CHAPTER ONE

I was only slightly late. Taking the stairs two at a time, I reached the great hall and was ready to break into a mad dash for the car. Miss Murray was waiting for me, however – just as she always had when I was a young lad and had done something wrong. Standing before the study. I slowed down and approached her. At least, she wasn’t tapping her foot at me.

"Sir, Lord Molloy is telephoning from London," the housekeeper told me, concern covering her face like a mask. "He’s holding for you."

I glanced towards the study, half-expecting to see my old school chum standing in the doorway and grinning at me.

I wondered what Molloy could want. I'd not seen him since his marriage almost five years ago. I knew he'd gone with the Foreign Office. I'd wondered several times recently what he might know since the Anschluß mess in Vienna had got the Government upset.

"Thank you, Miss Murray," I told her and entered the study. "Max, how are you, old lad?" I asked as I brought the instrument to my ear, forcing the meeting with my managers from my mind for the moment.

"Fair, Petersholme." There was a short pause that threatened to become uncomfortable. "Robbie, how do you feel about helping His Majesty's Government?" he asked finally.

I stared at the instrument in my hand. I had no clue what the man could possibly be talking about. Molloy had always had the cheeky knack of coming out of the blue on a man. "Crown and country, that's always been the Petersholme motto. It still is," I told him. "Are you asking me to join the Army?"

Molloy chuckled in London. "Nothing so drastic. We here at the Foreign Office may, however, have need to call upon you come autumn. We'll chat then."

"Max, what is this about?" I demanded. My old school chum very obviously was playing games with me, and I did not like it.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss it at present, Petersholme. We're making contingency plans, that’s all. I'll write to you when things are a bit more settled and we can talk about this. Enjoy your summer, Robbie."

"Max!" I yelped.

"You're so impatient, old lad. I have a meeting with the Minister – the fate of the Empire, you know…" I sensed his chuckle, though there was no sound. "We'll have a nice long chat in the autumn, I promise." He rang off then and I was left staring at the telephone in my hand.

I was damned late as I reached the doors.

I saw the Bentley standing in the drive as I stepped outside and smiled as I started for it. More and more, I was coming to think that Miss Murray thought of everything, even having her employer's car brought up even before he had left his rooms.

"Morning, my Lord," a young voice greeted me as I neared the car – a young American voice. The incongruity of an American on the grounds of Bellingham Hall stopped me instantly.

I spotted the barrow parked beside the topiary that edged the drive to the roadway. My gaze followed a line of spilt straw and muck from the barrow and was staring at the spread buttocks of a lad I didn't know. He was kneeling before the hedge and watching me from over his shoulder. His blue trousers seemed unnaturally tight across his backside.

My eyes widened as I recognised the things. These were those denim fabrications from America. Levi – something, I remembered then, from San Francisco in California. The American company's agent who had come by the tractor factory last month called them blue jeans. Trousers designed by an American Jew for American cowboys. They fitted the lad like a second skin across the backside.

Such things would never become popular in England, I knew. They were simply impractical – and the English had always proved to be a sensible, practical people. The Italians with their bald Duce, however – and half the males thinking themselves gigolos-in-waiting...

I placed the lad then. Miss Murray's nephew. Barry was his name. From America. He was enrolled at university in London for the autumn term.

Miss Murray had requested that I take him on for the summer whilst most of the regular estate workers would be involved in farming and the grounds keeper had been quite pleased at having a helper. Petersholme's interests may well have become predominantly industrial in father's hands but this lingering economic depression had taught me the value of my agricultural roots.

I was supposed to be at the tractor factory in Coventry at this very moment, hearing my managers' reports. I was thirty minutes late already, assuming I drove like the wind and didn't find myself stuck behind some lorry. Of course, I understood that my managers would wait patiently. After all, I was Petersholme. But that sort of thinking had allowed both the Germans and the Americans to develop their industrial base well beyond England's. Either we English learnt to do business by the clock or we would continue to fall behind.

"It looks good, Barry," I told him and pivoted to resume my rush to the motorcar.

* * *

Damn these monthly meetings with my managers! Finances, profits and losses, sales figures, costs – they had all come to dominate my days and far too many of my nights. I had become more than simply overworked. I had become a blasted automaton. I allowed myself to wonder what it would be like not to think of tractors, fertilisers, and farm production every waking moment. I was twenty-six years of age, still a young man, and I had not looked once to my own pleasure since father's death.

I switched on the car wireless. The Teddy Wilson orchestra was playing Melancholy Baby and I felt myself relaxing as Ella Fitzgerald began to sing as I neared Bellingham Hall that afternoon on my return from the factory. It was an indulgence, my having a wireless in the car; but it was one I had allowed myself when I bought the Bentley.

The white foam of May bushes in bloom separated my pastures from the narrow paved roadway up from the village. I even slowed down to a comfortable speed now that I had no need to rush. I thought that I loved England most in the late spring when everything was so green and alive. Even the depression that had held the civilised world the past nine years could be forgotten, when I was here at what was the heart of all that  Petersholme had become. The depression and that damned mad Austrian who ruled in Berlin – why couldn't things be sensible in the world as they were on my estate?

I pulled to the side of the roadway and stepped up to the stile between the May bushes. Only the day before, my farm manager had told me five of my best cows had recently calved and that they were in this field. I wanted to see the wee things with my own eyes, now that I knew the Petersholme factories continued to thrive.

As I stepped up to the stile, a cock pheasant ran from the May bush, raising his wings as he did so. I stood still and watched as he puffed up his breast in challenge. When I still did nothing, he began to hobble as if he were crippled, trying to pull me after him. I knew then that his mate and her nest were nearby and smiled at his effort to perform his duty.

Across the field, a spindly-legged bullock wobbled to its mother and began to suckle. I saw instantly that he was a sturdy little thing. Yes, the spring had definitely been a good one. Bellingham Hall would win several blue ribbons come autumn.

Back in the car, my mind eased back to what I had learned from my managers' reports. The Petersholme factories were still solvent, and I had yet to lay off one employee in my two years at the helm.

Only last week, another of Josef Stalin's commissars had placed an order for a thousand tractors and paid in advance – in pounds sterling. A nice cash sum – the plants would be operating in the black at least into next year. That had been the best piece of news to come out of our meeting.

I thought that, to celebrate, Cook might well serve up something a bit special and wondered idly what had been slaughtered recently.

I smiled. Aunt Alice would know. The old girl, however, loathed it when I didn't like her menus. She absolutely hated it if I changed one for any reason. Still – I thought that being successfully solvent required a bit of celebration. I nodded and was quite sure Cousin Elizabeth would be happy with my intention. Perhaps if I suggested a party Aunt Alice might not fuss too much about changing the evening's menu.

Of course, I knew what the Russians intended with their purchase. Their lads out on those endless steppes would steal the design and, next year, the Bolshie would be making another line of tractors that looked just like Petersholmes. They had done it twice now with our designs.

But, to my mind, duty to one's dependants overrode even solid business considerations – and there was still a depression strangling Britain. I was responsible for paying my lads, for keeping them from the dole queues. They were good men. If it took Bolshie orders to keep them employed ... Petersholme managers be damned; I didn’t care if the Russians duplicated our old designs. Not enough to lay off good men. Not for a principle I had no way of defending.

The War Office had also visited. My man at the factory said it appeared to be only a routine inspection – to see what we could do.

Of course.

Chamberlain with all his great promises early in the spring – "the Germans will behave themselves now," he'd promised us only two months ago in Parliament after His Majesty's Government acquiesced to the German Anschluß with Austria. The German eagle gobbling up the Austrian bird in one bite was a more fitting description of what had happened. And there were still only the six divisions in the Local Defence Force that Stanley Baldwin had left us last year. His Majesty's Government had not yet asked for a larger military budget.

The Premier thought Hitler would take England seriously? Neville Chamberlain's concept of foreign policy was to give whole countries away if we didn't trade with them. Appease always. Tory thinking appeared to be spend nothing and we won't have to tax highly. Low taxes would start business right back up.

Of course.

It had been two years now since I had given my maiden speech in the Lords, we still were in a damned depression, and the war clouds over the continent were even more threatening.

Perhaps, though, the Premier was finally perking up. Hitler goose-stepping through Vienna and beginning to threaten the Sudetenland were enough to wake even the dead.

Petersholme could convert to war materials fast enough and there were so many young chaps out of work in Coventry alone that we could be up to speed in no time. His Majesty's cheques would always be honoured at Petersholme. Definitely. Even lovingly.

I turned the Bentley into the estate at almost three o'clock and pulled to a stop on the gravelled drive. The pale ochre, three-storey facade of Bellingham Hall spread out in the distance before me. It felt good to be home again.

Young Barry was on top of the ladder fiercely cleaning the heraldic wrought iron above the gateway. His shirt lay on the ground beneath him.

Those ghastly blue jeans of the lad's! He may as well have been jutting his naked arse out as he leant to scrub the topmost bar. There was not one damned thing left to the imagination!

Miss Murray's nephew or not, this lad needed to learn to behave as a civilised Englishman if he wanted to work in this country. He definitely did not need to appear to be some rentboy selling his bottom on a side street in King's Cross. Even those cheeky sods didn't advertise themselves like this.

"I say, Barry!" I called up to him through the open roof of the car.

He started and lost his footing. My eyes widened and I was opening the door to get to him as he sought to regain his balance, though I knew he would have already toppled before I could reach him.

The lad proved to be agile, however. He grabbed the wrought iron to steady himself. I heard metal grate against metal as the wrought iron took more of his weight and cringed. He reached down to the top of the ladder and, as soon as his grip was secure, released the top of the gateway. I breathed a sigh of relief.

He had gained the ground and was wiping sweat from his face with a bare arm as I rounded the boot of the car. "Are you all right, lad?" I demanded as I reached him. "You gave me quite a fright."

He grinned, looking for all the world like an imp. "I think so, Lord Petersholme." He looked down his body and chuckled. "No bones broken at least."

"You need to be more careful."

"I thought I was being." He grinned. "But you caught me by surprise there." He glanced back at the gateway and its top border. "Then I almost fell."

I stared at him. I slowly decided he wasn't forgetting his place or even being rude. He simply didn't know how to speak to a gentleman. I wondered how I had been so blind as to have allowed his aunt to convince me to take this American lad on as summer labour.

I looked him up and down, inspecting for harm – as any gentleman would feel the need to do.

The American was medium height, the top of his head perhaps coming up to my chin. His ginger hair accentuated a pale creamy complexion and Irish freckles and made for an exceptionally handsome lad. His chest was wide and smooth, his stomach was tight and slim. A thin, dark red line of hair marched from his navel to inside his denim trousers.

My cheeks flushing, I looked back into his face.

"You really must wear more sensible trousers to work in, lad," I stammered. "And a shirt. Englishmen do not go about exposing themselves like that."

I circled the bonnet of the motorcar quickly and collapsed into the driver's seat, forcing myself to become calm again. "Do a good job, lad," I called to him as I turned on the ignition.

* * *

Aunt Alice sat at the other end of the table from me with Cousin Elizabeth between us. The roast pork was perfect and I intended to tell Cook that as soon as I left the table. Aunt Alice was frowning. We’d been due for cottage pie, and my aunt was such a creature of habit.

"Robert."

I forced myself away from the simple pleasure of enjoying good food and met my aunt’s gaze. I sipped at my wine, brought my napkin up to wipe my lips, and gave her my undivided attention. Alice Adshead was a horse-faced woman – what a gentleman in public would call strong-featured. Her black hair had developed threads of grey and was pulled back in a severe bun. She was not a totally unattractive woman, however, and, for the life of me, I couldn't understand why she insisted on being so funereal even twenty years after my uncle died in the influenza epidemic that presaged the end of the Great War.

"Yes, Aunt Alice." She appeared even grimmer than usual. The mouthful of pork I had just swallowed seemed to want to hang at the very back of my throat.

She smiled tightly. "I heard from the Viscountess D'Archer in today's post."

I immediately thought of the Viscount, remembering he’d got into a bit of a pickle recently, chasing that young vice girl through several blocks of King's Cross trying to retrieve his trousers from her. As I'd heard it, he did regain his trousers but the girl absconded with his wallet. As he was nearly fifty, I would have thought the Viscount would have learned to select the place of his trysts so that he could control the action. But, then, some men were more than a bit stupid.

"I say, how are the D'Archers these days?" I asked, deciding it would probably not be a good idea to repeat my gossip about the Viscount.

Alice's lip trembled. "The Countess mentioned that her youngest brother-in-law is back from India – on rotation or something military."

"Louis? What rank is he these days, Aunt? Captain?"

"He is a Major with His Majesty's Nineth Lancastershire Brigade, Robert." She gazed at me almost pityingly. To Alice Adshead, her nephew was abysmally ignorant of gossip and remained that way despite her best efforts. "I'm sure the Viscount would have mentioned it to you at one of the meetings of the Lords you've attended this past year."

"My goodness, time does fly," I offered breezily in my defence. "What is Louis now, thirty or so?"

"Thirty-five. He's in England to find himself a wife."

I knew then exactly where this conversation was going. Aunt Alice had been on a two-year quest through our sort to find Elizabeth a husband. It surprised me a bit to realise she wasn't still insisting on a hereditary title. Louis wasn't a bad sort at all from what I remembered of him, and he was younger than most that Aunt Alice had offered up as possible matches for Eliza.

I glanced towards Elizabeth. She was vainly attempting to ignore us by keeping her attention attached to the piece of pork that had been on her plate since Alice started in on the d'Archers. I wondered if that meant her interest had finally been piqued.

My cousin was more than slightly strange about the idea of marriage. She was eighteen now and quite pretty. A lovely girl all in all – nice figure, English complexion, and quite clever. Yet, she'd shown no interest in any of the potential suitors Aunt Alice had found. What else was a young girl supposed to do, if not become married and establish her own household? I had Aunt Alice's insistence on that fact of life.

I drank the rest of the wine in my glass, making no pretence at sipping it. I poured more from the carafe beside my plate and took a deep breath. There were definitely times I wished that father were still alive and making decisions, especially the family ones. "What do you think, Eliza? Should Aunt Alice reply to the Viscountess?"

"Robert, I wish…" My favourite cousin sighed then and forced a smile to her lips as she faced me. I took note that there was no smile to her eyes at all. "I think I would prefer not to marry a military man, Robert."

"Fiddlesticks!" Aunt Alice growled, firmly placing her napkin beside her plate. "Louis D'Archer attended Sandhurst, girl. His future is assured. A good life defending King and country, a good stipend, and a sizeable income the man receives from his holdings here in England. A future, good bloodlines for your children, an income – what else can any woman ask for?"

"There's going to be war, Aunt Alice. A very bad war from what I see in the papers. I'd quite like to grow to love my husband before I lose him on a battlefield."

"Dash!" Aunt Alice groaned, rolling her eyes and pushing from the table. Standing up, she fixed me with her gaze. "Robert, are you going to do your duty for this family?" she demanded, ignoring poor Elizabeth. It was as if the girl weren't even at table with us. "You have supported this child's resistance continuously. It is because of you that she has rejected every title that has been in the offing. Your father would have given her to a proper gentleman two years ago."

She sighed, I thought a bit too melodramatically. "I'm forced to go to younger brothers and sons to stay within our sort. If Elizabeth continues to reject perfectly good men, she'll end up like her mother – with a man in the trades, or worse!" Alice Adshead rose, pushing back her chair, and marched from the dining room.

Tears were in Eliza's eyes when I turned to look at her again. "Dear Cousin, explain to me why our Aunt insists on starting these little skirmishes when I'm trying to enjoy my dinner?" I asked in hopes of causing Eliza to laugh, rather than cry. I grabbed my glass again.

She giggled. "She does that, doesn't she, Robert? This always comes up at dinner."

I smiled back. "But never when cottage pie is on the menu. It's only when it's something I like to eat." I chuckled and Eliza giggled again. "If I take you down to London next month will you at least consider Louis D'Archer?"

"London? When, Robert?"

"After this bash Aunt Alice has us putting on – what? – three weeks from now?"

"Not really." Her face flushed ever so slightly as she smiled. "But I would love to go to London – even in the summer. I'll find what's playing at all the theatres for us."

"You'll at least put your thinking cap on, Cousin," I told her, forcing myself to sound cross. "I shan't appease you and get nothing in return. I'm not Chamberlain, you know."

"I'll think about it, Robert. Perhaps…" She glanced down at her hands. "Perhaps, I'll just surrender and accept a woman's duty." She looked back at me then, defiantly. "And when, Robert, are you going to think of your duty to Petersholme?" I stared at her in surprise. "That's when I'll think seriously about it, Robert – when you do."

"Eliza, I'm not sure…" I paused, unsure of myself suddenly. That damned American this morning bent over and stretching the blue denim covering his arse came to mind.

Fortunately for my presence of mind, my cousin did not pick up the level of doubt that I was sure had been in my voice. Perhaps she suspected a feint on my part similar to those of Aunt Alice and merely avoided allowing me to open up.

"Will it be horrible and ghastly, Robert?" she asked, changing the subject entirely. "This war, when it comes?"

I gazed at her and smiled. Such sweet, innocent naïveté so artfully blended with a steely resolution. "We'll take a thrashing, Eliza. A hard one, I suspect. Chamberlain's nearly assured us of that – holding the local defence down to nothing after Baldwin took it there and denying us a real air force. Letting our factories go idle whilst Germany built up. But we have the empire to fall back on; Germany only has itself. Strength and right will win out in the end."

"We'll win then?"

"How can we not?" I growled, staring at her in surprise at her doubt. "England is, Eliza. We simply are, no matter how abnormal things become around us." I sat up straighter. "The world needs England to keep things sane when it goes insane. It simply would be impossible for us to go under."

"You think I'm right to hold out against Louis D'Archer then, Robert?"

I shut my eyes and counted to five. Aunt Alice had better be in her rooms. "Probably. It could become a bit nasty before we can pull the empire in and set up properly."

She nodded. "Then, we must dance away the night at this party of Aunt Alice's. And we must go up to London. I won't hear of an excuse, Robert. We're going to enjoy what's left of this peace before it's gone and Chaos roams the world as if there were no England."

Eliza studied me in silence for the longest time. She brought her hand from her lap and placed it on mine. "Robert, you're young and quite handsome."

"Me?" I blushed.

"You. Blond, tall, quite well-built. A nice smile, a beautiful, intelligent mind, gentle and loving – yes, what any intelligent woman would want in a man. Quite handsome. But, if England must go to war?"

I understood immediately where she was leading us. "Dear Cousin, we are not going to bleed ourselves white again. The French can stop the Germans with their Maginot Line there at the Rhine. There will be no Somme where England lost a generation of young men. I'll still be alive and well when it's over."

"But if you're not? What about Aunt Alice? What about Petersholme?"

I grinned. I didn't feel light-hearted but I knew I needed to appear to be so to Eliza. "Are you suggesting I adopt some bright, handsome lad whom you could then marry? Should I dip down into the trades so that you would have a lad you could lead around by the…" I managed to stop before I actually said the word 'bollocks'. I could not imagine having nearly committed such a faux paux. "By the nose," I finished, blushing fiercely.

Damn! It was time I remembered Elizabeth was a woman and a lady of my household at that. She was not Molloy or one of my friends from university, and I was no longer a carefree student, able to excuse boorish behaviour. There was a distance that had to be maintained – or I lessened her as a woman.

Her fingers gripped mine tightly. Her eyes held mine. "Robert, promise me that you shall be here for me when this thing with Germany is over. I don't think I could survive if I didn't have you to pick me up when I fall."

CHAPTER TWO

After leaving Elizabeth, I climbed the stairs to my rooms. Molloy's call had been tucked away in the back of my mind since the morning, but it was now centred in my thoughts.

What could he have meant with his damned telephone call? It had been so strange and uninformative. Lewis Carroll would have been hard-pressed to have confused his poor Alice more than my oldest friend had confounded me this morning. But, then, Molloy had always had a touch of the Mad Hatter in him – every since our first year at Rugby.

All I was certain about was that whatever he was planning concerned Germany. But he had said that nothing would happen until the autumn. The lad did like to plan ahead, but this was ridiculous. What did he expect me to do – become a spy?

I could speak German, of course. I had studied the language since I was twelve and had been the friend of both German boys at Rugby and had spent portions of several holidays with each of them. At Oxford, Janus von Kys and I seldom spoke English, unless Molloy was with us. Von Kys had been a victim of the Angst that the Germans have about getting back in touch with the soul of the land. I had spent the summer of 1932 tramping along the Rhine with von Kys. Molloy had rightly stayed in England and let me go off searching for elusive Rhine maidens and even more elusive dwarves with von Kys. Damn Wagner anyway!

I had to admit, though, that it had been an enjoyable summer. The hike from Holland down to Switzerland had proved to have more outstanding vistas than the wild coast of Cornwall. The people of each region had been friendly and welcoming.

Yet, I could not see how my fluency could figure into a plan that the Foreign Office would hatch. It was my understanding that spying was the domain of the War Office – with some sort of overlap with the Home Office, brought about by the Irish revolt at the end of the Great War. The Foreign Office seemed well out of it.

So, what could Molloy be planning that involved me? I reached my apartments and had no better idea of his intentions than I had when I was speaking with the man. I could only wait until Molloy sprang his plan on me. I forced curiosity from my mind as I made my way to my bedroom. I was resolute about not fretting with something I could do nothing about. I was much too young to begin developing ulcers.

My thoughts turned to Aunt Alice. She was becoming damnably insistent about Elizabeth's matrimonial state. But lurking not far behind that was her growing interest in mine. The woman seemed hell-bent on marrying both my cousin and me off at the soonest possible moment.

I smiled as I slipped my trousers over my legs and moved into the bathroom to draw a bath. If my dear old aunt had shown even a little artifice in her manoeuvring during the last year I suspected she could have trapped me into demanding Eliza marry one of the men she'd picked for her. But she hadn't, fortunately for me. I still had an ally in my cousin.

It was Elizabeth one week and me the next – without fail and without alteration. It was impossible not to see through her stratagems. Supporting Eliza had become instinctive for me; otherwise, I would have to face the full force of Aunt Alice's attempts to have me producing the next Petersholme. And I was not ready to marry. I supposed I would eventually, of course. It was my duty, after all. I simply saw no need to rush it.

Molloy had married; but he had had his father arranging it for him whilst practically threatening his life. He had been given the choice of being disinherited or marrying. Max, quite logically, had taken the path of least resistance. He had, however, always been a bit too open about his Socratic tendencies, and the Earl had most firmly put a damper on them as soon as his son graduated Oxford.

Fortunately, Aunt Alice did not hold the power over me that Earl Molloy held over his eldest son. She also had no cause to suspect of me what the Earl had of his son.

I settled into my bath and soaped up my flannel.

Of course, Max was constantly up for a buggering. The lad could drop his trousers and bend over faster than even von Kys could; and I had accommodated both of them often in my rooms at university. Though not privy to the machinations that led to his sudden marriage, I had always suspected Molloy bent over for one of the Earl's farmhands and learnt the hard way why gentlemen should leave servants alone.

Aunt Alice could not use something like that on me; for one reason, I gave her no opportunity to do so. I did nothing at Bellingham Hall, not even in Northamptonshire. Even in London, I ensured there was never a boy in my Mayfair house, word of which would quickly have got back to her.

* * *

The next evening, I’d stepped out onto the terrace and was leaning over the railing. The sun was just setting and I breathed deeply as I watched the sky slide from white to gold. It was a visage I could never see in London. Not even in Coventry. It belonged to Bellingham Hall as singularly as did my soul, no matter where my body might be at that moment.

"Beautiful, isn’t it, Lord Petersholme?" Barry asked, his American-accented voice breaking through my contemplation. I looked down the stairs and found him sitting on the bottom step, leaning against the house, and looking up at me.

"It is that," I allowed, irritated that my solitude had been interrupted. And even more irritated that the boy looked so damnably enticing. "Are evenings as beautiful in America?"

"Every bit as beautiful, sir." I noticed that he spread his legs and arranged himself so as to expose his groin. I glanced quickly back at the house and saw that the ballroom was dark. No one was about between the manor and its outbuildings. Young Barry and I were alone. I felt decidedly uncomfortable and wondered if I should be so rude as to retreat into the house immediately.

"Thank you for wearing your vest this evening, lad," I told him, looking for a way to reprimand him for his sexy display without seeming to do so.

He stood and brushed off the seat of his trousers, his gaze remaining on me. He climbed the steps leading up to me until his left foot was on the terrace. "I took it off hoping you’d notice, Lord Petersholme." He hung his head. "I didn’t think of anyone else seeing me that way."

"Barry!" I gasped and stared at him.

He remained where he was. His eyes didn’t meet mine. "You’re one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen, my Lord. I hope you’re like me and that you’re interested in me the same way I am in you."

"Barry!" I cried.

"I haven’t been with anyone in more than three weeks and when I saw you yesterday morning…"

"That is more than enough, young man," I growled.

"We could go to your rooms … No-one will know."

"I said that was more than enough."

He looked up at me then. Even in the growing dusk I could tell that he was blushing deeply. There was almost a haunted look about his eyes. "Jesus! I’ve blown it good now," he groaned.

I took a deep breath, wishing my erection would disappear. "We’ll just forget this conversation ever took place."

He looked up again, his eyes wide and watching me closely. "You mean it, sir? You aren’t going to fire me?"

"I said we’d forget this meeting."

"And you won’t hold my intent against me?"

I chuckled, beginning to relax. "There are enough examples of Wildean behaviour in public school, Barry. I knew a few lads like you. Just don’t become involved with any of the lads here at Bellingham Hall, mind you. That would have Alice Adshead and my farm manager both demanding your immediate dismissal."

He nodded. "That’s not going to happen. I want you, not some dumb yokel."

"Barry, even those sentiments can’t be expressed again. You can’t have me. I would not take advantage of anyone who worked for me. And I definitely would never become involved with anyone here at Bellingham Hall – it just isn’t done."

He slowly nodded his understanding and gazed out at the copse of trees behind the outbuildings. I wondered if I could yet gracefully excuse myself, "Could I use your library when I’m not working, sir?" he asked suddenly. "I need something to occupy my mind."

I frowned. I’d never had a retainer ask to use my library – not among the house servants or even the brightest students at the village school. But I couldn't see why he shouldn't use it. After all, he wasn't really a servant. He came from a good family in America and would be going up to university in the autumn.

"Of course, you can," I told him. "I have my texts from university there – I also stock the latest releases from British authors."

He faced me and I could see the white of his teeth. "Thank you, sir."

"Good night, Barry," I told him and entered the house.

* * *

Elizabeth took Marx’s Das Kapital from the shelf and crossed the room to the chair facing the two windows. She wrinkled her nose in disgust as she made herself comfortable. She was going to understand this man’s socialism, even if doing so burnt away every shred of her desire to learn. It almost had done just that this past fortnight as she forced herself to read about communist utopias.

"Yes!" Barry growled softly as he stood in the doorway of the library and looked from one wall to the next.

Elizabeth heard the unfamiliar young male voice and looked around the side of the chair. Pools of sunlight spread across the carpet on either side of her. A warm, gentle breeze billowed the curtains until they almost touched her. It took her a moment to recognise the handsome red-haired youth standing there and staring open-mouthed at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. She frowned slightly as she remembered he was the new under-gardener.

"Why are you here?" she asked and watched him look towards her, surprise showing on his face.

He stepped back and said: "I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I was just looking, seeing what was here."

"And why are you inside the house? Estate workers seldom are invited inside."

His gaze had become puzzled. "I live here."

Now, she felt confused. A under-gardener living in the servant quarters? That certainly made no sense.

"I'm Barry Alexander. I'm staying upstairs with my Aunt Jane while I'm here this summer."

"Your Aunt Jane? Is that Jane Murray, our housekeeper?" The youth nodded and Elizabeth had the mystery of the boy's presence in Bellingham Hall solved. But she now had two more that were not explained. She knew very well that Robert rarely employed temporary labour for one thing – especially with this nasty depression that continued to linger over England. The other was that this boy was obviously an American and that simply made no sense at all.

She stood and crossed the room to stand before the youth. "Jane Murray has family in America?"

Barry grinned. "My mother, her sister, married an American after the war. Father's with the government now."

"I see," Elizabeth said and didn't at all. "And now you're here in England and employed at Bellingham Hall?"

"Right." His face brightened. "But only for the summer. I wanted to get to know Aunt Jane and see something of the England that Mother's always talking about before I entered the university this fall. Aunt Jane talked his Lordship into letting me work on the estate here until I start school."

Elizabeth nodded. This Barry Alexander's presence now made enough sense that she could relax. "Servants don't normally explore their masters' houses," she said gently.

He blushed. "I've just never seen a baronial manor except in books. And this one, it's so old."

"It's quite well preserved," she answered defensively.

His face turned even redder. "I said that wrong, Miss. I'm interested in architecture and – well – Bellingham Hall is really interesting to me. How old is it, anyway?"

She smiled then. "Henry VII created the first Baron Petersholme for his support in the War of the Roses. Bellingham Hall was built then."

His eyes widened and he shook his head slowly. "Almost four hundred years old," he mumbled.

"You seem awfully interested in the library, Mr. Alexander."

"Oh, yes." He looked past her, and Elizabeth was sure she saw longing in his eyes as his gaze move across a wall of books. "Father has a pretty good collection of books but this…" He shook his head as if to clear it. "One large room – the whole thing – full of books. It's like the public library back home in Rye. I could get lost in here and never find the door." He realised she had a book in her hand. "What’re you reading, Miss?"

She looked down at book. "This? Karl Marx’s Das Kapital."

His eyes widened. "You’re a communist?"

For a moment, she stared at him in shock. "A communist?" she finally managed.

"You did say you were reading Karl Marx, didn’t you?"

"Oh!" She looked down at the book and blushed. "I’m sorry. No, I’m not. I’m trying to understand how he would have the world operate in his utopia. But it is so absurd."

Barry grinned. "I thought so too. And dry? When I was reading it, I’d have to get up every half-hour to get a glass of water or I'd fall asleep."

Elizabeth chuckled. "Would you like me to ask Lord Petersholme if you may use it during your summer here?" She wasn't sure why she was making such an offer. She didn't see where it would cause any harm but knew Aunt Alice would be against it. She had never heard of anyone giving a servant access to one's library, and that would be enough to have the older woman against it.

Barry smiled. "His Lordship gave me permission to use the library, ma’am."

* * *

I was tired as I walked up from the stables on Saturday afternoon. I had ridden most of the morning but I now had what I felt was the best sense of Bellingham Hall and the farm that I could have. I was well-prepared for Monday morning’s conference with my farm manager.

My heart sank instantly when I saw Aunt Alice open the door and stand there to wait for me. All thought of the farm, the beautiful weather, and the multitude of other things that had made the day such a pleasure to me disappeared as I approached her.

"Robert, I must speak with you now!" she informed me as I came upon her.

I forced a smile to my face. "Of course, Aunt Alice," I offered, keeping my tone light. "We're already speaking, aren't we?"

She glowered at me. "In your study, Robert – or in your rooms." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "I certainly would not want any of the servants to overhear us – not with this matter."

"The study then." She marched through the house with me following behind her. Aunt Alice was fuming, and I could not imagine what could have possibly set her off so.

I held the door for her and, stepping in behind Aunt Alice, shut it behind us. "What's the matter?" I asked.

"That girl!"

"Elizabeth?"

"Not more than an hour ago, I found her in the library with a man, Robert! A young man. The nephew of our housekeeper, Jane Murray!"

"In the library you say?"

"There was a servant boy in your library, Robert. I've never heard of such a thing! And chatting away with your ward as if they were dear friends – or…" She rolled her eyes. "Or lovers."

"I gave him permission to use the library, Aunt. He appeared to be interested in the latest Huxley and Waugh…"

"Robert!"

"Yes, Aunt Alice?"

"That servant boy was alone with your cousin. Whatever would people think of her if they knew? What would they think of us?"

"Were they doing anything untowards?"

"No. But that means nothing; they could have heard me approaching. This simply cannot happen again, Robert!"

I stepped up to her and took her hands in mine. "Aunt Alice, young Barry was authorised to use the library. Eliza is a member of the family and, thus, has the right to visit any part of the estate of her own free will – as you or I do. Apparently, both of them chose to use the library at the same time." I smiled down at her. "That shouldn't imply to anyone that they're having an affair or that Eliza's virtue has been compromised."

"Why were they talking – even laughing?"

"What do you do with Miss Murray or Cook?"

"That's different." Her jaw seemed to set.

"How?"

"They're women, Robert. We can talk about female things. And, as you are aware, I'm the first one any of the women on the estate will come to if there is illness."

"You don't talk to the farm manager, Aunt? A man if I remember correctly."

She glared at me. "To decide what is to be slaughtered – so I can make up the menus."

"And you never pass the time of day with him? Neither of you ever smiles at the feel of the warm sun on your face?"

She frowned. "Robert, I'm an old woman. None of the men here are going to look at me and think wicked thoughts."

"And Eliza has grown up here. She was a girl of – what? – nine when she and her mother came to Bellingham Hall. We have become her home and family. She's even come to go with you on some of your sick calls this past year – that Hays boy with the mumps last month, remember?"

Alice Adshead frowned. "You think me horribly old-fashioned, don't you, Robert?"

I hugged my aunt to me and she permitted it, laying her head against my jacket. "I think that you are concerned about Eliza and me – and Bellingham Hall."

"And old-fashioned."

"Aunt Alice!"

"A nasty old busybody with her nose always in your business."

"Not really," I told her and pushed her from me so I could see her face. "But this is 1938, dear old aunt of mine," I chuckled, hoping to strike just the right tone with her. "Things have changed a bit since you married Uncle Alfred, and we all need to relax a bit."

"God rest Alfie's soul," she mumbled and tears welled in her eyes.

"I wish I had known him better, Aunt Alice," I told her and pulled her back to my chest. She sniffed and I could feel her pain at his loss, even after twenty years. "I'll talk with young Barry, Aunt. I'll remind him to ensure doors are open and that nothing untowards happens if he's alone with Eliza."

"You do that, Robert," she mumbled and sniffed again.

"He's a good lad. In America, he's much like our sort, Aunt Alice. I'm sure that he understands proper respect for a lady." She continued to lean against me, the resolve gone from her.

I grinned as a thought suddenly popped into my head. It was sure to distract her from her memories of my uncle and their too short marriage. "Who have you got me escorting at this party of ours next week?"

