‘Then have this one on me,’ Archer offered. ‘It shan’t cost more than thirty pounds for the year, and we can build in the ongoing cost at the next financial review.’
‘Really?’ Markland’s eyes sprung to life, fuelled by gratitude and relief.
‘What’s the point of having money if you don’t spend it, Philip?’
‘As your physician, Sir,’ Markland said, his joy quickly turning to suspicion. ‘It is my duty to ask you, have you been drinking?’
‘Not since some wine last night,’ Archer said. ‘And I wouldn’t call that drinking, I would call it enduring. I am quite sober, Philip, and I am serious. There is a young man out there who is a guardian of our fortress, yet he currently works for no money, simply a bed and a loaf. He knows how to be firm, he knows how to be humble, but most importantly, when one wants to succeed in a profession, he knows how to keep his bloody desk tidy. Employ him. I will pay if only for the joy of seeing your office in order.’
Archer made a quick search for his hat, realised he was still wearing it, and rose to leave.
‘Thank you for your help,’ he said. ‘I shall tell Dragos the news on my way out and leave the details to you. Mr Hawkins will arrange his contract and wage. We must dine soon.’ The viscount disappeared around the doorway only to reappear a second later. ‘Do you know what time the National Gallery closes?’
‘No idea,’ Markland whispered helplessly.
Leaving the doctor with a dropped jaw and a headache, Archer hurried back to the entrance where Dragos was booking an appointment for a desperately thin boy no older than thirteen.
‘Mr Dragos,’ Archer said, as he headed for the exit. ‘As soon as that lad is fed, go and see Doctor Markland, he has a career for you. Spend the salary wisely, and you will get what you want, but remember, always turn spare income into capital and don’t be greedy.’ Handing a sovereign to the waiting boy, he said, ‘Listen to Mr Dragos, young sir, and learn from him. Good day.’
With two more tasks to see to, Archer hurried from the building, leaving another bewildered man in his wake.
‘The Eastman Company in the Tottenham Court Road,’ he told his driver as he climbed into the cab. ‘And then on to the National Gallery.’
Henry Beddington was looking forward to his wife’s homemade meat pie and a nice cup of tea. He had been on his feet for eight hours, apart from a fifteen-minute rest break when he had sat in Trafalgar square feeding the pigeons Mrs Beddington’s less successful sandwich of haslet and Gentlemen’s Relish. What the pigeons didn’t eat—which was most—he donated to a homeless man by the steps. The man crammed the sandwich into his mouth without a thank you, and after four chews, spat the whole thing out again.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Beddington said, and returned to work.
That was at midday, and the clock now read ten to five, but the second hand was taking an age to travel. The gallery was empty, and tempting though it was to close the doors early, Beddington respected his post and the institution too much to bend the rules. If anyone came in now, they would be entitled to stay for half an hour before they were to be politely persuaded towards the exit, and he was sure some people came late just to cause him annoyance.
At two minutes to five, he edged his way to the entrance in a stealthy race against possible invaders, and by one minute to, his fingers were tingling over the brass handle, and his stomach was rumbling loud enough to cause an echo.
One hand was gripping the handle when a man ran up the steps, and Beddington’s heart fell to his highly polished shoes. The gallery was open for thirty more seconds, and he had never locked a door in a visitor’s face. It wasn’t going to happen today either, and with a smile as tight as the Mona Lisa’s, he stood back and allowed the man to hurry inside.
‘Thank you,’ the gentleman gasped, catching his breath. ‘Room nine?’
‘You will have to be quick, Sir.’ Beddington closed the doors pointedly. ‘I can only allow you thirty minutes.’
‘Plenty of time. Where is it?’
‘Room nine? First floor, to the left.’
Beddington was impressed by the man’s agility as he hurried across the hall and took the stairs two at a time. What, he wondered, was such a smartly dressed gent needing to see art for at this time of day? And why so urgently? It wasn’t his business, and he clicked his way back to his desk to write his daily report.
