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  “Good God,” Tommy exclaimed when his brother’s butler came in with a response from Sir John. “Look at the time. You do tell an intriguing tale, but we had best get ready now.” Tommy had been right. Sir John readily agreed with the time my friend had set.

  We left the parlour and hurried upstairs. Tommy led me to his room, which was just across the landing from the one I’d been given. He rifled through his wardrobe and finally selected a finely-made suit of black wool he was certain would fit me.

  “Tommy, are you sure? This is much too expensive—”

  “Don’t question me,” he said, somewhat crossly, and I realised this meeting with Sir John must be disturbing him more than I’d thought likely.

  “Sorry. Thank you for the loan, Thomas.” The suit was a trifle loose, for he was more solidly built than I, but other than that, it fit well enough.

  We washed and changed and left his brother’s town house to arrive at White’s a few minutes before six.

  I’d never been to a gentleman’s club before, and I gazed around in wonder at the quiet dignity of the dining room.

  Tommy touched my arm, drawing my attention back to him. “Sir John is over there.” He pointed out an older man with fair hair streaked with grey. Across from him sat a younger man who, except for the lack of grey in his hair, was a spitting image of Sir John Synclaire. From a distance, they were very attractive men, but as we drew closer, I could see the discontent and unhappiness etched in their features.

  “Sir John, John, this is my friend, Rodney Sayer. Roddy, Sir John Synclaire. Mr John Synclaire.”

  “How do you do?” the younger Synclaire asked.

  His father merely took out his watch, observed the time, and said, “Good to see you so punctual.” He gestured for us to take a seat. “I already had wine poured for you.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  Sir John grunted. “Have you heard from Warrick?”

  Tommy stiffened, although I was sure I was the only one who was aware of his reaction, seated as I was across from him.

  He picked up his wine glass, twirled it idly, and studied its ruby contents.

  Sir John cleared his throat. “What I mean to say is, have you heard anything recently?”

  “I have. He’s in hopes of becoming a partner in the architectural firm for which he works in Montreal. As I’m sure you know.”

  “Don’t know why you’re so sure,” Mr John Synclaire muttered. “You know more about what my brother does than we do.”

  “And whose fault is that, sir?”

  Both Synclaires seemed startled by the heat in Tommy’s question.

  “Don’t question how I run my household, Thomas,” Sir John responded in cool tones.

  “Then don’t ask me to dinner in hopes of learning what you won’t take the time to discover for yourself.”

  The two of them glared at each other.

  I turned to the younger Synclaire. “This is a very good wine, isn’t it? I regret I had nothing like it in Africa.” I didn’t say the establishments Charlie and I were likely to frequent didn’t have anything like it.

  “You’ve been in Africa?” He seemed relieved to have the conversation turned.

  “Yes, for the past nineteen years.” I began to talk about the Veldt and eventually the Valley of the Kings, although I didn’t go into detail about the events in that benighted place.

  “And is it true men died there?”

  “Yes.” I thought sadly of Charlie.

  “Rumour has it it’s because a curse was placed on any who dared disturb the Boy King’s tomb.”

  “Really? I hadn’t heard that. We did lose quite a few men, but Mr Howard Carter, who ran the dig, put it down to superstition and the heat and desolation of the place.”

  “Were you in the tomb?”

  “Yes.” And rather than describe the claustrophobic fear I’d felt there, I spoke of the rare gemstones embedded in the sarcophagus, the golden mummy case, and the other things that had been found, although I deliberately made no mention of the black pearls or the Scroll of Thoth.

  Tommy stared at me as if he’d never seen me before, but I continued to ramble on, hoping to cause enough of a distraction that my friend and Sir John wouldn’t come to blows.

  It was one of the longest meals I’d ever eaten, even though it lasted less than two hours. Finally, Tommy caught my gaze. We blotted our lips with our napkins, pushed back our chairs, and rose.

  “We have to be off,” my friend said. “It was kind of you to invite us to dinner, Sir John.”

