Thirteen

For the second time that day, Silas stood at the back door of Clearwater House waiting for the bell to be answered. He could think of only two reasons why the viscount had asked him to return; he either wanted to talk further about the East End and how he intended to help, or he wanted to expand on his parting words of last night.

‘I don’t mean to have sex with you. I mean to save your life.’

Silas had gone to the coach house carrying a mixed bag of emotions. He was disappointed because the viscount had been outraged at his flirting and adamant in his refusal, and confused, because he thought that was the true purpose of last night’s visit. It was reassuring that the viscount wanted to save him from the streets. When he saw where he was to be staying, amazement overcame him, quickly followed by a new sensation, that of knowing he would be able to sleep safely. He hoped that this return visit would bring clarity and the chance of another night in a warm bed.

He shook the thoughts from his head when the door opened and the maid appeared as fresh and sprightly as before.

‘Punctual,’ she said. ‘Mr Tripp will appreciate that.’

Fecker blundered to the top step. ‘Afternoon, Miss,’ he beamed. ‘Been looking forward to seeing you.’

‘No need to be so direct, Fecks,’ Silas said, noticing how Lucy’s eyes lit up at the sight of the long-haired blond.

She was pleased to see him, she even blushed, but she remembered her station. ‘You are to come into the servants’ hall,’ she said, standing back to allow them across the threshold.

‘Very kind, Miss,’ Silas smiled. ‘Thank you.’ Even though he was entering the grand house through a tradesman’s entrance, he noticed a change in himself. It was as if the building itself demanded manners, and he was expected to behave as if he had some. Almost like entering a church where voices were hushed, and people carried themselves with respect.

He knew the way along the passage, past the coat rack and into the high-ceilinged kitchen where the table was now strewn with vegetables, bowls and pans at one end, and flour and baking equipment at the other. A narrow woman stood at the range with her back to them, and another maid peeled potatoes at the far end of the table. She glanced up, giggled and returned to her work. The room was clammy as they passed through. Something bubbled in a large copper pot on the stove, steam escaping from under its clattering lid, and condensation hung in the air.

As he passed into the servant’s hall, he expected to see Thomas glaring it him, but it was worse. At the head of the table, which was waiting to be cleared of its tea plates and cups, stood Mr Tripp, his hands behind his back. The folds of his chin rested on a winged collar half-covering a white bow tie. His tailcoat was open to reveal a starched, white dress shirt with a ridiculously small amount of waistcoat across his stomach, his trousers were grey striped, but the rest of him was black, including his mood it seemed.

‘Stand there,’ he barked, halting Silas and Fecker in their tracks. ‘Thank you, Lucy.’

The maid curtsied and left them. Fecker watched her go, grinning.

‘I will thank you to keep your eyes off the maids,’ Tripp said.

‘No need to thank me,’ Silas said. ‘He can have them. Evening Mr Tripp.’

Tripp closed his eyes, a silent prayer for strength, perhaps, and took a deep breath that swelled his chest. He was not fat, but there was no way the tailcoat would do up, even if he sucked in his stomach. Silas wondered at the point of the buttons.

‘I have instructions to take you to His Lordship,’ Tripp announced as if imparting grave news. ‘Before I do that, I have instructions.’ He fixed his distrust on Silas, too intimated by Fecker to look him in the eye. ‘You are not to go anywhere unaccompanied. You speak only when spoken to. You stand when His Lordship, or anyone other than a servant enters a room, and, below stairs, when I enter. You only sit when invited. Keep your language clean, and your hands to yourself. Should anyone ask your purpose here at any time following this evening, you are assisting His Lordship in his charitable work, and you say as little as possible. Do not swear in his presence and on no account sit on the furniture.’

‘Lot to remember,’ Fecker mumbled, earning a hard stare from the butler.

‘And remember them you shall.’ Tripp spun on his heels. ‘Follow me.’

He led them from the hall and into the passage leading to the stairs. Silas’ heart skipped a beat as he imagined they were being taken up and he would see the inside of the viscount’s house. It was not to be. Tripp passed the staircase and took them through a door beneath, continuing along another passage, darker and colder, until they entered a room with a stone floor, a long, blackened table in the centre and shelves lining the walls. An arched and barred window let in the last of the afternoon light and Silas felt the chill of the room in his fingertips as his breath clouded.

‘Let me see you,’ Tripp said, pointing to the precise places he wanted them to stand.

Once again Silas imagined he was being sold into slavery, this time by an undertaker. Tripp examined them from a distance, his eyes picking over every detail of their clothing.