The humdrum task was thankfully interrupted by the gentleman’s return.
‘It’s not there,’ he said, clearly agitated.
‘Room nine has been in existence since the gallery opened, Sir,’ Beddington said, confused.
‘Not the room, man! The painting. “Brothers in Arms.” Wolfgang Vaine.’
‘Ah no, Sir. Sadly, that is not being shown at present. It was damaged a couple of weeks ago in an unfortunate incident.’
‘Where the hell is it?’
‘About twenty feet away.’
‘Twenty feet?’
Beddington put the man in his early thirties, and he had about him an air of assuredness. A businessman perhaps? A scholar made good in trade or finance?
‘Yes, Sir. In the restoration room.’
‘Oh, thank God. Show me.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, Sir.’ The man’s confidence had quickly turned to arrogance, and Beddington was not the kind of man to put up with that. ‘The restorer is working on it when he can, and when he is not here, it is locked away.’
‘But you must have a key?’
‘Sadly, I do not.’
‘Then find me someone who has. Tell them Lord Clearwater is on urgent business for the House and needs to see the painting immediately. Lady Clearwater is a patron.’
Beddington bristled. ‘Impossible,’ he said. There was nothing to prove this man was a Lord or on official business, he could intend to steal the work for all the concierge knew.
‘I am the most senior man on duty, My Lord,’ he said, thinking it was better to play safe and go along with the lunatic in case the title was real. ‘If I had the keys, I would willingly show you the restoration room. It’s just through this door and down the stairs. It wouldn’t take long, and you could take as much time with it as you need. But the thing is, I can’t. Short of kicking in this door, which I am sure Your Lordship wouldn’t care to do, there is no other way into the basement until Mr Redmond returns to continue his work.’
There was no clearer way to put it, and Beddington expected no more debate.
He was wrong.
‘Then, if you would, message Mr Redmond and tell him Lord Clearwater craves his immediate indulgence.’
‘I’m unable to do that, Sir.’
‘I will make an appointment for tomorrow.’
‘Mr Redmond isn’t working tomorrow.’
‘I would make it worth his while.’
‘Undoubtedly, but still impossible.’
‘I’ll make it worth your while.’
‘The commissioner of the National Gallery takes no tips, Sir.’
‘No, and no bloody prisoners either,’ the viscount muttered. ‘Is there nothing you can do?’
‘Unfortunately not, Sir.’ Beddington reacted to the change in tone with one of his own. Others called it sympathy; he called it well-camouflaged sarcasm. ‘Between us and what you want to see are two locked doors. The only person allowed in there is Mr Redmond, and he happens to be in Switzerland. So, as you can see, there is nothing to be done, but if you would care to leave your calling card, I shall contact you when Mr Redmond returns.’
‘When is that likely to be?’
‘No-one knows, Sir.’
His Lordship, if that was what he was, said, ‘Bugger it!’ under his breath and turned away. At first, Beddington thought he was going to leave, but the man
revolved slowly, admiring the marble columns and vaulted ceiling, before dropping his head to the staircase, and finally back around to the counter, the door to the restoration room, and Beddington.
‘My card,’ he said, handing one over. ‘You can contact me at this address or at the Garrick Club, at the House of Lords, or if you’ve a mind to, through the Cheap Street Mission in Greychurch. Good day.’
Finally, the man marched away as though in a military parade, threw the doors wide and sailed out. Beddington couldn’t help but think an overgrown adolescent had just stomped out in a sulk.
Archer wasn’t sulking, he was thinking quickly. The concierge might be good at his job, and he certainly knew how to hold his ground, but his stream of discretion ran no deeper than a vague trickle.
The painting wasn’t hanging, but it was in the building twenty feet from the front desk, downstairs. All that stood between Archer and the answer to Quill’s riddle were two locked doors, guards on the first floor (there were none in the foyer and no mirrors), and the man behind the counter who had provided enough information for Archer to formulate a plan before he climbed into his cab.
