Sometimes he wished he’d thrown the watch back in Godfrey’s face there and then, but it would have been more of a reaction than he’d ever have been willing to let the old man see.
And besides, it was a good reminder, the watch. Of what he was.
So he’d kept his anger tamped down, his expression blank, and thanked Godfrey in a neutral tone that betrayed neither pleasure nor hurt. Giving the old man nothing in return.
Nick checked his reflection in the mirror. The silver watch chain gleamed at his waist. He looked respectable in his smart tweeds, but not wealthy. A difficult man to place, perhaps, if you passed him in the street.
Well, perhaps that was no bad thing, he decided. For the day he had ahead of him.
Sir Edward’s new house was built on land he’d bought from Godfrey Roscarrock. It was part of a much larger plot of unused land that Nick had spent the last two years trying to persuade Godfrey to start farming himself. He’d been close to achieving his objective when Sir Edward had turned up out of nowhere and made an unsolicited, and very generous, offer for a number of acres surrounding the Hole. For now, the rest of the plot remained fallow, and Nick was biding his time before starting in on Godfrey again.
Sir Edward had sited his new house about a quarter mile from the Hole, where Nick and the other village children used to play when he was a boy. It struck Nick as an odd place to choose to build a house—beside an eighty-foot chasm going down to the sea—but Nick supposed the house must be far enough away that there was no concern about subsidence. Certainly, when Sir Edward had first purchased the land, some men had come up to survey the ground. Nick had seen them when he was out walking, pacing around with charts and mathematical instruments. He supposed they must have satisfied themselves on that score.
Varhak Manor itself was a blunt, unapologetic edifice. To Nick’s eyes, it looked defiantly modern, the edges of the masonry sharply perfect, the sandstone bright and unweathered, the great bank of windows at the front of the house glittering with brand-new glass. As he walked up to the front door, his belly churning with a mix of nerves and resentment, it swung open.
“Good morning, Mr. Hearn,” said the man who stood there. He had neatly combed greying hair, a neatly trimmed moustache and beard, and a neat pair of gold-framed half-moon spectacles perched on his long nose. Nick recognised him as the servant who had been with Sir Edward in the Hope & Anchor.
Nick cleared his throat. “Good morning.” He gave the servant a brusque nod, and added, “I’ve an appointment with your master.”
The servant inclined his head. “I am aware, sir. Please do come in.” He stood aside in invitation, and Nick stepped past him, walking though the small porch and emerging into an imposing hallway.
His immediate impression was this had to be the brightest house he’d ever been in. The ceiling of the hallway was the height of the whole house, and on its rear wall, a wide bank of arched windows let through copious sunlight. A grand central staircase led up to a first floor balcony that ran round the perimeter of the hall like a sort of minstrel’s gallery. After a moment, Nick realised a man was standing up there, leaning over the balustrade, looking down at him.
Sir Edward.
This was the man-at-home then, informally attired in fawn trousers and waistcoat with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and a floppy necktie tied carelessly about his neck. He was even more comely like this, a little mussed, with a stray lock of hair falling over his forehead.
“Mr. Hearn,” he called down in that devil’s bark. “You came.” He smiled happily, for all the world as though this was a pleasant surprise, and there hadn’t been a bit of coercion on his part.
Nick regarded him coolly, not offering an answering smile. “Good morning, Sir Edward.”
If the man noticed Nick’s flat tone, he didn’t show it. “Come on up,” he said, beckoning with his arm. “We can have some tea in my study while I explain a bit more about my work.”
God, that voice of his. So hoarse and ugly. It didn’t fit how he looked at all. Again Nick felt that deep, disconcerting thrum of attraction. He’d never felt such a profound pull to another person, but Sir Edward Fitzwilliam wasn’t just comely, he had that fierce, elusive spark of life that seemed to burn brighter in a very few people. Nick wanted to curse—why this man of all men?
“Mr. Pipp,” Sir Edward said, addressing his servant now. “We’ll take tea and scones in my study.”
“Very good, sir,” the servant said, as Nick made for the staircase.