I felt her stiffen before she pulled away from me and gazed directly up at me. "I had thought to mention that to you. I thought you might lead out the dance with Lady Allyson Molloy. You went to school with her older brother."

"Max's little sister?" Aunt Alice nodded. "Is she even old enough to have been presented at Court?"

"She's Eliza's age."

"Max will be coming too then?"

"I think not. Lady Allyson's sister-in-law, Lord Molloy's wife, will escort her. But I believe Lord Molloy is in America for the month."

I nodded even as I wondered what Molloy was doing in America and if it had anything to do with his plans for me in the autumn. "Just don't push her on me, Aunt. I'm nowhere close to wanting to hear wedding bells."

"Why do I even bother?" Alice Adshead groaned.

I grinned. "Because you so enjoy playing matchmaker."

* * *

I sent for Barry Alexander. I had no intention of belittling the American for chatting with Eliza in the library. He had done nothing wrong, and I was quite comfortable that Elizabeth was as innocent as the boy. Still, I could see where it might well be a good idea that he ensure that doors were open if he found himself alone with a female member of my family in the future. A word to the wise and all that; it would at least keep Aunt Alice's mind on the household instead of our personal lives.

There was a rap at the study’s door as I sat in my favourite chair facing the sofa. "Come," I called.

The American entered and shut the door behind him before turning to face me. "You sent for me, Lord Petersholme?" he asked and I sensed a hesitancy about him.

"Do come in and sit on the sofa there," I told him and hoped I had dispelled his suspicion.

He sat up straight, his hands on his knees, and watched me. His red hair caught the sunlight from the windows behind me and flamed. I smiled. "Is there anything wrong, sir?"

"Wrong?"

"Have I messed up again? I've been wearing my undershirt like you told me to do."

"I've heard no complaints, Barry." I took a deep breath and started in. "I hear that you've met my cousin Elizabeth."

He smiled at the memory of their meeting earlier. "She is a really interesting woman – smart, witty, attractive. It seemed that we had known each other forever; we talk about just about everything."

"That certainly sounds like an endorsement," I chuckled. "You wouldn't be becoming interested in Eliza, would you?"

Awareness grew in his eyes and his jaw hardened as I watched him clamp his teeth together. "Lord Petersholme," he said stiffly. "I am sexually attracted only to men; I've told you that. But Elizabeth is a fun person to be around, one I'd like to get to know and enjoy as a friend." I stiffened at the thought of my cousin simply associating with this lad, as two men would – the idea of it seemed discomforting in a way I could not put my finger on. "You have no reason to doubt my intentions towards her."

"But you would want to engage in  friendly exchanges with her?" I mumbled, seeking to grasp this concept that was uncomfortable to me. "As two chums from the same school would?"

He gazed at me until I began to become uncomfortable. "Lord Petersholme, do you have even one female friend – just one – that you let your hair down with?"

"Let my hair down with?" I growled, trying to divine the meaning of something as illogical as doing that. My hair was no more than an inch long, even at its longest point.

"A woman you can completely relax with – like you do with your best friend?" I thought immediately of Molloy at the Foreign Office – when he was fully dressed.

"I suppose that would be Eliza," I offered slowly.

"I'd say she doesn't think that you consider her a friend – at least, not an equal."

I stared at the American sitting before me and tried to comprehend how he had so suddenly become my judge.

"Did you know that cousin of yours is one of the smartest people I've ever met? She seems to have a pretty complete idea of what's going on in Europe right now – and is scared to death of how England will survive it. She's also got one of the best senses of humour I've ever seen in anybody, regardless of their sex. She may be scared of what those storm clouds over Germany will bring, but she can joke about it still – just as she does about your aunt's old-fashioned attitudes."

I could not believe he was describing the same woman I had known since she was a girl of only nine. "I've never seen that," I mumbled and wondered why.

"Maybe it's because you've got used to her being a woman, one whom you're going to marry off to one of your friends – like you’d sell a horse. You've never seen her as just another human being and judged her abilities on that basis."

"I…" I stared at him in shock.

"She's read every one of your textbooks from university. She understands chemistry a whole lot better than I do and Keynes' concepts of economics too." He paused and leaned forward.

"What was she reading when my aunt found you two?" I asked hesitantly, desperately holding on to the image of Elizabeth engrossed in some frothy French romance.

"Nothing that time. But, when I first met her, she was reading Das Kapital."

"Marx?" I yelped. Not only was I beginning to realise that I’d behaved boorishly towards Elizabeth, I now had to wonder if she’d become a damned boshie as well.

"She was trying to understand the basics of socialism so she could see how Keynes had worked Hobbes and Marx together." He paused and I slowly realised he was staring at me. "Why can't she go to university, Sir?"

"Go to university?" I mumbled, shocked even further at the new thought.

"She said she couldn't – even though she's smart enough to. But she wouldn't say why she couldn't." He shook his head slowly. "Losing those kind of brains is such a damned waste!" he grumbled softly.

Eliza attend university? It was inconceivable. Women had no need for an education, except to read and do simple maths so they could run their husbands' households.

I shuddered and shut my eyes as realisation crashed over me. I was being as fuddleminded with Eliza's life as Chamberlain was with England's. As blind as the Whigs had been at the end of the last century when they opposed the Tories on universal male education.

No bloody wonder that Eliza resisted my aunt's every effort to put her into a marriage! The girl was not just some ornament for her future husband to show off. She was my cousin and quite an intelligent enough human being at that.

I had slipped into ignoring her, at least her human side of her. What this American was saying about her was true, however. I had taken her to enough plays in London to know her keenness. It was I who had given her Eliza as a nickname – because we had both loved George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion.

Eliza would never bring herself to ask me to send her to university, though. If there was anyone in England as frugal as a Scotsman, it was my cousin. She remembered well losing her father in the crash of 29 and arriving at Bellingham Hall penniless, fatherless, and hat in hand. Losing her mother then, she had had no barrier against knowing her dependency on, first, Father and then, myself. Rather than beg a financial favour, Eliza would have quietly surrendered to Aunt Alice's stratagems, were I ever to have shown more than token agreement with them.

I forced myself to face Barry Alexander and swallowed my pride. "Will you be Eliza's friend, Barry? Protect her when I’m not there?" He nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. "What subject would she study?" I mused. "The London School of Economics does not have an arts department."

"Economics, history – those seemed to be her primary interests every time we’ve met, sir."

"Will you look after her if I enrol her at this same university you're to attend?"

"You can't get her in this late – it's almost June!" he yelped.

I smiled. "I suspect I can. Will you do it then, lad?"

He studied me carefully for a moment and smiled. "Of course I will, Lord Petersholme."

"Good. Don't tell her what I'm doing." I smiled. "I would like the letter of acceptance to come as a surprise."

I rose and watched as he stood. "As to your meetings in future, try to leave a door open so that poor Aunt Alice doesn't have a coronary the next time she finds you two together."

He grinned. "We'll be careful of her virtue, Lord Petersholme."

As soon as the door was closed behind the American boy, I called my solicitor in London at home and told him what I wanted him to do on Monday. If Eliza wanted a university degree, she was going to have the opportunity to earn one.
 

CHAPTER THREE

Soaking in the bath on Friday night, Barry still couldn't believe what he’d been seeing. There had to be over forty guests staying at Bellingham Hall. All of them staying through the weekend, too.

He was used to parties; his father had been throwing them ever since he could remember. But they were always small affairs and usually in the afternoon so that most of the guests could get home by dark. They never had more than a few overnight guests at the house in Rye, New York – the rest of the revellers were neighbours or, at least, people who lived in one of the upper crust townships nearby.

"Call everybody Lord or Lady – unless you're told they're a Duke or Duchess," Aunt Jane had told him Wednesday when he’d stopped by her room to say good night.

"What do I call a Duke?" he groaned, rolling his eyes.

"Your Grace, Barry."

"I thought you told me to keep out of their way?"

"Oh, fiddlesticks, lad! It's impossible to stay out of everyone's way the whole weekend – you're a house servant, after all."

"I'm what?" he yelped.

"You're a servant attached to the house, of course."

"Aunt Jane," he groaned, "the Alexanders are hardly anybody's servants."

"Perhaps in America, lad; but you're in England now. And you're attached to Lord Petersholme's service until you enter that university up in London in October. So, that makes you a servant."

"All of these people coming to this thing – they're nobles?"

She looked at him as if he'd lost his senses. "Do you expect them to invite servants? Or, God forbid, tradesmen? The Petersholmes have been gentlefolk for more than four hundred years now."

The Hall had begun to fill up on Thursday, the rooms on the whole first floor of the house and half of the second had guests in them by Friday evening when Barry made his way up the back steps to the servants quarters and the room next to his aunt's room. It felt as if he'd picked up half of them from the railway station in the village.

This being a servant definitely did not look like it was going to be fun, Barry Alexander decided as he rinsed the soap from his arms and stood. Pulling his towel to him, he began to dry off. While no-one in their right mind would consider inviting his gardener to a ball, if that gardener's son had become the local state assemblyman or worked his way up in one of the brokerage houses as his father had, an invitation would definitely be in the post. Even the local sheriff got invited to a party in America – it was just plain good politics.

Only, it didn't look as if people ever got a chance to better themselves here in England. It appeared that even succeeding generations got labelled and stigmatised. He sure as hell had – because of his mother and aunt.

He was horny after a week on the ship and more than four weeks here at Bellingham Hall. So horny it even hurt sometimes. That damned Petersholme was as queer as a three dollar bill – or whatever they had that was just as queer here in England. Only, the good-looking bastard had most firmly made it clear that he wasn't going to do anything with Barry – because he was a goddamned servant and the grandson of a servant. His Lordship had been polite about it, of course – but it still boiled down to class prejudice and Barry being on the wrong side of it.

The bitch of the thing was that he really wanted to get Petersholme into bed. The man was a real looker, that was sure. And, Barry had to admit it, he really got off on the man's manners as well as his damned looks. How could anybody be perfect all the time? Knowing just the right thing to say, even to make an insulting put down sound pleasant?

* * *

Saturday morning, he watched from his window as Lord Petersholme and a good two dozen other men tramped off towards the copse of trees behind the house. Each of the men was carrying a shotgun; they were all chatting and laughing. A small group of kids from the farm led the men, most of those were carrying bags slung over their shoulders.

"What the hell?" Barry Alexander growled under his breath and unconsciously scratched his bare chest. The old grounds keeper had given him the day off, and he had slept late. So, this was an English hunting party! he said to himself. He had read about them, of course – in every book that chronicled the leisure class of the empire upon which the sun never set. The men in their tweeds, the farm boys ready to flush out pheasants for those men to shoot.

Barry had never seen where the sport was in that. Boys rousting the birds and an army of men with guns waiting for them to take wing. The bird never had a chance. And he couldn't see that it took any skill for twenty or more men to kill a poor bird. It was nothing more than a shooting gallery, a damned turkey shoot. Enough buckshot peppering the area where the bird was flying meant the bird went down.

The men chatting and laughing with each other as they trekked into the woods made it look as if going out to kill birds was the most natural thing in the world for men to do on a Saturday morning.

Barry washed his face and combed his hair before dressing. He took the servant's stairs down to the main floor and made his way directly to the kitchen. And stopped as he stepped through the threshold. The kitchen was a hive of activity.

"What are you doing here, Barry?" Jane Murray demanded as she approached him, her hands covered with flour.

"Thought I'd grab some breakfast, Aunt Jane," he answered as he pushed a loose hair from her forehead.

She frowned. "A bit late for the likes of that, lad." Barry's stomach growled and she grinned. "Stay here and let me see what I can find."

Moments later, she was back with a bowl of thick porridge. "Stay out of the way today, lad," she warned him and returned to the table where she was making pies.

He left the kitchen as soon as he had finished eating. Moving from room to room and staying out of the way, he watched the house staff prepare Bellingham Hall for the Petersholme party. The young American entered a part of the Hall that he had not seen before and his interest instantly perked up. He was exploring the unfamiliar rooms by the time he found the ballroom.

The French doors stood open onto the stone terrace when he entered the sunlighted room, and Barry moved across the parquetted floor to step out into the sun and fresh air. He grasped the railing, shut his eyes, and took a deep breath. It was almost like being on the back deck of his home in Rye. He smiled and took another deep breath. He could get used to this England quite easily, even if the locals were barely understandable and his Lordship was intent on hiding deep in his closet.

He spent the afternoon trying to read. When that became too boring, he strolled out past the outbuildings. Barry noticed two young farm labourers lounging beside a tractor and waved as he passed them, his thoughts already returned to trying to understand his boredom.

He'd been four weeks in England, and he'd not seen a damned thing like he had wanted to see. There were all those cathedrals and castles, the Tower of London, and Buckingham Palace. All of the things his friends from high school were seeing in England and France and Italy.

Instead, his grandfather had met him at the dock in Southampton and put him on the train to the village of Bellingham so fast it was like he was ashamed of him.

His Gramps was a queer old duck. Stiff, like a damned corpse. No wonder Mom had jumped on Dad's proposal back at the end of the war. Barry doubted old Roger Murray even knew how to move his face muscles to make a grin – or a frown even. Gramps hadn't even offered to feed him anything – just rushed him across town to the train station.

And now this. Barry Alexander hadn't been away from Bellingham Hall since he arrived. Aunt Jane didn't want him associating with any of the farm hands – it was like they were Negroes or something, not exactly real people and thus well below him and who he was. He snorted. From what he'd seen of the labourers, he probably wouldn't have anything to talk about with one of the yokels anyway.

But he'd still like to see something of the England he'd learned about in history. He'd like to see some of the fun-loving people Mom was always remembering. He was bored enough almost to pitch a drunk even with some of the locals.

He had hopes for Elizabeth, though, now that he'd met her. She had a sense of all that English history he'd got in school. Maybe she could show him some of the local colour on some of the weekends. Even if that was out of the question, she was interesting to be with. They could talk at least. Nobody – not Aunt Jane or that nosy old busybody Alice Adshead who seemed to run everything around the house with an iron hand – could get upset about two young people just talking about things.

He smiled. Maybe she could get him close to that Lord Petersholme. That would be nice. Barry was willing to bet his Lordship could be fun, if he'd ever let his hair down. Not just in bed, either. He shook his head and turned back the way he'd walked. It was like he had a fixation on the guy. He had wanted him in bed the moment he saw him, and the bastard totally turned that one down. The worst part of it was that he still wanted him.

Only, now, he wanted more than just what getting between the sheets with the nobleman would mean. He wanted to go places and do things with him. Like they were lovers or something.

He was sure that having Lord Petersholme regularly between his legs would make the years of university go by a lot faster. He nodded. More pleasurably too. Theatre and even the symphony like he'd known back in New York. He'd like that – the guy would look great in a tux. That wide chest, those narrow hips – yeah, he'd look great. He'd look as good as Barry did in one.

He kicked at a rock that was in his path. They might look good together all right, but there was no chance of that happening. He'd get to escort Elizabeth around the university and have to watch the guys like a hawk while he was doing it. She was one nice looking woman; and too many guys didn't have any class at all, no matter how much money was in their bank accounts. Yeah. He'd be watching over Elizabeth while Petersholme went stamping over the hills and dales of Bellingham Hall with a covey of cuties in his wake – all going to shoot some poor damned birds!

"Hello there, lad!"

The words pulled Barry from his thoughts and he turned towards the voice. A blond guy was grinning at him from the tractor seat and motioning him over. His fists clenched but he quickly forced them back to normal. He wasn’t afraid of these English boys. With his blackbelt, he’d beat them within an inch of their lives if he ever had to defend himself.

"You'd be Miss Murray's nephew from America, aintcha?" the blond asked as Barry started towards him and his companion. He nodded. "Me name's Clive," the blond continued. "This here is Nevie, me best mate since we was in nappies."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Barry," he offered, struggling through the young man's accent. "Do you work here at Bellingham Hall?"

"Me and Nevie do at that, Yank. When we ain't taking our leisure, you know?" He lifted a jar from beside the seat. "Like a taste of home-made, would you?"

"Home-made?" Barry asked suspiciously.

"Plum brandy, lad," the brunet called Nevie answered between a bad case of what the American thought were drunken giggles. "The best way to spend a Saturday afternoon when you ain't got nothing better to do – like having a firm, wide arse bouncing in your lap."

"Me and Nevie here were just talking about that and what a pleasure it would be," Clive offered and Barry noticed the blond seemed to be growing an erection beneath his trousers. "So, will you be having a swallow with us then?"

Barry was relatively certain he was picking up on the blond's interest and had already guessed that the brunet would go along with anything this Clive started. He was tempted. He'd been too long without any sex.

Only, Clive and Nevie didn't strike him as the nicest sort of guys to get into something with. The sex might be fun all right, but he doubted it would stay just between the three of them if it happened. No matter what he might like – or even put up with – he had to think of Aunt Jane too. She might be a stick-in-the-mud, but she was family – the only family he had here in Northamptonshire. And she was nice to him too. Screwing around with these two and it then being spread around the estate would kill the old lady.

Then, too, there was his Lordship’s admonition to stay away from the locals. If he ever wanted a chance at scoring the Baron, Barry’d better not get into something that would get back to him. He suspected that would get him fired fast.

"I should be getting back up to the Hall," he told them, making sure he sounded apologetic. "Aunt Jane wants me to be available if they need help serving the food."

Clive nodded. "You know where you can be finding us – when you decide you want to have a bit of fun. Nevie and me’ll be happy to help out."

Barry waved and started back towards the house.

* * *

Barry couldn't read that evening. The music coming through his window kept drawing him.

He guessed the band was a local one but it was good. They sounded a little like Tommy Dorsey, but there was a jazzier undertone there too – like Ellington or even Basie. Hell! They were almost as good as Glenn Miller. He grinned at that as, still in his chair, he swayed slowly to the music. It was probably the highest compliment he could give any band. Miller was absolutely the very best.

Barry took a deep breath. When he had been little, he would have gone and sat on the stairs to listen to the music coming from his parents' parties. They'd let him mingle with the grown-ups when he was older. He'd quickly become the unofficial record changer for the Alexander house.

But here he couldn't sit on the steps and listen. And Aunt Jane would be scandalised if he actually got close enough to his Lordship's party to be seen by any of the guests. He figured Petersholme would probably fire him on the spot too. The man was that strange a duck. A good man but strange ...

He groaned as he pushed himself from the chair and stripped out of his shirt and trousers. "I might as well go to sleep," he told himself aloud. "I can't go down there. I can't go any damned where. Either I'm the wrong class or it's too far to walk." He groaned. "There's not one damned place I can go, not stuck out here in Podunk!" He threw himself on the bed, taking satisfaction in the squeaking of the springs under him.

It was impossible to doze off. He lay in his underpants and vest on top of the sheets, the cool, rain-soaked breeze from his windows caressing his legs. The music touched him, cuddling him so that he couldn't get away from it. He tossed and turned, trying to find the relief that he knew sleep would be but losing the sense of it, even as it stayed just ahead of him. The music kept drawing him.

He climbed to the terrace and glanced back down the steps to the grounds. He was alone. The French doors of the ballroom were open to the night and the cooling, gentle rain. Barry's hair matted damply against his head as he moved towards the nearest set of open doors to look in.

He hadn't meant to get this close to the party when he'd been dressing in his room. He'd just wanted to get closer to the music. But, with the rain, the terrace was the only safe place from which to do that. Anyone wanting to catch a moment of privacy from the party stayed in the house. Besides, this way, he'd be able to watch the revellers as well – without them knowing he was there. Especially Lord Petersholme.

He couldn't remember ever having a crush on anyone like he had for his Lordship. It was almost embarrassing. It definitely was stupid. And it had him by the balls.

The man had certainly made it plain that nothing was going to happen between them. That he wasn't going to let it. So, why did he keep hoping? That was the stupid part.

If he wanted sex, Barry was certain that he could get something going with the two farmhands from the afternoon. He would have all the sex he wanted from those two the rest of his time at Bellingham Hall – them and their friends.

He snarled at the thought of the two men. He'd have them – and most of the rest of the farm boys too. It wouldn't be the kind of sex he wanted, though. There wouldn't be anything mutual about it. He'd just be the instrument of relief that the boys would use – when they got horny. He was willing to bet they wouldn't care if he was interested or not – as long as he was getting them off. Well, let them try. Even with just his feet, he could take on four men.

Petersholme was dancing with a pretty girl in the centre of the ballroom floor, and Barry smiled as the man gave her a twirl. He was so dashing in his tux. Perfect. Barry made sure he wasn't standing where he could be seen in the light coming from the room and began to study the party-goers inside.

Petersholme smiled at something the girl said to him and Barry felt a pang of jealousy. He loved the way the light caught the man’s hair and made it as gold as the sun. He wondered what it would be like to have Petersholme hold him as he was the girl dancing with him.

Everyone was good-looking he thought as he forced himself to take in one person and then another person in the room. Even that old hen who had tried to get him and Elizabeth into trouble two-weeks ago didn't look bad. Eliza called her Aunt Alice. Barry frowned. He wondered if her chat with the nice looking middle-aged woman was another planned marriage for Elizabeth in the working.

He grinned at the memory of the girl telling him about the military man and how his Lordship had protected her from things becoming too serious. It was almost impossible to believe that people still planned their children's marriages here in England. It was such backward thinking, and here Britain was this great empire too – even bigger than America. He allowed himself to wonder how many of the married couples in the ballroom lived in arranged marriages.

"So, you're a peeping Tom now, are you?" The voice was low and next to his ear. Barry jumped and Eliza giggled.

"I didn't hear you come up," he mumbled.

"But, dear Barry, I didn't want you to hear or see me." She smiled. "And you were so lost in thought – perhaps the music?"

"I was trying to stay out of sight but that band…" He remembered he was speaking with Petersholme's cousin. "You'd best be getting back inside, Elizabeth. You're going to get wet."

"I think I'd rather chat with you, Barry. Sometimes I suspect England's aristocracy is absolutely mindless." She giggled again. "And this is one of those times. If it isn't horses or babies, it's who's going to be married this year."

"But you're still getting wet."

Her eyes twinkled as she met his gaze. "So meet me in the library and let's have another one of our chats. Perhaps we can scandalise poor Aunt Alice. I have something I want to tell you, anyway."

"So, Barry Alexander, I know so little about you, but I think you must be the greatest sorcerer since Merlin," she greeted him as he entered the library.

He blinked and watched her cross the room to him.

"Thank you, Barry." Her voice was huskier than he could remember it.

"For what?" he asked, studying her face for a clue to this new side of the woman.

Eliza smiled back at him and he noticed her eyes were misty. "I only met you – what? – a fortnight ago; and already you've created a miracle in my life."

"I don't understand."

She took his hands in hers. "I received a letter in today's post – from the London School of Economics, inviting me to attend classes in political science and history there this autumn."

He understood then but was still surprised at the speed with which the university had replied. It had taken him almost six months and a query from Ambassador Kennedy to be accepted. He squeezed her hands. "I'm happy for you, Elizabeth. It's what you wanted."

"And how did you manage to make this happen, Barry?"

"Didn't his Lordship tell you?" She shook her head slightly, pulling her hands away. "That afternoon I met you?"

"And Aunt Alice found us together in this room and became quite daft?"

"Your cousin called me in to make sure I wasn't interested in you in that way. I told him what we'd talked about, and he made a phone call to someone in London."

"He didn't!" Barry nodded. "Robbie did that for me?"

"I guess he did," he answered with a smile. "He loves you very much."

Silence grew between them as she studied the man before her. "Barry?" she asked finally, her voice subdued. "I'd not thought of how you might see me – what kind of feelings you might have for me – until just now."

"I see you as a friend, Elizabeth," he answered quickly. "Oh, you're an attractive woman, but I ... Well, you're my best friend in England."

Her brows knitted as she attempted to understand. "You find me an attractive woman, yet you're not interested in me that way?"

"You're a noblewoman and I'm – I'm a servant," he offered hurriedly, expecting the explanation to make perfect sense to her.

She shook her head. "No, no, my dear Barry Alexander. My one connection to England’s peerage is by being Robbie’s cousin – I’m just plain Elizabeth. You will not beguile me with an escape into class consciousness. I already know you, you see – and I know you don't think that way." She smiled. "Now, you simply must tell me what it is about me that is so unappealing to you."

Barry blushed. "What possible good would that do?" he managed.

Elizabeth seemed to have been taken aback. "Is there something here I'm not understanding, Barry?" she asked quietly.

"It's not you. You've got to understand that."

"If it's not something about me, then what is it?"

"I…" He wondered if he should tell her. He could easily lose a friend by doing so. But, then, she probably already knew – just like the farm hands he'd encountered at the barn did. Aunt Jane would have discussed him with her closest friends among the servants and her employers – and Barry knew how gossip spread. He'd seen it too many times back home.

His Lordship knew about him too. There was no way that some version of his being queer hadn't got back to this woman.

"It's not you, Elizabeth. You're really an attractive woman." He looked down at his hands. "It's just that – that I’m not attracted to women."

The silence that followed was deafening. Barry could not bring himself to look up, even as he felt her gaze on him. It was damned obvious that whatever Aunt Jane had told anyone hadn’t got back to Elizabeth.

Eliza finally asked in a small voice: "You would find pleasure with men?"

"I'm what they’re calling a homosexual these days, Elizabeth."

He heard her take a deep breath and braced himself for a stream of condemnation from her. Instead, she slowly moved to grip his shoulders. "I apologise for putting you in the position of having to make that confession, Barry. I had thought to be playing some word game with you ... Forgive me, please?"

"I walked right into it, didn't I?" he mumbled and forced himself to meet her gaze.

"Am I forgiven?"

"Huh?" He stared at her in surprise.

"Am I forgiven?"

"Of course you are. But there's nothing to forgive." He snorted. "I could have come up with another answer – it's just that I thought you already knew."

"I didn't, Barry. I also see nothing wrong with it, if you're enjoying yourself with a man of similar interests." A frown tugged at her lips. "I would suggest that you not become involved with any of the farm hands, though. Some of those lads are quite simple from the little I've seen and heard."

"I've been as celibate as a Catholic priest, Elizabeth."

"Oh?" Dimples spread down her cheeks as she smiled. "There's not even a man at Bellingham Hall who interests you?"

"Just your cousin." He shuddered as he realised what he’d just admitted.

"Robert?"

He swallowed hard. He’d opened this can of worms, he was going to live with it. "You really are going to hate me now, Elizabeth, but – yes – Lord Petersholme is one of the most attractive men I've ever seen."

"You really do find him handsome then?"

"Can't you see it? He's just about perfect!"

Her smile grew fuller. "Is Robert aware of your interest in him, Barry?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"Your cousin isn't interested in me, Elizabeth."

"I don't see why not." She giggled. "To use your own words, you are just about perfect."

"Ha!" The full impact of her words struck him then and his curiosity grew quickly. "But why do you think his Lordship is like me?" he asked.

"It would explain so very much. I have never seen him call on a woman, except when there was a party. And, then, it is never the same woman. You would think that a twenty-six year old man would be sweet on one along the way, wouldn't you?" She nodded slowly. "I have been the woman he escorted other places, like the theatre or the symphony – ever since Mama died six years ago. And, when he wasn't going to a party or escorting me, he was always with his chums from university. It fits ever so nicely, don't you think?"

The information fitted in with what Barry had already surmised. It also made him feel Petersholme's rejection more fully. "Well, if he is homosexual, I'm not what he wants," he grumbled.

"I don't see why not! You're far more handsome than Lord Molloy who was Robert's best chum both at Rugby and Oxford." She grinned. "More intelligent too, I suspect. That man is so boorish – just like his wife there in the ballroom."

"You think Lord Petersholme and this Lord Molloy were lovers – and the guy has a wife?"

"There was some little talk several years ago about how quickly the man was married off – and really below his class too. Or so Aunt Alice thought. She wouldn't discuss much of it with me, of course; but she did go on about it for weeks. And Robert did seem a bit peevish about the whole thing – I don't think he's seen Molloy since he was married." She studied him appraisingly for a moment. "You're interested in Robert then?"

"He's not interested in me, Elizabeth. I'm a servant, the grandson and nephew of servants," Barry growled, his bitterness showing through. "He's not willing to see me behind all the class distinctions you guys have over here. I could be Roosevelt's son, and he's still see me as Aunt Jane's nephew."

The woman smiled sweetly. "Don't be quite so sure of that, Barry. If my cousin is one of these homosexuals, there's no reason why you two can't become friends. Robert is not a dyed-in-the-wool reactionary."

"He's certainly held me at arm's length."

"He's only known you here on the farm." She smiled suddenly. "Oh, my – yes!" Her smile broadened. "Sometimes, Robert needs a bit of coaxing."

CHAPTER FOUR

I stood in the great hall at the foot of the stairs, gazing down the corridor towards Eliza's rooms with ever increasing irritation. It felt as if I'd been waiting hours for the girl.

I knew better, of course. I had only looked at my watch the moment before. Eliza was perhaps ten minutes late for the time we had set for our ride into Coventry. My dear cousin, however, had never kept me waiting in all the years that I had escorted her. "She was behaving like the most supercilious woman – and I didn't like it. It was damned inconsiderate of her.

Eliza looked up and smiled at me as she pulled the door closed behind her. Even in the dimness of the corridor her smile was radiant, and I forgot my irritation immediately. She hurried to me as I stood waiting for her. "I'm sorry to be so late, Robert."

I shrugged. "It's quite all right, Eliza. I was late myself."

"Robert?" She took my hand in hers. I waited. With Eliza, this action of hers always presaged something I wasn't comfortable doing. "I have a favour to ask," she said finally.

"A favour?"

"A small one, really. Quite innocuous, to be honest."

Inwardly, I cringed. I knew my cousin far too well. This was definitely not boding well. "Did you know Barry's Aunt Jane hasn't taken him into Coventry yet, Robert?

I knew then what Eliza was about. A small favour? I thought not. Unless amongst circles where turning the entire English class system upside down was considered small and inconsequential. The woman had become a red Fabian, and I had not known it. "Eliza!" I groaned.

"I thought we might take him along with us, Robert. It might all be quite boring after living so close to New York, but this is his family's home."

"I should think that reacquainting a colonial with his roots should fall on his family's shoulders," I offered feebly, knowing I had already been had.

"Jane Murray doesn't seem to have time what with our Aunt Alice always glancing over her shoulder."

"Eliza! This Barry Alexander is a servant with Bellingham Hall. His aunt is a servant here. And his father is some sort of tradesman over there in America. He's not exactly our sort."

She studied me silently for several moments and I flushed under her gaze. "Robert, I thought you presented yourself as a Liberal in the Lords," she said softly. "You've come to sound much too much like those Whigs who have already consigned themselves to the history books."

"I am a Liberal, thank you!" I fumed. "A man should not be held back simply because of his birth status." I knew then that I had not only been had but that I had damned myself. I frowned and decided to cut my losses. "I assume this Barry shall be going into Coventry with us this afternoon?"

She smiled sweetly. "I'll ask him, Robert, but he'll likely agree. He's bringing the car up for us."

I held the passenger door open for Eliza and walked around the bonnet, making it plain that I intended to take over the driver's side of the front seat. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw that the young American, understanding my intent, opened the door and got out of the car.

"His Lordship and I would like that you join us in town, Barry," Eliza told him before I had even sat my weight in the driver's seat. "Would you have time to see some of industrial England this afternoon?"

"My work's done for the day and I'm free. I'd really like to join you." He glanced at me. "If you don't mind, that is, sir." There was no hint of subservience in his request. He was a gentleman recognising that his involvement required my acceptance.

The lad had washed, his ginger hair was still damp. His clothing was new and looked to be quite good material, even if the cut wasn't English.

What was I to say? There were my political beliefs about the rights of men. There was my own knowledge that this lad was intelligent and was able to communicate pleasantly. There was too the friendship that had grown up between Eliza and this young American. And, then, there was my own sexual interest in the lad. I had to admit it was there, though I knew I would never allow it to become reality – despite the American's seeming willingness.

I smiled at him. "Please come along, Barry," I told him. "We'd love to have you join us." At that moment, I was sure that I sincerely meant my invitation. I vaguely wondered at my change of heart but laid the blame for that on my cousin as well as the lad's comfortable ability to move into our circle – even if it was only with Eliza and myself.

He grinned at me, nodded to Eliza, and jumped into the back seat behind us with an easy, agile grace. Gymnastically. He hadn't so much as touched the car's finish as he angled himself into the rear passenger seat. I found myself wishing that I was still in sufficient shape to have such grace.

* * *

We stood before the old tower that had once been the first prison home of Queen Mary of Scotland once she was in England. He stared.

"What's the matter, Barry?" Eliza asked.

"This is older than even the first colony in America," he whispered back. "Roanoke in Virginia."

"The first English colony," my cousin reminded our American guest. "The Spanish had already reached your state of Florida by then. And the Dutch had begun to settle your home state of New York. There were even Swedes there somewhere."

I stared at her. Where in bloody hell had she learned colonial history? From all the empty-headed young ladies I'd had to chat with the past ten years, I knew absolutely that finishing schools were quite lax about history. Had I taken such a course whilst at university? Were my textbooks still in the library at Bellingham Hall? Was the insatiable curiosity behind such mundane knowledge what had attracted a Wildean like this young American to my cousin?

"See the cathedral spire?" I asked, pointing as both turned back to me. "They're having a band concert on the green there. Should we go?"

"Oh, let's!" Eliza squealed happily. "Robert's not taking me to a band concert since the summer before Mama died." She covered her mouth quickly and looked down. "I'm sorry," she mumbled.

"Are you all right, Elizabeth?" the American asked immediately. I turned to study my cousin myself.

"I don't wish to darken a lovely day, Barry." She smiled and I knew she was forcing it. "I'm quite all right."

We stepped away from the medieval town hall and adjacent prison, making our way towards the cathedral. Barry's curiosity proved instantly insatiable, however. I was explaining every building in the oldest part of the industrial town as Eliza stayed up with us but remained silent.

"It's really amazing, Lord Petersholme," Barry gushed as we left the medieval town. "I mean, New York feels old – powerful and old. But Manhattan was still an Indian hunting ground when this was built."

"Are you looking at the history?" I asked.

"No. More the architecture than anything else." We had reached a roadway that separated the dense impaction of the old town and the sun-lighted grounds of the cathedral then. "If it was just me, I think I would study only architecture."

"Why shouldn't you then?"

"Because, sir, we have to learn to control the bull and the bear in the market. This Depression is the worst one yet, but they'll continue to get worse – unless we learn to harness the energy of capitalism and make it work for the people, for everyone – not just the gamblers."

"Are you a Fabian then?"

