Think of England (Think of England #1)

by K.J. Charles

“Mr. Curtis, this is Mr. da Silva.” Curtis looked at the gentleman indicated and decided on the spot that he’d rarely seen a more dislikable man.

“So, er, are you a religious man?” he tried. “No, I couldn’t claim to be that. I’m not terribly observant.” Da Silva gave a sudden, feline smile. “Of my faith, that is. I’m quite observant in general.”

Subterfuge did not come easily to Curtis. Just now, he could use a man like da Silva. And, while he’d already realised that da Silva’s effeminate mannerisms concealed sharp eyes and a sharper mind, it seemed that he had courage, too, and even a sense of decency. Curtis had an uncomfortable feeling that he might have judged him rather ungenerously.

These poems were full of broken glass and water—which was not clean water—and scaly things that moved in the dark. There was a recurring image that seemed to sum it all up somehow, of a thing in the depths. Curtis couldn’t quite tell what it was. It came in a bright flash of scales, a dark gleam, or a slither against an unwary hand, and vanished again, but it was always lurking, just out of reach, waiting.

Curtis knew he should get things back on an even keel after last night’s drama, but he wasn’t sorry to put it off a little longer. Coming in a chap’s mouth made it rather awkward to look him in the eye.

“I’m half-crippled. I don’t need reminding of that. I don’t find it easy to live with, and I don’t like reminders that I’m less than I was.” “Well, God knows what you used to be, then, because you’re built like a brick shithouse and hung like a horse.”

“Fine. A little annoyed, that’s all. I had a rather unpleasant talk with Holt earlier.” Da Silva’s eyebrow flicked up. “Is he capable of any other kind?” “Not to you, I should think. How do you tolerate that sort of thing?” “I’m terribly rude, in situations where people can’t hit me. What did he say to annoy you so?” “Oh, nothing worth repeating. I’ll get that excuse underway for tomorrow.”

“My dear chap, I open locks, move quietly, have few qualms about gentlemanly behaviour, and speak the language of one of our major European rivals. I’m precisely the type, and there are people who keep their eyes open for such things.” “Even with the, er…” “Especially with the ‘er’. Your revered uncle told me once that he found it convenient to have a few queers he could call on when necessary. I assured him I felt the same.” “You did not.” “I did. He didn’t laugh.”

“This has been the devil of a week, and you’ve come to some rather rapid conclusions. I suspect that when you return to London this will all seem like a nightmare, or an aberration, or at the least a very poor idea.” “Daniel—” “I’m still talking.” “Of course you are.”

“Thank the ladies.” Curtis gave a helpless shrug. Daniel looked at him for a second, then fell dramatically to his knees, arms wide. “Miss Merton, Miss Carruth. Both or either. Marry me.” “What an appalling offer,” said Pat, as Fen went off into peals of laughter. “And get up, you absurd creature, that’s motorcars I hear on the drive.”

“Are you always this difficult?” “Yes.” “Are you ever going to make things simple for me?” “I doubt it.” Curtis put out a gentle finger and tipped Daniel’s chin up so their eyes met. “May I kiss you?” “You just did.” “Yes. May I?” “Oh, good God.”