‘Very good, Sir,’ Silas said, unable to disguise a smirk.
People would know he was the viscount’s secretary, but it was more thrilling to realise that they would have no idea of the intimacy of their relationship. As amusing as that was, keeping the secret was a serious business. Silas was a good actor, but tonight he had to keep his private life in the dark while also hiding his intentions from Archer. Deceit was a sickening thought.
‘We should eat,’ Archer said, swirling to the sideboard. ‘Payne, James? Have you eaten?’
‘The staff have, indeed, Your Lordship,’ Thomas said. ‘Shall we attend?’
‘I’d rather you went and found the others,’ Archer said. ‘I’m not that hungry, but we ought to get some of this gone before Mrs Flintwich comes up. Silas?’
While Thomas returned below stairs to hurry the cook and Lucy, Silas and Archer helped themselves to the spread, enough for six people, Silas thought.
‘What do you do with what’s left over?’ he asked as they sat to eat.
Archer paused with a fork halfway to his mouth, caught by surprise. ‘Do you know,’ he said, putting down his cutlery. ‘I’ve never considered it. I assume the servants have what they want, and the rest goes into… Well, into…’
‘Thin air?’ Silas regarded the remains of the spread. ‘There’s enough there to feed a destitute family for a few days.’
Archer ran his eyes over the cloches and trays, the bowls and dishes, with James, fine and silent beside them. He pushed away his plate.
‘Oh, my god,’ he said. ‘How right you are. I’ll speak to Markland, see if we can devise a way to have leftovers delivered to the hostel if they will be of use.’
‘Or you could ask Mrs F to make less,’ Silas suggested. ‘You’re already giving enough to your cause.’
‘One can never give enough,’ Archer said. ‘I will think about what’s best.’
‘You are.’
‘I am what?’
‘The best.’
Archer gripped his hand briefly and laughed, embarrassed.
‘You know I love you, don’t you?’ Silas asked, catching his hand before it was withdrawn.
‘I do.’
‘I’d do anything for you and not out of gratitude. Not just out of gratitude.’
‘As you have told me on several occasions.’
Butterflies entered Silas’ stomach along with cold ham and potatoes. He was aware of James staring over their heads to the curtains. ‘But sometimes, to show someone you love them, you have to do things they don’t like.’
Archer didn’t understand.
‘Not to worry.’ Silas let him go. ‘A bit nervous about tonight. Not sure how to behave.’
‘You will be admirable, I have no doubt,’ Archer reassured him. ‘Were I asked for my opinion, I would say you will be the best actor in the house.’
Silas knew he would have to be.
Thomas reappeared as the hall clock struck the half-hour.
‘Mr and Mrs Flintwich,’ he announced, and Archer, dabbing his lips with a napkin, rose to greet them.
Where his cook was narrow and serious, her husband was wider and demure. He clutched a bowler hat and looked at his feet while Mrs Flintwich curtseyed.
‘Good evening, and how splendid you look.’
Archer greeted the couple warmly, but Silas could tell from her nervous glances and twitching that the cook was not as comfortable above stairs as the other servants. Hands were shaken as if no-one knew each other, the offer of a quick glass of sherry was at first refused, but Archer pressed, and the couple accepted anxiously.
‘You are not to be nervous, Mrs Flintwich,’ he said. ‘The evening is for you to enjoy.’
‘Yes, Your Lordship,’ she replied meekly, the sherry glass trembling in her hand.
‘It’s the uniform,’ Archer whispered to lighten her mood. ‘It’s still Archer Riddington beneath it, the little boy you made cream-puff fancies for when he was ten. Just remember that.’
The cook relaxed after that, and Silas thought it such a generous gesture on Archer’s part he could have kissed him right there.
‘The Hansom is here,’ James announced from the door.
Silas hadn’t seen him slip away, despite the elaborate outfit that caught every glint from the chandelier.
‘Thank you, James.’ Archer examined his pocket watch. ‘Yes, we should be moving along. Is everything secure, Payne?’