Barry turned to look at me curiously. "Fabian?"

"A Socialist – one of George Bernard Shaw's disciples."

"I'm a Roosevelt Democrat, Lord Petersholme. That means I'm a capitalist. I don't want to socialise the means of production at all. But there's much we can learn from socialist economic philosophy. That's what Lord Keynes has sought to do – bring government into the market place to provide control. That way people don't lose jobs. Small businessmen don't lose their businesses to the bank when there's a downturn. Government keeps the playing field level and enforces some rules on the flow of money. We want people employed, not crowds with nothing to lose who'll follow every nut into a fairy tale land."

Bloody hell! Out of the mouths of babes! This damned Yank made sense – far more sense than the damned reds, Labour, and the bloated Tories together. I quietly resolved to become more interested in what the bloody Yanks were doing over there across the Atlantic. It sounded as if it might be of interest for the whole United Kingdom. Not that there were crowds of unemployed seeking the head of King George, but more and more people were listening to Labour – even after the disaster of the National Unity Coalition that followed the beginning of the Depression. There were even those listening to that strange little man, Sir Oswald Moseley, who would be England's Hitler.

I glanced back at Eliza and saw she was trailing us by several steps. "She lost her mother when she was eleven. The poor woman pined away after her husband killed himself in the crash of '29," I offered quietly. "A stockbroker."

Barry grimaced, nodded, and fell back to walk with Eliza.

* * *

"Robert, you have taken all leave of your senses!" Aunt Alice fumed at me in my study. "You are completely daft." She stood directly before my desk, her face blanked by shock. Her fists clenched at her sides. I stood at the open window, facing her.

"What have I done now?"

"You're sending young Elizabeth off to London, alone. To university. No-one will want her after that. You shall end up having a spinster under your roof to bedevil your wife, long after I'm gone."

I smiled at her. "I hope you postpone your leave-taking, Aunt. I would rather miss you."

She continued to stare at me, trying to maintain her anger; but I had disarmed her as I knew I would. "Why, Robert?" she finally asked. "Young ladies of our sort have no need for university."

I crossed the room and took her hands in mine, smiling down into her gaze. "Eliza is quite clever, you know?" She nodded dubiously. "She's actually read all my textbooks from when I was at Oxford."

"What conceivable reason would she have for doing something like that?" she grumbled.

"She has an enquiring mind, Aunt."

"All the more with which to get herself into trouble, Robert. She needs a marriage and a good, firm husband."

"Would you deny a mind the knowledge it seeks, Aunt Alice?" I asked gently. "Any mind, not just Elizabeth's? Say one of our young people here at Bellingham Hall?"

She wrinkled her nose and scrowled half-heartedly at me. "Dear Robert, it's your duty to King and Country to care for our retainers. If one of these lads were – if the teacher from the village school came to you and told you that one of them was bright enough – I know you'd enrol him in a university. It'd be your responsibility to…"

"Yet, I'm to treat my own cousin – a Petersholme – more poorly than I would a servant boy?"

She knew she was trapped, but Alice Adshead refused to surrender. She took a deep breath. "Robert, one of those lads – a child of one of your factory employees – he's not got the resources our sort have. A degree from university would provide him with the opportunity to better himself."

"And our Eliza shouldn't have the same opportunity?"

"She'd have a husband, Robert – and, soon enough, children. Title, money – all the things our class have as part of the natural order of things. Things no servant child could possibly have. She doesn't need an education to fill her head with even more strange ideas than she already has."

I sighed. "Aunt Alice, I was already in trousers before you – before any woman – was allowed to vote in this country. Even today, a woman does not automatically inherit from her father – even if she is his only child – or from her husband. He has to make specific bequests to her in his will; otherwise, a trust is set up for her." I gripped her hands tighter. "The son of the lowest of my employees in Coventry is automatically assumed to be his father's heir – even over his own mother. Does that sound as if our Eliza – or any woman – is taken care of under English law?"

"We take care of our own, Robert – as your father, and now you, have taken care of your poor cousin."

"Aunt Alice, if I died unmarried, without an heir, all of Petersholme would go to one of my many male cousins. Whatever happened to Eliza and to you would rest upon his head – he would not have to support either of you, or have you continue to reside here at Bellingham Hall. If I died and were married with an heir, then Eliza's and your fate would be in the hands of that heir and the mother who influenced him."

She stiffened as the possibility of her fate spread through her thoughts.

I smiled. "Aunt Alice, I have set aside trusts for both you and Eliza. If I'm not here, you shall still be able to hold your head up proudly." I watched the relief flood across her face. "Let Eliza have the opportunity that you never had."

She nodded slowly. "She'll live at the Mayfair house then?" she asked finally. I nodded. "Then Roger and Mrs. Murray will watch after her," she continued, accepting the reality of my cousin's entering university. "But she'll need a companion, Robert – one to escort her to and from campus. Do we have a girl here at Bellingham Hall with enough poise?"

I took a deep breath. Aunt Alice had accepted that Eliza would go to university, but it was not assured that she would accept my idea for my cousin's safety there. "This American lad, Miss Murray's nephew, is enrolled at the same university."

"A man?" she growled, staring at me as if I were truly daft.

"Jane Murray's nephew and Roger's grandson, Aunt Alice. He could live there in Mayfair, perhaps help her with her studies, and watch over her. They're quite close friends already, you know."

"You would put her in the hands of a servant boy? A foreigner at that? Who knows what unacceptable things he learnt as a child?" She glared at me. "You say that they are already friends? Robert, Elizabeth's mother made a mistake and married a tradesman – would you put that young woman in the way of making the same mistake her mother did? Would you let her ruin her life?"

"I think there's little to fear from our young American, Aunt. Barry Alexander will be too interested in other people to go after Eliza."

Her anger was palpable. "Fiddlesticks!" she hissed, muscles in her face and neck knotted as she spat the word out.

I knew I bordered on fighting skirmishes with Alice Adshead forever if I allowed her fears to continue. I forced myself to smile at the woman who had been a mother to me most of my life. "Barry is a gentleman, Aunt Alice – perhaps a bit rougher than we English are, but a gentleman nonetheless. He is fond of Eliza as a friend only." I looked back at the windows, unwilling to face her shock when I told her exactly why I knew that the American boy would not become more than just friends with Eliza. "He also is Wildean – an invert – in his sexual tastes – what they're calling homosexuals these days."

There was only silence in the study then. I could not even hear her breath.

"He – he likes men?" she finally asked in a small, strangled voice. I suspected she was staring at me as if I were a headless corpse come to life before her. I nodded without turning back to her.

"We certainly can't have that sort here at Bellingham Hall. I'll tell Jane she'll have to pack the boy off tonight."

"You'll do nothing of the sort, Aunt Alice."

"We can't have inverts here, Robert. We have families working here; there are young boys he may influence…"

I turned to face her. "Aunt Jane, I do not dismiss anyone from my employ without cause, and young Barry has received only glowing reports from the gardener. There has not been even the suggestion of improper behaviour with the young men of the farm. He doesn't even have a pint down in the village with the other lads. In fact, he has been the model of proper behaviour."

"He's behaved himself here because of his aunt and because he's under your scrutiny, Robert. Once that boy is London, he'll become one of those wild American Indians. Is that what you would have Elizabeth involved in? Associating with inverts and the very dregs of society?"

"Aunt Alice, I can only judge a man by his actions. This lad has been a gentleman every time he has been with me or Elizabeth. He does his work without complaint and he behaves himself with the men and boys of the farm. And I have found that he truly respects my cousin as well." I smiled. "Add to his proper behaviour at all times the fact that he prefers men to women sexually, and we have a friend who will have Eliza's interests at heart."

"Robert, what you are suggesting just isn't done by our sort!"

"I'd be surprised if it wasn't, Aunt Alice. It's just kept quiet. Watch the boy this next month. Keep an open mind, though. See if you don't come to agree with me."

* * *

Eliza sat between Barry and myself as the lights at the cinema in Coventry lowered towards darkness, almost as if she were the chaperone. The thought shocked me as it came to mind, but I could still see the humour of it. What was even more humorous was that I wasn’t at all sure that young Barry and I didn’t need a chaperone.

I had no intention of compromising the American, of course. Or myself. Not this close to the inner workings of Petersholme, despite the interest I discerned. Definitely not.

Yet, I understood too well that meant that the lad had managed to breech my defences. I had become interested in him. And not just as another person, either – regardless of how intelligent he was. Or how interesting a conversationalist he was. He was altogether much too winsome. And I was becoming all too aware of my continuing celibacy for my peace of mind. I was thinking more of inviting young Barry to my rooms than I was of managing the estate and Petersholme’s factories.

It had been two years since father died. Two years since I had last given myself to carnality. I made a mental note to find an excuse to travel up to London and find my way down to King’s Cross. Yes, that would work nicely. An afternoon spent with an uninhibited boy would certainly relax me. My sexual tensions relieved, I could then return my roving attention to where it belonged.

In the flickering light from the film on the screen a middle-aged professor made his way through the narrow backstreets of Berlin. He had heard of the cabarets and how immoral they were from several of his students and had to see them for himself.

I smiled, knowing he would soon meet Marlene Dietrich and then would be completely lost. I had already seen Blue Angel at least ten times since its release six years earlier and practically knew it by heart. If ever there was a woman I would want to spend my life with, it was Marlene Dietrich. I sat back in my chair and relaxed.

"I thought Miss Dietrich was blond," Barry offered when we were beside the car.

"With the help of peroxide," Eliza offered with a laugh as I opened the door for her. "I wonder if that was her decision or Hollywood’s?"

"Hollywood’s," I grumbled. "Those lads in Barry’s country seem to think all Germans are blonde and the French are all brunettes." I snorted as I sat behind the wheel and started the car. "Remember what they did to that Harlow woman."

"We’re not all that bad, sir," Barry said as he leant on the back of the seat. "I admit some of us Americans are rube goldbergs, but not all – not even most of us any more. And we have men in government now who have been to Europe and studied here."

I caught the defensive tone in his voice even above the wind gusting past us "I didn’t mean to say that," I said in apology. "You’ll have to forgive me, Barry. I’m used to speaking with my countrymen and, sometimes, we use a shorthand in our speech that we understand but forget that others may not." I turned to him. "Forgive me?"

"Of course I do, sir."

I smiled in thanks and turned back to face the carriageway. I saw that Elizabeth was smiling knowingly at me as I turned. What was that about? I wondered as I felt my face warm further under her scrutiny.

"I shall have to go up to London soon," I said above the wind, changing the subject quickly.

Elizabeth squealed and clapped her hands. "That’ll be so lovely. A play surely. And we must take Barry with us." She looked over at me and put her hand on my arm. "When shall we go, Robert? Next weekend?"

I wondered if I could pretend it was not homicide if I choked her. I gripped the steering wheel more tightly and forced my irritation at her to pass. I glanced at Barry’s freckled face in the rear-view mirror. Perhaps, if I was ever going to enjoy myself in a bed again, I would not have to lower my standards after all.

He really was a handsome lad, Barry Alexander was. And quite intelligent too – far more than what I could find in King’s Cross for even a quid. I began to imagine what his naked, tight body would feel like against mine.

I cringed and forced my thoughts back to the carriageway ahead of us. Damn Eliza anyway! She seemed intent to keep me closely tied to the lad.

CHAPTER FIVE

"I would speak with you, dear, if you have the time."

Elizabeth looked up from her book and saw Alice Adshead standing just beyond the open door of her drawing room. "Please, do come in," she answered, smiling at the older woman. The curtains had been pulled back and the windows opened to catch the air in the August heat. Sunlight filled the drawing room. "Would you care for tea?" she asked as Robert's aunt approached her and sat in the chair beside her.

"I think not, Elizabeth. I won't intrude upon you long." Alice looked around the room, and the younger woman instantly realised that she was avoiding eye contact.

"Whatever is wrong, dear Aunt?"

"It's…" Alice shut her eyes and began to wring her hands over her lap. "I feel quite uncomfortable even discussing this with you – with anyone really."

"What is the matter?" Elizabeth demanded.

"It's that servant boy Robert took on here at the farm for the summer."

"Barry?" Alice nodded. "He's not really a servant. In America, young men from even good families take on jobs beneath their station for the money or the experience."

"Elizabeth Myers, that boy's mother is Jane Murray's sister. He is a servant – and the son of a tradesman."

"He is, but the Americans don't make the same distinctions between individuals that we English do. It must be much easier to improve one's lot over there. His father is a high ranking member of the American government, you know. Why! The senior Mr. Alexander is even the Chairman of some commission or the other that regulates their stock exchange."

Alice turned and studied her for several long seconds, but Elizabeth waited patiently for the older woman to arrive at whatever was troubling her. "You haven't become enthralled by this boy, have you, dear?" she asked finally.

Elizabeth laughed then and settled back into her chair, sure now that she knew what was bothering the older woman. "Dear, dear Aunt Alice, I'm certainly not enthralled by any man I have ever met. I am quite fond of Barry Alexander, but only as a dear friend – nothing more."

Alice Adshead nodded slowly. "Robert assured me of the boy's intentions back at the beginning of summer. He also told me the lad was – was a…" She paused and shuddered. "An invert ... There! I gave voice to that vulgar expression in this house."

She took a deep breath and obviously reclaimed her thoughts. "I have watched him closely these past two months and have seen nothing that would suggest a romantic interest in you, Elizabeth." A smile played across her lips. "Actually, you two, at least, often seem like young children simply enjoying each other's company."

"Well, there you have it, Aunt Alice," Elizabeth offered smartly. "It's as Robert told you. Barry and I are friends, and neither of us is entranced by the other."

The older woman nodded. "I have become quite comfortable having him around you. What has come to bother me is…" She paused, her brows knitting. A moment later, she continued: "Knowing that he is a – a homosexual, I couldn't understand why he would want to associate with you for a long time. I understood when I saw that boy gazing worshipfully at Robert."

"Oh, Barry simply dotes on Robert."

"Elizabeth Myers!"

The younger woman smiled. "But he respects me for my mind, Aunt Alice – something no man or boy I've met these past six years has. It is so pleasantly refreshing not to have a man trying to visualise me without my bodice."

"Elizabeth, how dare you talk like that!" Alice groaned, her face screwing almost as if she were in pain. "Oh, merciful heaven, is this how you shall become once you become a university student?"

"You're concerned for me, Aunt Alice, dear – as you should be. After all, you’ve taking responsibility for Bellingham Hall ... And I truly appreciate your concern – I always have." Elizabeth reached over and took the older woman's hand in both of hers. "But, dear, dear Aunt Alice, isn't it a relief to you that Mr. Alexander's intentions are such that you shan't have to worry about them when I am away to university?"

"But such language as you use!"

"I have such need to be able to speak freely about what I feel." She smiled at the older woman and patted her hand. "You cannot begin to understand how it pleases me to do so with another woman, rather than with Robert or even Barry. There's never been another woman with whom I could say what I felt and thought. Would you deny me that freedom even when we're alone, Aunt Alice? You're almost a mother to me as you are with Robert. Mayn't I say how I truly feel with one so close to me? I need you, Alice Adshead, as one adult woman needs another – as an adult daughter needs her mother."

Alice hung her head, unwilling to meet the gaze of her sister-in-law's daughter. Elizabeth, however, sensed that the woman was savouring the new bond she was offering her. She smiled to herself. "I need our young Mr. Alexander, Aunt Alice. There is a sense of rightness to the friendship he and I have been developing over the summer." She smiled more broadly. "He is such a breath of fresh air."

"But he seems so taken with Robert!"

"He is."

Alice's voice lowered and she leaned closer to Elizabeth, turning to face the younger woman. "Only this past week, I've noticed Robert beginning to look at that boy in the same way."

Elizabeth giggled at this confirmation of what she had sensed in Robert. Her cousin was beginning to accept Barry as the handsome man he was – and as a possible suitor, or whatever the homosexuals called their partners.

"It is not funny!" Alice groaned. "Our Robert cannot become embroiled with a – with someone like that."

Elizabeth studied the older woman for a moment. "You don't know then?"

"Know what?" Alice demanded quietly.

"About Robert?"

Alice Adshead stared at the younger woman in shock. "I will know what is going on at Bellingham Hall, Elizabeth," she said finally, drawing each word out to emphasise it. "Especially how it relates to Petersholme." She was very obvious in extricating her hands from the younger woman's.

Elizabeth was not sure she should have spoken. She was certainly not privy to Robert's confidences, only Barry's. But there was a strange sense of power that she now felt within herself. It was pleasant! In a queer sort of way, it was even empowering. The reality behind her knowledge was simply too good to pretend it didn't exist. And the power that her knowledge – and Alice Adshead's lack of it – gave her made her giddy. "Our Robert is a homosexual as well," she said quietly.

"Oh, dear!" The older woman's jaw gaped. "He – this is a disaster. He cannot be. He's quite civil to women. I've heard nothing about him and any of the men of the farm…" She prattled and Elizabeth understood she was seeking to regain her control over herself.

Elizabeth recoiled at what she had done. Robert was her dearest friend. Even her protector. Yet, she had revealed his darkest secret to his aunt. And who knew what Alice Adshead might do with her new knowledge.

As the older woman struggled to re-establish her control, Elizabeth thought that she had rather liked gossip – the power she had felt as she engaged in it. The best gossip she decided as Alice continued to prattle was that which took its listener totally by surprise. It gave the teller such a sense of power.

Of course, that wasn't her at all. No. Definitely not. As she thought further on it, she did not like the sense of power she had felt. She had obviously put poor Robert at a disadvantage regarding his aunt. She had shocked poor Aunt Alice, although she suspected the older woman did need to be awakened to modern realities forcibly.

The power she had felt – of catching the older woman unawares, even besting her in her knowledge of the household – it wasn't what she wanted, pleasurable as it had been. It was the power that only the helpless held. Women held within the bonds of their families – away from the great flows of reality all around them. It was a demeaning power, belittling another to make oneself appear in a better light.

Robert had seen to her being able to escape that helplessness. Barry Alexander had helped, of course. It had been the American who dared to tell Robert he was full of a past that meant nothing today. But it was Robert who was sending her to university. And it was there that she would learn the power that any accepted equal had in a congress of equals. She would no longer have need of subterfuge and superior eavesdropping abilities. That was for women still caught in the last century and unable to free themselves, like Alice.

"Well!" Alice grumped. "That boy shall certainly not accompany you and Robert on your weekends in the future."

"Why in the world not?" Elizabeth asked in surprise. "I've been trying to break through Robert's reserve these past two months just so he would notice Mr. Alexander."

"You have what?" the older woman growled, again emphasising each world. "How dare you, Elizabeth! You are saying you have been abetting these two men in sin."

"Sin? Dear Aunt, where is the sin in love?"

"There's duty. Responsibility. Those take precedence over this love you would allow to develop. That lad is just a servant boy, but Robert is a – a nobleman. He's responsible for the entirety of Petersholme!"

"I thought he was doing quite well, living up to the responsibilities Uncle's death forced upon him. He's not had to let one man go at the factories in Coventry or here at Bellingham Hall. He provides rather well for you and me. He's lived up to his responsibilities. Doesn't he have the right to a bit of pleasure too?"

"Elizabeth Myers!"

"Aunt Alice, my cousin is a male. We both know that, if he were interested in women, he would find some trollop in London or in a backstreet in Coventry – to relieve himself with. It can be assumed that he probably does that when he goes up to London – only it’s with a boy. Wouldn't you prefer he have his sport with a clean young man we know, instead of some dirty urchin from the streets of London? One who could carry some disease?"

"Oh, my!" Alice mumbled, her face blanched.

Elizabeth took the older woman's hands again in hers. "Robert has never once sought to take his sport with any man here or in his factories, Aunt. He is behaving quite responsibly, don't you think? He provides for us, he provides for all those dependent upon him, and he never asks for relief for himself. Isn't it time we consider his needs too?"

Alice stood, pulling her hands from the younger woman's grasp. Her eyes went to the window. "It's a sin we're talking about, child. But I can see your point. I…" She shook her head slowly. "I have to think about this. If Robert is like that, perhaps there are other men of our sort who are too. It would be much better if he were paired with one of our own than with a tradesman's son."

She turned back to face Elizabeth. "I won't stand in the way of the three of you being each other's companions; but, please, don't continue to humour their interest in each other further. We must think of our good name."

* * *

Leaving the car parked in the drive, I entered the great hall, loosening my tie as I closed the door behind me. After another monthly bout with my managers, I had learned that I was still solvent and both factories had actually increased their sales over the year before.

"I didn't, Aunt Jane!" Barry yelled angrily from the general direction of the kitchen. "I didn't do a thing but protect myself."

In the nearly three months that young Barry had been at Bellingham Hall, I had never heard him raise his voice. I found it difficult to believe he was doing so now with my housekeeper, his aunt. I stepped across the hall and started along the corridor towards the back of the house.

Miss Murray had her nephew cornered against the larder at the corner of the kitchen. Cook wrung her hands, stared at vegetables lying on her cutting table, and pretended not to notice that things were nastily awry. Barry stood defiantly before his aunt, not threatening her but not cowering either. I noticed a bruise on his cheek as I started towards the scene unfolding before the larder.

"I say!" I said as I came up on them. "What is the matter with you two?"

Miss Murray turned and her face blanched as she recognised me. Her gaze immediately left mine and fell to the floor. Young Barry glared at his aunt and refused to look at me. Cook clattered knives and cleavers on her cutting table behind me.

"Nothing, sir," Barry offered, an undertone of anger still in his voice.

"Nothing?" I stared at Miss Murray, knowing I would get an explanation from her, even if I didn't from him.

"He…!" my housekeeper began only to fall silent. Aunt Alice took that moment to materialise at my side.

"That's a right nasty bruise, lad," I told Barry as I peered closer at his cheek.

"I slipped, sir. Fell down, I mean. Aunt Jane was just telling me not to be so clumsy."

I felt like a headmaster of a public school with two miscreants before me and a third hovering just beyond my grip. I wished I had a cane and could give them licks as headmasters could give schoolboys.

"Miss Murray, you've served Petersholme for all of my twenty-six years." She hung her head. "I have never known you to lie to me or not tell me what I needed to know. Father spoke highly of your service…"

I was threatening her and knew it. I also knew I didn't mean it. She would have to become a wanton murderess before I would let her go and then only into police custody. I prayed, however, the threat would loosen her tongue. Aunt Alice fortunately held her tongue.

"M'Lord, this nephew of mine…" She glanced back at Barry, something akin to disgust in her eye at his having made her forget her duty. "He was in a scrap with two of the lads just now, sir."

"A scrap, Miss Murray?" My gaze turned to young Barry. A nancy boy getting into a scrap? I realised I expected him to be bloodied and teary-eyed, yet he was defiant. I had an inkling of the situation.

"It's that Clive, m'Lord – the boy whose father is in Reading Gaol. This ungrateful child…" Her face flushed as she remembered Cook and she lowered her voice to a whisper. "He appears to have made an advance to young Clive, sir."

I turned to Cook instantly. "Get the farm manager to bring this Clive up here," I told her. "Have him bring him to my study and do it quickly." I turned back to Miss Murray as Cook lay down the cleaver she had finally decided on and, pulling her skirts to her, ran to the door and out into the grass on her way to the single farm hand’s cottages.

"This is a man's situation," I told Miss Murray, ignoring my aunt's presence. "Will you trust me to make the right decisions?" She nodded slowly, obviously fighting herself to give up control of a situation that affected her nephew.

"Barry, follow me," I told him without glancing at him and pivoted towards the door back into the main part of the house.

"What in the bloody hell happened between you and this boy?" I demanded as I shut the door behind us and watched him move on into the room.

"Nothing, Lord Petersholme." He refused to look at me.

"I shall have an answer, Barry Alexander," I told him, permitting my anger to show now that I would not make a public spectacle of myself. "Young Clive shall be here shortly. I shall have both sides to whatever happened. And I shall not allow anything to disturb the tranquillity in which Bellingham Hall exists. Do you understand me?" He nodded slowly and continued to avoid my gaze. "I would be just, Barry – any decision I make must be that."

His silence continued as he stared over my desk at my father's portrait on the wall behind my chair. "I'd give you first say, Barry – bloody hell!" I grumbled, my hands becoming fists, and stepped to the window. "Take a seat and wait then," I told him and stared out at the rolling green hills of Bellingham Hall.

Miss Murray's words came back to haunt me as I waited for him to break his silence or for young Clive to appear. She had accused this lad behind me of approaching Clive for sexual purposes.

I glanced over my shoulder at Barry Alexander but he had a determined set to his face and I suspected I would get nothing more than his name from him at this point.

Could he have been spreading his legs and sharing that bum – with every manjack in Northamptonshire? With no consideration of position? Of duty? And young Barry did have a duty to his keep his Socratic nature quiet on my estate and among the labourers I employed. If not to me, then to his Aunt Jane. Definitely to his aunt. These were her people – her kith and kin.

But, again, the young man behind me was American. While I thought I had come to understand him, I had no concept of what sense of duty, of propriety, motivated that land. As a giddy young lad at Rugby, I had read the lurid tabloid press reports of Diamond Jim Brady. I also wasn't ignorant of Mae West's lingering reputation or that of the Jimmy Walker, the recent mayor of young Barry's city in that strange land that still pretended a connection to Great Britain as its motherland, uncivilised as it was.

The Barry Alexander I had come to know, however, was not a wanton hedonist. Far from it. In public, he'd proven to be a properly behaved young man. With Eliza and me, he had become a good friend who was never untowards.

Hadn't the farm manager pronounced the American lad the best grounds keeper he had seen?

My train of thought was interrupted by a rap at the door. "Enter," I called and turned to face the room. The American lad still appeared quite determined to play a statue standing at attention in the centre of my study.

The door to the study opened and my farm manager shoved two lads into the room to stand before me. I recognised both lads but could only name Clive. "I sent Cook back to her vegetables, m'Lord," the manager told me as he pushed the two lads towards me, doffing their caps and staring at their feet. Aunt Alice slipped into the room and shut the door.

My eyes rounded as I realised what I was looking at as I gazed at young Clive. The lad had been soundly beaten. His left eye was swollen shut and was already discolouring. His nose moved rightward at a strange slant from mid-point and I could see nearly dried blood along the flange of his nostrils where he'd missed it in what I guessed had been a hurried effort to clean himself up after he'd been beaten quite soundly.

"M'Lord?"

I turned my gaze to the farm manager and arched my brow slightly.

"This is young Clive…" My brow shot up and the beaten boy cringed. "And this here be his mate who shares a cottage with him." The manager puffed up his chest as if he had were a sergeant major from the Great War. "They have an admission to make, sir."

I fixed my gaze between the two men standing behind Barry Alexander. "And what would you like to admit, Clive?"

"I ain't…" I saw the manager firmly plant his knee against the lad's arse but said nothing even when Clive turned to look over his shoulder at the man. "M'Lord," he mumbled, turning back to me. "Nevie here and me – we were only ragging the Yank around. We meant no harm."

"And what did you two lads do that meant no harm?" I asked quietly, suspecting I already had an image of the answer and not liking what I saw.

"Clive here saw the Yank mowing down by the milking barn, sir," the labourer named Neville offered quickly and avoided Clive's glare that would have riveted him. "He suggested we could have a spot of fun as the boy had to be queer."

"Did not!" the bigger labourer yelled and the manager kneed him in the buttocks to quiet him.

"They were swilling a jug of plum brandy when I came upon them – and had stripped young Barry naked."

"We were just ragging him, m'Lord," Clive offered. "Ain't no nancy boys here at Bellingham Hall, sir."

"You had stripped him?" I asked. "That is supposed to be treated as a joke?"

"I saw that they had him tied, m'Lord," the foreman continued for the two farm lads. "Young Clive had opened his flies and his mate here untied the lad's hands but was holding on to him. I was still too far away to stop them, but young Barry quickly had it under control."

"He was fast, your Lordship," Neville continued the tale, making sure not to look at his companion. "Fast as that Batman in them action arcades over to Coventry. M'mate had only put his hands on the lad's arse when he jerked free of me. This bleeding Yank then kneed poor old Clive in the bollocks, gave him a left in the eye, and a right to the nose." The man shook his head at the memory. "Poor old Clive had no chance at all, sir. He was down and bleeding so fast that I thought he'd cracked his head."

"And you?" I asked Neville. "What were you doing after you and Clive here tied up Barry and undressed him with the intent to rape him – from then until you saw your mate go down?"

"Me, sir?" The boy looked from Clive to the manager to Barry, fear in his eyes. "I was drinking a good portion of the plum brandy, m'Lord. I weren't exactly proud to be in on something like that."

"You suggested it, you bloody bastard!" Clive yelled at him.

I took a deep breath and said: "Stand outside the door, all three of you. And not a single word or look between you – else, I'll cane the lot of you." I turned to my farm manager. "Remain," I told him.

"They obviously were going to rape him," I said as soon as Barry stepped through the door and pulled the doors closed. The foreman nodded. "That would get them ten years at minimum in gaol were it to go to court." The man cringed. "Did the American boy seem to give them any indication of interest that way – today or at any other time?"

"No, m'Lord. He's been a good lad – one Miss Jane Murray can be proud of. He keeps to himself and disappears up to the Hall every night. It probably caused a boy like young Clive to start thinking things he oughtn't."

"This is still attempted rape as well as sodomy," I told him and began to pace the width of the room. "We can't have that here. Not one young boy or girl on this estate must be put in danger – have there been rumours, anything, of that sort of thing going on?"

"Nothing, m'Lord!" he groaned and I imagined the lynching mentality something like that would bring to our tranquil little world. We would quickly degenerate into something far too close to the American West portrayed in those bloody Hollywood cowboy pictures.

I nodded and sighed. And again stood before him. "Were young Barry to bring charges and you collaborated them…"

"He can't!" the man yelped. "His aunt, sir. He has to think what something like that'd do to her, m'Lord."

"There is that," I conceded. "What would you suggest?"

"You could discharge them, sir."

I frowned. "Without public cause? For a criminal offence I could, but…" I wrinkled my nose at a new thought that had crept up on me. "They would just become two more tramps, begging for hand-outs."

The man had no doubt seen the poor lads in Coventry. He nodded. "Would you leave them to me, m'Lord?" he asked slowly.

"To you?"

"They won't be having any time to drink plum brandy or think dirty thoughts with the jobs I'll put on them, sir."

I smiled. My anger at Barry's mistreatment and my inability to stop it ebbed. "I want them dropping at their door and not getting up again until the next morning."

He chuckled. "They ain't even going to make it to their cottage, m'Lord – not as much manure as they'll shovel this summer."

I nodded. "They're yours then. But take young Clive into the village. I hope the doctor's still in his surgery."

"His nose, sir?"

I nodded. "I want him to be able to breathe the feast you'll be spreading before him," I said and managed to keep from chuckling. "Will you explain the facts of life to those two so they accept their punishment at your hands?"

"Aye, sir. That I'll do, down to how bad the gruel is in prison and how the buggering don't come with kisses."

I called Barry Alexander back into the study as the foreman shooed Clive and Neville towards the kitchen to find the farm lorry that they might drive into the village before the doctor closed his surgery.

"I thought we had come to know each other well enough we could speak of unpleasant things, Barry," I told him, allowing myself to sound more wounded than I was.

"It's your estate and they are your employees, my Lord," he answered. He still was not meeting my gaze, but he was no longer defiant.

"And, as Baron, I am the local magistrate, lad. I don't know if you have a similar position in your country, but a magistrate is a fully recognised member of the judiciary here."

He studied me suspiciously for several moments. "What are you going to do?"

"Will you be pressing charges? Attempted forcible sodomy – it would carry a ten to twenty year sentence."

"You're kidding me!" I shook my head. "I live in the Hall and I avoid them because of what you said and what any whisper would do to Aunt Jane. They thought they'd caught themselves a fairy – I couldn't let that come out in any court! It'd kill Aunt Jane."

I relaxed and crossed to my desk. The lad's English bloodlines had indeed bred true. Smiling at him as I sat down, I said: "Relax, lad – it's just us here now."

"Jesus! I'm glad that's over."

I chuckled. "I think it was over the moment you had your hands free. Gods! But that Clive looked as if he had met John Tunney in the ring." I glanced over at Barry Alexander. "What did you do to the lad?"

Barry smiled. "I've got a blackbelt in judo." He saw my confusion. "It's a type of Japanese martial arts." He sighed. "I came close to killing him, my Lord – all I needed to do was push his broken nose into his brain." I shuddered as my stomach rebelled at the thought of that. "So, what happens now?"

"After the village doctor has a go at him, he belongs to my farm manager – both of them do. He'll work them until they think they've found and entered the gates of Hades."

"It's over then?"

"Except for my explaining things to your aunt." I studied the young man before me for a moment. "Does she know about you?"

He snorted. "She's not asked and I've not told her, but I think so."

"I'll explain what happened to her and point out that her name remains unsullied."

"Thank you, sir."

"You really need to get that bruise seen to, Barry."

"I wish you'd let me come to your rooms tonight," he mumbled.

My heart pounded in my chest. I realised ruefully I had become far too attached to this young American in my house. I looked beyond him and saw Aunt Alice watching us and cringed. "That would definitely not be a wise thing for either of us to do, Barry," I told him. " Not here." I looked down at my desk. "Go get that bruise taken care of," I told him.

The American had barely had a chance to make it into the corridor beyond the doorway of my study before Aunt Alice stepped further into the room. "May we speak, Robert?" Her voice was strained and I realised that she was angry.

I forced a smile to my lips. "Please come in," I invited her as I stood and moved around the desk to hold a chair for her.

"That poor lad was very nearly raped, Robert," she said, taking her chair.

"I know," I answered, sitting in the chair beside her.

"He did nothing to provoke what happened," she continued. "I asked. What you’re going to do to those young heathens – will that be enough?"

"They've been turned over to the farm manager." I chuckled. "They will be shovelling manure every day until the cows come home, Aunt Alice."

"That boy deserves better than what he's seen of Bellingham Hall." She studied me for several moments and finally sighed. "You like that German woman, don't you?"

"German woman?"

"That actress who left Germany when Hitler was elected and is now living in America. I recall that you were quite smitten with her in her first film – what? – six years ago."

"Marlene Dietrich?"

She nodded. "That one, yes. She'll appear in concert at the Royal Albert Hall the first Saturday in September, Robert."