Nick was absurdly aware of Sir Edward’s gaze on him as he climbed, and he hated how that made him feel, how it made him wonder if the man felt any attraction to Nick in return. As though that was likely.
Sir Edward waited at the top of the stairs, bathed in the sunlight that streamed through the arched windows. He stepped forward as Nick reached the top, offering his hand, gilded by the sun. He was quite a sight, standing there, all golden, and somehow Nick knew this moment was going to become a lifelong memory. Like the way Nick remembered his mother, long, black hair flying as they ran along a windy beach when Nick was small, or Gabe by moonlight in the dunes, his eyes gleaming with lust as he leaned over Nick’s prone body to kiss him.
This memory wouldn’t be of wind or moonlight though. It would be of sunbeams and dust motes dancing. A rich, golden youth, slender and elegant, offering his hand with a confident smile, all easy privilege.
Nick took the offered hand and gave it a quick workmanlike shake before he dropped it.
“Follow me,” Sir Edward said, smiling. “My study’s in the east wing.”
He led Nick to a door off the gallery. “I have my private apartments and laboratory in this wing,” he explained as he preceded Nick down a spacious corridor. Nick stared for a moment at the tight perfection of the man’s arse as he walked, before dragging his gaze up and following.
“Everything was built to my precise specification,” Sir Edward continued. “The other wing has the drawing room, dining room, kitchens, et cetera.” The tiny hand wave he gave as he mentioned the contents of the west wing left Nick in no doubt that Sir Edward had little interest in such tedious details. “Here we are—this is my study.”
He opened a door, then stood aside to allow Nick to pass him.
The study wasn’t at all what Nick had expected. He’d been imagining something like Godfrey’s library: a gloomy room with dark wood furniture and heavy, velvet drapes. But this room, like the hallway, was surprisingly bright and spacious. The walls were the colour of freshly churned butter, the drapes covering the window the yellow-green of the gooseberries that grew in Nick’s garden.
Other than a large walnut desk, a couple of armchairs, and two full walls of bookshelves, the room was curiously sparse. The only decorative object anywhere in the room was a large, beautifully framed photograph of a man in military uniform. He looked very like Sir Edward, though noticeably bigger and more muscular. Nick hadn’t seen many photographs before, and he stared at the picture, fascinated both by its eerie realism and by the similarity of the subject to his host.
“Is this your brother?” Nick asked.
“My twin,” Sir Edward confirmed. “George.”
They didn’t look like twins. Not that there wasn’t an obvious family resemblance between Sir Edward and the man in the photograph, but twins? The man in the photograph appeared more physically imposing than Sir Edward. Older too, especially with those whiskers he’d been sporting at the time the photograph was taken.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Hearn,” Sir Edward said, his harsh voice making Nick jump. He turned round to find that the man had already taken a seat behind the walnut desk and was gesturing at the comfortable-looking leather armchair on the other side.
Nick sat down, making a conscious effort to mask his immediate irritation at that order disguised as an invitation. No doubt Sir Edward thought he was being the soul of magnanimity, inviting Nick to take tea with him in his private study, but Nick had had a lifetim
e of sitting on this side of a rich man’s desk, and it bothered him that his first interview with Sir Edward was taking place in these circumstances. His fingers strayed to his silver watch chain, fiddling with the fine links.
“First of all, thank you for coming today,” Sir Edward began. He offered a wide smile, eyes glinting with excitement, plainly eager to begin. Nick tried to ignore his body’s undeniable reaction to the man. Yes, he found him appealing. Who would not? But it was an unwelcome distraction and one he must ignore.
“No need to thank me,” Nick said in the neutral tone he used with old Godfrey. “It’s not as though I had a choice.”
Sir Edward flushed at that, and Nick was reminded of their last encounter down by the mill stream when the man’s cheeks had been stained scarlet with embarrassment almost the whole time, even as he made his outrageous demands. Well, good. Nick was glad he was discomfited, even knowing the cause of his feelings was likely disgust at what he had witnessed between Nick and Gabe, rather than shame over his own actions.