‘It is, Sir. Her Ladyship’s second footman is downstairs and will come and clear once we have left.’
‘Then lead on.’
Silas wondered if his jovial mood was a cover for his own nervousness. He had everything riding on the evening and the performance, the speech and reception, and it was a huge burden to bear. Then again, he reasoned, Archer was used to large society occasions, knew how to behave, and what Silas was really doing was projecting his own qualms and apprehension onto his lover. His boss, he reminded himself. He had to get out of that way of thinking if he was to pass off successfully as a secretary, not a jumped-up renter with no experience of society.
Thomas showed the Flintwich couple to the front door where Lucy waited, smartly though not elegantly dressed. She had paid attention to her hair, one of her specialities, and it was braided and tied back from her round face. Her dress and overcoat were simple, and a welcome contrast to the spectacle of the men.
Silas watched from the porch as the party stepped into the cab and Thomas gave Mr Flintwich the fare on Archer’s behalf. Along the street, Lady Marshall’s house was a similar spectacle as those of her staff who wanted to attend the gala were collected by cabs and driven away. Her carriage, as ornate and fashionable as the lady herself, waited for her. Oleg was poised to assist her into it before taking his place beside the liveried coachman. Her Ladyship appeared beneath flaming torches, a blurred miasma of silver and glitter. She waved a slender arm to Archer, before allowing Oleg to help her into the carriage. When it drove past, following the cabs, she dropped the window.
‘Your finest hour, Clearwater,’ she called unbothered by her unladylike behaviour. ‘Your mother will be proud when I tell her. See you in the bar, boys!’
Silas was trying not to laugh a release of tension, but was distracted when Archer’s carriage approached and drew up beneath the lanterns.
The coach was what Archer called a glass carriage, being more windows than wood. It was maroon with black trim, had a bowled underside and a flat roof, its back wheels larger than the front. It was pulled by Emma and Shanks, Archer’s city horses, both groomed, their manes decorated, and with ostrich plumes rising from their bridal headpieces, their ears covered. Like everything else so far that evening, they were impressive, sumptuous even, but the most spectacular sight was Fecker.
Silas had no idea how Archer, Thomas or Mrs Baker had arranged it, but his best friend had been transformed. He wore a top hat, with his yellow hair pouring from beneath in a neatly ribboned ponytail (he suspected Lucy’s hand at work there), and he held his crop with authority, drawing the horses to a gentle stop in exactly the right place for James to open the carriage door and drop the steps. Fecker’s coat was black, but edged with silver, and his buttons stood out like stars. His top hat added to his height, but he wore it regally. He looked down at Silas and gave the tiniest hint of wide-eyed amazement as he handed a riding cloak to James. Both were majestic, poised and professional, and the sight brought a tear of pride to Silas’ eye.
He sniffed it away when Thomas said, ‘Sir?’ and, having closed the front door, led him down the steps to the carriage.
It smelt of leather polish, the seat was soft, and unlike the trap, there was plenty of room. Archer climbed in beside him, and the coach dipped again as James mounted the steps to sit beside Fecker.
‘Do
you have everything, My Lord?’ Thomas asked and, on being told that everything was in order, joined them and knocked on the ceiling.
The carriage set off. Its springs had been oiled, and Silas felt no shock or vibration as the horses picked up a rhythm, as Fecker led then towards the West End. The journey was mainly conducted in silence, Archer’s mind, no doubt, on his duties. Meeting and greeting, he had called it. Thanking and wanking was another expression he had used when returning from their unsuccessful visit to the theatre. ‘Wanking as in, giving them what they want, so we get their money’, he had whispered wickedly, making Silas laugh. The expression had also given them ideas, but there had been no time for fun, and there was none now. They followed the procession through the lamplit streets, their lights blurred by the damp air, and Archer opened the window a fraction when it began to condensate.
‘Must see who’s there,’ he explained. ‘So I know who to greet first when I get out. Toffs…’ he dug Silas in the ribs playfully, ‘can be so tight about etiquette. If I greet Lord Dover before I greet Earl Davenport, there will be a scandal. This kind of display of wealth and status means so much to these people.’
