Sick of Shadows Part 15

"No, I live here. I'm going to visit friends. This is awfully good of you, sir."

"My name is Peter Petrey. And you are ... ?"

"Jonathan Wilks."

"I am glad of the company on such a filthy night, Mr. Wilks."

"Do call me Jonathan, everyone does."

They talked about plays they had seen and poetry they had read. Peter began not to notice the fog. He felt he was enclosed in a golden bubble with this dazzling youth.

Just before they reached Peter's house, the young man stopped. "This is where I leave you."

"Here is my card," said Peter. "Do call. I'll wait to see you get in safely."

Jonathan knocked at the door. Then he came back down the front steps. "They don't seem to be at home. I must have forgotten the day. This is Friday, is it not?"

"No, it's Thursday."

"Oh dear."

"Look, come in with me and have a sherry while I dress."

When Peter arrived slightly late and out of breath, Rose noticed he seemed to s.h.i.+ne with an inner glow. Oh dear, she thought, I hope I haven't made a mistake about him. He looks like a man in love.

Peter had never been in better form than during the dinner. He told jokes, he told gossip, and he delighted the company.

Shrewd Daisy watched him with anxious eyes. I hope it's Rose that has given him this extra sparkle, she thought. I hope it isn't anyone it shouldn't be.

Daisy's concerns grew when, after dinner, she heard Peter tell Rose that he was going away on Friday and would not return until the following Monday.

"Where?" asked Rose. "Anywhere pleasant?"

"Just visiting some friends."

"You will miss the ball tomorrow."

"Oh dear. Can you find someone to escort you? Captain Cathcart, perhaps?"

Rose raised her brows in amazement. "Have you forgotten I ended my engagement to the captain and became engaged to you?"

"No, my dearest. It is just that it is very important that I go away this weekend."

"What is so important?"

Peter manufactured a laugh. "You sound like a wife already. Ah, there is Lady Simpson looking for me."

He darted off.

Daisy joined Rose. "I heard that."

"Most odd," said Rose. "Just a day ago he seemed to delight in my company."

"Let's just hope he isn't delighting in anyone else's."

Peter and Jonathan went down to Oxford the following day. The fog had disappeared, but Oxford was shrouded in a hard frost. They walked along by the icy river where the last leaves hung rimed with the frost, which glinted like rubies under a hard red sun. Peter kept glancing at his companion, becoming even more and more besotted. Those large eyes that he had first seen in the fog were green with flecks of gold. His black eyelashes were thick and curled at the ends. He had a wide-brimmed hat perched rakishly on his golden curls.

Peter considered him too perfect for any carnal thoughts. His s.e.xual adventures had been very few and he had avoided that brothel in Westminster which catered to tastes like his own. Discretion was all-important. Discovery meant prison and hard labour.

They had a pleasant dinner that evening at the Rose and Crown. When they had finished, Peter dabbed his mouth with his napkin. "Now what shall we do?"

Jonathan leaned forward and fixed him with a glowing look. "I know somewhere in Oxford where we can end the evening ... together. It's not much of a hotel, but it would serve our purpose."

Peter's mouth went dry. "Y-you c-can't mean ..." he stuttered. That beautiful mouth smiled at him lazily.

"Oh, but that's exactly what I mean."

Rose sat at the ball and watched the dancers. Now that she was engaged to Peter and seemed happy with him, the heiress-hunters of society had decided to leave her alone.

The next dance, a waltz, was announced. She looked at her dance card. Nothing for the next dance and then a few dances with elderly friends of her father.

She looked up and found Harry bowing before her. "Lady Rose, may I have the honour?"

They moved together on the dance floor. "Have you any more news about Dolly's death?" asked Rose.

"Nothing, I'm afraid. Have you?"

Rose thought of Roger but decided to remain silent. She shook her head.

"Where is your fiance tonight?"

"He has gone off to see friends."

"That is surely most unlike him. I would have thought him a dutiful escort."

"He usually is."

"Are you sure you want to go through with this marriage? Don't you want children?"