‘Do you have another overcoat?’ he asked of Fecker who laughed.

Another elbow from Silas and he fell silent. ‘Unfortunately not, Mr Tripp,’ Silas said. ‘This is all we own. What you see is what you get.’

Tripp nodded thoughtfully and, Silas thought, perhaps even sympathetically. Any outward sign of emotion was dismissed in a blink.

‘Your shoes?’

They examined the soles of their feet, and they passed inspection, as did their hands.

‘You are remarkably clean,’ the butler said with surprise.

It was on the tip of his tongue to offer to be as dirty as he wanted, but Silas held it back. Sexual innuendo was a habit that had become a way of life, and he fought hard to play a different role. If he could keep his mouth shut and his ears open, he might discover the purpose of this song and dance.

‘All the same,’ Tripp said. ‘Clean your shoes and wash your hands. Then, you will wait until I collect you.’

With that, he marched from the room and closed the door.

‘What’s this about?’ Fecker asked, hitching himself onto the table.

‘No idea, mate. Just wants us to look like city toffs and a bit miffed that we don’t.’

‘Not cleaning my hands again,’ Fecker complained. ‘No point spitting on my boots.’

‘Yeah, alright, Fecks. Don’t get grumpy. Just keep the man happy.’

Silas rinsed his hands and dried them on a towel which he then realised was grimy with shoe polish. He washed them again and let them dry in the frigid air.

Tripp returned after five minutes just as Fecker was sniffing a tin of beeswax.

‘Touch nothing!’ the butler roared from the doorway causing Fecker to drop the tin. He kicked it under the table to hide the evidence. ‘Follow me. Silently.’

Tripp turned and led them back through the passage to the stairs and up. Silas’ pulse quickened with every step. He had been brought up in cramped rooms in broken down tenements with shared taps on landings for washing and hardly any sanitation. This house had a room just for people to clean their boots, and he couldn’t imagine what lay on the other side of the large door they now approached.

Trip gave them one last examination before leading them into the house.

The first thing that struck Silas was that it was no warmer above stairs than it had been below. The expanse of tiled floor, the high ceiling and the open staircase had something to do with it. There was a fireplace in the entrance hall they entered, but it was unlit. After a few paces, they were told to wait beside a huge round table set with nothing but an oversized bunch of flowers. Above it, dead centre hung a glittering brass and candle chandelier, unlit, whose chain could well have held back a river tug. It vanished into a ceiling painted with clouds and cherubs, where half-men half-beast creatures attended to topless ladies.

Looking at the ceiling made Silas dizzy, and he steadied himself by gawping at the carpeted stone staircase which swept towards the back of the house before dividing and doubling back. Fecker, of course, had discovered the semi-clad figures on the ceiling.

‘Don’t think much of their tits,’ he complained.

Luckily, Tripp was at a distance, facing a pair of doors as if he had been told to stand in the corner for being naughty. His confident knock covered the word ‘tits’, but he did let out an urgent, ‘Shush,’ before knocking a second time and entering. Silas was impressed by the way he opened the doors and stepped between them at the same time, letting them go but not allowing them to fall back against the walls.

‘Your visitors, My Lord,’ he said, and Silas was sure he heard an echo.

There was a moment when nothing happened, and then Tripp walked further into the room leaving them alone. Silas pulled at Feck’s coat sleeve. He was still craning his neck at the ceiling. They had time to gawp at each other wide-eyed before Tripp returned.

‘This way,’ he said, and waited for them to fall in line before returning to the room.

If the hall had been an introduction to the viscount’s way of life, it had not been a subtle one, yet it was nothing compared to the room they entered. Silas could see why the butler had insisted they check their boots. The carpet almost came up to his ankles, and he wondered if he had time to squat and touch it. Sadly not; Tripp was setting a fair pace.

He had a moment to glance at a roaring fire, several fancy chairs and settees, a few tables and a mass of glass that glittered or glowed depending on whether it was hanging or standing. Tripp halted before another pair of open doors.

‘Your names?’ he whispered.

‘Mister Silas Hawkins,’ Silas said, thinking the Mister was called for given his circumstance. ‘And Fecker… Sorry, Andrej…’ He leant into Fecker and whispered, ‘What’s your last name?’

‘I am Andrej Borysko Yakiv Kolisnychenko,’ Fecker said, squaring his shoulders proudly.

Tripp blanched, but recovered his composure to announce, ‘Hawkins and his man,’ before backing away apace.

A man crossed the room in front of them, his head in a book. He didn’t look at them as he passed, he was intent on whatever he was reading, and Silas was unable to see his face. The man wore a crisp white shirt with sleeves neatly rolled to the elbows, smart woollen trousers with braces hanging behind, and what Silas thought were riding boots.