"She will?" I knew already that I would be in attendance. I had first seen her in the film Blue Angel the summer of 1932 when my school chum Janus von Kys, and I gave vent to our wanderlust and backpacked along the German side of the Rhine. She had not been blond then nor had she yet fled Germany, but I had fallen in love with her. Just hearing her name had me remembering her long, shapely legs, her heart-shaped face, her penetrating eyes, and her low, sultry voice. If ever there were a woman I would want in bed, Marlene Dietrich would be that woman.

"You need to go up to London anyway, Robert – to help Elizabeth situate herself at the Mayfair house and prepare herself for university." She paused then and I saw her frown. "You will need to take that poor boy with you as well. Understand that I consider nothing that happened today to have been his fault. These Americans seem almost too effete to handle our rougher English lads on a purely masculine level."

"Aunt Alice!"

"No, Robert. If young Mr. Alexander had understood the English culture and just how rowdy our lower classes can be, he could well have prevented the situation from going as far as it did. For his own sake, he needs to be put in a safer position – with university students and artists and the like."

"You're suggesting that he leave a whole month early. What about the grounds?"

"We'll make do – I would prefer that he be safe than in constant, potential danger." She looked away then. "In London, the two of you will also have the opportunity to become better acquainted than you will here."

"Aunt Alice!" I felt the blood drain from my face.

"Oh, poppycock, Robert! Do you really think I'm so blind not to see how you've come to feel for that boy? Or so stupid that I can't understand? You have conducted yourself here at Bellingham Hall quite well – restraining yourself admirably. But men have baser passions and you'll need to release them or there's no telling what will go on in that head of yours."

"But…"

"Really, Robert. I don’t mind telling you that I was shocked when I first realised that you were that way. But I’ve done a lot of soul-searching the past two months. You’ve been a good Baron, you’ve done well by Elizabeth and myself. I’m not as naive and old-fashioned as you may like to think – and I realise a man has to satisfy his needs. Enjoy the lad whilst he's here in England. Sow your oats, I say. When he's back in America is plenty of time for you seriously to decide on a wife and future mistress of Bellingham Hall."

I stared at her in disbelief. I couldn't believe I had shown myself to her. I was shocked that she could accept it. "You're saying that it is all right?"

Alice stood and took the several steps to stand before me. "Robert Adshead," she said, forcing me to meet her gaze. "It's sinful – what I can imagine the two of you doing. But it is also sinful what you might do with a woman unless you're married to her. I shall not condone whatever the two of you might choose to do together. But I shan't judge you by it, either. You have made a remarkably good Baron Petersholme, and I shall expect you to continue to do so."

She smiled down at me. "Now, make reservations for the three of you to attend that German woman's concert. She's only making the one appearance, and you don't want to have to take just any seats, Robert."

My mouth was agape as I watched her leave my study.

CHAPTER SIX

 The city was dirty as I left Euston Station to the street on the second of September. Soot stained the walls of nearby buildings. The slight morning breeze blew paper across the pavement in small eddies. Bird droppings covered the kerb and steps. I was startled at the deterioration obvious since my last visit four months earlier.

I could only assume His Majesty's government with Neville Chamberlain at the helm wasn't giving the City of London enough to maintain the public ways. I made a mental note to demand an explanation of the Liberal Member for Northamptonshire and to see the man while I was in the city. After all, the capital city of the greatest Empire the world had ever seen should be clean and safe. If the poor lads who were beginning to converge on me outside the station were an indicator, there were plenty of hands available to do that cleaning. There were simply some things one could not cut back on.

A queue of men eyed me as I began to descend the steps, their hands coming out in supplication. "Spare a ha'pence, gov?" one after another asked as they closed about me. I counted twenty of them even as I began to smell their unwashed odour.

I reached into my jacket and pulled out my wallet, pitying their plight. I retrieved nine notes and waited until the men had surrounded me. "I don't have coins, lads – but I do have nine pounds. But there are – what? – twenty of you. Will you share?"

A constable strolled up to us as the poor lads debated amongst themselves which of their number they could trust with my largess. "These boys a bother to you, sir?" he asked as he came abreast of me, his accent thickly Cockney.

I smiled. "I think not, officer," I answered honestly. "They've been quite good men." He touched the bill of his cap in farewell and turned to the men watching him warily. "Be good, lads," he told them sternly. "And don't keep the good gentleman waiting all day, now." He strolled off and the tramps quickly chose four of their number to receive the money I was giving them.

I hailed a cab from the kerb and went directly to the house in Mayfair. I was in London to learn what my old school chum had in store for me.

Molloy's letter had arrived in yesterday's post, immediately reminding me of his cryptic telephone call back in the spring. The slow flow of rural life the past four months had helped me forget his request to aid the Foreign Office, as had the deepening friendship with Eliza and the growing relationship with Barry.

Max's letter had given me nothing more than an appointment with him in Whitehall for ten o'clock tomorrow morning. With no real information available to me, my mind had come up with ever increasing flights of fancy these past twenty-four hours. A young boy's fancies at that.

I was embarrassed by my imaginings. One moment, I was escaping hordes of evil-looking Huns and, the next, I was photographing top secret files with exposure and death but a heartbeat away. It was as if I were again just entering Rugby and imagining my escape from the masters there. I was embarrassed at how quickly I still fell victim to swashbuckling dreams of derring-do.

Such dreams were nonsense, of course. I was no longer a young boy with an overly active imagination. As an adult, I knew that the Foreign Office was not involved in spying or any sort of military operations. Dear old Max had suggested nothing that would involve me with the army.

Molloy had told me nothing. That was the bugger to the whole thing. He had put me on a damned string and left me to twist with every thought my imagination might come up with. For four long months! It was enough to have me growing grey hairs.

Arrived at the house across from Hyde Park, I firmly resolved to put all thoughts of whatever Molloy had in store for me out of my mind. I would find out tomorrow at ten o'clock.

* * *

I sat in the smallest office I had ever seen, the sun streaming through a single window lighting it. Maximillian Molloy had only been attached to the Foreign Ministry four years but I still could not help but think that the eldest son of Earl Molloy of Easthampton-Mares warranted something a bit more comfortable than this.

In the sunlight, the oak panelling gleamed on the wall behind me, as did the desk and drinks cabinet against the far wall. I definitely approved of the char staff the Foreign Secretary retained. The office might be tiny but it was kept well.

The older woman who occupied Maximillian Molloy's anteroom entered and set a tray of biscuits on a table near my chair. "Lord Molloy shall be along in a moment, Lord Petersholme," she told me. She studied the tray for a moment and turned back to me. "May I get you anything else, my Lord?"

I shook my head and smiled. I watched her curtsey and step towards the door. I stretched my legs and nibbled at a biscuit and allowed my thoughts to turn to the young American now escorting my cousin up to London from Bellingham Hall this morning.

I had become damned fond of the American lad. I had to admit that. There had been several times the past month that I nearly forgot my own rules and almost invited him to my rooms. We were both in London now, however – or would be as soon as he and Eliza arrived in the early afternoon. I smiled as I realised that I had been most careful in establishing the rules for my behaviour to apply to Bellingham Hall only. Here in London I had always seen myself being able to play.

I did not see myself simply frolicking with Barry Alexander, however. He was not just some dirty street gamin earning himself a pound note for a bit of buggery. I suspected that I might be in love with the American lad. My feelings were definitely something I wanted to explore.

I wanted to make love with him now that we were in London. But I was still the same man I had been the long summer just past when I denied him and myself our pleasures so that I could be Petersholme.

"Petersholme!" Max Molloy greeted me from the entrance to the room. I looked up quickly and found him smiling back at me.

"Molloy!" I pushed myself out of my chair and turned to him as he crossed the room. "Good to see you again, old boy."

He grinned and took my hand. "You've not gained a damned pound this whole summer – your Aunt Alice cooking for you these days?"

"We still have our cook, Max."

"It must be the country living then." He patted his belly. I noticed then that he had put more than a few inches on his waist since I saw him last. He chuckled. "I have this thanks to Cunard’s kitchens – and all that frying the Yanks put everything they eat to.

He grinned again, his eyes twinkling and his tongue licking his lips as he studied me from head to toe. "Have you eaten yet?" he asked suddenly.

I snorted. "Just one of your tea biscuits, old lad – and an early breakfast this morning."

He chuckled. "Then we shall have a light luncheon at my house and eat well this evening at my club and write it off as one more of His Majesty's many expenses. Come along, Robbie, dear boy." He was already moving towards the coat rack beside the door. "I've taken off the afternoon so we can discuss this thing privately."

"What thing?" I asked following behind him as we passed through the anteroom and started towards the lifts.

"Not now," he told me resolutely. "Ears, you know?." I followed him past the attendant into the lift silently. "The wife and boy are in Easthampton for the week, Petersholme," he told me as we began to descend.

I understood I was with the same Molloy I had known at Rugby and then at Oxford. The man had been genetically uncomfortable without daily doses of inverted sex. He seemed to be trying to open that back up between us. I remembered Barry then and frowned.

"Your boy needs good country air, Molloy," I offered quickly. "Keeps him away from all sorts of germs," I continued as our cabin descended. "I hear they've had another outbreak of polio in America."

Malloy sniffed. "Any civilised man would send his family to the country in the summer. Even then, one can’t be too careful." His face lightened. "And the good Earl does so love to play grandfather."

"So, you trek them out to Easthampton-Mares every summer?"

He nodded, glancing over at me, his brow arching. "Where are you staying? Have you opened up your digs on the park?"

We stepped into the ministry's lounge and started towards the entrance.

"It was never closed, but I am staying there," I told him as we passed through the doors into the bright sunlight of early September. We took the steps down to street-level and stepped out to the kerb before the ministry. "I'm also allowing a young American – my housekeeper's nephew – to stay there with me."

He pivoted to face me, surprise spreading across his face. "You've done what?" he demanded.

I chuckled. "Don't bother yourself, Molloy. The lad's from quite a good family in New York – bourgeoisie, of course. The father's some sort of civil servant, I think."

"Not really one of us at all, then," my friend grumbled. "Why are you letting this boy stay there?"

"He's at the School of Economics." A thought struck me and I smiled. There were ways to keep Molloy off-balance and away from subjects I would rather not entertain. "Attending classes with their Ambassador's son, you know?"

"That prig!" Molloy hissed. "Joe Kennedy would sell both England and America to Jerry if he could find a way." He groaned. "An Irish Catholic at St. James! Can you believe it?"

"Our Premier seems not to mind him." I was enjoying my little diversion more than I had thought I would. Maximillian Molloy was more than a spot of fun once riled. I lowered my voice conspiratorially. "It appears to be a joint Anglo-American adventure – appease the Boche with titbits in eastern Europe and get them face to face with the bolshies."

Molloy's face flushed and he gulped. He swallowed again and looked around quickly before turning to study me. "There are serious doubts about that policy in certain circles, Petersholme," he mumbled. "And you had better not know anything."

Molloy hailed a cab as I stared at him. I had thought to have a bit of sport at his expense; instead, it appeared that I had somehow pinpointed a real stratagem. I thought it just as well that it was Molloy who was the diplomat and not me.

Once inside the cab, he gave the driver his address across the park from my own. Sitting back and turning to me, he said: "We need to talk about several things, Petersholme – including why I've asked you up to London. Very privately." He glanced quickly at the back of the driver's head as our vehicle began to make its way out of Whitehall. Lunch at his club had been a ruse already forgotten. I understood there would be no serious discussion until we were at his house. I nodded my agreement silently.

After his housekeeper brought us tea and sandwiches in the study, Molloy allowed her the rest of the day off – telling her we would dine that night at his club. He poured us both a cup, handed me mine and sat in the chair nearest me. "Petersholme, we've got a deucedly bad situation developing on the continent," he began without preamble.

He snorted, his aquiline nose wrinkling in disgust and his blue eyes squeezing shut. "Our Prime Minister thought we were finally going to settle it by giving the mad corporal that piece of Czechoslovakia, old boy – the Sudetenland – as he did the time before when Mussolini convinced him to give in on Austria back in March."

He pushed himself out of his chair and began to pace. "Petersholme, England has not had a government that supported the Empire during the past eight years – not since Labour won the elections in ‘31. MacDonald allowed Hitler to march his army into the Saar years ago, in total violation of Versailles. He simply looked the other way and went on with business as usual. Then Baldwin allowed Hitler to train his army in Spain. All the while, Britain continued to disarm. Chamberlain has continued this policy of appeasement. Hitler will be ready to take another bite soon – a very big bite. And this time London will not be able to look the other way."

He came to a stop beside the fireplace and turned to face me. I remained silent.

"England is going to have to take a stand. It has to!" He slammed his fist down on the mantle and looked up at the painting above him. "It bloody well has to. We're supposed to stand for something." He stood there, gazing at the Chardin hanging before him as if he didn't see it. "We've gone six long years letting Hitler build up his army, his infrastructure." He pivoted to face me. "Do you know how many men we have in the Local Defence Forces, Petersholme?" he shouted and I shook my head slowly.

"Six divisions! It'd take us a bloody year on a war footing to recruit and train thirty divisions – and he already has that many and more. In another year, with the Austrians and Sudetenlanders he's now got, he'll have over a hundred."

I sat and felt helpless as his emotions crashed over me. I felt embarrassed as well. Molloy had been trained far better than this. "Is there anything I can do, old boy?" I glanced at the sideboard where his liquor was kept. "A brandy perhaps?"

He chuckled and I suspected he bordered on hysteria. "Of course, there's something you can do – otherwise, why would I have asked you up here to London?" A smile touched his lips. "Before we go into that, Robbie, I want us to find the bedroom."

The smile struggled to gain ascendancy of his lips. "I want to relive the naïveté I knew that last night I stayed over at your rooms – whilst we were still at Oxford." The smile had won his lips and now sought to claim his face. "I want to forget this bloody mess for a few hours and I want you to help me." The smile now covered his face and, with it, a flush of embarrassment. He gazed at me hopefully.

I felt my face flame as I saw young Barry's face watching me in my mind's eye. I blinked and forced myself to meet Molloy's watchful, hopeful eyes. "This is London. Aren't there young men a plenty to pleasure you between the sheets, old boy?" I asked carefully. "One or two you might fancy?"

"No." He did not stop watching me. My face flamed brighter.

"Have you looked over the available lads at the Foreign Office?"

"That's not particularly wise, you understand." He continued to gaze at me, waiting.

"A lad from the market? Even the docks. Unemployment is still near on twenty percent."

"Petersholme!" he growled. "A commoner? An unwashed tramp? What do you take me for, man? I will not stoop that low."

"I can't, Molloy."

"You've not married some farm girl there in the north country, have you?" His eyes widened and a knowing smirk settled over his face. "The bloody Yank at your house!" he crowed. "You've finally done it, old boy – you've fallen for another man. A bloody working class colonial at that!" He fell back in his chair and laughed.

"Molloy!" I growled, feeling myself tense.

He sat up and stared at me. "I'm sorry, Robbie. I'm sure this lad is quite the gentleman." He smiled defensively. "It's just that this is something of a shock coming from you, old lad."

I relaxed now that we were no longer threatening to revisit the more physical side of our relationship. The responsibilities of the past two years rolled off of me and I was again a young university student enjoying a friendly set-to with my best friend. Molloy pushed himself from his chair and poured us drinks from the sideboard.

"What's this American of yours like, Petersholme?" he asked finally and I found I was finally comfortable with the prospect of discussing Barry Alexander with another person. Molloy, after all, had been my best friend for almost twenty years.

"Young chap – eighteen. His maternal aunt is my housekeeper at Bellingham Hall and he was taken on as groundsman during the summer so that my regular lads could keep the estate in fine mettle."

"You were always quite careful with the working class – even at university where being a Petersholme wasn't a concern." He grinned.

"We did nothing this summer, Molloy – I won't have that at Bellingham Hall."

"What have you done with this Yank then, Petersholme?"

"We caught the pictures in Coventry weekly. Took in the band musicals on the cathedral's greens…"

He stared at me, his jaw agape. "You're bloody well in love with this lad!"

"I suspect I am," I answered and didn't even have to think about it. I sipped at my drink and studied my friend. "What about you, Max? You are married and become a father. I don't remember you showing much interest in the young ladies – either while we were at Rugby or, later, at Oxford."

"Father decided that I needed a wife immediately that I had graduated. I didn't have much to say about it when it was said and done." He grinned. "I suspect the old dear had an idea or two about the pleasures I took."

"Do tell, Molloy! That sort of thing went out of fashion in the last century among our set."

"She was the first, you know?" He snorted. "I was as nervous as a cow dropped off at the abattoir our wedding night and Sarah was as virginal as fresh fallen snow."

"And you a twenty-one year old man," I sniggered.

"Twenty-two."

"How did it go?"

"Abysmally. But we guessed at where everything went, how it worked, and finally managed to get the deed done."

"You must have learnt to do it right, old lad. You have a boy from it."

He blushed and looked down at his hands. "We practised rather often the first month or two, but neither one of us were particularly fond of it. Sarah and I are much happier simply being friends without the sex."

"You have a son – Cecil, isn't it?"

He chuckled, blushing brightly. "A result of one of our practice sessions, Petersholme. Things like that happen when it's a man and a woman doing it, you know?"

"I suppose they do," I answered smiling, become more mellow as I sat with my dearest friend and the years of our separation melted from us.

"Oh, bloody hell!" His face became seriousness incarnate. "Petersholme, England is facing a long, hard night. This Prime Minister doesn't understand that – he chooses to appease that Austrian rabble-rouser."

"This has something to do with me, doesn't it?" I said brightly. "This thing with the Munich Treaty is why you asked me up to London?"

Molloy began to pace and, for the next several moments, there was no sound in the room other than the steady pad of his shoes against the teak floor boards. He stopped and turned to face me finally, his hands easily riding his hips. "Have you heard of an American named Goddard?" he asked.

I gazed at him in bewilderment. I had thought we were talking about the small problem of a war brewing between Great Britain and Germany. I really didn't see where an American, any American, entered the picture. And who was this Goddard chap any way?

Molloy snorted. "Goddard's been developing fireworks into something a bit more – uh – scientifically interesting these past ten years."

"Fireworks?" I yelped. I tried to understand without laughing. "Like on bonfire night? Perhaps roman candles?" He nodded. "You must be jesting, old boy!"

"I wish I were, Petersholme."

"Jerry's got Mausers and Panzers and aeroplanes, Molloy – from what you're saying and what I've read," I finally allowed, still managing not to laugh. "Does he think that adding a few roman candles can break England's will?'

"Goddard has developed fireworks into something that comes close to having military significance – with no help from his government. Jerry's got a whole team of their best scientists developing a viable rocket."

I stared at my friend. My jaw was agape.

"Do you remember Janus von Kys?"

"Janus?" I gazed at my friend now in foreign service suspiciously. Von Kys had been an avid aviator and convinced me to learn to fly. While Molloy had watched, he and I had flown loops over the spires of Oxford. The three of us had been uncommonly thick.

"He's heading up Jerry's rocket group, Petersholme – he’s the Waffen-SS chap in charge."

I now stared at Maximillian Molloy. My stomach lurched. "You want me to turn Janus," I accused him, finally understanding where this thing was going. "You want me to turn him into a spy for England!"

"I suppose the National Workers Socialist Party of Germany could conceivably see it that way," Molloy chuckled.

I gulped. "You want them to shoot me at dawn!"

"You're a subject of the British Crown and we're not at war with the German Reich."

"You want Janus shot at dawn – both of us," I yelped. "God! I've heard those bastards use the guillotine with some of their own. You’re asking me to lose my head."

"You have a factory in Coventry that manufactures tractors and other farm implements, don't you?"

"Yes, but…"

"You manufacture fertiliser as well as tractors, don't you?"

I stared at him dubiously. I had half of the British market for things agricultural tied up in my factories in Coventry. Of course, Petersholme made fertiliser.

"The Reich is putting on an agricultural symposium in Berlin next weekend. As a manufacturer of farm implements, you're more than qualified to attend. It's an excellent cover, Petersholme."

"Molloy, how can tractors have anything to do with these rocket things of yours?"

"I understand the Graf von Kys shall be attending that symposium, Petersholme. His Majesty's Government would be greatly pleased if you renewed your close relationship with him."

"You're asking me to be a damned spy." I stared hard at my friend, now totally into his role as a Foreign Office functionary. "You're asking me to recruit one of our best friends to be a spy." Janus von Kys had often been between us when Molloy fancied a three-way.

"Your King needs you, Petersholme."

"And if I am caught?"

"If it even begins to smell fishy, get your bloody arse over to Poland. Our embassy there will get you back home."

"How would I get through – what – a hundred miles of German territory to the damned border?"

"You and Janus used to be in some aeroclub or other back at university. You can fly out. You'd be in Poland before they could even raise Reichsmarschall Göring's Luftwaffe."

"And how would I get hold of an aeroplane?" I demanded.

"You’ve always been a resourceful lad – besides, Poland will have one of its agents there to help you keep your head down."

I did not like the feeling I was getting. I also knew I had no choice. I was after all a subject of the Crown. My commitment to King George VI and the Crown he wore was even greater than the common Briton's. My very title was invested in me by authority of the Crown of the United Kingdom. My duty was to King and country.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, knowing I had no choice. I had been well had.

He nodded, accepting my surrender. "Listen to anything that might relate to rocketry or a fuel system."

"That doesn't sound difficult – if I don't fall asleep first."

"Listen in on German discussions where possible." He grinned impishly, relishing his control of our situation. "The second thing will be easier and may keep you awake as well…" I arched a brow questioningly. "You need to reacquaint yourself with the Graf von Kys – as much as he allows you to."

"You want me to interrogate the man in his own country?"

Molloy laughed. "Entice him with whatever comes to mind. If that doesn’t work, reacquaint him with your fine tribute to English manhood." He stopped pacing, turned to me, and smiled.

"You want me to bugger him?" I yelped.

"And, when you've sated his hunger for things English, listen to anything he has to say about rockets and their development."

My eyebrows hid in my hairline as I stared at Molloy. "You want me to listen to pillow talk like some King's Cross prostitute?"

"Just listen. Don't ask questions. Don't draw attention to yourself. Don't put yourself or the Graf in jeopardy. Simply be alert." He leered at me. "And enjoy yourself." He sat in the chair beside me. "As this isn't official, you'll be going as your own man. The government will reimburse your expenses, however. But, remember, it's all hush hush."

My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since early that morning. "I think perhaps we need to eat these sandwichs," I told him. I glanced at my watch; it was already four o'clock. "Make that supper."

Molloy fixed me with his gaze. "Think about milk cows, Petersholme. Von Kys has a herd of the damned things – from a strain Jerry’s developed that I’m told substantially raises milk production. And you remember how our friend used to dream of tinkering with genetics. That should get you invited out to his estate so you may speak freely."

Over a dinner of lamb and asparagus, I told Lord Molloy that, before I left on this mission he had given me, I would need to chat with another school chum, Alan Dudding.

"Him?" he growled. "He's so bloody bourgeoisie, Petersholme! From what I remember of him, he's even insufferable. How can he possibly be helpful?"

"Alan knows far more about chemistry than either of us do, old man," I reminded him gently. I had not been the only one young Alan tutored in the finer points of the science. "If you want more from this trip than idle gossip about who's doing what to whom in Berlin, I need more information on what this bloody Yank of yours has done with firecrackers."

"Do you know what’s become of Alan?" Molloy asked.

"He said something about accepting a civilian position at the Admiralty – in ordnance, I believe."

"I'll find him in the morning. Be near your telephone around ten – I'll call you then."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Barry stood in the open doorway watching me as I made my way up the path.

"Good night, Petersholme," Molloy called from the cab. "Rest well."

"My Lord," Barry greeted me, his eyes twinkling behind his facade of proper normality.

I glanced over my shoulder as Molloy’s cab pulled away and knew I was well had. In the doorway before me stood a very curious American who was much too aware of things Socratic for my peace of mind at the moment. Returning to his side of the park, I had an old and trusted friend who now had seen the man to whom I thought I was ready to commit myself. And, although Molloy was married with a young son, he was not the sort to be bashful about things sexual – as long as the class distinctions weren't too sharply drawn. I wondered at what point during my coming trek to Berlin that Molloy would come exploring Barry Alexander's availability.

I wasn't happy about that as I followed my American house guest into the hall of my house.

"Who was your friend?" Barry asked quietly as he shut the door behind us.

"An old school chum," I answered noncommittally. "He's with the Foreign Office now."

Barry studied me for several long moments, his hands comfortably on his hips. "You wouldn't tell Elizabeth or me anything about why you had to leave yesterday. Let me guess – you're here because you were already needing me so much that you couldn't stay down on the farm any longer without ripping my clothes off. You had to come up here where I'd be living and where you’d finally feel right about ravishing me." His lips twitched. "Either that or you've got a connection to your government I don't know about."

"I'm to be on the continent this weekend, Barry." I frowned. "Please don’t ask any more."

He continued to study me. Several moments later, after I had offered no more about my coming voyage, he nodded again. "Have you eaten?"

"Molloy had me to his club." I watched the lad stiffen at the name and then forcibly relax. He spoke before I could explore his reaction.

"Your cousin has already retired, my Lord," he said with what seemed like forced ease. "Your servants have climbed the steps and turned in." He leered wickedly then. "Think I might finally have a chance at exploring your bed?"

I studied him for several moments before answering. I wanted him more than I had ever wanted anyone at that moment. Sex. Everything I had ever done with anyone and more. Yet, I knew that accepting his offer meant complete commitment on my part. Making such a change to the relationship that had grown between us during the summer demanded such commitment. Inviting Barry into my bed demanded love.

With Max, it had been two young boys and, later, men exploring their new sexuality together. It had made us faster friends but it had never been more than just sex. At University, we had added Janus von Kys to our sessions and it had worked well for all three of us – because we became friends with the German. We were friends who relaxed sexually with each other. Even Alan Dudding, although he had never become one of our group, had been just another friend with whom I had sex – to relax both of us. But, I understood completely that Barry represented something that went far beyond what I'd had with them.

Barry Alexander was more than friendship and more than sex. Once he entered my bed, I would be committed to him. He would have first claim on me as I would have on him.

I knew I owed Petersholme a complete accounting of my responsibilities before I made that commitment to this man before me, waiting on my answer. There would have to be so many changes once it was made.

But Aunt Alice seemed not to have minded when she decided to send Barry up to London a month early. Eliza would be absolutely elated. I was tired of resisting what I knew I wanted. What he wanted. What was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

I smiled. "That might be nice."

"Let's go then," he said as he grabbed the banister and started up the stairs. "Elizabeth wants to show me the horseguards at Buckingham Palace and pull me through the Tower of London in the morning. But I want lots of you before I go to sleep."

Barry Alexander stopped as he reached the landing and turned to wait for me. As I gained the floor, I faced him and he came into my arms. "I’ve wanted you for so long, Robbie" he mumbled against my collar. "And I missed you yesterday."

I noticed his use of the name only my most intimate friends and Elizabeth had ever used and accepted that he had every right to do so too. We were soon to be intimate. "It’s only been a day, dear boy."

"Two days. You left Bellingham Hall Wednesday morning and it's already Thursday night now." He gazed up at me, his head against my chest and his face open for my kiss. "And I’ve waited for this night for four of the longest months I ever had. I think that I've managed to fall in love with you, Baron Petersholme."

"As I have you."

"Robbie, I won’t ever make demands on you," he said as I guided him through the door. "There’s a lot I don’t know about you yet, but I do know you’ve got lots of responsibilities. I don’t want you to screw up even one of them because of me."

I kissed him then and he pushed the door to behind us.

I woke to Barry's fingertips absently tracing circles around my areola. There was only the beginning of dawn showing through the window.

He smiled at me when he realised I was awake. "Robbie?"

"Hmmmm?"

"You may be older than I am by  six or seven years; but I'm more experienced than you in sex and relationships."

He had my attention. The night just past had been more satisfying than any I had spent with friends or rentboys. I was suddenly certain I was not going to like what I was going to hear him say. His hand moved slowly down my stomach under the duvet towards my crotch.

"I love you," he said as he brought his tongue to my chest. "But I've partied all night long and did it with more guys than I can count."

I cringed at the thought of that, of hands other than mine touching this man. Of other men satisfying their animal lusts with him.

"I want one man and one man only now." He looked up my chest at my face. "That's the man I love."

His fingertips found my lips and rested there.

"I love you enough to give you the time to love me as much as I do you."

"Where is this leading, Barry?" I asked suspiciously.

He pulled away then, sat up, and smiled down at me. "You can play around if you've got to – men or women. That's up to you. Only, you've got to remember that I'm going to be here waiting for you when you come home and want real love."

He smiled and I was sure I saw his eyes glisten. "My body is mine. Nobody touches it unless I want them to. And I don't want anybody touching me except you." He turned away from me and moved on the mattress so that his back was pressing against me. "I want you to make love to me, Robbie. Real slow love. Make me know that you love me too."

* * *

Barry had joined Eliza and the two of them were tramping about London before I woke again. Rising from the bed, I stretched and knew I was well-satisfied. I pulled on a dressing gown and made my way along the hallway to the toilet. I accepted fully the sense of well-being that held me. It had come from holding Barry Alexander in my arms the night before. And that morning. And the sure knowledge that I would again. Over and over again.

I was more than simply sexually satiated, however. I allowed myself to consider that as I relieved myself. I kept that thought as I took the stairs to the ground floor and started back through the house to the small dining room.

"M'Lord," Roger greeted me as I stepped into the room, "Will you be wanting breakfast?" He bowed his head in a familiar salute, his face as bland as ever I saw it.

I remembered at that moment this man was Barry's grandfather. I felt blood rush to my face as I blushed. A member of my set was viewed most poorly if he lowered himself to frolic with his own family's servants. Of course, most such assignations would be frowned upon – they commonly left a young girl with child and no husband to support her. I knew enough economics to understand the working class was hard-pressed when it found itself with another mouth to feed and body to clothe.

Barry, however, was Roger's grandson. They had seen each other only once before I brought the lad to London and shared my bed in this house with him, but Roger was long of tooth. Sodomy would be more a sin than a crime to a man who was already the father of two pre-adolescent girls when the twentieth century began.

"The wife's at the market, m'Lord." A smile nearly broke through the bland mask he wore as a badge of office. "With yourself, Elizabeth, and the boy here in the house, she felt the larder was not up to what a Baron should expect." He shook his head in mock dismay. "The butcher will be able to buy his wife a new dress after he's through with her. I do have tea ready, though."

"Tea would be nice, Roger. Perhaps some toast with butter and jam as well?"

"The wife doesn't allow me near the kitchen often, sir," he chuckled, "but I think I can manage toast without burning it."

I smiled back. And wondered what in the world had got in him to change him from his usual automaton into a real man. A moment's thought and I suspected young Barry had had a hand in his grandfather's transformation. "I won't tell if you don't. But I would like a cup of tea and the paper."

I sat at the table in the dining room as the old man went to get me tea and gave myself up to considering what exactly young Barry Alexander meant to me.

In the darkness of last night, he had said he loved me and that he wasn't going to give himself to anyone but me. Even as I sipped tea and waited for Roger to grill toast I didn't know how I felt about that.

It was one thing to relieve my animal nature with someone as willing as Barry – or with the chaps I had known at university and even just Molloy back at boarding school. It was natural for boys and unattached men to satisfy themselves as best they could. Barry, Molloy, Dudding, and von Kys I had known in a biblical way these past twelve years. They had satisfied themselves on my manhood as surely as I had in their mouths and backsides.

Young Barry had broken through my well-developed parameters for satisfying myself while retaining the dignity of my position. He had destroyed them slowly and methodically over this past summer. He had involved me more deeply than any school chum ever had. Yet, we had never even touched each other while we were at Bellingham.

Not until last night. That was what held me enthralled – that everything had become love-making in my bed here in Mayfair – a physical expression of how we each felt towards the other. It was the culmination of how I had come to feel about him and his feelings for me.

My responsibilities should eventually require me to marry and produce an heir. Barry Alexander had to understand that as well as I did. He knew me too well by half to have overlooked that small reality of peer. The Crown expected us to uphold our social as well as financial obligations to the nation.

I could either marry and forswear my past interest in male partners or I could emulate my school chum Molloy and have both. I could not, however, see where I could deny my responsibility to the people who depended on Petersholme.

I remained lost in thought as Roger set out my breakfast and refilled my tea.

I smiled as I dabbed marmalade on the last piece of toast. I rather liked Molloy's answer to both his responsibilities and his needs. My afternoon with Max had been different from what we had known as students – a serious one mostly. And, from what he had said, Molloy had a robust boy for a son. He should, the lad was from good stock. I decided I would have a long chat with him once I was returned from Germany. If a life of subterfuge was to be my lot, I needed to know how to handle it so no-one was embarrassed.

The telephone jangled and it was Molloy. "Alan Dudding will meet you in front of St. James Palace at noon, Petersholme," he told me before I could say a word.

"You set up an appointment?" I asked.

"Of course, old lad. We can't just dilly-dally away the day, you know. I'll have everything to you about this conference in Berlin by this evening. Ring me the moment you're back in London." The line went dead and I wondered at the man's brusqueness. It really was quite unlike him. He was usually such a pleasant sort.

* * *

Alan Dudding paced before the gates to the palace as the cab dropped me across Pall Mall from him. His hands were clasped behind his back and he wore his jacket open. I knew that stance. His face would be blank, and he would be oblivious to the world around him and lost deep in his own thoughts.

I studied him a moment before crossing to him. His unruly brown mop bounced as he paced. At my distance, I couldn't see the freckles that I knew still covered his nose and cheeks. He was still slim and I realised with a start that he was short, even shorter than young Barry. I hadn't remembered that about him. He wore the thick spectacles I remembered so well from university and I wondered if he still had the knack of taking his pince-nez off and fixing a chap with those piercing green eyes that only saw a blur if someone was more than six feet away from him.

As I approached, he pivoted and began to pace out a track away from me. I had seen enough of him to know that he still looked much as he had the last time I saw him – like a young, nearly pubescent lad. There was, however, always an intensity about him that commanded attention almost instantly upon coming into his presence. He might well seem to be an innocent lad upon simply seeing him. But, so many times in the past, I had seen him seem to see through to a chap's soul and find him wanting. It was a demeanour I had found uncomfortable when confronted with it and always pitied any commoner who might encounter it. Alan had never been a comfortable chap to know, even when violently skewering himself with every inch of my manhood.

"Alan!" I called as I came up behind him.

He stopped his pacing instantly and pivoted. "Petersholme!" he greeted me. His left hand shot up and pulled off his spectacles and I immediately felt myself under the closest scrutiny. I knew I was but a blur to the man given the condition of his vision; yet, that was the affect of the man's gaze. Its normal state was a cold, steely neutrality, but I had seen it filled with unbounded lust. Alan Dudding's gaze was more than a bit daunting even to those who knew him.

