Jack inside, pushing the door shut behind them.
He had not been wrong.
That was clear from the devastation that greeted them. The bed’s pristine coverlet had been ripped away, sheets and blankets knotted in a lump on the floor, the mattress pulled half off its frame. All the dresser drawers had been yanked out—not just removed, but thrown. They lay several feet from the dressers where they belonged. The little table, the nightstands, anything light enough to lift, had been overturned and flung. Chair and sofa cushions had landed at odd angles all over the place.
“The damned fool,” Darling said. “He threw a bloody tantrum.”
“That’s exactly what it looks like.” Scoville glanced around the wreckage. The door to the adjoining room was closed. “Shall we check your quarters? I’m not about to make the same mistake twice.”
“Yes, my lord.” Darling fished the briefcase key out of his breast pocket and unlocked it; he handed Scoville his pistol and took the second one himself.
“The room’s bound to be empty, you know,” Scoville said.
“I hope so, my lord.”
They moved toward the door, Scoville going left, Jack right. Interesting. In a crisis, they left the uncharted ground of what might lie ahead and slid effortlessly back into their roles of officer and noncom.
To no point, as it turned out. The intruder was long gone, but he had spent some time here; this room had been ravaged even more completely than Scoville’s. A long streak of bay rum stained the carpet and spilled onto the polished floor, a shaving mug lay in shards below the marble windowsill where it had been smashed, and their luggage was tumbled everywhere.
Jack walked over to the window and picked up a curved piece of heavy porcelain, the handle of his mug. “I got this when I joined the Army,” he said in a curious light tone. “It was advertised as nearly unbreakable.”
“We’ll find you another. And the hotel’s bound to have a barber.”
Jack let the handle fall; it hit the sill and cracked in two. “I could grow a beard.”
They were back in terra incognita. For some reason, Jack seemed truly distressed at the loss of a bit of cheap crockery. “I’d really rather you didn’t,” Scoville said. “I like your face just as it is.”
Jack shook himself slightly, and glanced around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “Shall I ring for assistance, my lord?”
“I’d just as soon ask for different quarters,” Scoville said. “But we can’t leave these rooms yet. McDonald will be here in half an hour.”
“This room needs a mop and bucket,” Jack said. “The other doesn’t, not really. Let me ring for help, and we can get that room set to rights in fifteen minutes.”
“So quickly?”
“I didn’t think to bring a stopwatch, my lord, but yes, if we’re quick about it. Captain McDonald needn’t see any disorder at all.”
That last sentence had an edge to it. “Good thinking.” Scoville pulled the cord for the bellboy himself. “Let’s not waste time. You and I can put the mattress back on the bed and bundle my things into this room.”
Jack grinned. “Not the exercise I’d been hoping for, my lord, but it’s a step in the right direction.”
Thank God he was back to normal. And, even better, flirting. “By the way, Sergeant, do you mind if I kiss you?”
“Not at all, my lord.”
Scoville had thought it would be a difficult thing to initiate; as it turned out, the only difficulty lay in stopping. The touch and taste of lips opening under his sent a jolt through all his limbs and straight down his body; he felt like a steel splinter beside a magnet. His self-control counted for nothing. One kiss wasn’t enough. A thousand wouldn’t be enough. And damn two layers of clothing all to hell.
Hands slid down his back, squeezing his arse, and they rocked together as he surged forward. Why had he expected Jack to be shy or diffident? He was a volcano. All that pent-up heat and power—how could he have hidden it so well? Scoville’s arms went around the man as their bodies melded together—no, they couldn’t do this, not now. They’d already rung for assistance. But he simply couldn’t stop.
“Bellboy,” Jack mumbled, turning his face away so his temple rested against Scoville’s cheek. “We can’t. No time.”
Scoville drew back enough to look at him. Jack’s mouth was reddened and soft-looking; his pupils were so wide his eyes looked almost black, and he was breathing hard.
So was Scoville. Reluctantly, he released the body pressed so sweetly against his own and took a careful step back. “You’re right. Let’s get to work.”