‘Aren’t you one of these people?’ Silas asked.
‘I was never meant to be,’ Archer replied. ‘Yes, alright, I am, but if I had my way, I wouldn’t be. At least… I’d do things differently.’
‘I know,’ Silas said, and patted his hand, causing Thomas to raise an eyebrow in warning.
He moved his hand away. Now more than ever he wanted to hold Archer and thank him for all he had done, not only for himself, but for Fecker.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Archer said, as they approached the opera house some fifteen minutes later. ‘I heard from my contact in Westerpool.’
It took Silas a moment to remember his sisters. They were always on his mind, but with the visit to Cleaver Street, the blackmail letter and threats, they had slipped from his thoughts.
‘The money you want to send,’ Archer said, ‘has arrived with my associate. You can pay me back as I suggested. Culver will deliver it personally to the girls in the morning.’
‘You mean it?’
‘I do. He is unable to go this evening, but has made contact with the cousin. The girls are in better health, he said, but the older woman was not so good. I telegraphed a reply and asked if he wouldn’t mind taking a doctor to see to her when he delivers the cash in the morning. Add it to the bill.’
For the second time that night Silas’ eyes welled with tears. Despite Thomas’ glare, he gripped Archer’s hand and kissed it. It was all he was able to do, if he had spoken, he would have burst into tears, and Archer understood.
The relief, knowing his sisters would finally be able to benefit from his good fortune, overwhelmed him, and the knowledge made him more determined to see that Archer’s gala went off without a hitch.
How he and James were to achieve that, if they were, was something yet to be discovered, but he would do anything in his power to ensure the safety of Cadwell Roxton and the Clearwater Foundation, even if that meant acting against Archer’s wishes, as he had already done. Archer would understand, he was sure of it, and, if it went wrong and a scandal rather than a triumph was announced, he would be there to help his lover pick up the pieces.
A knock on the roof from above alerted the passengers of their approach to the opera house, and the passengers sat straight and attended to their costume. The carriage slowed, but Silas’ heart beat faster. He pushed his nervousness aside, concentrating instead on his voice, recalling words he needed to use, polite words and not his usual lazy way of speaking. He was private secretary to the mastermind behind the gala, people would be asking him questions when he had far too many of his own.
‘No need to worry,’ Archer said, as if reading his mind. ‘The people we will meet are all friends or colleagues. Answer their questions simply, or refer them to me. You know how it works. Think of this as a family event, just a small gathering of acquaintances. Thomas knows what to do.’
Thomas nodded and was about to offer Archer his bicorn hat to complete his military uniform when the carriage jolted to an unexpected stop.
‘Sorry,’ Fecker’s voice boomed from above.
Thomas and Archer shared a troubled glance, and Thomas pulled down the window. He leant out, looked back and said, ‘Wait here, My Lord,’ before alighting.
Alone with Archer and not knowing the reason for the delay, Silas was desperate to explain what James had discovered that afternoon. To tell him now would only add distress to Archer’s load, and hard though it was, he kept his thoughts to himself.
‘We only have half an hour before curtain up,’ Archer said. ‘It won’t be too long a trial. If you want, you can go straight to the box, and I will join you there.’
‘I might,’ Silas said. ‘If that’s alright. It’s not that I won’t be any good, but I don’t want to say the wrong thing.’ He would also have the opportunity to slip away and put his plan into action. It involved Jake the runner, James the footman, and Silas Hawkins the East End rent boy turned gentleman. If Silas was inclined to write dramas, he couldn’t have come up with a more convoluted and, he had to admit, feeble plot, but circumstances were the leading characters in his story. They had taken over, and he needed to find some way of regaining control.
Thomas returned, his face speckled with droplets of water.
‘There’s been a complication,’ he said, glancing back along the line of waiting carriages.
Archer was on alert immediately. ‘What? Is Cadwell unwell? Miss Campanelli playing up? What?’
‘No, nothing like that,’ Thomas said. ‘But you are going to have to change your itinerary a little.’