"It's good to see you again, old chap," I responded, offering my hand to him.

He remembered to shake hands and his cheeks flushed as his hand reached out to take mine. He quickly replaced his pince-nez and forced a smile to his lips. "I was caught quite by surprise this morning."

My brow arched in question.

"When Lord Molloy rang the office. The Foreign Office requested that I be made available to you." He relaxed and grinned mischievously. Although Alan was of only slightly less than average build, I thought immediately of one of those little people the Irish are so fond of imagining. "The Royal Navy has directed me to satisfy Baron Petersholme's every request." His grin quite suddenly became a leer. "An order signed by the First Sea Lord himself."

"I thought you might could help me out a bit with understanding something Molloy has asked me to do. But I didn't…" I felt my face flush as I realised where his thoughts had taken him.

Alan chuckled and moved close to me, his grin still covering his face. "Tut, tut, Robbie old boy," he said in a loud whisper. "Can't you find any of those farm boys of yours to help their Lord out?"

I felt heat race down to my toes and up into my hair. My face burnt. I knew I was blushing madly.

Alan stiffened and looked around us quickly. "Shall we find a Lyon's Corner House for a quick bite to eat and then retire to my flat where I can help you with your problem?" I blushed scarlet.

"This is quite nice, Alan," I told him as he let me into his flat.

He frowned as he shut the door but the expression was disappearing when he turned back to face me. "It's almost as nice as your student digs were back at university, m'Lord," he mumbled and turned towards a tiny kitchen. "Will you have tea?"

I stared at him in surprise as he awaited my answer. "I say, old lad," I said, gently feeling my way into the maelstrom I suspected this man could unleash. Molloy was quite right about Alan Dudding's blind enthusiasm for the bourgeoisie; but the emotion I had sensed just from this lad's behaviour was more than that. "You rarely showed deference to my title when we were at university and never when we were alone. Why are you doing so now?"

"Aren't you Lord Petersholme?" he demanded and I picked up a bitterness in his voice I didn't remember.

"Yes, but…" My thoughts raced. " I have never stood on ceremony with you. Why should we start now?"

He sighed. "All right, Petersholme. You were more than a bit miffed back at St. James' when I used your first name." He snorted. "I assumed it was because I had crossed the invisible barriers between nobleman and commoner."

"I didn't…" I remembered his comment about relieving my sexual needs with the men of the estate. "I blushed because you asked if I hadn't found some farm hand to…" I felt my face grow warm at the memory.

His lips curled up into a smile. "You don't mind me calling you Robbie?"

"My gods, man! We've been intimate. How could I possibly mind?"

"And if we hadn't been intimate, would you stand foursquare on tradition then?"

"Alan Dudding!" I growled. "This is the twentieth century, man!"

Alan visibly relaxed. "I'm sorry, Robbie. I thought – it's been a real bother these past few years at the Admiralty. There are so many incompetent fools there simply because they're Lord so-and-so or the Honourable such-and-such. They've got all the posh jobs, in charge of things they know nothing about. With that sort running the show, we're going to have a real problem winning the next war." His gaze fell to the floor between us. "I guess I just needed to know that you've not become a complete arse."

"I would hope we're still friends."

"Have a seat. Let me make us some tea," he mumbled and stepped into kitchenette.

I chose to follow him and stood in the entrance. "Alan, I have known you the better part of seven years. I know your feelings about the social structures of this country border on being Bolshevik."

He turned and stared at me, his face lax with shock as he held the kettle before him. Finally, he laughed hard. "Me a Bolshie? God, no, Robbie! My politics border on the republicanism of the Yanks if anything." He continued to chuckle. "I was in the Labour Youth at university because they come closer to putting good men in charge than the Liberals or the Tories." He wiped tears from his eyes and shook his head. "Me a Bolshie? Dear old dad would kill me if he ever thought that."

"You don't support the Monarchy?" I asked in surprise.

He put the kettle on a burner and lit the fire under it. "Good King George and dear Queen Bess? And the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret Rose? Petersholme, the poor man can't even deliver a speech he stutters so much." He shook his head and chuckled mirthlessly. "But he's better than that Nazi brother of his. Long live the King. Edward should have gone before a firing squad rather than be allowed to abdicate. He's a bloody traitor to Britain and his class! Did you know the Duke of Windsor is Uncle Adolf's house guest in that Bavarian hideaway of his this week?"

I stared at him in surprise. Our recently abdicated King frolicking at Berschtesgarten and our Prime Minister giving away central Europe to the lord of that estate? I suspected there was much too much going on in the world that I was not hearing about in Northamptonshire. I also suspected it would behove me to visit London with more regularity so that I could know about the bloody messes going on before Lord Molloy or some other chum had me enmeshed in another one of them. Which brought me back to the purpose of my meeting with Alan Dudding. It had always been England’s rural, uninformed noble families that pulled the country’s chestnuts out of the fire.

"Alan, I need your help, old lad," I said as he filled the kettle at the tap.

"We're not still at university, Robbie. You're not taking more chemistry courses, are you?"

"Molloy has me going to find out things," I told him, unsure what I should tell him.

"Chemical things?"

I grinned. "I suspect that's a substantial component to this thing."

He folded his arms over his chest and studied me silently for several moments. "Is that the only reason you had me looked up? This problem the Foreign Office, the War Ministry, and the Admiralty are worried about?"

"You know they're in this?" I asked, shocked to learn how poorly His Majesty's government kept its secrets.

"Something going on in Germany has everyone walking around like they’re at a funeral. I don’t know what that something is, but I know it’s there – even whilst we all pretend it isn’t." He shook his head. "The English are like an open book; they’ve never been able to hide their feelings." He grinned. "And that brings us to whatever is making you so bloody happy. Tell Uncle Alan, Robbie. I dearly love juicy gossip – especially if it is about England’s wonderful nobility."

I chose to be truthful, though I was more confused than I cared to admit – even to myself. I shrugged. "There's this young lad whom I've become quite fond over the summer, Alan."

Dudding stared at me suspiciously for a moment, as if he were gauging my honesty. Then he laughed. "One of your farm lads, Petersholme? I thought playing with the help was a taboo in your circle."

"He's an American – a student at the London School of Economics."

"A rich Yank?" I felt him manoeuvring me, setting me up for a fall. I realised that it was too late to protect myself, that he had me set for the proverbial coup d'grace. "Please don't tell me that you've fallen on such hard times you need a Yank to pull you free. Has Petersholme become another Americanised Churchill?"

His hands spread, telling me he was through playing with me. His eyes twinkled and there was a smile that covered his face. "So, we're two peas in the same pod, are we, Petersholme? You're going to have to tell me every little detail." I nodded glumly. "Firstly, though, what's this you want to know about chemistry?"

"What do you know about a chap named Goddard?"

"Goddard?" I could see he was drawing a blank.

"Some American scientist."

Recognition began to dawn in his face. "The rocketeer?"

"That's the chap. What do you know about his work?"

He shook his head in bemusement. "So, Jerry's actually going to try it," he mumbled.

"Eh?" I stared at him in confusion.

"I remember, perhaps five years ago, a scientific paper from a young chap named Wehrner von Braun. He thought Goddard's ideas could lead man into space."

"Von Braun?"

"Head of the German Rocket Society, very prestigious. He's perhaps thirty now – very young chap to head such a thing up. And barely a party member too, from what I hear."

"Heard much about him since that paper?"

"Not so much as a whisper."

"The German eagle has probably co-opted him then. Why don't you tell me what you know about rockets."

He grinned. "That's physics, I'm chemistry, Robbie. I don't tutor physical sciences."

I groaned. "Very well. The chemistry that goes into propelling the bloody things then."

The kettle began to sing and Alan turned to lift it from the stove. I watched as he poured two cups of tea and spooned sugar into one. I was surprised he remembered how I liked mine after more than five years. I suspected the man never forgot a damned thing.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next day, I had managed not to think too deeply about what Barry had become to me until I embarked my train in LeHavre and was comfortably alone in my carriage compartment. Watching the port city give way to the rolling French countryside reminded me that Barry Alexander was in London and growing further away from me with each click of the iron wheels of the carriage. It was already mid-afternoon and I was scheduled to arrive in Berlin in the middle of the next morning.

Barry Alexander. Young, handsome, and loving. He would do anything for me – because he was in love me. He would apparently forgive anything I did for the same reason. Did I, however, love him?

I smiled to myself at the question. Of course, I loved the damned Yankee. I would do most things for him.

Most things. I realised that those were the operative words. I certainly didn't see myself attending Ascot with young Barry on my arm, introducing him to King George as my lover. Of course, there was always need to be circumspect. I doubted that he would introduce me to President Roosevelt were we in a similar situation in the States. Still, though, circumspection set aside, my level of commitment to Barry Alexander became foremost in my thoughts as my train sped north through the French countryside into the gathering night.

I had taken everything the American had been willing to give during the night just past. But I had gone further and given myself to him, doing so willingly. Not once in twenty-six years of life had I thought to do such a thing with another man or boy. Before the American had entered my life, I saw buggering a willing lad as simple, unpretentious, and uncomplicated sex. As I did sucking. Something the lad in enough need did with my phallus for our mutual pleasure.

It had been Molloy who set the sexual tone for me almost thirteen years ago while we were still at Rugby. We were to spend the Spring holiday at his father's estate and he had acted a bit strange our last day at school and on the train across country. That night in his rooms he stammered out that he wished to try it. With me.

It did not take much to convince me.

We continued our relief of each other through our years at Rugby – quietly, of course, and no-one was the wiser for it. We carried our continuing companionship to Oxford and eventually expanded our circle of friends to include the German Janus von Kys and, later, Alan Dudding.

Not one of my three friends had suggested I increase my involvement in our relief of each other. They serviced each other but were satisfied with my one contribution to our fun. I, too, had become quite comfortable with it. Barry Alexander, however, had entered my private life and proceeded to disrupt every habit that had gone into making it.

I had come to love the lad enough to break through the barriers both my habits and those of my friends had erected over the years. I loved him enough to accept that I was homosexual myself and to understand that was it not a sickness, regardless of what the law and doctors stated. I loved him enough to share my body with him as he did with me. But did I love him enough to commit myself exclusively to him?

The blackness of night spread across the interior of France as I grappled with who I was and how I was to handle this new knowledge of myself. I slipped into a troubled sleep.

I woke sometime later in the night to find a man standing inside the opened door of my compartment. "Papieren!" he demanded loudly in German as I gazed in shock at the pistol at the waist of his uniform jacket.

Numbly, I reached for my jacket lying on the seat across from me and wondered how I had slept through the stop-over in Paris. I pulled my papers out and handed them to the German border guard.

The frown left his face immediately when he saw the Seal of Great Britain on the front of my passport. "Engländer, ja?" he asked pleasantly. I nodded and watched as he opened the passport and inspected it. The guard clicked his heels together and his right arm jabbed the air between us. "Heil Hitler!" Stiffly, he handed me back my passport. "Herr Baron Petersholme," he said in German, "welcome to the Fatherland."

I watched as he left my compartment. He bowed his head as he pulled the door to.

I was not bothered the rest of the night as my train moved deeper into the eyrie of the German eagle. I could not get back to sleep, however. My thoughts were far darker than when I had attempted to understand my relationship with young Barry.

* * *

I washed as best I could with the carriage swaying under me as it wound its way slowly through the outlying sections of the German capital city.

"Meine Damen und Herren!" the conductor called over and over from the corridor as he moved from carriage to carriage. "We are arriving in Berlin, the Capital of the thousand year Reich. Heil Hitler!"

I heard a chorus of Heil Hitlers' answer the conductor as he moved along the hallway. Mine was not one of them. My mood continued to darken as we wove our way through the city the Hohenzollerns built while they were but the lowly Margraven of Brandenburg. We finally pulled into Berlin's giant Bahnhof.

I left my compartment and started to get off into a cool September morning. Beyond the scaffolding and canopies, the sun had risen in a clear pale blue sky, bathing Berlin in a warm glow. I smiled until I noticed the men running to the carriages along the platform across from me.

Young men, barely more than boys, all in feldgrau dress Wehrmacht uniforms carried their duffel bags and jostled with each other in a hurried but friendly effort to find their assigned cars. They were like young men anywhere – quick with a flash of humour, yet determined to look well. And happy once again to be away from the watchful eyes of their parents, to again have the limited freedom and camaraderie that peacetime army life provided.

There were hundreds, perhaps even a thousand of them, moving along the platform and I found myself studying their train. I realised with a start just how long the thing was – at least fifty cars – and immediately began calculating the number of men it would take to fill it. I came up with two thousand men or more.

I frowned. A troop train heading east and carrying thousands of men? Several battalions – perhaps even a division?

Whatever for?

Hitler had been making noises about the Bolshie, but he had done that since his election as Chancellor five years earlier. It wasn’t Stalin these lads would be going after. Poland and the now truncated Czechoslovakian Republic stood between Germany and the Soviet Union.

Where could so many young German soldiers be going?

The world was at peace – at least, Europe was. The Japanese were still swallowing Manchuria in Asia, of course and the Italians were trying hard not to lose their war against nearly naked, spear-wielding Africans; but neither of those threaten the Empire.  Besides, those desert nomads probably needed a bit of order in their lives to become prosperous and enjoy civilisation.

I had never seen an actual troop train before. British soldiers I had seen home on leave from their posts rode civilian trains. Individual subjects of the Crown, as their companions were.

Older men appeared shortly at each carriage and called their wards into formation. Stragglers broke into trots to reach their companies. The jostling and humour were gone. I was watching an army preparing itself to leave home and take up positions it would need to go to war.

From the corner of my eye I saw two men in civilian clothes step from a carriage further up the platform and turned to watch them and what they might be up to. They seemed completely out of place as they made their way through company after company of the Wehrmacht.

Behind them, companies quietly filed in their respective carriages. The men converged on a rosy-cheeked lad in the middle of the ranks of his company. His companions remained at attention, pretending to ignore what was about amongst them. The boy tried to maintain his stance but it was obvious that he was watching the two men come closer to him.

He gave up trying to keep formation and turned to gauge the men's movement towards him. He dropped his duffel bag and broke ranks, zigzagging between his companions until he was past the formation. He began to run then, towards the open station on the other side of me.

"Halt!" one of the civilians bellowed as he pushed through the last file of young men.

The boy ran towards me, his face red, the collar of his dress tunic tight against the straining muscles in his neck. I saw nothing but abject fear in his face as he neared me.

A shot rang out and, in surprise, I looked back along the platform to see the other civilian holding a pistol straight out from his chest, his other hand supporting his shooting arm. Only then did I realise the man was firing a weapon in my direction. Another shot rang out as I jumped back into the entrance to the carriage I had just left.

The boy was even with me and he grabbed his thigh, his face showing pain as he tossed forward and began to slide along the platform. Blood quickly began to spread across the back of his uniform trousers.

I started to step onto the platform, fully intending to help the young soldier stop his bleeding. A hand gripped my shoulder and I turned in surprise.

"No, Engländer," the conductor told me in German, shaking his head. "They are Gestapo. Let them take him away and pretend you have seen nothing."

The boy looked up at me. His hand reached out to me. "Please help me," he cried as the first Gestapo agent reached him.

I watched in shock as the two agents picked the lad up by his arms and began to drag him to the lounge of the Bahnhof. I shuddered as a uniformed policeman at the entrance doors stepped aside, saying nothing, as the men pulled the youth into the building.

No effort was made to attend to the soldier's wound. No word of explanation was spoken.

"Welcome to the new Germany," the conductor whispered at my ear, released me, and quickly returned to the depths of the carriage.

I hailed a cab in front of the Bahnhof and was driven to the Metropole Hotel without incident. Every lamp post along our route had the ubiquitous swastika flag hanging from it. Red, white, and black bunting was everywhere. As if it were Coronation Day in London. Only, people hurried to where they were going instead of enjoying a beautiful autumn day, stealing apprehensive glances at my cab and anyone who approached them.

I registered with the hotel and was quickly shown my room on the second floor. The porter drew me a bath; however, he seemed more than slightly hesitant to take the five pound note I offered him as a gratuity. I gave him the few Reichsmarks I had left from the small exchange permitted at the station and resolved to find a bank as soon as I had washed and shaved.

From the bank, I strolled back along the broad avenue towards my hotel and was amazed again at how clean the city was and thought ruefully of how much grime London had managed to collect over the centuries. And of how little interest there was in keeping it clean. The people I passed seemed well-fed and comfortably dressed; and they all seemed to be employed. But I witnessed only hurried, suspicious glances at myself and at their countrymen.

I passed a small park that, in London, would have been a haven where elderly men would congregate. It was deserted even of office workers taking their lunch in the warmth of a sunny day in mid-September.

I realised as I approached the hotel that its every flag pole held a Nazi party banner swirling lazily in the slight breeze. I was shaking my head at this petty posturing as I entered the lobby of the Metropole in the wake of what I was soon to learn was the German contingent to our agricultural conference.

I instantly espied Janus von Kys standing in the centre of the lobby, removing his gloves. I had not seen him in nearly six years, not since he left Oxford with his degree the year before me. The Graf von Kys, however, was the type of man whom, once known, one recognised anywhere.

He was over six feet and willowy when he returned to Germany – tall, fair-skinned, blond, blue-eyed, slim. His black Waffen-SS uniform accentuated the body I had come to know nearly as well as I had Max Molloy's. The silver oak branch of his rank on one side of his closed collar and the stark black of the other side showed his patrician neck to good effect. I was surprised I was developing an erection just gazing at the man.

He turned at that moment and his brows furrowed as he saw me and sorted through his memories as he sought to place me. "Petersholme!" he called as recognition settled over him.

"Von Kys, I thought it was you, old lad," I answered and took a step towards him, happy to see him again.

"Halt!" a young man growled and stepped between us, his face blank as he opened the holster of his service revolver.

I halted and Janus stepped up to the young soldier and put his hand on his shoulder. "He is a good friend, Corporal," he told the man in German. The soldier came to immediate attention, his hand falling away from his pistol and its fingers cupping the hem of his uniform jacket.

I stared at Janus von Kys in surprise, wondering what position he could possibly hold that would have him protected by armed guards. Not even King George would expect such protection. I waited for my friend from university to make the next move.

"Petersholme," he said, stepping around the guard and coming towards me. "It's so good to see you again."

"And you as well, von Kys." I noticed his military contingent had all turned to watch us. Whatever Janus had done with himself since leaving Oxford University, it had made him quite important in the new Germany. "Are you and your lads…?" I indicated the uniformed men standing near us in the lobby of the Metropole. "Are you here for the agricultural conference?"

His face grew into a smile, his blue eyes twinkling. "Are you here for that too?"

"If you’ll remember, I do have an estate, old lad – an agricultural implements factory as well – now that father's passed. It helps keep the ledgers in the black to stay abreast of the latest advances, you know." I smiled pulling forth Molloy’s gambit. "And I have heard that Germany has developed a strain of cattle that nearly doubles milk output."

Von Kys' adjutant registered their party while we caught ourselves up on the highlights of each other's doings the past six years. I walked him to the lifts as the Waffen-SS group followed the porter.

"Will you join us?" he asked as he took my hand and began to shake it.

"I thought I'd take lunch in the dining room. And you chaps need to settle in." I smiled. "Perhaps in an hour or two?"

"Of course." He nodded and turned to the young soldier who had nearly pulled his pistol on me. "Corporal, when the Baron Petersholme arrives on our floor, show him to my rooms," he told him. Turning back to me, he said: "We have the top floor. Just come up when you're finished; this soldier of the Reich will escort you to me."

I took a leisurely lunch, keeping to simple fare. The weinerschnitzel was superb as befitted a five-star hotel. And I permitted my mind to wander at will.

This new Germany was proving to be a surprise, one I was suspicious of. It was clean. Its people were employed. They were well-fed and well-dressed. That much seemed true enough. The Times' German correspondent had reported that accurately, but his glowing reports of the Third Reich had left out the people's fear. I had seen no joy but had noticed more than the normal hesitancy and suspicion one expected in a city of any advanced society where one rarely knew one's neighbour.

There was that poor lad at the station as well. No Briton, regardless of his class, would have been treated as he had been. I had seen real fear when he broke ranks and tried to run. I had seen total disregard for human life when he was shot down on a public platform.

What had the conductor called the men who had shot him and hauled him away? Gestapo. I wondered at a police force that carried weapons and used them so carelessly. I doubted a society where no-one, not even a uniformed officer of the law, felt they could ask for an explanation for such cavalier behaviour.

Britain was hungry, almost a quarter of its population was out of work. Our cities could not afford the labour to keep the streets clean, even with men willing to work. Far too many of our small businesses had died in the Depression that had held the civilised world in its maw for nine long years. But I would never see there the fear I had seen today. And I would never see the total disregard for law and civilised behaviour towards even the lowliest tramp that I had seen at the railway station.

Was this the future for Britain as it was the present of Germany?

I hoped not.

And Janus. I knew enough about Nazi Germany to recognise the black uniform with the twin silver lightning bolts as Waffen-SS, not regular army. He was in the Party's own military arm – the super-elite. The Aryan übermensch in person. I guessed all the embroidery meant he was an officer, a high-ranking officer with the entourage and protection he had with him in the lobby when I came upon him.

He had been a fun chap at university. It had been he who taught me to fly in the warm autumn that began my second year at Oxford. He had treated far too often when Molloy, he, and I went pub-crawling through those lazy afternoons. And, when the first tramps appeared in the village of Oxford, he had started to feed them until they became too numerous for even his generous German soul.

Could that lad become this man have countenanced what I had seen at the central railway station only that morning? Could he justify to himself the fear I had sensed on the streets of Berlin between the bank and my hotel? I hoped not and I was unsure of how to learn where my school chum's thoughts were on the subject.

CHAPTER NINE

It was with more than a bit of trepidation that I took the lift to the top floor of the Metropole Hotel in the centre of Berlin. The Graf von Kys seemed well-satisfied with his country’s government and his position within the Party ruling things. That was the only explanation I could find for his being a field grade officer in the army that the National Socialists had created for themselves, an army that co-existed with the regular army.

Waffen-SS. Black leather jodhpurs and uniforms, silver insignia – and those damned double lightning bolts on either side of the collar. I had to admit it was a dashing uniform. Even formidable. Von Kys with his blond good looks was particularly dashing in it.

The uniform, however, went hand in hand with that other arm of the SS I had seen at the train station – the Geheimestaatspolizei. The secret police. The Gestapo. Together, they represented this new Germany that would bully the world for past slights, real and imagined. And force its people to live in fear. Janus von Kys was decidedly a part of this new order – he wore his party’s military uniform and was a Colonel in the Waffen-SS.

Molloy wanted me to gather information on the German rocket programme from this man? I was beginning to suspect there was considerably more danger to fulfilling my school chum’s request than Molloy and the Foreign Office had led me to believe. And the danger could well come from von Kys himself, rather than some common sod in an ill-fitting suit.

As the lift operator opened the gate for me, I had decided that I would do well to gain a much better picture of the geography through which I was about to thread before I exhibited any interest in rockets of any sort.

Before me was a semi-circular lounge facing the lift, with corridors leading into wings to my right and left. Comfortable looking sofas stood against the far wall, side tables with soft lamps separating them. In the centre of the lounge stood a large, imposing desk and seated at it was von Kys’ young guardian of this morning.

Corporal Jorsten jumped to attention immediately when he saw me step out of the lift. "Heil Hitler!" he called as his right arm shot out from his body, fingers straight out and tight together.

"Has the Graf finished his lunch?" I asked as I stepped towards him, refusing to stiffen my body or otherwise recognise the lad’s salute.

He dropped his arm and studied me for a moment. "I shall announce you, Herr Baron Petersholme," he said, pivoted, and marched to the first doors on the corridor along the left wing.

I watched as he knocked. Almost instantly both doors pulled inward and he spoke to someone I could not see. He nodded at something that was said to him and turned back towards me. "Herr Baron, come please. The Graf is expecting you."

I entered the suite’s antechamber. Ceiling to floor windows covered the far wall, the sun streaming through them lighting the room warmly. The other walls were papered in a pale green. On my left, a black leather-covered sofa sat against the wall and, on my right, was another desk with a typewriter on top of it. On the wall behind the desk was a large, framed photograph of der Führer seeming to frown down on anyone in the room.

The doors were pulled closed behind me and I faced a grizzled, middle-aged chap. These new Germans had proved to be more than just gaudy – except for the Party's imitation of the army. The Waffen-SS had retained the old Prussian understatement in their uniforms. He had only the SA signia that showed that he was an old fighter on the sleeve of his uniform. His collar held the twin lightening bolts on one side and his sergeant major rank on the other. His arm shot out in salute, stuck out there for a moment, and dropped back to the hem of his tunic.

"The Graf will be with you in a moment, Herr Baron Petersholme," he said in Bavarian-accented German. "Would you care to have a seat while you wait for him?" He motioned towards the sofa to my left. "Have you just arrived in Germany?" he asked as I sat down. He still stood before his desk.

"I only arrived this morning."

The non-commissioned officer nodded. "You shall be surprised at how well the new order has already taken hold in Germany – we work together to build the future, all of us do. It began as the vision of the Führer less than twenty years ago and has become the order by which the people of one of the two great Teutonic states structure their lives."

"And which is the other such state?" I asked quietly.

The man chuckled. "Yours, of course, Lord Petersholme. Great Britain and Germany are brother states." He nodded thoughtfully. "It is our duty – English and German – to rule the inferior races that populate the rest of the world."

"There is America," I said unthinkingly. "Quiet English still, you know."

Sternness sculpted his face immediately. "They are a bastard race. They even have a Jew leading them!"

"Roosevelt?" I asked in surprise.

Fortunately, the inner door opened then and von Kys stepped into the room with us. "Horst!" he said softly. "You would not be trying to convert an English nobleman to National Socialism, would you?"

The non-commissioned officer standing at the desk seem irritated for the briefest moment at his superior’s interruption before his face became stonily blank. "Of course not, mein Herr Graf," he answered, clicking his heels and coming to attention.

"Please, Petersholme," von Kys continued, turning his attention to me. He smiled. "Join me. I have a fire burning and a charming Mosel that demands that it be shared between old friends." He turned back to the non-commissioned officer. "Horst, we are not to be interrupted, yes?"

"It has been so long, my friend," von Kys said as he lifted the bottle of wine from its chilled bucket and began to fill two goblets. "I had thought that I left all things English behind when I departed Oxford and returned home almost six years ago." The interior room was lit warmly by the fire and lamps strategically placed about the room.

I sat in a comfortable Queen Anne chair several feet from the fire. Von Kys handed me a goblet and crossed to the other chair facing me. He was still in full uniform, like his sergeant major.

"It is so rare that I can relax with old friends any more, Robbie," he said wistfully as he sat himself. "I think the last time was when you, Molloy, and I made a night of it when I was departing Oxford."

"Surely you have friends here?"

Von Kys smiled and nodded. "Of course. But it is not the same. I was a carefree student when you and I knew each other. Since my return, I have become involved in a small way with the building of the new Germany. Somehow, there has been no time for the simple pleasures of life as we had in England."

He sipped at his wine and gazed into the fire. "Your father has died?"

"Yes," I answered. "Almost two years ago now. How did you know?"

He smiled, the gentle, wistful smile that I remembered from our university days. "My entourage – they called you Baron. It would be on your papers. And, of course, you would not be Baron Petersholme unless your father was no longer with us."

"Your men called you Graf. Does that suggest you’ve succeeded your father?"

He nodded, still gazing into the fire. "Vati died the summer I returned from England. That was a most difficult year for me – my father dead, beginning my doctoral programme, joining the Party…" He glanced over at me and cocked his head inquisitively. "Are you married yet, Robbie?"

I thought instantly of Barry and felt my face warm. I forced myself to chuckle. "I haven’t had the chance to find the right girl yet. The estate and plants have kept me more than busy." I paused. "Have you found a woman you could give yourself to?"

He nodded. "I met Gisele that first year I was returned to the Fatherland. We married that summer."

"Molloy did too," I told him. "Our old friend now has a healthy son."

"Does he?" Janus asked, allowing his surprise to show through. I nodded. "My son’s already five," he said.

I laughed. "I feel as if I’m missing out on something here – the joys of parenthood."

Von Kys’ face became immediately serious. "I would not surrender knowing Wilhelm for anything," he said fiercely. "He has come to mean everything to me. The boy is my life."

Silence grew between us as we each sought to bridge the six years that now separated us and our knowledge of each other. Finally, he looked at me, smiled, and cocked his head. "Why did you come to this conference, my friend?"

"I do have an estate in Northamptonshire, you know, old lad," I parried. "Judging from the last figures I saw, my companies also hold a commanding position in British agriculture." I shrugged. "And I finally had time in which I could take several breaths and call them my own between the disasters that always threaten a businessman."

He nodded, his lips twitching as they resisted a smile. "And, of course, you have already mentioned your interest in Germany’s finest breed of milk cows. Do you take a special interest in the breeding of your stock?"

I knew better than to walk into that one. My farm manager had attempted to give me every particular he had ever given father – until he realised he was putting me to sleep with the boring realities of animal husbandry. "The practical aspects of biology never interested me," I told Janus, smiling. But I have a first class manager who has given me a shopping list."

He relaxed, his face transforming into the smile I remembered from university. "I’m glad you’re here, Petersholme. It will be good to relax with a friend once again."

I stood up and moved several feet from the fire before facing von Kys. "You never were one for politics, Janus," I observed, giving into my curiosity. "How have you become so enmeshed in them now?"

He snorted and peered into the fire as if he were searching for an answer to my question there. "My wife was the leader of the university’s Bund Deusches Mädel when I met her." Again, his lips twitched and a wry smile this time played across his face. "Politics became a part of our developing romance." He nodded to himself. "Yes, the reality of political involvement was most unavoidable if I wanted her. And I quickly learnt that even chemistry is a political forum."

"But you became much more than just a member of the party, von Kys. You’re a Colonel in the National Socialists’ military arm."

"The Waffen-SS Ordnance Corps, Petersholme. We do not go marching around Berlin singing, ‘Wenn die SA und SS Aufmarschiert’." He chuckled. "We give them the reason and the possibility to sing such songs."

"Oh?"

"Gisele, the Gräfin, introduced me to very influential men here in Berlin," he mused. "I was quite surprised at my wife’s connections and at some of their suggestions to ensure my future – and my family’s place in history."

"Germany has both the Wehrmacht and this Waffen-SS. Why are there two armies, old lad?" I asked, giving vent to my curiosity.

He laughed and refilled our goblets. "The Wehrmacht is Germany’s army – every country has one. It defends the German Reich against any enemy and wages war if that becomes Germany’s political aim at some point."

"And this Waffen-SS you’re a member of?"

"It defends the National Worker’s Socialist Party of Germany. It carries out the party’s objectives wherever the Reich rules – I suppose that would normally be in conjunction with the Wehrmacht."

I showed my confusion. I could not imagine Neville Chamberlain’s Tories fielding an army – neither Labour nor the Liberals for that matter.

"Take the Sudetenland, Petersholme. The Wehrmacht has taken up positions to guard the borders of this new addition to the Greater Reich. The Waffen-SS ensures that the population inside the Sudetenland joins in with other Germans throughout the Reich to create the new order that guides the German Volk."

"I see." I did not really see but thought it best that my German friend believed that I did.

"Robbie, there will be soon come another war – one between the inferior Slavic races and us who are Aryan. Hopefully, the German eagle and the British lion shall join together to destroy once and forever the invidious Slavic encroachment on Europe. We must reclaim the very heart of the geopolitical centre of the world.

"The Wehrmacht will destroy the Slavic armies – because they are enemies of the German State. It will be the job of the Waffen-SS to cleanse that land that is the heart of Euro-asia after the Wehrmacht has won it and make it available to Aryans once again – so that you or I could stroll some reclaimed city and be safe."

I did not like the sound of that but kept my silence.

He chuckled and downed the wine still in his goblet. "I’m not really a part of that, however."

I gazed at him and waited for him to explain.

"I am a scientist, Robbie – not a military man. The Waffen-SS, however, is as far-seeing as the party is. It is not mired in regulations that stifle intelligent enquiry, as armies usually are. Its one goal is to do what the Führer commands it to do. To find ways to do so." He smiled to himself. "There is so much man has learnt about himself and about the world in which he lives in this century. Because it is not controlled by petty regulations as the Wehrmacht is, the Waffen-SS can bring the brightest men together to take that knowledge and make something useful of it."

"So, that’s why you’re in this uniform?" I asked brightly.

"Of course, old lad," von Kys chuckled and began to refill our goblets.

A knock sounded at the door and pulled our attention to it. Janus von Kys frowned. "Enter!" he called, and we watched Horst enter the room. "What is it?" von Kys demanded sullenly.

"The opening ceremonies of the conference, mein Herr. You are to lead them through dinner." I noticed the man was studying me as he spoke to his superior.

"How long before this begins?"

"A half hour, Herr Oberst."

"Verdammte!" von Kys growled. "Very well. Call the others. I shall join you in ten minutes." He turned back to me, dismissing the non-commissioned officer. "Wednesday night, after this conference is over, Reichsführer Himmler shall be hosting a small party, Robbie – will you be my guest?"

"If you would like me to, of course."

He smiled. "Good. Then we can drive out to Schloß Kys for the weekend. I was a guest in your home when I was in your country at university; now, it is time that you are a guest in mine." He paused a moment. "And you may inspect my herd of milk cows – they are of the purest breed. We can discuss you buying some of them, if you would like."

I suspected that I would be making arrangements to ship cattle to Northamptonshire before I left the German Fatherland.

He stood, finished his wine, and pulled his tunic down. "Now, I must go and be the politician that the party wants me to be," he said with a tight smile. "My corporal will see you back to your floor, my friend."

He stepped to the door and was gone. Within moments, the young Corporal Dagold Jorsten was standing at the door waiting for me.

CHAPTER TEN

Alice Adshead sat uncomfortably in Robert’s chair in his study at Bellingham Hall and studied the instrument in her hand. It was her first time using the telephone, and she had been more than a bit suspicious of it as she put the call through to London. It seemed almost immoral to cast aside distances as if they didn’t exist and speak to someone almost two hundred miles away as if they were in the same room.

She squared her shoulders and reminded herself such things as the telephone and the wireless were the future. Elizabeth came on the line then, and she no longer had time to muse at how rapidly the world was changing about her.

