Sick of Shadows - M. C. Beaton [46]
Peter considered him too perfect for any carnal thoughts. His sexual 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 fiancé 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 sex.”
“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 titillate 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 nobody with a camera.”
“You’re lying,” howled