The concierge had been very proud of his locks and security measures, and rightly so. They were enough to deter and deflect any burglar worth his salt. Luckily, Archer had Silas, and he was worth much more than mere salt.
Reaching Bucks Row in no less of an agitated state, the viscount let himself in and was crossing the hall when Thomas appeared from below stairs.
‘Ah, you are home, My Lord.’
‘Apparently so, Payne,’ Archer replied, stopping with one foot on the bottom step and his hand on the bannister. ‘Good to see you.’
‘Likewise, Sir. We were wondering where you were.’
‘Where is everyone?’
Thomas approached, immaculate in his uniform and bearing a salver on which were piled letters.
‘Everyone is where they should be, Sir,’ Thomas said. ‘Mrs Norwood and Mr Wright are at work downstairs, Mr Andrej is preparing to collect his brother, and Mr Hawkins is in his rooms. Mr Wright has you unpacked. Shall I send him up?’
‘Not for another hour,’ Archer whispered. ‘I would like to see Mr Hawkins alone.’
Thomas hid a smirk. ‘I understand, My Lord. Shall I put today’s post in the study?’
‘Has Mr Hawkins seen it?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Then yes, please, and ask everyone to be there at seven thirty, would you?’
‘Everyone?’
‘Not Mrs Norwood,’ Archer said, rethinking his request. ‘It’s her evening off. So, just us, Mr Andrej and Danylo when they arrive, and could you send for Jake? He is still living next door, isn’t he?’
‘When he is not at work at Her Ladyship’s fashion house.’
‘Excellent. Oh, and there will be a delivery from Eastman’s shortly, listen out for it would you, and put it in the study too? Now, I must attend a long-overdue meeting with Mr Hawkins.’
Nine
Half an hour later, Archer lay naked, spooned behind Silas in his bed, their hearts pounding, and their skin coated with perspiration. He gripped his lover tightly, enfolding him in his arms and pressing close as if he intended never to let go. Now and then he kissed the back of Silas’ head, relishing the touch of his hair and his compact frame. Soft buttocks pushed back against the viscount’s groin as Silas idly stroked the hairs on his forearm.
The early evening sun warmed the room through the netted curtains, the mantle clock ticked lazily, and now and then, the sounds from St Matthew’s Park floated up through the still air.
Archer was exhausted from the exertions of the afternoon, the excitement and nervous tension, and from their glorious, frantic lovemaking, but there was a long way to go before he could relax. Although he was in his perfect place with his ideal man, a world of deceit and danger waited beyond the bed, and the time was nearing when he would have to send his loved ones into battle, Silas included.
‘You know,’ he murmured through his drowsiness, ‘you are all I care about in this world. You are the reason I wake each day.’
‘Bloody hell, Archie,’ Silas whispered. ‘You’ve just fucked me like a steam train, and now you’re getting all soft?’
‘Not that soft,’ Archer leered, rubbing his swelling cock between Silas’ cheeks.
‘Give us a minute, my arse is still numb.’
Archer’s fingers strayed to Silas’ limp cock. He loved the way it rested hot and wrinkled in his hand, and loved the feel of his smooth balls when he cupped them. The way his shaft stiffened with its foreskin pulling back to reveal the glistening purple tip, the tuft of jet-black hair above that Silas kept neatly trimmed to contrast against his pale flesh. He loved everything about the man physically, but loved what lay beneath even more.
Archer marvelled at how he had come to know and love such a man. Silas had been dreamt up, a near-perfect copy of a drawing Archer had made of his ideal-looking man. As soon as they had met, he knew that his drawing hadn’t imagined qualities deeper than physical features. In a simple, after-dinner pencil sketch, he’d not been able to capture the dichotomy of Silas, his ability to survive slums and country house living alike, his determination set against his sensitivity, cheekiness against his sincerity, and his confidence as explicit as his vulnerability. There was so much more to the man than physical attractiveness, even his dark history of illegal deeds added to his allure. Every day Archer woke to see him still there, staying with him despite the dangers and trials which Quill and other enemies presented, and his heart swelled further as his love grew stronger.