"How are Robert and that American boy doing?" she asked her niece once she had determined that Elizabeth was comfortably settled into the Mayfair house. She felt more trepidation at asking the question than her voice showed. Although the servants in both houses would consciously take themselves out of the two rooms so as not to overhear either side of their conversation, there was still the fact that others houses were on the same line as Robert’s in London. Bellingham Hall had the only private line in the county, and she was sure London had many more lines than Northamptonshire. They could be overheard. Robert could be exposed.

"I think they have consummated their friendship, Aunt Alice," Elizabeth answered without thinking.

"They what!" Alice forced herself to lower her voice. Her throat stinging, she continued: "Please, girl! We both understand that men are truly some of God’s strangest creations – especially when they gossip about each other. We don’t have to lower ourselves to their level and suggest things that are unseemly or that could never be."

Elizabeth instantly accepted the older woman’s rebuke. She accepted that she had again fallen into the trap that gossip was – a feeling of superiority available to the weak that only served to demonstrate their weakness. She couldn’t understand how she could have ignored the fact that Robert had a party line and that someone could have overheard her.

"They seemed to enjoy being together before Robert left," she offered contritely. "We took in a play in the West End last night before he caught the early train to Dover."

"Where is that boy gone now?" Alice growled in surprise.

"That’s the funniest thing, Aunt Alice. He said he was attending some agricultural conference in Berlin. Told us all about it the day after we arrived at the house – but I don’t remember him saying a word about it at the Hall."

"Berlin?" the older woman yelped, struggling to gain comprehension of this example of her nephew’s insanity. "On the continent?"

"That’s what he said. I thought it passingly strange. I’ve never known Robert to go to conferences and exhibitions – have you?"

"No, I haven’t." She was silent for a moment. "This is most unlike Robert. Are you sure things are relaxed between him and that American boy?"

"Robert seemed a bit perturbed when he remembered that Roger was Barry’s grandfather. You know – how he might view things. But, other than that, I would say their friendship has expanded rather smoothly."

"They haven’t been obvious about their intentions in front of Roger and his wife, have they?" Even as Alice cringed at the thought of that, she found herself increasingly intrigued that her nephew had gone to Germany without telling anyone at the farm.

"No, not at all. But, dear old Roger actually seems to have perked up a bit with the two of them here in residence."

"Well, keep me informed, Elizabeth. It just will not do for Robert to make a fool of himself in front of the servants. Even in London, it must be kept quiet."

"It’s almost as if you’ve come to accept this, Aunt Alice," Elizabeth said, daring to hope that the older woman had come to take joy in his happiness.

"I’m a woman just as you are, Elizabeth," she said into the instrument and took a deep breath. "It is our duty to endure each of the stupid and, too often, unmentionable things men force upon us."

* * *

It was hot in the lecture room of the Tate Museum. The windows were closed against the autumn chill and there wasn’t even the hint of a breath of air. Perspiration beaded on Barry’s forehead as he tried to keep his eyes open and his mind concentrated on the woman’s words.

She wore the silliest hat he thought that he’d ever seen. And her voice! It was a high-pitched twang that grated at a man’s nerves, like fingernails scratching across a blackboard. He allowed himself to wonder where she was from – the accent was British but one he’d never heard before.

And why would anyone care about the future of the League of Nations? It wasn’t stopping the Italians in Ethiopia or the Japanese in Manchuria and Mongolia. The Germans seemed pretty well to ignore it too. It seemed to be just one more debating society. One for diplomats. He looked up at the speaker. The League’s supporters sure were boring too. No wonder America had decided not to join.

He gave up trying to concentrate on what the woman was saying. His love life was much more important, anyway. Robbie had seen that damned Lord Molloy the day he and Elizabeth were travelling up to London. He’d even spent the whole day with him. And half the night.

They were friends from forever – Robbie and that guy. Best buddies, Elizabeth had told him. He could accept that. She’d also implied that they went beyond just friendship – at least, they had when they were students. He could well imagine what they’d been doing while he and Robbie’s cousin were on the train – and he didn’t like it.

Damn it! Robbie was his. They’d spent all summer getting to know each other, growing on each other even. He’d bit his tongue and waited for Robbie to come to him, and he’d fallen in love with the Baron Petersholme in the process. Now, that he had him, he wasn’t going to share him with anybody – not even with his oldest and dearest buddy.

That was the rub in a nutshell. This Molloy guy was Robbie’s oldest and dearest buddy. They were both noblemen. They’d gone to the same schools together. They knew each other’s friends. And they were both so – so impeccably English.

They probably even knew what each other was thinking.

Barry Alexander knew without a doubt that he’d be unable to stop the two of them from getting together whenever they were in the mood to do so. So, how did he keep Robbie his?

Elizabeth shaking his arm woke him. "Are you all right, Barry?" she asked when he opened his eyes and focused on her. Around them, men and women were standing and slipping on light coats; most of them chatted in small clumps.

"I’m fine." He felt his face redden. "It was so hot in here – stuffy – I fell asleep." He smiled at her. "I’m sorry, Elizabeth, I didn’t mean to embarrass you."

She smiled as she stood. "You didn’t. You were really quiet. Besides, I’m the one who should apologise to you – I convinced you to bring me here."

"That was my pleasure."

"Not when the speaker is as boring as this one was," she chuckled.

Outside, Barry hailed a cab and helped her inside. He gazed silently out the window at the dark streets of London as they rode towards Pall Mall.

"Would you like to stroll through the park?" she asked as they neared Hyde Park and touched his hand. "It would be relaxing and it’s quite a nice evening."

He turned back to her and smiled. "Yeah, let’s. I need to get things worked out in my head and maybe you can help."

"What’s wrong?" Elizabeth asked as she watched the cab pull away. "You’ve seemed withdrawn every since Robert left for the continent yesterday."

"I don’t know how to make it work, Elizabeth," he mumbled and started on a path into the park.

"Make what work?" she asked, following him.

"His Lordship and I – we’ve been doing it since the night you and I arrived here in London."

Elizabeth stopped and studied the American who had stepped ahead of her. She didn’t know whether she should be insulted by his statement or not. It certainly wasn’t proper even to allude to sex – not when it was a man and a woman who were the couple. But she was a bright girl, and she had long ago figured out the mechanics of the act. She also guessed the mechanics were similar when it was two men who engaged in the act.

When it was men doing it, it seemed that every aspect of their relationship somehow became sexual. She supposed that what was considered acceptable in conversation had to change also. If she was going to continue to be involved in Robbie’s and Barry’s relationship, she guessed that she was going to have to be more open to what would be impropriety – even insulting – if they were a man and a woman.

She giggled and he stopped to gaze back at her. "I knew that," she told him. "I could see it in your face, Robert’s too – even if I hadn’t seen you come out of his bedroom that next morning." She frowned. "I thought you were walking on air while we toured the Tower of London – and Robert was happier that evening when we got home than I’ve seen him for months. So, what’s wrong now?"

"It’s just that…" He turned away. "Maybe we should just forget it."

"Barry! We shall not just forget it. I want that you and Robbie make a go of this friendship. It’s good for both of you." She stepped up beside him and put a hand on his elbow. "I like to see both of you happy."

He turned back to her and Elizabeth was certain that she saw his eyes glistening. "It’s that Molloy guy – he’d spent the whole day with him before we got in. Half the night too."

"So?"

"You’re the one who suspects they’ve done it – were doing it back in college."

"And you think they might have renewed the physical side of their friendship?"

He nodded. "And there was another one the next day – while we were sightseeing, Elizabeth. Some man named Alan – Alan Dudding, I think it is."

She frowned. "I don’t know him at all."

"He was at Oxford with his Lordship and that Molloy."

"Did he give any reason for meeting this Alan Dudding?"

Barry shook his head. "Nothing. Just that he had to see him about something he was doing for the Foreign Office – for Molloy."

"That could be it then."

"Have you ever known Rob – his Lordship – to just clam up?"

"Clam up?"

"Stop talking. He told me he was going to Berlin that night after you and I had come up from Northamptonshire. He said it right after he’d admitted to spending the day and half the night with that Molloy. I asked him why and he just stopped talking. It was like I was a little child again and my parents didn’t want me to know something."

"Maybe they’ve asked him to spy for them at the Foreign Office. He does speak German, you know. He spent a whole summer hiking along the Rhine with that Janus von Kys while still at the University."

"Elizabeth, your cousin is a farmer. He has a couple of factories. He’s well-heeled all right. But a spy? Those guys get special training and everything. Sending his Lordship to spy for them would be like putting a pointed revolver in his hand, pointing it at his head, and telling him to pull the trigger."

"Still, Barry, he was acting a bit strange the last day or two before he left for Dover and the continent."

He sighed and it seemed to Elizabeth that he actually deflated in the moonlight. "Okay. Let’s suppose, just for a minute, that he really is over there in Germany doing something for England. That he met this Dudding guy and Molloy and that their meetings were all business." He paused, gathering his thoughts. Elizabeth waited.

"He’s known this Molloy since they were in high school together, right?" She nodded. "And you think they were doing it when they were at Oxford? I can tell you right now that his Lordship is an experienced lover, Elizabeth. He knew what to do and how to do it – and well."

"Barry!"

"I’m sorry, Elizabeth." He hung his head and looked away from her. "Maybe I shouldn’t be unloading this stuff on you."

"No, it’s all right."

"But sex is part of it – there’s no way I can explain what’s going through my head without mentioning that too."

"It’s all right, Barry. I’ve been brought up to be uncomfortable at having anything physical discussed. I’ve already accepted that I’ll just have to get used to it if I’m going to be a good friend to you and Robert."

He shrugged. "Elizabeth, I don’t think I’ll be able to stand it if your cousin is doing other guys – even guys he’s known for a while. I love him, but I’ve got to have all of him. A piece of him just isn’t going to do it for me."

"Molloy is married, Barry."

He snorted. "That doesn’t plug any holes."

She ignored the implication in the words. "Why do you think Robbie would be interested in other men now that he has you?" she asked. "He became quite infatuated with you over the summer and he was certainly happy the two days that you two were together here in London."

"Look, Elizabeth, this Molloy guy has known his Lordship forever. They go back to when they were kids. He’s a nobleman too – like your cousin is."

"And this Mr. Dudding? If he had been from a noble family, I would have heard about him – probably even met him."

"They’re both English. They understand how things work here, just as his Lordship does. I’m the outsider." He snorted again. "I’m just the queer servant boy."

"You’re not just a servant, Barry – invert or not. And Robert doesn’t think so, either. Not as fond of you as he’s become." She took a deep breath. "Actually, he’s come to think of you as being of our class."

"Okay. But the rest of it…"

"No. Barry, as far as we know, there is no rest of it."

"But…"

"What you’re feeling right now is insecure. This friendship has been growing between you the past four or five months and you have only now consummated it – only to have Robert just leave for the continent with no explanation. Think about it, Barry. He travels to Berlin before the newness of your relationship wears off – telling you nothing. That makes you start doubting everything that exists between you." She chuckled. "You’ve come to see bogeymen under the bed, my friend."

He studied her doubtfully. "Maybe…" he forced himself to admit.

"Give Robbie a chance, Barry. Let him return from the continent and we’ll both watch him. If he appears to be chasing after Lord Molloy or other men, then we can confront it – confront him with it."

"So, why did he up and go to Berlin with no explanation?"

"Barry, we English – and especially the men of our nobility do grow up together. Most of us are even related to each other. We’ve come to know each other – the women knowing the other women of our sort, the men knowing the men." She shook her head slowly, trying to find the words that would give logic to the reality of English life. "We’ve come to know who amongst us we can trust."

"You’re telling me that this Molloy guy just ups and asks his Lordship to go to Berlin?"

"There’s probably something happening there, Barry. Something that has interested the Foreign Office. Molloy knows Robert, he trusts him – and Robert speaks German. So, he asks one of the few men he knows and trusts to investigate. They’ve probably got a spy there – one of ours or, perhaps, someone the French have there – but Molloy and his superiors will listen to Robert and believe his report before they believe the spy. That’s how we work."

Barry stared at her in disbelief. "That doesn’t make a bit of sense," he groaned.

"But it’s how things work here. A whole political scheme like giving women the right to vote is decided at a weekend hunting party at Chequers."

"If he’s over there playing spy, he’s in danger," the American growled. "He never acted like he was stupid."

Elizabeth chuckled. "All Molloy would have to do is convince my cousin that his country needed him to do whatever he’s doing. King and country means a lot to us."

"That’s crazy!"

"I’d put my head in a noose if I was convinced it would help my country. So would Robert. So would any of us – even the lowest factory worker or stevedore. It’s how we’ve built our empire."

"You think I’m being foolish, don’t you?"

"No." She shook her head. "I think you’re in love and you’re frightened because Robert isn’t here to comfort you." She touched his arm. "Let’s go home, Barry."

As she unlocked the door for them, she said: "I promise to be your friend, Barry Alexander. If there’s any reason for your doubts when Robert is back in London, we’ll find a way to keep him yours." She smiled up at him as she pushed the door open. "You're good for him – and he's good for you."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The foliage of Hyde Park was a riot of autumn colour as Maximillian Molloy entered the park and began to stroll along the paved path that united the two sections of Mayfair Sunday afternoon. It was the middle of September, but a warm front had covered London through the latter part of the week and continued to linger. Blue skies and a warm sun made the day perfect for a walk, and his son’s tantrum at table made it almost imperative that he extricate himself from the house and the boy’s ill-temper.

Cecil had been spoilt rotten by his grandfather during the summer, of course. The Earl of Easthampton-Mares was quite good at that sort of thing – with his grandson. Max would have faced the lash across his bared, nearly four year old bottom if he had ever dared to throw the tantrum his son had.

Well, the good Earl was sixty-five years old. It could be said that he had a right to spoil his grandson now that he was in his later years. The only thing wrong with that was that Max and his wife had to put up with the spoilage and try to put things back aright in the boy’s life. It was a bloody shame both he and Sarah were so soft-hearted where their son was concerned. Really, they were nearly as bad about spoiling the lad as his grandfather was.

His thoughts turned briefly to Robert Petersholme as he entered the park. The man had certainly matured well. They hadn’t seen each other the past four years – almost five. Not since his marriage, Max reminded himself ruefully. Just a fortnight after graduation, when he should have been enjoying himself to the fullest extent of his freedom. The Earl hadn’t even allowed him to ask Robert to be his best man. His chums from Oxford had been under that black a cloud at Easthampton-Mares.

Allowing the stable boy to mount him had not been a good idea – especially upon reflection. The boy had been as well-equipped as Petersholme but was nowhere as practised. Or as quiet. It hadn’t taken the Earl long to find them – just long enough for Max to be on his hands and knees with his trousers down to his ankles and the lad fully embedded in him, doing the deed.

The boy was fired on the spot, of course. But, while he sniffled and dressed, the Earl had used his riding crop against Max’s backside. God, had that hurt! Twenty-one and soundly beaten by his father. And in front of a servant at that. Even now, he wasn’t sure which had hurt more – the pain or the humiliation. But that had only been the beginning.

He was still having to stand to take his meals when the Earl informed him that his wedding was only a fortnight away. To the daughter of a life peer at that, some Colonel who had survived the siege of Gallipoli. He didn’t even meet Sarah until the night before he was to be married to her. Dutifully, he gave his mother the names of his friends at University and the invitations had gone out. He wasn’t allowed off the estate. The Earl himself had became his best man.

A two-week honeymoon in Scotland – with his younger brother watching him closely – and he had been hustled off to the Foreign Office to learn first hand how to accept the responsibility of his station.

He had done it. His father had tied him to the Churchill faction in government, but Max had stayed there on his own, working to bring the Honourable Member's ideas to the Foreign Office – even with only six divisions in the Local Defence Force to back them up. He had seen the war clouds that now closed over the Rhine. And he had an unpleasant idea of what was coming. It wouldn’t be a simple squall, either; what Hitler was forcing on Europe was going to be more like one of those American hurricanes. England could be blown away far too easily if things didn’t change – and quickly.

He was sweating and loosened his collar. "I need an exercise regimen!" he growled to himself, "I’ve damned well gone to seed these past few years."

He wasn’t that bad – yet. But there was a girth around his middle that hadn’t been there in his student days. Max smiled as he imagined Petersholme sitting in his study in the middle of the week and being led to agree to go to Germany. The man had appeared to be rock-hard muscular. Almost like a particularly handsome stableboy Max still remembered fondly.

He felt himself becoming aroused as he walked and blushed. He glanced around quickly to see if any of the couples sitting on the grass had noticed. Damn! he groaned to himself. Petersholme could always do that to him. He pulled off his jacket and, holding it folded over his arm, made his way to a shaded spot that was vacant. Spreading the jacket on the ground, he sat down, spreading his legs better to hide his tumescence and gazed along the path that led to Petersholme’s side of the park.

The situation with Hitler was getting to him. Even the Earl had suggested a holiday. No! It wasn’t Hitler, damn it! It was Chamberlain and Baldwin before him – and that Bolshie MacDonald before them both. England could have been controlling Hitler from his election in ‘33. It could even now – if someone at Number 10 Downing would grow bollocks! Or if the Tories would install Churchill as Premier.

He still couldn’t believe that he’d invited Petersholme to his bedroom. That he’d practically begged the man to bugger him.

The trappings of nearly five years of marriage and the sense of normality it had given him were shattered beyond repair. During those years, he had been able to convince himself that the sex he and Petersholme had shared at Rugby and Oxford was but part of a phase he had been going through. That his marriage and the birth of his son had been the death knell of that adolescent experimentation. But the lie had been put to that the moment he saw his old friend sitting in his office waiting for him.

He had been uncomfortably erect from the moment he walked in on dear old Petersholme sitting in his office.

He understood immediately that he began to think about it that he was a sodomite. That he would need sex with other men in the future to be able to go on. That realisation did not come as a surprise to him now, not after his body had reasserted itself. It had been there since that first night of their holidays from Rugby when he had told the young Petersholme to put it in him the first time.

These past years of marriage and his work for the Foreign Office, he had attempted to ignore it. He had succeeded too – until he saw Petersholme again and was confronted once again with his reality.

He would keep Sarah, of course. And Cecil. They were his insurance that he succeeded his father and became the thirteenth Earl Molloy. But he knew now that he would have his men as well. He certainly wasn’t going to bury his libido and do without again. Not bloody likely!

Not as hard as he had been working. Not as bad as things were going to become on the continent. He’d bloody well go insane if he attempted to hold himself in, now that he knew what he was.

Maximillian Molloy smiled as he remembered the tension that had been a part of him since his marriage. The tension that had grown within himself as if it were the consumption.

Pushing himself back onto his feet, he started down the path. He reached the street on the other side of the park from his own house and stopped, gazing across at Petersholme’s town home. His smile widened and he chuckled to himself at what his subconscious had done for him.

"Petersholme’s young American strumpet," he muttered to himself. Yes. Definitely. The lad was probably a sex maniac anyway. The Baron had been gone now for two days and the boy was probably frothing at the bit to get into the dirty. He quite probably already had found himself a mate he was seeing now that Petersholme wasn’t around to satisfy him. Common as sin, but a better sort than a King's Cross boy.

He continued to stand there in the sun’s warmth, looking across at the house and thinking this thing through. Petersholme was damned fond of the American, that much had been obvious on Wednesday. The lad, though, was a commoner; and they all knew the score. They were all willing to hike their bum up for the taking as long as it was a gentleman behind them. They were even happier if they were feeding their manhoods to such a gentleman.

Of course, Petersholme would be most irritated were he to learn that Molloy had been playing with his American toy. Robert had never held a grudge for long, however; and this boy of his would most likely keep silent even as he secretly compared the two of them.

Molloy laughed as another thought struck him. The lad could well enjoy being Petersholme’s female and, then, turn around and bugger Molloy. It would give the boy a completeness he’d never have with just Robert alone.

Maximillian Molloy started across the carriageway, satisfied he would have what he needed from Petersholme’s American boy and convinced he would leave Petersholme’s household arrangements much as he had left them. His old friend would almost assuredly never know what went on under his roof whilst he was away.

In a way, it was Petersholme’s duty to England to share his American. If the lad was any good, he could keep Molloy satisfied so that he could concentrate on Hitler and the appeasers in London and Paris. It could actually save Petersholme’s backside – and everybody else’s – if things were going to get as bad as it looked that they would.

* * *

Barry sat in the study of the Petersholme town house, attempting to comprehend Lord Keynes’ revolutionary concept of economics. Classes wouldn’t begin for another month, but the university administration felt he needed to catch up to English standards if he was going to succeed at the School of Economics. And he was going to take economics first term.

Keynes’s ideas had already been bought – hook, line, and sinker – by the Americans and were being put into place by Roosevelt’s government. Barry Alexander had better understand the damned theories or he was going to be left out in the cold as the new America grew out of the ashes of the economic collapse that had already lasted nine years, half his life.

"Master Barry?"

He looked up and found Roger standing just inside the door. "Hi, Gramps." He smiled at the older man. "You’re calling me Master Barry again. Something wrong?"

Roger’s face remained expressionless. "You are his Lordship’s favoured guest."

"I’m his lover, Gramps – and you’re my grandfather." Barry shrugged. "I have to accept all the pomp and circumstance if there are other people in the house but, right now, there’s only Grans, you, Elizabeth, and me."

"There is a Lord Molloy of the Foreign Office to see you, Barry."

"Lord Molloy?" Barry was momentarily puzzled. "The Foreign Office," he mused as he quickly placed the name with the position and came up with Petersholme’s long-time friend. "Why does he want to see me?"

"I’m sure I don’t know."

"Shit! Okay, I guess we can meet in here." He put his book away as Roger disappeared from the doorway.

Moments later, Roger had escorted Maximillian Molloy to the study and stepped back.

"That will be all, Roger," Molloy dismissed the servant as he moved into the room. "So, you’re the American boy that Petersholme has befriended," he said to Barry, appraising him quite obviously.

Barry instantly didn’t like his lover’s friend. This Lord Molloy was as presumptuous as Barry’s own father had ever been. More so, he dared to walk into another man’s house and assume control. He knew damned well the man would never do so if his Lordship were home and that meant this Maximillian Molloy was showing his ass because he was just Barry Alexander from Rye, New York.

"Roger, I’d like tea," he said to his grandfather before the older man could pull the door closed on the two men. "Perhaps this gentleman would like some too?" He glanced to Molloy and smiled. Molloy shrugged and Roger left them.

"I had already dismissed him," he said as he sat on the chair beside the young American.

"I hadn’t." Barry studied the heavy-set but boyish looking man beside him for a moment. Molloy was the perfect example of the country club set that he had too often gone for before he met Lord Petersholme. The too proud, snotty assholes who were always available to party with a boy as long as it didn’t get around in their set. He realised in that instance just how much he had matured in the past five months.

"What may I do for you?" he asked, consciously refusing to use the man’s title. He knew Molloy’s sort and was now unwilling to give one of them any leeway. He smiled as he noticed that the man seemed caught off-guard and struggled to regain his composure.

"I came over to – ah – introduce myself," Molloy offered tentatively. "To offer my services were you to need them – when Petersholme isn’t here, of course."

"Your services?" Barry smiled. Yes, he knew this man’s sort. This Lord from the Foreign Office knew he and Petersholme were lovers and, now that Petersholme was out of the picture for a week or so, he was over sniffing around like a hound on the scent. He was going to be disappointed, though; Barry Alexander wasn’t some bitch in heat. He had Petersholme and the man loved him, he’d proved that Thursday night before he left for the continent.

Molloy’s face flamed and he reached up to open his collar wider. "Well, I assumed from what Petersholme suggested that you…"

"And what did he suggest?"

Max Molloy stared at the American, and Barry was sure the man was wishing he had never had a libido. "There was the implication that you were sharing his bed with him, boy."

Barry smiled slowly at the man across from him. He decided he was going to enjoy playing with the pompous asshole. "Was that before or after you started pleading with him to fuck you?"

Molloy went white. "I say!" he protested weakly.

"You say what? That I have no feelings at all? That I don’t care where my dick goes – or who I let into my butt?" He saw that each question hit the man like a fist to his gut. "That you don’t respect your friend enough to leave his lover alone?"

Molloy pushed himself out of his chair. Barry could read his thoughts in his face: he’d had enough of this creature’s impertinence; there was only so much insult a gentleman should have to endure. He smiled as Molloy pivoted towards the door.

"Sit your fucking ass down!" Barry growled at him.

Surprised, his Lordship looked back at the American over his shoulder.

"You deserve to hear everything I have to say to you. You come into Lord Petersholme’s house fully expecting to get into sex with me. Behind his back and under my grandparents’ noses."

Molloy’s eyes widened. "Your grandparents?" he mumbled.

Barry grinned. "Yeah. My grandparents are his Lordship’s servants in this house. And you came over to do the nasty with your best friend’s servant boy – aren’t you proud of yourself?" His grin vanished. "Now, sit down."

Molloy sat down and the American easily guessed that he was fearful of what would come next.

"I’m a monogamous little shit, Max," Barry told him, consciously using the man’s nickname. I only have sex when I’m making love – and I only make love with the man I love. I especially don’t like guys who think they’ve got a right to get into my pants just because they were born with a silver spoon in their mouths."

"I should go," Molloy managed to say.

"Not until I’m finished with you, damn it!"

A discreet knock on the door forced both men’s attention away from their confrontation. "Enter!" Barry called to the closed door.

Roger entered the study carrying the tea service. Barry watched Molloy as the servant set the service on the lamp table between them. He could see Petersholme’s oldest friend was clearly rattled.

The prig should be rattled. Coming on to his friend’s lover like he had been doing. Barry couldn’t believe anybody could be as crass as that. He needed to slink away like the worm he was and never come back. It’d serve this piece of shit right to have Petersholme know what he’d done.

Barry knew he had to be careful too. No matter how big an asshole this man was, he was still Petersholme’s oldest friend. Molloy still had enough power over Robert to get him to fuck him, even though Barry was fairly comfortable that Petersholme wouldn’t play around on him under normal circumstances.

The best he could really hope for was to put this Lord Molloy in his place. To establish that there were certain things even a King couldn’t expect to get. And to keep this asshole away from his Robbie in the future. Definitely that. But how?

"Will there be anything, sir?" Roger asked.

Barry shook his head. "No. I think this will do. Lord Molloy and I are having a private and very friendly little discussion and shouldn’t be disturbed."

"Very well, sir." Roger stepped to the door and closed it behind him.

"Tea, Max?" Barry smiled as the outline of a plan began to form in his mind.

"You should use my title," Molloy grumbled.

"I only use titles with people I can respect. You haven’t shown me anything to respect yet." He watched as the other man swallowed hard.

"I think you’re a man with a dick that’s trying to control him."

"I…"

"Shut up!"

Molloy fell back against his chair in defeat.

"You came over here to a get a piece of me. But you’re married and supposedly quite settled. You had his Lordship up close a couple of days ago, however; and that re-awakened something in you. You figured that, with the cat away, this one particular mouse would play. Only, you should know Petersholme better than that – he’d get you good for playing in his henhouse behind his back."

Molloy cringed.

"Okay. You’re one of us."

"One of you?"

"You like your sex with men, don’t you? You kept begging until Petersholme gave it to you. You came over here today thinking you could get some of me. In my book, that makes you pretty much like me – only, I don’t beg and I don’t fuck around with my friends’ lovers. But I guess that’s just a matter of having some class," Barry said quickly, hammering the man in the chair beside him with each new blow.

Molloy looked down at his hands in his lap, his face crimson from his shame.

"You wouldn’t want your wife knowing about this?"

"God, no!" Molloy looked at him beseechingly.

"So, why don’t you find someone with a big one, someone you can have a quiet little affair with? Someone who is unattached?"

"Who?" Molloy croaked.

Barry sat back in his chair, making himself comfortable, and picked up his cup. He sipped at his tea as he thought. "If it were me and I was on the prowl, I’d be looking around the university for a guy I could get it on with. What’s wrong with finding a man at work?"

"At the Foreign Office?" Malloy shuddered. "I couldn’t…"

"Why not? You’re a handsome devil. That should get any guy who’s interested into bed with you…" He paused, a tight smile playing across his lips as he brought the tea cup up to sip at it. "You’d have to work on your attitude to keep him, though. You seem to think everybody should lie down and spread his legs just because you’re a nobleman. That kind of shit doesn’t work in the bedroom, Max – not if you want a long term relationship with the other guy."

"I couldn’t," Molloy mumbled. "If something like that were to get out – it’d be my position at the Foreign Office. I’d be forced to resign immediately. It’d get back to father, my wife – I’d be ruined."

"You would need to be careful – but, okay. You don’t play where you work. How about men you meet away from work? Men you knew at Oxford who are now in London? There are a lot of unattached young men anywhere you look on the streets."

"Oh, Gods! You’re talking about commoners. Tramps even."

Barry frowned. "The last time I looked, there was no way to tell the class of a dick, Max. They may come in all different shapes and sizes, but they all do the job. They don’t even think while they’re doing it. The same’s true with buttholes – those nerve endings start sending the best sensations in the world through the whole body. And they don’t care about class and position and all that stuff."

Malloy gazed at the American for long moments. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"You were more than a bit miffed at me when I first arrived and you deduced my purpose. You have me by the bollocks. You even think we – Petersholme and I – did something when we met on Wednesday."

"You didn’t?" Barry asked in surprise.

His companion was too defeated to be aware of it, however. "Of course not. He said he was committed – to you. Why are you attempting to arrange something for me now?"

Barry lifted his cup to his lips and drank the tea still in it as he worked through an intelligent answer to this man. He sighed and set the cup back on its saucer. "You’re Peterholme’s oldest friend," he said, opting for the truth. "It’s obvious he has long-established feelings for you – a really deep friendship. Regardless of how arrogant you were earlier, I have to remember that. He’s far more likely to forgive what you did than I would be. And he’s likely to come to you if I ever muck up."

He took a deep breath and went on: "I love the man. I’m pretty sure he loves me too. I don’t want anything to come between us. I’m going to work at making sure nothing or no-one does. I trust him to do the same."

"And how does that relate to me?"

"As I said, you’re his best friend. I don’t think it would be wise to put my relationship with him into a conflict with the friendship the two of you have."

"Are you saying that you won’t tell him I made a sexual advance?"

"I’m saying that I’ve been as insulting to you as you were to me – maybe more so. I’m saying that I think it’s a good idea for you to have enough sex to satisfy your needs. That way, you won’t be coming on to Petersholme when I least expect it."

Barry smiled as he remembered Robert’s other meeting before he left for Germany then. Alan Dudding may or may not have had sex with his Lordship three days ago, but he was probably as dangerous to Barry’s relationship with Robert as this man before him was. "I’m going to see if I can’t make that happen."

"Why in the world?"

Barry chuckled and relaxed. He had this man under his thumb now. "So that I don’t have to wonder what Robbie’s doing when he’s alone with you." He stood up and walked to the desk. "What’s the telephone number of this Alan Dudding guy?"

Molloy stared at him blankly. "Who?"

"Alan Dudding, the guy you made an appointment for Robert to see this past Thursday. An old classmate of yours."

"He’s a bloody commoner!" Molloy growled and sat up in his chair.

"Like me then. And we both know what you wanted to do with me."

"I…" He stared up at the American and fell back in his chair.

Barry looked directly at the other man and shook his head slowly. "We’ve already gone through this, Max. Sexual organs have no sense of social position – none at all. Besides, this guy is educated enough that the two of you can carry on a conversation before and after you’ve done the deed. Best of all, he’s like you – he likes his sex with men and he holds a government job. He’s not going to run around telling people what you do in bed."

"I couldn’t possibly…"

"Would you like me to tell Petersholme what happened today?"

"You wouldn’t!"

Barry smiled slowly. "I wonder if I shouldn’t just find a constable and tell him you propositioned me. Or, maybe, if I should go down to the Foreign Office and speak to someone in administration…"

Molloy’s eyes rounded in fear as he stared at the American. "You wouldn’t. It’d expose Petersholme."

Barry laughed. "This house has more than one bedroom, Max Molloy. The servants both here and at Petersholme Hall would never put their Lord in danger. They like him far too much to do that; he takes good care of them and they appreciate him for it. What’s this Alan guy’s telephone number?"

Molloy gave the American the telephone number to the Admiralty.

"I’ll call him Monday and set up a date for you two for mid-week – say Wednesday evening?" He smiled gently at Lord Molloy. "We’ll be having dinner – will you make yourself available?"

"I…" He looked around the room fearfully, like an animal caught in a trap. "What makes you think he would be interested?"

"As I said, you’re a handsome man. A little thick in the middle but still handsome. I’ve not seen this guy, but I’ll bet there’s a physical attraction. What about you? How do you like his looks?"

"He’s gingered-haired. Quite fair. Irish, you know – from Belfast."

"Don’t even think about bringing up class distinctions again. They don’t work in bed when the lights are out, do they? Remember, it was Lord Molloy who came over here looking to get into something with this servant boy."

"I suppose," Molloy groaned.

"One more thing. Leave the pompous asshole side of yourself on your side of Hyde Park when you come over Wednesday. You’re looking to party with this guy, not to present him to the King of England as your boyfriend." He laughed. "And, if you’re a good boy, Robbie won’t hear a word about what happened – and the police won’t either."

"What time?" Molloy asked softly, thoroughly defeated.

"I think six on Wednesday would be good."

"I cannot invite Mr. Dudding to my club." He shuddered at the thought. "Tell Petersholme if you must, but I will not lower myself to that level in public."

"I’ll find you two something to do with yourselves," Barry said grinning.

Molloy sighed. "Are you quite through with me?" Barry nodded. "May I go then?"

"You’ll be here Wednesday evening?"

His Lordship pushed himself from his chair. "I don’t have much of a choice in the matter, do I?"

"You don’t."

Max Molloy sighed and opened his coat. "I’ll be here then," he mumbled as he put it on.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Barry Alexander jerked as he felt the hand come to rest gently on his shoulder. He pivoted around and was facing Elizabeth standing behind him in Petershome’s study.

His jaw dropped as he took her in and recognised her. "You didn’t hear that?" he groaned.

She nodded slowly.

"Oh God!" he mewled, feeling his face flame. "You shouldn’t have."

"Barry, I’m sorry but I did. I slipped in behind Roger when he brought you tea and hid within the cupboard while you and Molloy were speaking." He stared at her blankly. "I’d heard you raise your voice, I didn’t know what to think. I couldn’t imagine what Molloy would say or do to set you off, and I wanted to help."