‘You may step in,’ Tripp instructed, and they did as they were told.

The hall had been impressive, but cold, the next room plush and padded, but this was a room for work. Not the kind of work Silas was used to, but work of the mind, a place to read and write among rich colours, dim lighting and a flickering fire. The rugs were deep red and green, as were the curtains that swagged across the window. The chairs were a mismatch of styles and materials. A leather one faced a desk, a pair of large armchairs faced the fire, and every surface was cluttered with curios.

Tripp asked if there would be anything else, and a familiar voice replied, ‘That will be all. I will ring if I need you.’

As the doors were closed behind him, Silas felt unexpectedly at home, and when the man with the book finally put it down and turned, Silas realised why. The viscount grinned at him and opened his arms wide.

‘What do you think?’ he said, turning a circle to show off his clothes. ‘Will I do?’

Silas couldn’t find the words. He was dressed like a shopkeeper who spent his income on barbers and grooming.

‘Oh, wait,’ His Lordship enthused, dashing across to an armchair and throwing on a dark grey jacket. It was not dissimilar to the waist-length one Silas wore, except it looked like it still had the price tag on it. He modelled it for his guests in the centre of the room looking very pleased with himself.

‘What do you think?’ he beamed.

‘You want me to be honest, Sir?’ Silas asked unable to hide his confusion.

‘Naturally.’

‘What are you?’

His Lordship’s expression melted and, as his boyish enthusiasm drained from his face, it uncovered a look of anger which quickly passed and was replaced by disappointment.

‘You can’t tell?’ he asked adjusting his jacket as if doing so would help.

‘Nyet.’ Was all Fecker had to say on the matter. He was more interested in a display of cut-glass decanters on a silver salver, each one filled with wine-red promises.

‘It’s smart,’ Silas said. ‘But… Why?’

‘Oh dear,’ the viscount murmured. ‘I think I’ve got it wrong. Smart?’

His gaze wandered over Silas, appraising him, and Silas read the look as displeasure.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, keen to stay on the right side of his host. ‘But you wanted the truth. Oh, I just wanted to say thank you for letting us stay last night. It was a luxury for the both of us, and we are very grateful, Sir. You look very fine, if I may say. Ready for the theatre, are you?’ It seemed polite enough and Silas could imagine any guest at Clearwater House saying the same thing.

The viscount burst into laughter and threw off the jacket. ‘I’ll have to think again,’ he said. ‘Come in and sit down.’

Much to Fecker’s delight, the viscount strode to the decanters and began pouring drinks, something of which he was fond, Silas thought. He had never seen the man very far from a glass of something.

‘He said not sit on furniture, didn’t he?’ Fecker said, hovering uncertainly at a chair by the fireplace.

‘Go ahead, Andrej,’ the viscount encouraged. ‘When the Tripp’s away, us lads can play, eh?’

When spoken by a gentleman to a street boy, expressions such as ‘Us lads can play,’ took on a different meaning and once again Silas had to refrain for making a smutty remark, passing a flirt, or getting straight down to business.

‘You are confused, Silas?’ the man asked, catching him out.

‘True enough, Sir,’ Silas replied.

‘Why? And be honest.’

‘Well, for one, Fecks and me are a bit out of our depth.’ He indicated the room by circling a finger, and the circle grew to encompass the whole house. ‘Then, we don’t know why we are here. But, when a gent invites the two of us somewhere private together, it’s usually for something… Well, you can guess. And then… What are you wearing?’ It was forward, but Silas felt relaxed enough not to worry.

‘I have a lot to learn,’ His Lordship said, crossing to the bell-pull and tugging it. ‘Gentlemen, please sit. We are here for business, but not your kind. I have many more questions, we need to talk more on a certain subject, we will eat, and then I’d like us to go out.’

‘We’re not much dressed for the music hall, Sir,’ Silas said, making himself at home in the depths of a plush armchair.

‘And neither am I, I hope,’ the viscount replied.

Silas wasn’t sure what he was dressed for, but said nothing.

‘Where you going?’ Fecker grunted as he wiped his mouth following a comprehensive gulp of whisky.

The viscount finally found the concentration to stand still and explain himself. ‘I need to go to Greychurch,’ he said. ‘I want to see the places where your unfortunate associates met their deaths.’