Sir Edward looked away under the guise of reaching across the desk for a notebook. Pulling it towards him, he opened it and leafed through a few closely written pages till he reached a fresh one. Smoothing his hand over the clean, white paper, he cleared his throat—or rather tried to, since, when he ultimately spoke, it was with the same barking intonation as always—and said, “Perhaps we could start with you telling me about your background, Mr. Hearn?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Well,” Sir Edward began, slowly, tentatively, “that fellow at the inn said your mother was a Gypsy?”
“Roma,” Nick said flatly. “My mother was Roma. Romany.”
Sir Edward looked up at that, his gaze curious. Today his eyes had a greenish tinge to them, like new wood. Nick frowned at that wayward thought, pressing his lips together into a firm line as though to stop it spilling out.
“I’m sorry, do you not like me referring to your mother as a Gypsy?”
“It’s a gadjikane word.”
“Gadjikane?”
“Non-Roma,” Nick said shortly, annoyed with himself. Why was he telling Sir Edward this? He usually didn’t bother to object to whatever people called him. Had long ago decided that would be a waste of time.
Sir Edward canted his head to the side, regarding Nick curiously. “You feel . . . insulted by the term?”
Nick scowled. At length, when it became plain Sir Edward was going to wait for his answer however long it took, he muttered, “My mother didn’t like it.”
“You didn’t object when that fellow was using the term the other day, in the inn,” Sir Edward observed mildly.
“You mean the one who kept calling me a ‘Gypsy’s bastard’?” Nick asked, his tone deceptively pleasant. “Do you think a man like Jed Hammett’s going to stop talking to me like that if I say ‘Oh, I say old chap. I’d really rather you didn’t call me that. Would you mind awfully?’” He used the accent of an upper-class buffoon to make his point, edging the words with a little personal contempt.
Sir Edward blinked at Nick, plainly startled. “Oh, I didn’t—” He broke off, considering for a moment before starting again. “Well, it’s clear you don’t like that term, so I’ll be sure not to use it again. I apologise for doing so before.”
In the circumstances, Nick supposed it was a generous apology. He shrugged, saying somewhat grudgingly, “You weren’t to know. I don’t bother objecting when Jed says it, because he uses it deliberately to goad me. He’s the sort that, once he knows a man hates a particular name, he’ll make a point of using it every time he sees you. When we were lads, I went after him every time he called my mother a Gypsy or a whore—needless to say, we were always brawling. But no matter how many times I punched Jed in the mouth, he wouldn’t give up saying it.”
Sir Edward looked shocked. “Why on earth not?”
Nick gave a harsh laugh. “Because he likes fighting. Every time I went after him, I was just giving him what he wanted.”
“So instead you let him win?”
Nick bristled at that, but he said evenly, “He hasn’t won if he isn’t getting what he wants.”
Sir Edward considered that. “But you haven’t got what you want either. And meantime, he’s still using a term you dislike.”
“So, neither of us win,” Nick replied, shrugging. “That’s how some games are. Sometimes the best outcome you can hope for is to lose less badly. Or maybe not to play at all, if the rules are so stacked against you, you can’t ever win. So that’s what I do with Jed, mostly—I refuse to play his game.” He paused, met Sir Edward’s gaze, and added, “But there are some games you’re forced to play, even when you don’t want to.”
Sir Edward said, “What do you do when that happens?”
Nick gave him a steady look. “We’re about to find out, aren’t we?”
Ward stared at Hearn’s grim face.
At some point over the last week, he had almost convinced himself that Nicholas Hearn was a semiwilling participant in his plans. It had been easy to get him to agree to come to the house today. That evening, down by the mill stream, Ward had merely said that if Hearn could see his way to assisting Ward with his work, he saw “no reason for any embarrassment.” To his relief, after a short though uncomfortable silence, Hearn had replied he would come to Varhak Manor on his day off—today—sparing Ward the mortification of having to spell out what he wanted in more detail.
Ward had rather been hoping they might go on like that. If they didn’t speak of the reason for Hearn’s agreement, Ward could even pretend that Hearn had been willingly recruited rather than press-ganged.