Drifting into a daydream, Archer imagined being in the drawing room thirty years hence, and couldn’t picture it without Silas present. He would be by the fireplace, just into his fifties, doddering about at sixty, and yet he would still be enjoying the same fluttering of heart and quickening of pulse when Silas gazed at him and winked.
The thought of Thomas wobbling across the room with a tray in one hand and walking stick in the other made him laugh.
‘What are you sniggering at?’ Silas asked.
‘The future.’
‘Yeah? And what is that, Archie? Jimmy came back with this story about Quill, and Tom told me you’d sent for Danylo. Want to tell me what’s going on?’
‘I do, and I shall in time.’ Archer hugged him more tightly. ‘At this moment, I am a ship on a stormy sea, Silas, and you are the wind in my sails, the guiding north star, the powder in my cannon. Without you, I am sunk, but you keep me riding the swell and on course, because you are my reason to reach shore. Before you, I didn’t know which port I was sailing from nor where I would make land, but you are both.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
Silas extracted himself from Archer’s grip and turned to face him, burying his head in Archer’s chest while the viscount stroked the small of his back.
‘I will soon have to go away and leave you on your own,’ Archer whispered. ‘You must know it’s only because I must, and it hurts to do so.’
‘I know that too.’
‘It doesn’t mean I don’t love you. You will understand eventually.’
‘I already understand, Archie. And I love you enough not to stand in your way of what you must do, whatever it is. I’ll be here when you get back.’
Archer kissed the top of his head and decided to leave the matter there. If the worst came to the worst, Silas would discover the viscount’s true depth of feeling for him, as would his friends. For now, he wanted to enjoy his lover’s presence while he still had the chance.
‘Kiss me,’ he said.
Silas did. ‘Feels like your cannon is recharged,’ he chuckled, reaching between Archer’s legs. ‘Are you ready to sail?’
‘Always.’
‘Then think of m
e as a pirate ship.’
Silas pushed himself onto his elbow and slipped a leg across the viscount’s waist before straddling him. Leering at Archer, his hair fell either side of his face, and his smile was crooked. ‘My defences are down, Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘And I’m expecting to be rammed.’
At eight o’clock, Archer stood at the fireplace in his study relishing the comfort of his favourite room and considering the recently delivered package from Eastman’s which he had opened and inspected. The chalkboard stood ready on its easel beneath the wall map of the country, reminding him of their past run-ins with Quill and the now-imprisoned Tripp and Cleaver Street men. Despite them, his keen anticipation of the battle to come was undiminished.
He relished the thrill of the chase, but his sixth sense warned him what he was about to do was far more dangerous than any game Quill had played in the past, and despite his confidence in his own plan, he had to keep in mind Quill’s equal determination and skill. To let himself be seduced by the thrill would cloud his judgement, and he needed to stay alert so he could guide his team.
Deception didn’t come easily to Archer. The first rule of Clearwater House was honesty, and although he wasn’t about to be dishonest with his men, he was about to hide particular intentions from them, but only so they were protected.
Archer was distracted from his thoughts when Silas arrived and smiled his way to an armchair. Red-faced from their exertions, he sported a subtle bruise on his neck where Archer had given in to passion, sucking his flesh instead of kissing it.
James followed closely behind, and Thomas appeared last, all three arriving in silence as though being called into church, their minds on nothing but Archer’s mystery.
‘Has Mr Danylo arrived?’
‘He has, My Lord,’ Thomas replied. ‘He and Mr Andrej will be up directly they have settled the horses. I put Mr Danylo in the coach house.’
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