"You heard it all?" he groaned.

She smiled brightly. "I really do think there is something to this old fashioned notion you men have about keeping us from overhearing your changing room conversations. But I must say I was more than slightly embarrassed by the gist of your conversation." She looked into his eyes. "Do you men insist upon talking to each in that manner when women aren’t about?"

In the hall, Barry could hear the door closing and knew that Roger had shown Molloy out. "You must…" he began. "You must really think me awful, Elizabeth – speaking to him like that."

She watched him closely for several moments before continuing. "I understood your motive," she said softly. "I think I even understood what you were trying to do." She smiled tightly. "I think I might even agree with your assessment of Lord Molloy. But, Barry, no Englishman would ever say such a thing to another Englishman that you did." She shook her head slowly. "I’m amazed that the two of you are not both dead – like a couple of ancient Roman gladiators who fought to the death."

"Lord Molloy is a – uh…" He searched his mind for an appropriate comment.

"He’s a rutting pig, Barry. That’s what Max Molloy is. To think that he would actually come over here and try to use you – his best friend’s ... Oh!" Her eyes met his. "I just don’t know the words. Women aren’t taught such language."

Barry reached out and took her hand in his. He looked into her eyes. "Will you forgive me?" He paused to think through his next words. "Please, Elizabeth, forgive me that sort of language."

"You didn’t know I was listening to your conversation."

"It doesn’t matter. I was brought up better than that."

"But Molloy propositioned you, Barry. You had to defend yourself and convince him of his place."

"With words like you’d expect from a whore?" he groaned. "I think not. I would have been better if we had fought."

"And have Robbie come back from the continent and find his best friend beaten up by the man he’s just come to accept that he loves? No, you handled Molloy correctly, as you would anyone of his sort who did the same thing."

"But I didn’t have to be so explicit."

"Why not?" She nodded to herself. "He was explicit in what he wanted. He ripped down the veil between the classes himself. You had to come back at him on the same explicit level or he would continue being such a – an animal." She frowned. "Even if he couldn’t get what he wanted from you, he would have done so with another man. An Englishman probably, one who would have been hard-pressed to defend himself against someone like Molloy. You made that ill-mannered buffoon wake up and realise what he was doing. You whipped him soundly. There’s hope that Lord Molloy shall remember that he is a gentleman after this."

Barry remembered the tea service then. "Would you have a cup with me, Elizabeth?"

"Please." She entered the study, seated herself beside the service, and quickly poured two cups. "Do you think your scheme shall work?" she asked as Barry took the cup she offered him.

"You mean putting Molloy together with this Dudding guy?" She nodded. "I’m still not sure this guy’s a – a homosexual. I’ve got a better idea that he is, though – after talking with Molloy just then. He’d have said something if Dudding wasn’t into that."

"How will you set it up for them?"

He sat in the chair across from her. "I don’t know. I guess I’ll just telephone Dudding and invite him over?"

"I think this is a case where Aunt Alice could be helpful, Barry. May I telephone her?"

He stared in shock at the woman seated before him. "Your aunt?" he managed finally. Elizabeth nodded. "She’ll hate me even more than she already does."

"She’ll be inflamed that a member of our set would be so base as to do what Molloy did to you – and to Robert. You must realise that she dotes on my cousin." She smiled at Barry. "In addition, she does have a sense of what is right – that’s why we’re here a month ahead of classes. She didn’t want you placed in an untenable situation at Bellingham Hall after your encounter with those boys."

"But she’d help put my plan to work?"

"Either that or develop a new scheme that we can put into operation. Shall I call her?"

He collapsed back into his chair. "Call her, Elizabeth. Let’s get this show on the road – and see if we can’t get him off it."

Silence enveloped them for several moments and, pulling himself from his own thoughts, Barry looked up. "Is something the matter?" he asked.

She smiled and shook her head. "I think we’ve finally become friends, Barry."

"How’s that?"

"We're plotting together."

Barry reddened.

* * *

Roger and Barry stood before Euston Station Monday morning at nine o’clock to meet Alice Adshead’s train. Barry still was not sure that he believed the old woman would be on-board. She’d have had to leave Bellingham Hall by four to catch it in Coventry. She had to be really bored out on the farm or else she was madder than a wet hen.

"Young Barry?"

"Yes, Gramps?"

"Before you get all embroiled with the Petersholme women and their scheming, I just want to tell you that I’m quite proud of what you said and did yesterday. That guttersnipe may be an Earl’s son but he needed his ears smartly pinned as you did."

Barry turned to face Roger and studied him. "Thank you. I think I needed that. I’ve been so afraid that you and Grandma Murray were going to hate me for being a  homosexual and for insulting a Lord…"

"Lad, we’ve never had an invert in our family but your mum explained about you before you came. We’d got used to it – as best we could, I suppose." He looked down at his hands. "I didn’t give you a proper greeting – not like a Murray should expect from his flesh and blood. I can admit that now. It was just that I didn’t know what to expect. I just wanted to get you out of London and all the temptations you'd have found here." He tried a smile at the man standing beside him. "Didn’t want to embarrass Mrs. Murray, you know?"

"What made you change your mind?"

"His Lordship is a good man, a strong man – and a good judge of character for one so young." He looked away, unwilling to meet his grandson’s gaze. "I had imagined you as a bit less manly – I admit it. But Baron Petersholme accepted you as a friend, even as an equal." He coughed. "Then, he was so happy after you two had become closer. Barry, that man has had the world riding on his shoulders these past two years. He alone has made Petersholme survive, fulfilling his family’s obligation even to the lowliest scullery maid at Bellingham Hall. He’s needed somebody standing there beside him, helping him. We’d thought it would be a wife, of course."

He faced Barry squarely then. "After yesterday, lad, there’s no doubt in my mind that you’re the one he needs. You both are strong men, good men." Roger smiled tightly. "It gives me pride that it is a Murray standing beside this Lord Petersholme, Barry."

Barry’s arm went around his grandfather’s arm. "Thanks, Gramps. Thanks for being honest about how you felt in the spring as well as now." He sniffled and wiped his eyes with his free hand. "I’ll do my damnedest to be everything he needs."

"Me and your grandmother will help in anyway we can."

"Right now, we’d better get inside Euston Station and meet Miss Alice or we’ll both feel like dead men after she’s through with us."

"Right you are, lad," Roger snorted and started up the steps to the station with Barry in step beside him. "That woman can be nastier than a fire-breathing dragon if all’s not well in her world."

Stepping down from the railway carriage, Alice Adshead smiled as she saw Barry. Her face immediately became sombre the instant she made out Roger beside him.

She was the first to admit that it made no sense how she had come to see the American. After all, he was a damnable invert. A sinner in the eyes of Church and man. He had, however, immediately won over poor Elizabeth and soon had Robert liking him as well. Alice had managed to hold out against his charms far longer than those two. But he was a charmer. And she had followed her nephew into his captivity.

Well, not as Robert had, of course. More like Elizabeth, she supposed as she watched him start towards her almost in step with his grandfather. He really was a graceful thing – in addition to being handsome and even intelligent. And, now that he had access to good English clothing, he showed his taste as well – simple but solid, and with a bit of flair. Yes, tasteful. And Robert seemed happier than she had seen him since his father died.

How had that fool Maximillian Molloy made such a mistake as to suggest something? The boy was committed to Robert after all, and Molloy was supposed to be Robert’s friend. She would learn every single detail now that she was in London. Then, she would devise a scheme that would put that guttersnipe in his place.

"M’lady," Roger greeted her.

"Roger, it’s good to see you again," she said, keeping her voice calm. "And you too, Barry." She turned back to Roger. "Is your wife well?"

"She’s fine, ma’am. She’s looking forward to your visit. Did you bring much?"

"My trunks are coming by a later train." She looked at the station suspiciously. "I suppose they’ll call around when they arrive."

"They’ve been quite good about it in the past, ma’am. The porter’ll be careful when he loads it all in the guard’s van and brings it to the house."

"Of course," she answered, firmly leaving the matter of retrieving her things to Roger. "Shall we go home then? I would like to freshen up as soon as possible." She smiled slightly. "Perhaps, I’ll be able to find time to take a nap as well."

Mrs. Murray had a tray of sandwiches set out when they arrived back from Euston Station. Alice smiled at her as she entered the dining room. "Good to see you again," she told the woman. "It took a long time to get used to you not being at the Hall." She smiled. "But your daughter, Jane, has become my mainstay."

"Jane’s a good woman, m’Lady."

"Yes. A wonderful woman." She glanced over her shoulder at Barry standing with Elizabeth. "You must be proud of both of your daughters, Mrs. Murray. The one who immigrated after the Great War has done well in her marriage and given you a grandson you must be proud of."

"Thank you, ma’am." The woman beamed. "Jane had such nice words to say about him; and, now that he’s in London, we’ve found him to be a comfort."

Alice turned to the young people and stiffened with the same resolve Barry had seen at the train station. "We have need to discuss this matter from yesterday," she told them. "Have your snack and we’ll find the study." She turned to Roger. "You’ll see that we aren’t disturbed, won’t you?" she said.

Barry pulled the doors together and turned to face the two women already in the study. Elizabeth had promised him that Alice would be on his side, their side. But he still didn’t know how the older woman was going to treat Lord Molloy’s indiscretion and his own outburst in response. He expected a tongue-lashing but hoped for less.

Alice stood before the desk, watching him. "Come, Barry," she called to him. "Sit down with Elizabeth here and let’s get on with sorting this thing out."

Barry sat facing her, waiting for her to tear into him. Elizabeth patted his hand and he forced himself to lessen his grip of the chair arm.

"From what little Elizabeth could tell me over the telephone yesterday," Alice began. "I want you to understand that Lord Molloy’s behaviour is not the accepted norm for an English gentlemen." She allowed herself to smile. "You didn’t physically abuse him as you did that Clive, did you?"

Barry blushed. He felt the heat spread over his face and down into his shirt. "Is he all right, Miss Alice?" he croaked.

"Clive? Of course, he’s fine. His nose is bent a bit and the foreman tells me he can shovel more manure than any man on the farm – but what of Lord Molloy?"

"I didn’t touch him, Miss Alice."

She chuckled. "I do wish you had. That beast needs to be taught a lesson. But it’s just as well you didn’t, Barry. Assaulting a gentlemen probably would not have been received well by the Metropolitan Police."

"I said some things I probably shouldn’t have."

"He needed to be taken down a peg or two, lad – a verbal lashing probably did him some good." She glanced to Elizabeth who nodded her agreement. "Elizabeth thinks we need to make plans to ensure that his Lordship doesn’t forget the lashing you gave him."

"Aunt Alice, Barry set up a scheme with Lord Molloy." She grinned widely. "One his Lordship was unhappy with."

"I like it already," the older woman answered, smiling slightly. "But, first, I’d like to know why you two think the man remains a threat to Barry – and to Robert as well."

"They’ve been friends forever," Barry offered. "They went to school together and – and they’re the same class."

"Aunt Alice, Lord Molloy was one of Robert’s…" Elizabeth searched for a word that would not offend the older woman. "Don’t you remember? They were close friends even back at Rugby. Didn’t Uncle almost not let Robbie go to his wedding?"

Alice nodded. "There was talk that the Earl had caught Maximillian in a most compromised position. My brother-in-law didn’t want any scandal to visit Petersholme, although he suspected…" She shook her head. "Yes, I can see that Maximillian is certainly not going to change, even after his marriage and the birth of his son."

"He admitted that he had suggested something when Robert met him Wednesday," Elizabeth told her.

"No!"

"He did," Barry told her. "Rob – um – Lord Petersholme told me he had met with Lord Molloy and I remembered that Elizabeth had suggested that there had been something between them when they were at Oxford. I figured the guy he was going to see Thursday was the same way."

"The man he saw Thursday?"

"Someone named Alan Dudding. Lord Molloy said he was a commoner but pretty well agreed that this Dudding and Lord Petersholme had done things too. He also didn’t seem to like him much."

Alice sighed. "Barry, I need to explain myself perhaps. I am not happy that Robert is an invert – whether that is with you or someone else. I have to accept it, just as I have to accept that he has been an excellent Baron these past two years. He’s probably done better than his father. In accepting it about him, I have come to accept you. You’re a man, a gentleman I should say. And you’re quite endearing. As long as you are good for Robert and pose no threat to Petersholme I shall stand beside you – and even be your friend.

"Maximillian does pose a threat, however. He did something with a servant boy five years ago that caused his father to force him into marriage, one below his station. Yet, he seems not to have learned from that. He opened a similar situation when he approached you, but he also went behind Robert’s back. If he had succeeded with you, he would have hurt Robert to the quick." She smiled at him. "Because my nephew has come to care for you very much."

There were tears in his eyes when Barry smiled at the older woman. "Thank you, ma'am," he told her, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. "It can’t be easy for you to accept me, to accept us; and I really appreciate that you do."

"I’m not as old-fashioned as some people would make me, lad," she answered him.

"Barry came up with a scheme that should work out well for him and Robert," Elizabeth said. "And it’s devilish – just what Lord Molloy deserves."

"Well, let’s hear it then," Alice Adshead told Barry.

"I don’t know how good my idea is. But I was really ticked off that he’d presumed that I was available – that was part of what went into my scheme."

"Go on, Barry," Elizabeth told him.

"I made him give me this Alan Dudding’s telephone number at work. And I told him that he was going to go out with this guy."

"You didn’t!" Alice yelped, her hand flying to her mouth to cover it as she stared at him.

"I did. I invited him over to supper Wednesday night and planned on inviting this Dudding guy too. I was thinking of shoving them together."

"Oh, my!"

"If they were to become friends, Aunt Alice, neither of them would be likely to approach Robert – or Barry."

"It would certainly make for a nasty little mess, wouldn’t it?" She pursed her lips and her brow furrowed as she thought the idea through. "This Dudding…" She looked to Barry. "He’s a commoner, isn’t he?" The American nodded. "An Englishman too, I presume. Their class consciousness could make it difficult for this to work."

"Alan Dudding was at Oxford, Aunt Alice. He’s no fishmonger’s boy."

"Well, yes. That is in his favour, I suppose."

"He’s employed at the Admiralty, ma'am. Robert said he was meeting him to get briefed on whatever Lord Molloy was getting him to do in Germany. Could they both have the same politics perhaps?"

"Politics?" Alice mumbled.

Barry noticed both women were watching him. "The same world outlook then? I mean, there’s some strong pacifist feelings here in England from what I’ve seen; back home, it’s called isolationism."

"Yes, I see," Alice nodded. "That could perhaps work to bring them together," she mused. "It’s at least one more thing they would have in common – in addition to be able to converse. Do you know this for a fact, Barry?"

"Not yet." He grinned. "But I can find out when I telephone Mr. Dudding this afternoon."

"If we are going to neutralise young Maximillian…"

"Neutralise?" Barry asked.

"Yes. Make it extremely unlikely that he would again set his sights on either you or Robert." He nodded. "If we intend to neutralise him with your scheme then, I would suggest we involve Mr. Dudding in our plans from the beginning."

"What?" Elizabeth demanded, sitting straight up and gripping the arms of her chair tightly.

"Wouldn’t this Mr. Dudding wonder at being invited to this house whilst Robert is out of country? He might even come to the wrong conclusions about Barry here."

"But what if he’s uninterested in Lord Molloy?" Barry growled. "The man is a bit plump."

"He shall be an Earl one day, lad. He already has several of his father’s lesser titles which he’ll hold unless Earl Molloy disinherits him which is almost impossible as he’s produced a son. This Alan Dudding should be quite aware of what having access to Maximillian would mean – if nothing else, he’d have doors unknown to most commoners opened to him."

"He’s employed, ma'am. Why would he want Lord Molloy’s money? Why would his Lordship pay for him?"

"Barry!" Alice shuddered. "I wasn’t suggesting that this Mr. Dudding would be a – a prostitute. No. Not at all." She shook her head emphatically. "Certainly not."

"Then what?"

"This young man would be conscious of Maximillian’s position, his holdings – they would almost certainly make his life more comfortable than it is now. A relationship with the heir to an Earl would guarantee that. Just a discreet word from Lord Molloy could well help him to be promoted to a position higher than he currently holds. This boy is English, he would understand the advantages of having a peer by his side."

"So, you’re saying we should let Alan know exactly what we’re planning?" Barry asked.

"I’m saying that we must involve him in order to have any but the remotest chance of this scheme working. You don’t really think that Cupid is going to start unleashing his arrows at Wednesday’s supper, do you?"

"I didn’t even think…"

"Exactly. You were rightfully angry at his Lordship and pressured him into dining here with young Alan. But he would have arrived with every defence in position. And Mr. Dudding would have no chance, even if he had been struck by Cupid’s arrow. You would have had both of them ready to come to blows. Your scheme would have collapsed at your feet." She smiled wry and glanced at Elizabeth. "Just as all of mine have concerning this young lady’s matrimony – because I failed to enlist her aid, or that of Robert."

"What happens if Mr. Dudding is uninterested, Aunt Alice?"

Alice Adshead snorted. "My dear, Barry here will simply have to ensure that doesn’t happen, won’t he?" She turned to Barry and studied him carefully for a moment. "You are quite handsome with that ginger-hair and those freckles. I can understand why Robert would be captivated by you. But, with this lad, you’re going to need to use your intelligence and your wiles – every one of them – if you intend to win him over to this plan."

"I suppose I shall at that."

"Just remember that no-one would want a person as you perceive Lord Molloy to be," she continued. "You shall need to find every positive attribute you can about the man – and use them to entice Mr. Dudding."

"I’d better telephone him and set up a meeting for tomorrow then."

Alice smiled at him. "Good idea, Barry. You do that. I think I shall lie down for a while. I am far too old to be waking up before dawn." She stepped around Elizabeth and Barry rose and hurried to open the doors for her.

"Sleep well, Miss Alice," he told her as she passed him.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 Barry gazed at the telephone for several moments after he and Alan Dudding had set their meeting for that afternoon at a Lyon’s Corner House near the Admiralty. The man’s accent had been so heavily Irish that Barry could have cut it with a knife.

He had heard enough of them growing up, before his family moved out to Rye. Every cop in New York city had seemed to be Irish, even down to keeping the accent through two or three generations. And this Alan Dudding’s brogue was even thicker than those he’d heard in New York.

An Irishman? That didn’t sound like Robbie, not the way Barry's mother had always looked down her nose at them. Now that he was thinking about it, he realised he’d just sort of figured all English people were like his mother that way. But he’d learnt a lot of things about Baron Petersholme the last five months; things he’d never thought an English nobleman would do or think.

What was it that Alice Adshead had asked before she went upstairs for her nap? Was this Alan guy English? That was it. And she’d asked it twice. Barry was willing to bet she wouldn’t be happy with foisting this guy off on Lord Molloy, no matter how beastly she thought the Englishman was. She was nowhere as open-minded as her nephew was.

Only, who else did they have to work with, if not Alan Dudding?

Nobody.

Maybe Miss Alice wouldn’t mind too much. After all, she’d taken a shine to him, and he was an American. Glumly, he told himself that he’d just have to put his head together with Elizabeth after he’d met this Dudding guy. They’d just have to find a way to sell him to the old woman. If he was even interested.

Barry glanced at his watch and saw that it was now a quarter past three. Alan had suggested they meet at four thirty. He sighed and stood up. He knew he should change but didn’t want to risk being late. He telephoned for a cab and stepped out onto the porch to wait.

"Mr. Alexander?" the voice behind him asked, his name sounding strange distilled through the other man’s brogue. Barry turned to face Alan Dudding.

He was immediately surprised. He was studying a guy who didn’t look any older than him. A brown fringe fell into the man’s eyes. There were freckles across his nose that continued out onto his cheeks. And those piercing green eyes! They held Barry. It was almost as if they were peering into his soul, studying each layer of him.

They were like Franklin Roosevelt’s eyes that one time his father had taken him to the White House to meet the President. Holding a man until he surrendered every piece of knowledge about himself. Knowing – all-knowing, almost like a god from the Greek legends.

Barry forced himself to close his eyes, breaking the other man’s hold on him. "You’re Alan Dudding?" he asked as he opened his eyes again and made sure he didn’t face the man squarely.

"In the flesh. Shall we find a table?" He smiled and raised his arm slightly to catch the hostess’ attention. Barry followed after the man through the Lyon’s Corner House.

"Has his Lordship put you on an allowance?" Alan asked as they slid into a booth against the back wall.

Barry stopped, his leg under the table, his body bent to sit in the chair. He looked at the Irishman and forced himself to swallow the anger that had risen in his throat like bile. "In America, no gentleman would ask such a question," he answered and sat facing the other man. "In England too. Only the trashiest boys would…"

Alan held up his hand. "You’re right and I’m sorry, Mr. Alexander. I’m no gentleman except by education but, if I could, I would take back those words. Will you forgive me? Can we start over again?"

"I’m not used to being thought of as someone’s kept boy, Mr. Dudding."

"Of course, you’re not. I didn’t mean to imply that you were."

"Then, why did you suggest it?"

A smile began to form lopsidedly across Dudding’s lips. He reached into his waistcoat, pulled out his pince-nez, and placed them on his nose. "It’s been said that the Irish have to fight you before they can become your friend. They have to learn your strengths and weaknesses."

"And that’s why you were so confrontational?" Barry demanded softly. "You wanted to become my friend?" He stared at the man in disbelief.

"In a way, yes." Alan leant across the table, capturing Barry with his eyes. "Once – after I was at university and knew I was Socratic in my tastes ... Well…" He broke their eye contact and looked around the uncrowded eatery. "I thought I was madly in love with Petersholme. He was my first, and I knew I couldn’t wait to be with him again and again." He chuckled. "I must have seemed such a puppy to him – tail wagging every time I saw him, tongue lolling every time he scratched my head."

He shook his head slowly. "You see, Mr. Alexander, at university, Robert Adshead, the future Baron Petersholme, assumed those in his circle were there to pleasure him – and him them. I was in his circle because I was his chemistry tutor. He expected that I would want his body – just as his two noble friends always wanted it." He laughed bitterly. "Just as his landlady where he had his digs wanted it."

"I don’t…"

"Of course, you don’t, Mr. Alexander. The Lord Petersholme you know is a much changed man from the youth I knew." He smiled again. "You see, Robbie was gentle, even kind, and always aware of his responsibilities – even as he expected adoration in a physical way. That’s why I threw myself at him, why I pursued him, why I loved him. Up to that point, no-one had ever been especially kind to the grocer’s son from Belfast that I was."

"His – he’s never seemed overly caught up in class consciousness around me," Barry mumbled.

"And he wasn’t at Oxford. Oh, Molloy and von Kys were. Molloy snubbed me unmercifully and von Kys wanted to put me on an allowance, as he thought a gentleman should with the lower classes, especially if he was involved with one of them. Robert just treated me like the man I was. If I needed something, he’d help me get it; but he never presumed. It was Petersholme who convinced me that the Monarchy and the peerage were all right. I was a Bolshie – or nearly so – when I met him, though I'd have denied it with my dying breath. But he epitomised everything the nobility was supposed to be and I was in love with him."

He fixed Barry with his gaze. "I was quite shocked last week when he told me he was in love." He smiled. "With you, of course."

"He told you that?" Barry whispered, forgetting his earlier anger at this man.

Alan nodded. "You’ve got him in quite a state. He’s even accepted that he’s a homosexual because of you. I guess that was the biggest surprise of our conversation."

"Why?"

"You understand that perversion is a criminal offence here in the British Isles? Men of his class are expected to marry and father an heir. They’d seek to hide their sexual inversion even from themselves, or they’d find a lad in King’s Cross for a pound when their needs became too strong to hide. Few homosexuals are willing to discard normality and be what they really are – especially one of Petersholme’s rank. Yet, he’s reached that point for your sake."

Barry sat back against the seat. He felt his face flush as realisation at what he had forced on his lover began to sink in.

"He doesn’t have to," he offered.

"No, he doesn’t. But Petersholme never has hidden from himself. Oh, he’s a creature of habit all right – but, if you show him that something makes no sense, he’s quick to change. Because of you, he’s accepted himself and, because of that, he’s accepting the changes it will make in his life – so that he can be with you."

Alan’s hand quickly gripped Barry’s wrist. "I was quite pleased when you telephoned this afternoon. I suddenly found I had the opportunity to meet the man who had won our Lord Petersholme’s heart. I could barely wait."

"I’m not much."

"Just tell me one thing, young Mr. Alexander. Do you love him?"

"Yes."

"As much as he loves you?"

Barry met Alan Dudding’s gaze unflinchingly. "I think so."

The Irishman released the American’s arm, leaned back in his seat, and laughed. "You are probably more complex than Petersholme ever dreamt, even if you are a bit naïve – because of your age, of course. I think you two are evenly matched. Just remember, Yank, to use your head at least as much as you use the rest of your body."

"Welcome to Lyon’s Corner House, gentlemen. May I help you?" a woman’s voice asked. Both men looked up to see the uniformed nippy offering them menus.

Dudding turned to Barry and grinned. "Ever tried steak and kidney pudding?" The American frowned and shook his head. "Good. You need to learn to enjoy the best food England offers." He turned back to the nippy. "Two puddings…" He glanced over at Barry and grinned. "Let’s start our young Yank here off with a taste of the Thames – just water."

The young uniformed girl smiled at Barry. "Welcome to England, sir. Enjoy your stay with us."

"To a good friendship," Barry offered when the girl had brought them glasses of water.

"That is a given, Mr. Alexander – even if we didn’t have our fight first."

"Please, it’s Barry."

"Then I must be Alan."

"To Alan then," Barry said, lifting his glass in a mock salute.

"To Barry and Alan – our friendship." Alan joined him.

Barry noticed that the Irishman sat across from him with the rim of his glass at his mouth but wasn’t drinking. Alan’s lips twitched as he set his glass down. "You’ve satisfied one part of my curiosity, lad; but there’s a greater part you’ve not addressed."

"Oh?"

"Why did you telephone me this afternoon, Barry?"

The American blushed. "I – I wanted to meet some of Robbie’s oldest friends."

"Ah. And have you met Lord Molloy yet?"

"Yesterday. He called at the house."

"Yes, of course. He would ..." The pause was deafening. Barry felt the man’s eyes on him but he wouldn’t meet his gaze. "You know, only Lord Molloy amongst Petersholme’s acquaintances has my telephone number at work. The truth is that it was only assigned to me a fortnight ago. Not even Petersholme has it. How did you come by it?"

Barry stared at him in shock. He fell back against his seat, his face white. "I…" he tried to think of an answer and couldn’t.

"Either you’re Jerry with the best Yank accent I could imagine one of them having or you really are Barry Alexander from Rye, New York – and a bit less bright than I would like to think you were."

"How do you know I’m from Rye?" Barry mumbled.

"MI-5 had a field day looking you up, lad. I even had your photograph from high school in my hand this afternoon before I left the Admiralty. A bit formal, I might say. It was you, but nothing like as handsome as you are."

Barry stared at him. "MI-5? That’s your intelligence people, isn’t it?"

Alan nodded slightly.

"Then they know about Robbie? About Lord Molloy too?" Sweat beaded across his forehead and he felt clammy.

"Certainly not. If they knew about them, they’d know about me. My landlord quite likes me having a steady job working for His Majesty’s Government. Their secrets are safe but yours isn’t – yet. I may have to suggest to my people that you be deported as an undesirable." He smiled at the American. "Why don’t you tell me how you came by my office telephone number. Tell the truth, lad, and, if it sounds enough like what I already know, you may well be attending your first class at LSE next week rather than sitting in gaol."

Sweat beaded on Barry’s forehead. "I got it from Lord Molloy yesterday when he came to visit," he told the man across from him and, realising his hands were beginning to shake, dropped them into his lap.

"Young Barry, that simply will not do. Lord Molloy has a higher security clearance than I do; I think he would know better than that."

Barry stared at Alan Dudding and wondered what he had managed to get himself into. Deported? If it happened, that could mean that the FBI would know about him. He’d never get into college if that got around. They could even make his father resign from the Securities and Exchange Commission. There’d be real hell to pay. Sweat began to run down his cheeks and Barry wiped his face with his napkin. "I made him do it."

"Oh?" Alan’s eyes grew wider as he looked at the American boy, remembering his conversation with Molloy before he’d come to this meeting. "You held a pistol to his head then? Threatened to shoot him perhaps?"

Barry turned whiter. "No. Nothing like that!"

"How was it then, young Barry? Don’t fudge now. Tell me all of it. Your future depends on you telling the truth."

"He came over to Rob – to his Lordship’s house yesterday." Barry glanced around the dining room and saw that the families at the tables nearest them were involved in their own conversations. No-one was that close to them and no-one seemed to be trying to listen to them. "He made advances."

Alan grinned. This was what he had almost expected. Only, it was nothing like the story Molloy had concocted. "He made a lewd suggestion, you say?" Barry nodded. "Do go on then."

"I got a little hot under the collar. I turned him down but told him he was a real butthole."

Alan laughed. "That’s lovely. You may be the first Yank I’ve ever met but we’ve recorded some of your navy lads with ours; seems your lads like to be buggered by the Royal Navy when given the opportunity. Interesting listening, I must say." He chuckled. "I’ve almost learned your language from those recordings. But did Molloy understand you? Especially about him being a butthole?"

Barry relaxed slightly, enough to enjoy Alan’s pleasure at Molloy’s discomfort. "I think he understood. He wasn’t very happy."

"I suppose he wasn’t. But how did I and his giving you my number come up in your conversation?"

Barry looked down at his glass. "I thought I’d be – that Robert would be safer from him if Molloy had another interest." He looked up and gazed at Alan pleadingly. "I remembered Robbie mentioning that he had a meeting with you last Thursday, that Molloy set it up. So, I thought…"

Alan almost didn’t see the nippy coming towards them with their food. "We’ll return to this conversation whilst we eat. Silence now. Mind you, though, I’m not finished with you." He could see where this American boy’s thoughts had taken him and they were naïve. To think that he would ever put up with someone as close-minded as Lord Molloy was almost insulting. But there was something intriguing about it as well.

Alan cut into the thick, almost porridge-looking food in the bowl before him. Barry watched his relish suspiciously. "What’s this stuff?" he asked, looking at the same thing in his bowl. "I thought you said something about some kind of pudding?"

"Steak and kidney pudding."

"Kidney?" The American made a face and Alan chuckled.

"You’ll like it."

"Maybe with a lot of ketchup?"

"In a Lyon’s Corner House in the centre of London?"

Barry glanced back at the meal in front of him. "I guess I can try it," he finally allowed.

"Finish your tale, lad."

"I’d like to invite you over to the house for dinner Wednesday night," Barry said as he spooned out a bite of the pastry with some meat and brought it close to his mouth.

"At Petersholme’s house in Mayfair?" Alan asked. Barry nodded and bit into the concoction. "Who’ll be there?"

"Robert’s aunt and cousin, me – and Lord Molloy," he answered slowly and slipped the morsel past his lips. He instantly tasted a thick, intense meaty flavour and swallowed quickly and laid his spoon on his plate. He could still taste the stuff and tried to decide if he liked it.

Alan watched him, but his thoughts were not on whether he liked the offal. This Yank was trying to pair him off with Molloy. Somehow, though, he had brought the Petersholme women into his scheme. That surprised the Irishman; it didn’t sound like the hidebound aristocracy at all. He wondered if Robert had exposed himself to his family. He guessed that he had as this young American was living with him in Mayfair. He had to admit that Robert had come much further than he’d supposed.

"What makes you think I’d be interested in Lord Molloy?" he asked.

"You don’t like him?"

Alan sat back against his seat. "Not particularly. He is a pompous arse for one thing."

"He’s also well connected and well off."

"You think I should become his kept boy then? As I was suggesting you were Petersholme’s earlier?"

Barry snorted. "That would get old fast, wouldn’t it?" He decided that he liked the meaty flavour and dug out a larger bite of pudding from his bowl. "This stuff is pretty good," he allowed.

"You would have Molloy keep me?" Alan asked again.

Barry met his gaze. "He is a pompous ass all right. A real butthole. But he isn’t a bad looking guy. He has position and connections. And he’s got money. Plus, it’s probably no easier to find someone with similar tastes to your own here in London than it would be in New York – unless you want a prostitute. I’m suggesting that you use him, Alan Dudding. If you find that you can care for him as well, that’s a bonus."

Alan stared at the American. He certainly was blunt, but he did make sense. "Why don’t you tell me what happened between you and Molloy yesterday? This should prove interesting."

Barry laid out the bare essentials of his encounter with Lord Molloy. "I’m pretty sure he’s nellie all the way, Alan. His marriage isn’t doing it for him. But he’s afraid to find himself a lover."

"I suppose, if the rumours about his wedding are true." He grinned as he remembered them. "And he got up enough nerve to approach you?"

"I guess he just assumed that, if Robbie and I were doing it, I’d be available for anyone. Only, I’m not some kid off the street and I sure don’t need his favours."

Alan smiled. "I noticed that your file mentioned that your father is the chairman of the Securities and Exchange Commission in your government."

"Yeah. It may be new money and the Vanderbilts might look down their noses at us – but I’m not poor."

"And I am?"

"I don’t know, Alan." Barry forced himself to meet the other man’s gaze. "I have learned, though, that it always helps to have doors opened for you." He chuckled. "It took me the better part of six months to get accepted at the London School of Economics. It took Robbie’s cousin maybe a week when he asked them to take her."

"So, I would use Lord Molloy to do what exactly?"

"Do you want to be promoted?"

"I do my work!"

"Didn’t you say that Molloy is hidebound? I’ve sort of got the idea that a lot of the aristocracy is that way – aren’t they in charge at the Admiralty like they are most of the rest of the government?"

Alan sat back and gazed at the American. Even naïve, he had a grasp of how things worked. And he had a point. Molloy could be useful to his future in government. "What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"Come have dinner with his Lordship at the house on Wednesday. Be nice. If you hit it off, go out with him. Do whatever you want to do – as long as he wants to do it too."

"That seems simple enough."

"Then you’ll come?"

Alan grinned. "What time?"

"A bit before eight?"

"And this is on Wednesday?" Barry nodded. "I supposed it could be amusing. I’ll be there."

* * *

Alice studied Barry closely. "You say that he’s Irish?" The American nodded. "This certainly changes things."

"Why, Aunt Alice?" Elizabeth asked. "This Mr. Dudding’s from Belfast, in Ulster – not the Free State."

"They’re still Irish."

"So was Oscar Wilde, and you’ve told me how much you liked his plays," Elizabeth retorted.