Vain hope. Hearn was plainly not pleased to be here. This was a game he was being forced to play.
Just then, a knock at the study door announced the arrival of the tea and a welcome diversion from the tension that had arisen.
“Come in,” Ward called out, and Pipp entered, bearing a large silver tray bristling with crockery.
Pipp deftly arranged cups, saucers, plates, and cutlery on the desk. He set down a tiered china stand, crammed with delicious fancies, followed by crystal dishes of black currant preserves and thick cream. Typically, Mrs. Waddell hadn’t just sent up a couple of her delicious scones, she’d put out half a dozen of them, added a similar number of delicate quince tartlets, and topped the lot off with a pile of Ward’s favourite sugar biscuits. Pipp lifted the teapot and poured them each a cup of tea before finally tucking the empty tray under his arm.
“May I be of further service, sir?” he asked, eyebrows raised in enquiry. When he and Pipp were alone, Pipp was a benevolently nannying tyrant, but in front of others, he acted the perfectly obedient servant.
Ward shook his head. “Thank you, Mr. Pipp,” he replied gravely. “That will be all.”
“Very good, sir.”
Pipp slipped silently out of the room, closing the door behind him with the barest click while Ward gave his attention to the scones on the china stand, examining them as though selecting the best one was a matter of life and death. He grasped one with the silver tongs Pipp had provided and held it up, asking hopefully, “Would you like a scone, Mr. Hearn?”
Hearn looked distinctly unimpressed. “No, thank you.”
Ward wasn’t even hungry but nor was he ready to resume their conversation—and he had to do something with the bloody scone—so he put it on a plate and busied himself with cutting it open and heaping it with dark purple jam and unctuous, pale-yellow cream.
It was probably as delicious as Mrs. Waddell’s scones always were, but it might as well have been ashes in his mouth for all he tasted it. He set it down after two bites, swallowing dryly, unsure how to go forward.
Hearn took the matter out of his hands. “Before we go any further, I want us to agree precisely what it is I am going to have to do here,” he said in the flat, emotionless tone he’d used before. “I do not wish to be at your beck and call permanently, Sir Edward. Tell me what you want of me and l
et us agree a number of visits, or hours, or whatever is most appropriate, and the limits of what you will ask of me. In return, provided you’re reasonable, I will comply with what you ask.”
Ward stared at him, appalled. It was one thing to imply threats in the hope of getting what you wanted; it was quite another when your victim—and yes, he admitted to himself, Hearn was the victim here—faced up to you and made you talk about what you were doing. Ward’s cheeks warmed and he knew he must look as awkward as he felt. “I—I’m not sure how long it may take,” he managed to stammer as his mind raced. “It’s difficult to estimate—”
Hearn sighed. “Let’s start with what will be involved. Perhaps then we can agree the terms of our arrangement.”
“That’s a good idea,” Ward replied, relieved. “Once you grasp the purpose of my work, you may understand why I am a little—” he paused, searching for the right words “—a little single-minded, at times.” He offered a tentative smile, but Hearn merely waited for him to go on.
Ward took a deep breath, trying to settle himself before he began. “These are exciting times for men of science, Mr. Hearn. New discoveries are being made every day, some of them in fields that didn’t even exist a few years ago. My own field is the physical sciences. For the last number of years, I have been studying electricity and related phenomena—” He broke off when Hearn held up a hand. “Yes?”
“This is all very interesting,” Hearn said, though his weary tone suggested the exact opposite. “But perhaps we could stick to the question I asked, namely what it is that you want to do to me.”
The image that sprang, unbidden, to Ward’s mind in response to that question—Ward on his knees, unbuttoning Hearn’s trousers, reaching inside to take hold of his shaft—had his cheeks flushing again. Somehow though, he managed to thrust the mental image aside and say, “I want to hypnotise you. Hypnotise you and ask you some questions—that’s all at first. Then, gradually, I’ll introduce some other variables.”
“What does that mean? What ‘other variables’?”
A Gathering Storm (Porthkennack Book 2) Page 6