  The baronet made an indecipherable sound, and I had the feeling he didn’t appreciate Tommy’s words.

  Nevertheless, we shook hands and walked out of the dining room.

  “Did I talk too much?”

  “No. If you hadn’t, I would have walked out much sooner.” We left White’s and stepped to the kerb, but before I could flag down a cab, he asked, “Do you mind if we walk?”

  “Not in the least. You did mention the cinema is only a short distance away.”

  We set off down the street, Tommy’s hands fisted at his sides.

  “Why did you know more about Warrick than his father and brother?” I asked.

  He sighed. “They don’t believe in writing letters in that family.”

  “But Warrick writes to you.”

  “As I told you, we’ve been friends from the cradle.”

  I tipped my head to observe him. And more than that? But I wasn’t going to ask.

  “As a matter of fact, we actually shared that very cradle.”

  “How so?”

  “Shortly after Warrick was born, Sir John asked Mother to come to Thorny Walk House to visit Lady Helena. Mother was expecting at the time—me as it turned out—and she went into labour while she was there.”

  “So you were born at Thorny Walk House. And placed in the same cradle as your friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think Sir John was disappointed you couldn’t tell him more?”

  “Not couldn’t, wouldn’t. Strictly entre nous—”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Strictly between us, Warrick is living with another man, a doctor he met during the War.”

  “He told you that?” In spite of the fact this was what the Yanks called the Roaring Twenties, it could be dangerous to reveal you were a man who loved men.

  “No, I learned long ago to read between the lines in his letters.”

  “I see. Well—”

  “Here we are.”

  I looked up and felt my jaw drop. “This looks like a palace!”

  “That’s why they’re called movie palaces.” Tommy stepped up to the box office and paid for the tickets, laughing and—after we’d walked in and he’d made sure there was no one nearby to observe us—pinching my chin when I objected. “I’m flush, pet.”

  I grumbled but had to admit to relief if only to myself. My own pockets were fairly empty. Paying for the passage for both myself and my animals had gone through most of what was left after I’d paid off our farm, although I’d kept that from my friend.

  Tommy led the way up the stairs to a box, and shortly after, the lights dimmed and a newsreel came on. It showed a police raid on a speakeasy in the United States.

  “Charlie would have said that was a complete waste,” I murmured as bottle after bottle was smashed and its contents left to puddle on the floor.

  Tommy grunted but didn’t comment beyond that.

  The newsreel was followed by a travelogue showing the Taj Mahal. “That’s beautiful,” I whispered in utter awe.

  “It’s even more beautiful in person. One day I’ll have to take you there.”

  “I…I’d like that.”

  He reached over, caught my hand, and squeezed it.

  Images began flickering across the screen to the accompaniment of a piano in the pit, and I settled in to watch the moving picture.

  The title of the picture flashed across the scree
n, followed by the names of the actors, none of whom I recognised. And then a father and son appeared, playing chess before a hearth. The father’s lips moved, but I couldn’t hear his words.

  I leaned toward Tommy. “There’s no sound.” Charlie had taken me to see a vaudeville show in one of the towns we’d travelled through, and it had been quite noisy. Somehow I’d expected this to be similar.

  “No. Watch.”

  Sure enough, a card appeared, disclosing what the older man had said. I nodded and split my attention between the action and the cards.

  I sat and watched the characters on the screen come to life, the mother, the father, and the son, all so loving. The chess game ended, and they awaited the arrival of the father’s old friend, who had been injured in the War and lacked an arm. The night was brutal cold, and when he finally knocked on the door, they let him in and gave him whisky to warm him. And as he sat by the fire, he told the tale of the monkey’s paw, a mummified paw cursed by a fakir to grant three wishes to three people. He didn’t know what the previous owner’s first two wishes were for.

  A card appeared on the screen. “But the third wish was for DEATH!”

  I startled and gripped Tommy’s arm.

  “Steady on, dear boy.”

  “S-sorry.” I swallowed and tried to contain my trembling.