The bellboy appeared just as they’d put the first sheet back on the bed, disappeared again, and came back in three minutes with Herr Krieger, the night manager. By then the bed was made, and while Jack set the furniture to rights his lordship explained the situation and showed Krieger the other room. The poor man was so shocked that he sent the bellboy off again for reinforcements and pitched in himself.
They were finished ten minutes short of the appointed hour. Herr Krieger, relieved that his lordship did not intend to call the police, was more than happy to send up a pot of coffee and arrange for a new suite. Scoville warned them that he would be expecting a visitor and would be ready to change accommodations after their meeting was finished, most probably by midnight.
“Alone at last,” he said when the door clicked shut.
“But with no time to spare.”
“I’d rather continue our personal affairs elsewhere.” Scoville rubbed his eyes. It had been a hellishly long day, and worse for Jack. Time for them both to be in bed. He smiled wryly. No, not just yet. Best avoid that train of thought for the moment.
They would have time for a few kisses, though. At least they would have if Jack had not sensibly adjourned to his room to finish packing up their clothing and effects while Scoville waited for their visitor.
And waited. Eleven came and went. At a quarter past the hour, Scoville looked at his watch for the third time and was about to declare Cecil McDonald once more among the missing when he heard a slight movement outside the door, followed by a knock.
Jack popped in from the next room and answered it. McDonald stepped inside and looked around.
His split-second of surprise, quickly masked, told Scoville more than he wanted to know. “You have the papers?” he asked.
McDonald put a hand inside his jacket, then hesitated. “We really should exchange sign and countersign, don’t you think?”
“I think we’re well past that,” Scoville said. “But if you feel the need to be coy, I say it’s been a long time since I saw you in puttees, and you tell me I don’t look two minutes older.”
“That’s the boy.” McDonald took a chair and tossed a packet onto the table between them. “I could use a drink.”
“In a moment.” Scoville examined the packet. It seemed to be in order—a few sheets of paper, folded as a letter would be. They were tucked in an unsealed envelope, but the papers themselves were sealed with red wax and the ornate signet “V” that he’d been instructed to look for.
“These are the same papers you obtained in Paris?” he asked.
“Well, of course,” McDonald said. “What do you take me for?”
“A fairly clumsy burglar.”
McDonald turned beet-red. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Scoville put the packet in his own pocket. “Cecil, no one but you knew that we’d be away, or how long we would be gone. Ransacking the room was stupid. I’d had my suspicions, and that confirmed them. Especially the jealousy.
Cruel as the grave, they say.”
“You always were good at cryptic utterances.”
“The mess in Darling’s room. That wasn’t just a reckless search. That was anger. Jealous anger, I think. You might as well have signed your name. But you didn’t find it, did you?”
“Find what? Robert, you and your little Darling are becoming delusional. I don’t know what you’re—”
“Were you looking for this, Captain?” Standing slightly behind McDonald, Jack held the snuffbox out, just a bit too far away for him to snatch it. His fingers twitched as Jack handed it to Scoville.
“I—where did you find that?”
“In my underclothes,” Scoville said. “It’s all right—I wasn’t wearing them at the time.” He could see by the avid look in Cecil’s eyes that he wanted that box, and by now he could guess what was in it. “I was sorry to see the cocaine, Cecil. It’s a dangerous habit. Rots a man’s self-control. Is that what happened to you?”
“I’m not using cocaine,” McDonald said indignantly.
“Then why? And how do you explain it getting into my trunk?”
“It—it was him—the man on the train. He stole it from me, picked my pocket—”
“That invisible fellow you warned me against?” Jack put in. “Or the French policeman who was following you?”
McDonald ignored him. “Robert, you really need to discipline your valet—he’s getting quite above himself.”
“That’s my business, don’t you think?” Scoville exchanged a look with Darling, not even caring if Cecil saw the warmth in his gaze. “I’m quite pleased with him, actually. But let’s not get off the subject of your snuffbox. A stranger stole it from you. On the train, I presume?” He turned the box over in his hands, his eyes never leaving McDonald’s face. “And then he filled it with cocaine and gave it to me. What a strange thing to do. Or was there some other reason? You knew I’d never touch the drug myself, didn’t you, that I’d never do something like—this.”
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