Silas body flushed with dread as understanding kicked him in the gut. The man had taken a shot at dressing to fit in, but had missed the target completely. He would be set upon first by the whores, then the renters, and, if there was anything left of his dignity, by anyone bold enough to strip him of his new clothes. Men would kill for a pair of boots like that, and his jacket could be sold to feed a family of ten for the whole winter.

‘I can see your consternation, Silas,’ the viscount said.

Silas checked his fly was buttoned.

‘He means you look bothered,’ Fecker said, and winked proudly.

‘Oh. Yes, of course I’m bothered, Sir. It ain’t safe.’

‘I’m not going alone. You’re coming with me.’

‘I know Fecker’s a big fecker, Sir, but you don’t know what it’s like in there.’

‘Which is why I want to go.’

‘It’s getting dark.’

‘The darker, the better.’

‘You been drinking that opium stuff, Sir? Or has life got too much for you?’

‘Don’t be insolent.’

‘Then don’t you be stupid.’ Silas struggled from the armchair.

‘I beg your pardon?’ The viscount squared his shoulders.

‘You heard.’ Silas was suddenly too annoyed to worry what he said but aware enough of his surroundings to care how he said it. ‘I’ll happily tell you what you want to know, but I won’t let you go down Greychurch, not at night.’

‘You won’t let me?’ His Lordship was outraged.

‘Not if I have a say in it.’

‘You’ll do what the damn I pay you to do.’

‘I won’t take no money for getting you hurt.’

The viscount took a step forward, his features twisted in anger. ‘What kind of hypocrite are you?’ he seethed, narrowing his eyes. ‘You’ll take money for being screwed as a whore, but assisting a gentleman is beneath you?’

‘Getting you hurt is beneath me,’ Silas shot back. The man didn’t understand, and his blindness was maddening.

Powerful hands gripped Silas’ lapels and tugged him closer.

‘You will do as I ask.’ Each word was articulated through gritted teeth. The viscount’s eyes burned into Silas, defying his insolence while somehow seeming to enjoy it.

‘I won’t let you go. Sir.’ Silas stood his ground, but his heart was banging against his ribcage.

Their faces were so close he could have touched the viscount’s scar with his tongue.

‘You couldn’t stop me if you tried,’ the older man sneered.

‘You’d be surprised what I can do.’

Silas matched his anger but not his strength. The viscount lifted him to his toes. They were eye to eye and groin to groin, a whisper away from a kiss.

‘Want to beat me do you?’ Silas jeered. ‘You ain’t the first.’

His words caught the man off guard and Silas’ won a point. His dick pressed against the man’s crotch. It was hardening, and he was unable to control it. The smell of perfume and alcohol was as intoxicating as the possibilities their closeness allowed.

‘Go on,’ he taunted. ‘It’d be good practice for you.’

‘What?’ Apparently, the viscount’s anger was running out of steam.

‘For when you get set upon,’ Silas said, his throat dry. ‘I ain’t letting you go.’ He leant forward, making the viscount take his weight, but the man didn’t push him away as expected.

Instead, he swallowed.

‘Why?’

‘You’ll get injured.’

‘It’s happened before. Try again.’

‘I don’t want you to get hurt.’

‘Why?’

‘Shame to mess up a pretty face.’

‘Why, Hawkins? Why should you care?’ the viscount pressed back, and Silas had no desire to push him away.

‘’Cos I do.’ Silas was running out of excuses and had only the truth to fall back on.

‘Why?’

It was yelled that time, but Silas could shout just as loudly. ‘Because I fancy you, alright?’ He laid it down as a challenge, but his eyes were pricking.

The viscount was caught by confusion. The tension in his face fell away like an avalanche of stubbled flesh, allowing a brief twitch of delighted surprise to shine through before annoyance took over. He let Silas go, stepped back and knocked into Fecker who had closed in, ready to protect his friend.

The viscount fumbled for words before settling on, ‘Your fears are unfounded.’ He edged away from Fecker. ‘Yours too.’

There was a knock at the door. The viscount straightened his shirt and remembered himself. ‘We will not be going alone,’ he said, the matter decided as he addressed the door. ‘Come!’

Thomas entered in his evening livery backed by the glow of the drawing room lamps.

If this was His Lordship’s knight in shining armour, Silas thought, they were in trouble, but by Christ, he was sexy.

Anyone would have been sexy to Silas right then. The thought of the viscount putting himself in danger wound him up so intensely, he’d been furious and turned-on at the same time. He still was, but the anger began to seep away as he remembered the man’s moment of happy shock. His state of sexual arousal took longer to soften.

‘Thomas is coming with us,’ His Lordship decreed.

‘Oh,’ Fecker grunted, unimpressed. ‘Then we’re all fucked.’