  The friend had made his wishes, and the way he glanced at the empty sleeve of his shirt disturbed me. The father persuaded his friend to give him the paw, and reluctantly, the artefact was passed over and instructions were given on how to use it.

  The family pondered what best to wish for. “Wish for something Sensible,” the card read, indicating the friend’s advice, and the friend picked up his coat and walked out the door.

  The father took the paw in his right hand and wished for enough money to pay off the debt on their house.

  Of course nothing happened. The son gently mocked the silly hope and set out for work. He was an experienced, capable worker, but still there was a horrible, gruesome accident that resulted in his death. The company denied responsibility, but offered a sum in recompense, the exact amount the father had wished for.

  “Oh God.” I whimpered. My heart pounded so hard I could scarcely breathe.

  Tommy’s breath hitched as well. “I don’t know if this was a good idea,” he whispered. He closed his hand over mine, his grip so tight it was almost painful, but I couldn’t find it in me to complain.

  Ten days after the couple buried their son, the wife suddenly remembered the monkey’s paw. “Wish for our boy alive again! Wish.” She was distraught. “Wish.” Her husband hesitated. “WISH!”

  He wished, immediately regretted it, and flung the paw away from him.

  I began shaking, and I clutched at my friend. “Tommy?”

  “Hush, pet. It will be all right.”

  “Do you promise?” Never before had I asked such a pathetic question.

  Nothing happened, though, and I sagged in relief, until the pounding on the door began, becoming more and more emphatic. But the bolt on the door was stuck, and although there was no sound on the screen, we could see the wife screaming and scrabbling frantically to draw back the bolt. All the while, the husband searched in obvious desperation for the monkey’s paw.

  I buried my face against Tommy’s shoulder, but the piano music was rising to a crescendo, and I had to look.

  The husband found the monkey’s paw and clutched it tight in his right hand.

  The card that appeared now read “I wish him DEAD and at PEACE!”

  The wife managed to get the door open.

  I held my breath and covered my eyes with my hands, but peeked through my fingers to see…nothing.

  The old man had got his final wish. The wife sobbed her loss, the husband sobbed his relief, and The End flashed across the screen.

  And I realised that somehow I’d wound up on Tommy’s lap.

  A blush rose to my hairline. “I’m so sorry.” I started to scramble off him, but his arm tightened around my waist.

  “It’s all right.” He gave me a final squeeze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise…I’ll take you home.”

  I should have refused his gracious offer, but I was embarrassed. Not that I had been frightened—a majority of the audience members had reacted in much the same way and a few of the women had actually fallen to the floor in a faint—but how could I have allowed myself to climb all over my friend like that?

  So I said, “Yes, please.”

  And we left the motion picture palace and went home.

  Chapter 18

  Mrs Johnson had waited up for us, not that it was very late. “If you’ll wait in the library, I’ll bring you a nice pot of tea and some biscuits.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Johnson,” Tommy said.

  We’d been silent on the drive home in the cab, and although I was relieved to have an excuse not to go to bed just yet—the motion picture hadn’t shown any gore, but the suspense had been nerve-wracking—I couldn’t face my friend. Neither of us had said anything about it, but when I’d been on Tommy’s lap, the unmistakeable ridge of his arousal had prodded my arse.

  “Nothing for me, thank you, Mrs Johnson. I…uh…think I’ll go up to bed now. I had a lovely time tonight, Thomas. Thank you.” I offered a weak smile, escaped from the foyer, and hurried up the stairs.

  After a piss and a quick wash, I wrapped myself in the dressing gown Tommy had lent me and returned to my bedroom—I was not wearing the nightshirt I’d used to handle the pearls. I sat on the bed and dropped my head to my hands. I had to stop being a baby about this. I knew what Tommy wanted from me, and I thought I wanted that as well, but Charlie was the only man I had ever had relations with. He had known and liked me from the time I was a young boy, and had grown to love me as a young man. I had learned over our years together what he liked and how to please him, just as he had learned what caused me to melt in his arms.