"I do not know what you mean."

"Daisy told me that you know exactly what I mean. Peter is not interested in your s.e.x."

"There is no proof of that," said Rose, her face flaming. "In any case, all I want is an arranged marriage. I would have my own household and I would have freedom. I owe you an apology. I only found out later that you had been the hero of that terrible train crash."

"On another matter, I found Berrow and Banks outside your house. I warned them off. What are they up to?"

"I don't know."

"While we had our pretend engagement, at least I could feel I was protecting you."

"Fiddlesticks. You were never there."

"I could change," he muttered.

"What did you say?" demanded Rose, but the waltz had finished and an elderly partner was waiting for her.

She danced impatiently, wanting to speak to Harry again, wondering if he had really said he could change, and what had he meant by that?

When the dance was over, her eyes searched the ballroom, but there was no sign of Harry.

Peter and Jonathan lay side by side, naked, on a bed in a seedy hotel in Oxford's Jericho district. Jonathan was smoking a Russian cigarette and blowing smoke rings up to the ceiling.

"That was beautiful," said Peter in a choked voice.

"I can make it more exciting." Jonathan stubbed out his cigarette and then fished on the floor on his side of the bed. He brought up a leather mask. "If I put this on, it will t.i.tillate you even more."

"I am in love with you," said Peter in a stifled voice. "I do not need to play silly games."

"You'll love it. See!" Jonathan put the mask on and then wound his arms around Peter. "Indulge me." Then he raised his voice. "I have the mask on!"

The bedroom door burst open and a magnesium flash blinded Peter. The man behind the flash was holding a camera. He, too, was masked. The cameraman snapped at Jonathan, "You've done your work. Now get out of here."

Jonathan scooped up his clothes and darted from the room. Peter struggled out of bed and ran to the door, which was slammed in his face. He hurriedly dressed and ran downstairs and into the street.

He looked frantically up and down. No one. He went back to the hotel. "Who was that man with the camera?" he demanded.

The man at reception looked at him with flat eyes. "I never saw n.o.body with a camera."

"You're lying," howled Peter.

The man smiled at him. "Want to go to the police?"

"That is what I am going to do," said Peter, knowing miserably that that was the very last thing he could do.

He could only a.s.sume that whoever took that photo meant to blackmail him. Then he thought of detective Harry Cathcart, who was famous for covering up scandals. But would Harry report him to the police?

It was either that or kill himself.

Harry had gone to visit his father, Baron Derrington, a duty call he had been putting off for ages, and so Peter had to fret and worry all weekend.

When Harry arrived at his office on Monday morning, it was to find Peter waiting for him.

"How can I help you, Sir Peter?" asked Harry.

"May I talk to you in private?" Peter cast a nervous look at the secretary, Ailsa.

"By all means," said Harry. "Come into my office." He cast a shrewd look at the trembling and sweating Peter and said to his secretary, "Miss Bridge, would you please go to Fortnum's and buy me some chocolates? A large box. Take the money out of the petty cash."

"Certainly, sir."

Inside his inner office, Harry held up his hand for silence until he heard Ailsa leaving.

"Now, Sir Peter, you may begin."

"You will despise me!"

"Sir Peter, I know so many shocking things that anything you say will fail to amaze me."

So, in a trembling voice, Peter told him of Jonathan and of how he had been betrayed. He ended by saying, "Do you think they will blackmail me?"

"Probably. Unless-"

The telephone rang. "Excuse me," said Harry. A voice quacked down the receiver from the other end. "I'll be there as soon as I can," said Harry.

"I am afraid," he said to Peter, "that the photograph has gone to Lord Hadfield."

"I am ruined," said Peter, beginning to sob.

"I will make sure Lord Hadfield says nothing of this. But I must get that photograph and negative back."

"But how can you?" wailed Peter. "I don't know who they are."

Harry thought of Berrow and Banks lurking in the square outside Rose's house.

"I want you to go to your home. Speak to no one. Do not answer the door. I will call on you later. I will give three knocks and then two so that you know it is me."