He climbed in as Archer asked him to explain, craning his head from the other window to see.
‘Who are all those people?’ he asked. ‘That’s more onlookers that I would have expected.’
Silas pressed his face to the glass to see a large crowd lining the other side of the street, some in evening gowns and suits, others dressed in work clothes; a mix of classes sharing the same interest in the spectacle. They were not the audience of lords and ladies, nor the queue of public who had been given free tickets to the upper balconies; those people were waiting patiently outside the theatre or were filing into the door marked “Balcony”.
‘Surely not even an appearance by Lady Marshall warrants such a crowd,’ Archer joked weakly, looking to Thomas for an explanation.
Thomas was drying off his livery with a handkerchief and wiping his worried face.
‘They have not come to see her,’ he said. ‘Your gala has attracted an unexpected guest.’
‘Oh?’ Archer leant further but was unable to see. ‘Who?’
‘Oh dear.’ Thomas lost his usual unruffled composure. ‘I am not dressed.’
‘You look perfect, Tom,’ Archer gripped his knee, either to calm his butler or himself. ‘Who is it?’
Thomas regarded him, white-faced and worried. ‘It’s the King of the Netherlands,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ Contrary to what Silas expected, Archer was amused. ‘Well, that’s good of him.’
‘But I don’t have my royal livery.’
‘Is that such a bad thing?’ Silas asked.
Apparently, it was, for the King of The Netherlands, at least. Elderly and eccentric, his demand for what was proper now far exceeded his grasp of all other reality.
‘The problem with His Majesty,’ Archer explained, ‘is that he’s lowering himself to support a humble viscount and in a controversial venture. If I don’t show him enough respect, he will likely walk out and that would reflect poorly on the Foundation. He’s that demented these days he might well demand I be stripped of my title.’ He bit on a knuckle, thinking before glancing at Thomas. ‘Don’t listen, Tom.’
�
��To what?’
‘This.’ Archer thumped the seat. ‘Fuck! There’s no time to head back.’
He stared at Thomas, and their faces distorted in panicked thought.
Silas, on the other hand, always saw a threat as an opportunity. ‘How long until you have to meet him do you reckon?’ he asked, plotting quickly.
‘Oh, a little while,’ Archer said. ‘Twenty minutes? He’s arrived before me, and my absence is acceptable because he has sprung the visit. But, I shall be expected to sit with him in the Royal Box with Thomas behind me, and glamorous though he looks, that is not suitable livery.’
‘Okay, Your Lordship,’ Silas said. ‘Hold your horses. Tom…?’ He wasn’t listening. ‘Thomas… Mr Payne!’ He snapped his fingers in the butler’s face to drag him away from his horror. ‘Do you trust me, Tommy?’
‘What?’
Silas tutted. ‘Do you trust me?’
Thomas looked at Archer for support.
‘Of course. We both do,’ Archer replied on his behalf.’ Why?’
‘Right then, Archie, you get out and slip in with Lady Marshall. When you meet the king, you’ll appear with her butler, so if anyone’s underdressed it will be Mr Saunders. Meanwhile, your own man will be waiting in the Royal Box before you get there.’
‘Yes, so?’
‘Out, Archie. Leave this to me.’
Another brief exchange between the viscount and his butler and Thomas leapt from the coach, helped the viscount down, passed him his hat and jumped back in.
‘You better know what you’re about,’ he growled.
‘I reckon I do, Mr Payne,’ Silas winked. He leant from the door, standing to call up. ‘Fecks?’ he said. ‘Stage door, mate. And fast.’
Twenty-One
Fecker turned the carriage in the street, giving Silas a chance to see towards the front of the theatre and the throng of well-wishers gathered there. He heard the cheers and saw that due to the numbers, several carriages were waiting in line to drop off their passengers. He couldn’t imagine how an incorrectly dressed butler could cause such a problem, but the viscount and Thomas knew far more than he did, except they didn’t know where he could find the necessary uniform so quickly.
Unspeakable Acts Page 20