  I dragged my tongue over my lips to moisten them. What would making love with Tommy be like? I wasn’t certain I could let another man have my body, even a man I…I liked as much as Tommy, but I was determined to picture in my mind what he could do to me.

  I imagined his shaft in my hands. I imagined myself on my knees before him, taking his prick deep into my mouth while I stroked his thighs and his arse. I imagined myself on my hands and knees, and Tommy buried deep in my arse. And because he mentioned what his regimental sergeant major had done to him, I imagined myself returning the favour and warming his backside with the flat of my hand. It had become calloused after years of work, and I could paddle him quite hard.

  Aroused by that thought, I stripped off the dressing gown and draped it over a chair, then got into bed and made sure I had my scrap of blue blanket with me. I would have need of it this night.

  * * * *

  Only as it turned out, I didn’t. Two hours later, I lay on the bed, frustrated. Although I had fisted myself to the point of discomfort, I had been unable to achieve an orgasm. Sleep tugged at my eyes, but again I knew it would be illusive, since Tommy wouldn’t be in my bed.

  Well, enough was enough. I sat up, flung back the bedcovers, got out of bed, and snatched up the dressing gown. After I slid my arms into its sleeves and belted it, I reached for a candle. While the town house was equipped with gas lighting, I was hesitant to attempt using it for fear I would do it wrong and wind up asphyxiating the entire household.

  I knew my friend’s bedroom was just across the landing from mine. I opened my door and poked my head out to make sure no one was prowling around. How uncomfortable it would be, to be spied entering my host’s room in the middle of the night. I slipped out, dashed across the landing, and tapped gently on the door. I shielded the light of the candle, waiting impatiently for him to answer. When there was no response, I worried my lower lip. Should I turn away? But no, I determined I would have this out with Captain Fortescue-Smythe. I drew in a breath, turned the knob quietly, and entered Tommy’s room.

  The curtains
were drawn back from the window and moonlight streamed in, illuminating the naked figure sprawled across the mattress. The sheets were twisted, half off the bed. I approached him on silent feet, reluctant to wake him if he was asleep.

  I let my gaze roam over his muscular body, which was amazingly fit given the fact it had been some years since he’d left the army. Drawn closer by the lure of what I had never seen before, I feasted on the sight of the chest that had more hair than I was used to seeing. My mouth went dry as I traced the tempting line that arrowed down toward his abdomen, flaring out above the slight convexity of his navel before it continued down over his loins.

  Abruptly, an alarm bell went off in my head. Bending closer toward his groin, I visually traced the line of his shaft, noting its slight curve, and I felt my eyes widen in dismay. “It was you,” I whispered. Something alerted me to the fact that he was awake “You let me make love to you.”

  “Should I hide my pistols?” He sat up cautiously, no doubt aware I was on the verge of bolting from his room. His one good eye watched me warily. He didn’t wear his patch—indeed, why would he when he slept?—and the scar slashed across his eyelid, which was sunken in.

  “Why didn’t you say something the next morning?” I asked through dry lips. I could have wept. I hadn’t realised—I’d thought he’d been merely blinded, not that they’d had to take his eye. Oh, Tommy.

  “You didn’t remember. How could I tell you that you had given me the most wondrous experience since I lost Archie, when you didn’t bloody well remember? And then, to top it off, you said you trusted me.”

  He stood, and I backed away, but only a few steps. “I…I thought it was a dream.”

  His smile became droll. “It wasn’t.”

  “Well…well…I w-wasn’t expecting to have s-someone else in my bed,” I stammered.

  “You were weeping, Roddy. Great, shaking sobs, and I…wanted to comfort you.” He walked toward me, his hand stretched out as if to placate a nervous animal—me. “I’ve wanted you since my men pulled you sopping wet from that lake.”

  I couldn’t tear my gaze from his mouth, the possibility that I was losing important escape time completely ignored. Tommy advanced, I retreated…slowly…and then the wall was at my back and I could go no further.