"He’s employed with your Admiralty," Barry added. "He even said something about having a clearance, a security clearance I suppose."

"And he is educated," Elizabeth added.

"He’s sharp as a tack," Barry added and smiled. "I liked him."

Alice looked from one to the other of the other young people seated at the table with her. She closed her eyes and sighed. "Isn’t there anyone else?"

"Would you prefer that we bring in some boy from…" Barry paused, trying to remember the section of London everyone seemed to think was populated with prostitutes, "from King’s Cross?"

Alice sighed. She understood she had been beaten. Besides, Maximillian had been a beast to approach Barry as he had. A cad even, in light of how little respect he'd shown Robert. Perhaps he did deserve an Irish commoner. "Very well then. Elizabeth, you and I shall have to meet with Mrs. Murray tomorrow morning and plan a menu for this dinner."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

As I sat up in my bed, Agatha Christie’s latest novel spread open across my belly, I had to admit that the Nazis had proved they could put on a good show. In exposition after exposition since Sunday, earnest young men with scrubbed faces and exemplary muscled bodies explained the intricate workings of shiny new machines that would do anything to soil and plants a farmer could conceive of. Other earnest young men touted the wonders of German fertilisers and the German science that had manufactured them. Young women with toothy smiles and perfect legs breathlessly led any on-looker in making the proper "ohs and ahs", presumably at the perfection of German engineering and science as opposed to the beauty of Teutonic genetic strands.

The Nazis were themselves German, of course. And Germans had been known to be more than simply unhumorous in their seriousness. The seminars were as boring as I remembered lectures being in the most obscure subjects I had taken at university. One needed to be a Nobel laureate to follow the chemistry in one offering on fertilisers and their proper application to soil that I attended. Another that I sat in on explained in the smallest possible detail how to increase milk production.

The agricultural conference the Foreign Office had convinced me to attend for King and country had proved abysmally boring. I was more than happy that I had thought to bring along several of dear Miss Christie’s crime novels. At least, my evenings had been interesting and pleasant after I retired.

The last night of the conference, I found myself musing about myself, my American lover, and my friends as I lay in bed, finally tired of tales of murder amongst the upper classes.

I had already accepted that I was Wildean in nature before I left London. I also knew that I loved Barry Alexander.

I now could understand the public transformation Molloy and von Kys had undergone since our days at Oxford. In Molloy’s case, it was familial pressure to be normal that had taken him to the altar. For von Kys, I suspected it had been social pressure to conform. At least with Molloy, marriage and family had not been enough to hold him to the normality his father had forced upon him.

I suspected the same to be true of von Kys, were he to give his sexual desires free rein. Janus’ tastes had been too like Molloy’s when we had pleasured each other in my rooms at university. He, however, was German; and I was seeing what I already had come to expect from my earlier association with him – Germans seemed more capable of creating compartments for themselves, their urges and feelings at least, than other men.

From what I had seen during the conference, Janus von Kys had made himself strangely asexual in the years since we were at university together. There was no longer about him a sense of sexual interest towards me or towards the young men who hawked the farm wares and glorified the thousand year Reich with their Teutonic virility. And I had not seen him show interest in the shapely young women who aided those young men so earnestly selling German engineering, science, and German genetics to the conference’s delegates.

In addition to the two noblemen I had known in a biblical sense, there was Alan Dudding. He had been my third regular sex partner at university. Unlike Molloy and von Kys, however, he had refused to surrender to the demands of society. If anything, he seemed to have become proud of being Wildean since his student days, only quietly so. More importantly, he seemed to have become comfortable with himself, somehow simply accepting his nature and refusing to hide from it.

I suspected that I would be emulating Alan Dudding as I led my private life – if Barry Alexander was willing to share it with me. I could not see myself herding any part of my nature into a tight compartment and locking it away – as von Kys appeared to have done in order to be accepted in this new social order that was Nazi Germany.

I supposed I could marry and produce an heir. I should. It was certainly my obligation to the people beholden to Petersholme. If that did happen, however, it would be with Barry Alexander’s active acceptance. And it would be the poor woman I married who would have me leave her bed to return to the young American. That is – if Barry Alexander wanted me in his future.

I realised that I knew far too little of my love’s plans for himself. I most certainly intended to correct that omission in my knowledge the moment that I had returned to London.

A single, sharp rap sounded through the thick wooden door of my room. I was instantly pulled from my thoughts of young Barry and nearly dropped Miss Christie’s book about murder on the Orient Express as I pushed myself from the bed and pulled on my dressing gown.

I crossed to the door and opened it. The young corporal from von Kys’ entourage clicked his heels and stood at attention in the hall facing me. "Yes?" I asked, making no move to invite him inside.

"Herr Baron, the Graf would appreciate your joining him at the Schloß Kys after the conference has closed," he said in German. "He also invites you to attend a party with him tomorrow night at Reichsführer Himmler’s home." The youth paused, seemingly unsure of the remainder of the message he was to repeat. " The invitation to Schoß Kys is to inspect his cattle, but he would also be honoured to introduce you to the Grafchen."

I smiled at the lad’s confusion. "I am at the Graf’s disposal," I told him and, as he nodded and turned, shut the door.

* * *

I sat between an Italian and a Hungarian in the Metropole’s auditorium after lunch the next day listening to some overweight farm ministry functionary define for us how great Germany was under the guidance of the Nazi party. Presumably it was a point my hosts were unsure I had learnt from three days of exhibitions, seminars, and lovely young men and women making the functionary’s same points over and over again.

From the zealous clapping from either side of me, I gathered that the Hungarian and Italian were from their countries’ respective farm ministries, rather than being farmers themselves. Both men certainly seemed too conversant in German to fit my image of farmers from poor countries.

I craned my neck and looked around the auditorium – without, I hoped, being too obvious about how bored I had become. I saw a number of my fellow delegates had slumped deep into their chairs, their heads lolling. I grinned. At least, I wasn’t the only one bored by the pompous man in his brown uniform. I was, however, one of the few of us who could manage to keep his eyes opened.

I looked up at the stage when the rotund man yelled "Heil Hitler!" into the microphone and thought that really was a rather rude way of waking everyone up. I watched as the officious, rotund functionary gathered up his notes and march to the steps at the side of the stage. The curtain began to rise and I realised we were not yet finished.

A tuba omphed. I raised a brow and looked for the band I hadn’t known was in the auditorium. A squad of men marched to the centre of the stage to the accompaniment of the tuba. They were dressed in brown – trousers, shirt, and cap. Each wore a black armband, a blood-red swastika on a white field at its centre. And each carried a swastika banner. They continued to march in place once they had reached the centre of the stage.

The music swelled and the lead two men took a step forward, their faces caught in the light from the flood lamps, their arms hoisting their banners.

"Hoist the banner high!" they began to sing.

"The brownshirt marches with silent steps."

A drum joined the tuba. The rest of the squad continued to march in place, their banners rising and falling as the men moved their arms. Other instruments joined the tuba and drum, and I was hearing the Nazi party marching song.

"Brothers! We march against the red threat

We shall stop them in their tracks.

Feel the spirit of our ranks. March to it!

The path is clear for the brown battalions.

The path is clear for the men of the storm battalions

We raise the swastika proudly!

The hope of millions.

The day of freedom dawns!

Hold the banner high!

I stared at the performance before me, my jaw agape. This was supposed to be a government-sponsored conference. Suddenly, as it was ending, it had taken on all the trappings of a political party’s rally.

I pulled myself from my shock. And shuddered. Upon reflection, I could see this party anthem was inspiring. I had found my feet beginning to tap. Yes, it was inspiring – offering pride and justification.

But I also understood why the dominant feeling I had encountered my first day in Berlin was fear. I too would stay frightened if I had to face the possibility of men such as these marching up to me – especially knowing that they could publicly shoot me as the Gestapo had done with that young soldier at the Bahnhof.

I remembered the song then – and the composer. Horst Wessel. Some pimp who had joined the Nazis and imagined himself a poet. He’d been killed in some ruckus before Hitler came to power; but the party had made a saint of him. A pimp. A man with no sense of pride or even duty. A man who used women and men’s desire for them.

I tried to imagine the tramps at Euston station when I arrived in London doing something like this. I tried to imagine the Labour party putting thugs in uniform and glorifying them. It was an impossible exercise. Englishmen still had pride in their country. England still meant something to them. No sane Englishman would be a part of this. Despite the daftness of Sir Oswald and his little group of Nazis, England would never become like this.

And, by God, as long as I held my seat in the Lords, I would do everything in my power to make sure it didn’t.

The SA squad marched quick time into the wings when their rousing song was over. Everyone in the auditorium leapt to their feet and right arms were rising all around me. "Sieg Heil!" someone yelled and his call was echoed throughout the chamber, over and over. More than two hundred of my fellow delegates were quickly going quite mad.

"Sieg Heil!" thundered nearly two hundred voices in unison.

I shuddered. Such madness.

No. Not even red Labour would ever resort to this sort of thing. They were English, after all.

The curtain began to descend on the stage and the room’s lights dimmed around us. Silence was an immediate presence as row after row of my companions sat back down. I could have heard the proverbial pin drop.

The curtain began to rise again in darkness. The auditorium’s lights came back on dimly. The stage’s spotlights were on four prepubescent boys standing in military formation in the centre of the stage. They were all blond, their short hair plastered to their skulls. They wore starched brown knee trousers and white shirts with the ubiquitous swastika band on each arm.

I admired them for the perfection they promised. The boys began to march in place, their young faces suddenly stubborn and their eyes focused on the back of the auditorium.

One of their number broke ranks and stepped resolutely up to the microphone. One spotlight fixed on him, bathing his face in its warm light as if he were an angel. His companions marched to the other side of the stage where they halted and came to attention, watching their lad as he opened his mouth and began to sing in a clear tenor.

Clear, yes; but soft – almost relaxed. I relaxed with him.

"The stream in the forest runs free,

The branch of the Linden is sleepy and green,

The Rhine gives its gold to the sea,"

he sang, the words gentle, his voice calm and bell-like. A nice child’s poem put to music, I thought and relaxed further into my chair. The boy was angelic looking, the spotlight focused on him.

"But somewhere a glory awaits me,

Tomorrow belongs to me."

Glory? What was this child singing? I sat up in my chair, realising that there was a tension to his voice now, growing and taking control of it even as the words again returned to the calm, familiar things a child would see in his home.

"A babe in his cradle is closing his eyes,"

he sang.

"The blossom embraces the bee,"

I glanced at the other three boys nodding their heads as they counted off the beat.

"But as soon as there is a whisper…"

the four sang out, joined perfectly.

"ARISE!!!!"

It was a shout, a call to action. A command. Around me, chairs creaked and scraped.

"ARISE!!!!"

"Tomorrow belongs to me."

The cadence had become a march.

"Tomorrow belongs to me."

Around me, men were rising from their chairs, their voices joining those of the boys on stage. Baritones and basses worked towards an accommodation with the young tenors. It was the single boy’s tenor that rode stridently over the other voices.

"The morning will come when the world is mine,

Oh, fatherland, fatherland, show us the life,

Your children have waited to see!

Tomorrow belongs to me!"

I stared at the four children on stage as they repeated the chorus three times. They were so innocent still. And remembered another young man, perhaps a decade older than these boys. As he ran towards my carriage less than a week ago. As two men shot him, downing him in front of me. His fear as his eyes pleaded with me to help him before they reached him and carried him off. This was their tomorrow, debased and hellish as it was.

I remembered the hundreds and hundreds of young men in their feldgrau uniforms standing in formation before that east-bound train. I saw the future then – not just of Germany, but of the world.

I realised I was the only one in the auditorium still seated. Two hundred delegates stood at attention around me, their right arms raised in the Nazi salute, singing about a tomorrow no sane man would see except in his nightmares.

"The morning will come when the world is mine!

Oh, fatherland, fatherland, show us the joy!

Our tears have longed to see."

Two hundred voices sang as if it were a hymn at the centre of their faith. Two hundred voices in rapture, glorifying hell become heaven. The auditorium vibrated with the joy of these people giving vent to their deepest political desire. I slumped deeper into my chair and wished I were in London in Barry’s arms where I would forget the insanity in the world.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Corporal Jorsten stood at my door again as I returned from the closing ceremony of the conference. I watched as he pulled himself instantly to attention the moment he espied me leaving the lift, the movement as fluid and graceful as a cat’s. He stared straight ahead as I started down the corridor towards him and my room beyond, but I felt him watching me out of the corner of his eye.

"I am to have your luggage placed in Graf von Kys’ motor car," he told me as I came abreast of him.

"I am ready," I told him as I unlocked the door to my hotel room. He followed on my heels. "Or nearly so. The Graf’s instructions didn’t mention if I should dress formally for this little soiree this evening."

The lad appeared perplexed for a moment and, then, smiled. "The party at Reichsführer Himmler’s home begins at 1700 hours, Herr Baron. You should dress for it before we leave the hotel."

"And should I dress formally, Corporal?" I asked as I led him into the room and shut the door behind us.

"The Graf will wear his dress uniform," he offered slowly and my suspicions of the lad’s class origins dropped to the lower bourgeoisie – or, possibly, the working class. It was brutally obvious that he had no idea of the difference in functions and a gentleman’s need to dress accordingly.

Standing in the centre of the room, I sighed and hoped my assumption of a black tie affair would not make me too overly dressed for Janus’ introduction of me to his Party people.

"The lights in the auditorium were hot and you have perspired. Shall I draw you a bath, Baron?" he asked and I saw that he was studying me, a slight smile pulling at his lips. I nodded and guessed that von Kys, like Molloy, had not given up his tastes when he returned to Germany and married. I told myself sharply that I certainly didn’t intend to give Corporal Jorsten even the slightest hint of my similar tastes.

* * *

"I hope that I’m not overdressed," I told von Kys as I slid into the car seat beside him. "Your corporal seemed unsure of what was required."

He smiled as the youth supervised hotel employees placing my luggage in the boot of the car. "As usual, you have a perfect sense of attire, Petersholme."

Von Kys leant back in the seat and closed his eyes. "Only this morning, I learnt that Himmler has decided to tack on dinner to the small soiree to which I invited you. The conference’s functions had begun and I did not wish to interrupt your enjoying them." He smiled at what I was sure was intended to be a joke. "I could only send the boy to you."

A cycle-mounted guard before us and one behind us, the grizzled sergeant major and the young corporal in the front seat, we drove along the Kurfürstendamm through central Berlin and turned northward towards the Wannsee, traffic-directing policemen halting traffic and directing us through. After nearly four days of the perception of normality at the Hotel Metropole, I was again confronted with the new face of Germany.

Both cyclemen had Mausers strapped to their backs. Horst and young Dagold in the front seat of our car had Lugers on one side of their waists and ornamental daggers on the other. I didn’t doubt that any of the four of them would hesitate to use their weapons were we to be set upon.

But who was there to attack us here in the Capital of Nazi Germany? I could not fathom the guard that protected us and kept us securely from any contact with the people.

I turned to von Kys and, studying him, wondered momentarily if he was asleep. "What’s this thing we’re going to?" I asked tentatively so as not to wake him if he indeed had fallen asleep.

He chuckled from his side of the car and said in English: "It was decided that you should see the party hierarchy at play. They believe that you have ties to the uppermost echelons of your government, Petersholme – the misguided souls hiding there who would rend the Aryan race into two parts and throw us into war with each other. The Reichsführer-SS and his advisers want to get Germany’s message past your Jewish press to the ears which should hear it." He shrugged. "So – tonight, you shall see us at play."

We rode in silence as the city about us became residential. Finally, we slowed along a dark stretch of roadway and turned onto a gravelled drive. I saw nothing but the outline of fir trees as we started along the drive. I was curious that we were come to such an out-of-the-way place but forced myself to relax as my host was doing.

Von Kys, however, knew me better than I thought. He chuckled. "The Reichsführer is known to like his privacy, Petersholme. This house and the properties on either side of it belonged to Jews under the old regime."

"And he bought them?"

Von Kys’ laugh was a bark in the cabin of our car. "Whatever for? Jews are an inferior race. The new Germany does not allow for social miscegenation, Petersholme – nor the possession of things of value by inferior races inside the Fatherland. The properties were confiscated under the racial purity laws Adolf Hitler gave us in 1935. The State gave them to Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler as a token of appreciation for his service to the party and to Germany."

"I see," I offered noncommittally. I didn’t, but I thought it less than politic to voice my doubts in the very heart of this new Germany. I sat back and waited for us to reach Herr Himmler’s racially purified house. I attempted to reconcile my very British concept of property rights with what I had just been told of the thousand year Reich’s.

Anyone, regardless of race or religion, could own property anywhere in Britain. Both government and law protected a man’s right to that possession. Even condemned criminals retained that right, their property passing on to their legal heirs after their execution.

British law also favoured no race or religion over another – except in the matter of Royal succession. Of course, there were still some daft people who put biblical interpretations on race and religious relations but they were in no position to influence reality. We had done away with that more than a century ago.

I had to wonder if Bedlam had been let loose upon Germany when the people were not looking. And I wondered how my friend had come to accept such insanity; after all, von Kys had been schooled in England at one of our finest universities.

As our car rounded a bend in the drive, a manor every bit as large as Bellingham Hall came into view, garishly lighted by Klieg lamps against the twilight sky. I heard the music of Johan Strauss wafting towards us through the autumn woods. "We’re here," von Kys said.

* * *

A short, plump, bespeckled ugly man wearing glasses in dress Waffen-SS uniform stood within the great hall. Von Kys marched the two of us directly up to him and, clicking his heels as he saluted, introduced me to Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler.

"Herr Baron Petersholme," Himmler greeted me, clicking his own heels together and bowing slightly, "we are honoured to have you visit our country." His accent was brutishly Bavarian and I remembered that he had been a chicken farmer before the Nazis were rich enough to pay him to keep order within the party’s ranks.

"Thank you. It’s my pleasure," I answered before von Kys could propel me past the little man. I consciously did not click my heels or bow to him as had my friend and I guessed would have been diplomatically proper. I still remembered the young lad shot before me at the railway station and knew enough of Nazi structures now to know that the Gestapo was an appendage of this man. I had every reason to suspect that I neither liked nor respected Heinrich Himmler.

Von Kys introduced me to his wife and I was more than slightly surprised. While Janus was handsome in a somewhat effete, yet aristocratic way, the Gräfin von Kys, to put it kindly, tended towards a bovine appearance. Large, limpid eyes stared out at me from a round face, her nose large and almost snout-ish. Her figure was decidedly Rubenesque, to put it gently. My first impression of her physically was that of a dour matron in a frumpy ball gown – and definitely over-dressed from what I saw of the other women present. Even had my friend from university been a gigolo, I could not understand how he had ever come to be interested in the woman he had made his wife.

Von Kys took me from small knot to small knot of people collected in the hall and waiting for the Reichsführer to lead them into the dining room. I met black SS uniforms, brown party uniforms, and feldgrau Wehrmacht uniforms. Only two names from the men to whom I was introduced stayed with me after I left them – both of them in their early to mid-forties.

The first gentleman was a tall and handsome man in Wehrmacht grey, middle-aged but didn't look it. His insignia showed Alfred Jodl to be already a Colonel General in the regular army. I was surprised that someone only forty-eight and not from a noble family could have been promoted so quickly.

"He’s brilliant," Janus told me as we left Jodl’s group and moved slowly towards another. "He’s been attached to the Waffen-SS to supervise its development into a true military arm."

"Then, he’s mostly a Party man?"

"A very strong Party man – but he’s also a military genius. A very forward thinking man – he has the complete confidence of both the Party and army."

I thought I understood General Jodl’s success as we reached the next group of party-goers.

The other man who caught my attention and whose name I remembered was in the next knot of people. He was attired in Waffen-SS black and wore the insignia of a captain. The moment I heard Josef Mengele speak, I knew he was Viennese, the lilting cadences were so different from the harsh tones of Prussians, the hodgepodge of Rhinelanders, and the garbled patois of rural Bavarians.

Tall and handsome, Mengele was olive-skinned and had black, gleaming hair. I thought of Slavic ancestry and was curious that the Nazis would allow a man of a race they considered inferior to join them, much less become an officer in their elite army.

As we formed a queue behind the Reichsführer Himmler and a Waffen-SS officer opened the doors to the dining room, von Kys explained Josef Mengele’s importance. "He’s a medical genius, Petersholme. He was teaching advanced research techniques at the medical school of the University of Vienna until it became legal for an Austrian to be a Nazi earlier this year." He smiled at his avoidance of mentioning the Anschluß that had made Austria a part of Germany. I suspected my school chum was quite aware there were men in and out of the British government who felt that Mussolini-brokered agreement was Neville Chamberlain’s worst foreign policy mistake.

"But he doesn’t appear to be especially German, old lad."

Von Kys nodded. "He’s not of our class, of course. Lumpenproletariat, you know. But three of his grandparents are of thoroughly Teutonic stock, the other being Magyar – quite acceptable." He smiled. "I know the chap who approved him for the Waffen-SS."

"What does he do in your Party’s army then?"

"He heads up a research group that will prove our racial theories." His smile broadened. "Once there is irrefutable proof, even you English will have to accept that you and we are superior to everyone else. You will have the best possible justification for your great Empire, Robbie – and will, of necessity, have to agree to us having ours. As equals."

"And this Mengele is going to provide that proof?"

Von Kys snorted. "Science will provide the necessary proof, my friend, and Mengele will be its instrument."

I decided his comment didn’t need a response from me. I disagreed with him. Even were science to prove somehow what I remembered from biology courses to be wrong, I still thought the concept of law and justice being sovereign over race, gender, and everything else was much more acceptable than what I had seen of German law. I liked the high level of civilisation it provided our way of life.

The house of Heinrich Himmler in the Berlin of 1938, however, was neither the place nor time to engage in such a discussion. I suspected now, as did Molloy, that we would soon be having that discussion. And it would not be over a dinner table, either – a battlefield, more like. It was definitely time for Britain to begin arming itself. Because the appearance of that discussion was not a matter of "if", it was a matter of "when".

The dinner was lavish. Two suckling pigs, a number of pheasants, and two deer. Three German wines. Young men in black livery with the double lightning bolts on the collar serving it. The music of Strauss, pérè et fils, reached us from the ball room next door. There were perhaps fifty of us. British tables had not seen anything like it since the depression had begun nine years before, not even King George’s. I suspected even the Duke of Windsor when he had still been Edward VIII had not dared to be as ostentatious as Reichsführer Himmler was being.

Heinrich Himmler seemed quite enchanted with medieval motifs. The dining room was much as I imagine a High King’s dining hall would have appeared – circa the thirteenth century. At the head table sat Herr Himmler and General Jodl. The rest of us faced them. Von Kys, his wife, and I sat at the second table from the Reichsführer.

I understood the dinner was meant to impress – me as well as the Party faithful – but I could only see it as a table for gluttons.

It was far too easy to extend the excess of the dinner to anticipated excesses elsewhere. Molloy and his clique at Whitehall were definitely on to these scoundrels; Britain needed to arm itself – and quickly.

"You are my husband’s friend, Robbie?" the Gräfin asked, turning to me and fixing me with her bovine gaze. I acknowledged that I was – as formally as I could. Only my dearest friends, my most intimate friends, called me "Robbie" – it was disconcerting that this fugitive from a pasture would consider herself one.

She nodded, the tip of her tongue tracing the edges of her slightly parted lips. Her knee pressed against my thigh. "It was good that he had such a friend as you to keep him reminded of his duty while he was in your country." She smiled. "He is so easily guided – or misguided. It is sometimes quite difficult to control him."

I was unsure where she would carry our conversation but I knew where her knee pressed against my thigh would take us if I did not defuse the situation quickly. I shifted in my chair in order to face the Gräfin von Kys – and ensured my legs were well out of her reach. "Janus has spoken so glowingly of you," I told her. "It must have been love at first sight between you."

She giggled. "More my father’s money than me, Robbie. The estate was in disrepair; Janus’ father had mismanaged it badly for several years before his death. Our marriage ensured that von Kys survived into the modern age. My connections within the party continue to guarantee that our name and position prosper in the Reich."

I raised my brow in question. On occasion, a noble family had fallen upon misfortune. Even Churchill's father, Lord Blenheim, had had to marry the daughter of an American industrialist, presumably to keep his estate. Such things were not unknown in Britain. They remained most emphatically unmentioned, however. Especially by the wife who had so fortunately elevated her position by having money.

"I’m sure you brought yourself to the estate and have lent it your personality," I offered as diplomatically as I could.

She giggled again. "My dear Robert, I’m a working woman. I have no time to be shut out there in nowhere."

"Nowhere?"

"The farm is almost two hundred kilometres from Berlin. Dear God, Janus’ holdings straddle the Polish border!"

"I see." I didn’t. "You said you were a working woman?"

I watched her face begin to glow with pride. "My work is in the party headquarters. I head up the Bund Deutscher Mädel. I report directly to Rudolf Hess, the deputy Führer." She looked over my shoulder and smiled. "Dinner is here."

I glanced around to find one handsome servant fork venison onto my plate as another poured a red wine in my goblet. I smiled and nodded to the Gräfin as I opened my napkin and spread it across my lap. I noticed that von Kys was studying the first server speculatively for a moment before making his face blank.

As dessert dishes were picked up, I saw Himmler call one of the young servers to him. Moments later, the lad was whispering to von Kys and the Reichsführer had risen and was moving slowly towards the door with Jodl beside him.

Janus pushed back his chair and stood. He pulled back his wife’s chair and helped her to her feet. He turned to me and smiled. "There seems to be no rest for the weary, Petersholme. The Gräfin and I have been asked to join the Reichsführer." He shrugged. "I should not be long. Make yourself comfortable and enjoy the intelligent conversation you'll find all around you."

I nodded and reached for my wine goblet. I watched von Kys and his wife move quickly to join Himmler and Jodl. Sipping at the wine and making no move to join the exodus now beginning to queue up at the door, I studied the room about me.

The bottom quarter of the room’s walls were painted a dark forest green, the sideboards white. The upper three quarters of each wall was papered with something I suspected was fuschia. The doors to the hallway were mahogany. Behind where Himmler and Jodl had sat was what I had come to accept as mandatory, an oversized colour photograph of Adolf Hitler gazing down on us. I allowed myself to wonder who did the Reichsführer’s decorating as I rose and started towards the door to the corridor. I suspected I would not be pleased with the aesthetics of the rest of the house.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Von Kys reached to the pull-down drinks cabinet of the car the moment Corporal Jorsten had us moving down the drive. I noticed my friend’s hands shook as he poured two drinks from the decanter. That and the memory of how tightly drawn his face had been when I entered the car made me suspect his interview with Reichsführer Himmler had been more difficult than the Gräfin had implied it was. I wondered where the middle-aged Horst was but decided not to ask. I suspected our drive would be much more pleasant without him.

"I do not have to intrude, my friend," I offered as he handed me a glass.

"Dagi, drive us to Schloß Kys as fast as you can," he told the driver and my eyes widened in surprise. He had used a diminutive for the corporal that only a family member or a lover would use. He had also used the familiar form of the verb to give him his orders. I kept my surprise from him as he turned back to face me.

"You do not intrude, Robbie," he answered me in English. "You want milk cows and I need an old friend of my own class – so, we help each other in our mutual moment of need, yes?"

"I say! Whatever happened to make you so upset, old lad?"

"You have not had the pleasure of meeting the Reichsführer Himmler and General Jodl or of working for them, Petersholme."

"I think I would forego it, were I to be presented such a pleasure."

Von Kys snorted. "Of course, you would. But, then, you do not live in the new Germany either, my friend." He gulped down his drink and quickly poured another.

I watched his free hand slide over the back of the seat and quickly squeeze the young corporal’s shoulder. I said nothing as Janus sat back and lifted his glass to his lips. I was now reasonably certain of my earlier suspicions. The boy had seemed to be interested earlier when I had my bath, and von Kys had been far too lusty at Oxford to be satisfied with his Gisele – happily or otherwise.

"I was ordered back to Schloß Kys, Petersholme. That overstuffed Bavarian chicken farmer had the audacity to demand that I be at my desk at Peenemünde at 0800 in the morning, can you imagine?"

I couldn’t imagine it. No chicken farmer would even rise to head up MI-5 or any other British security force. A section chief perhaps -in the most backward colony in the Empire. Even then, however, he would have had years of training before finally being promoted to his position.

Von Kys sniggered, almost giggling, as we left the northern suburbs of Berlin behind us and began to drive east. "I hated this past week in Berlin – except for seeing you again. I was here because Gisele demanded I escort her to several important party galas. She even had Hess’ under-secretary insist I head up the German delegation to that conference. Die Schweinhexe wanted me in tow to show me off to her party friends, Petersholme! Damn any work I might be doing for the country! Then, she complaints that I shirk my duty to the Fatherland by hosting the conference."

"Why the reprimand then, von Kys? That doesn’t sound terribly consistent…"

"What is consistent?" He glanced at the back of Corporal Jorsten’s head and shivered. "This is the new Germany, my friend," he said, drawing close and whispering the words. "This is the Germany whose fifty-year-old Führer goes on a week-long binge of harsh laxatives in order to lose weight so that the people of Germany see him as virile."

Von Kys straightened up, looked at his empty glass, and leant towards the bar again. "I am truthfully grateful to be returning to my work, Petersholme. My life’s work – and what it will accomplish for the Fatherland." He grinned impishly as he downed his drink in one gulp. "And, at the farm, I shan’t have the Gräfin pestering me for time I don’t have to give her." He smiled back at me as he held up the bottle of brandy questioningly. "I shall be free of her and the boors who seem to have populated the NSDAP recently – to enjoy my simple pleasures and especially the time I have with the boy."

I nodded and handed him my empty glass. Von Kys poured me another drink, splashing a dab of the spirits onto the pull-down cabinet.

"If your relationship has deteriorated to such a point, perhaps you and the Gräfin should divorce?"

Von Kys became immediately pensive as he carefully sat back in his seat and studied me in the dim light of the interior of the car. "I cannot, Petersholme. You have already seen some of the web she has woven."

"What? How?"

He snorted. "Don’t tell me that you were not informed by my loving wife that I had been ordered to Schloß Kys. Her connections in the Party run quite deep, beginning with Deputy Führer Rudolf Hess, Hitler’s designated heir. No wife should have been invited to watch her husband be dressed down as I was back there – but mine was. It was as if she had planned it. Even after she went to the effort of forcing me to come to Berlin to be with her in the first place."

I wondered at how poorly my friend was holding his drinks. I was having definite problems following his logic. "Janus…" I began, prepared to suggest that he lay back and rest while we drove through the Prussian night.

"Petersholme…" He turned to face me, a smile tugging at his lips. "You must understand – Gisele does not love me any more than I do her. Ours is a marriage of convenience. It is now and always has been. She has her life, centred about her friends in the Party; and I have mine, centred on Peenemünde and the von Kys holdings.

"The depression hit us hard, Robbie, and father had squandered much of the family’s wealth before he died. I needed Gisele’s money to secure the estate and her connections within the Party to improve my position. She needed my name to give to the baby she carried."

"My word!" I shuddered at the admission he had just made. It was inconceivable that one of our class would be forced to stoop as low as he had. It was the worst sort of embarrassment to hear him admit it.

Von Kys shrugged. "I’ve come to love the boy and think of him as my own, Robbie. His father is of good bourgeois stock but penniless – far beneath Gisele’s position." He grinned. "I came out the winner in our arrangement – I have a son, I still have all the holdings that have been in my family for the past four centuries, and I have a scientific career that would have been impossible to attain under other circumstances."

"But, still, old man…"

"Petersholme, I have what few men will ever achieve. I am at the heights of rocket research in Germany. I work with Werner von Braun, a true genius in physics and a scientist of the first order in the field of rocketry." He chuckled. "Actually, I command him and his team in their research and development of what once was but a child’s toy."

"Von Braun?" I wracked my memory of what Alan Dudding had told me. "He’s quite a reputable chap, isn’t he?"

Von Kys laughed. "Most reputable, my friend," he managed to get out between gasps. "Most definitely a reputable chap, as you English say."

"How ever did you manage to snare such a plum?" I asked, falling into doing what Molloy had asked me to do in Whitehall, now that the opportunity had finally presented itself.

"Which came first, I wonder?" von Kys mused softly. "Gisele introducing me to the Reichsführer and, later, Reichsmarshall Göring and General Jodl – or my taking a class in advanced physics at university – taught by Doktor von Braun?

"I talked excitedly about Doktor von Braun when I attended party soirees with Gisele and the good Doktor spoke highly of me when the Wehrmacht and the Waffen-SS jointly decided to explore rocketry as a war materiel. Things converged conveniently and I joined the Waffen-SS at Himmler’s specific request. Almost before I had my doctorate in hand, I had sold Peenemünde to the army and was in charge of the joint project which is now taking shape there."

"You owned this land?"

Von Kys chuckled. "Of course. A useless, swampy delta ten kilometres from the Schloß, my friend – a piece of land that was never more than a buffer between von Kys and our eastern neighbour. Now, it belongs to the state and is being reclaimed from nature with macadam and concrete from one end to the other." He chuckled again. "Very thick concrete on the north side, my friend – the projected blast to lift a ten-tonne rocket is considerable."

My eyes rounded in the dimly lighted cabin of the car. Ten tonnes? That was more than twenty thousand pounds flying through the air towards an unsuspecting target! And even if most of it was fuel? A distant unsuspecting target. Molloy could well be right that we should be afraid for Britain.

* * *

I knew that we had chatted through the night when I noticed the sky beyond the windscreen turning lighter. Soon, gold and red and mauve fingers were arching through the eastern sky. It was then that Corporal Jorsten slowed the car and turned it onto a meandering gravelled drive.

"We are almost home, Petersholme. I’ll put you to bed and inform the servants they are not to wake you before noon. With luck, I will be able to join you then."

"I am tired," I admitted. "But you must be exhausted."

Janus von Kys smiled. "Ah, but I am returned to work and you are on holiday, my friend. It is my duty to be tired – and yours to relax." He chuckled again as the car motored through a series of tight turns. "Until I am relieving you of your money for the milk cows you want."

Jorsten pulled the car to the front of the Schloß so that von Kys and I could disembark. I was mildly surprised that the corporal did not leave the car to open the door for us but I said nothing as I opened the door and stepped out. I shivered in the early morning chill as I stood at the foot of the steps up to the entrance of the manor as von Kys held the open door of the car and said to the corporal still inside: "wake me in one hour, Dagi." The man nodded and Janus shut the door to bound up the steps to open the doors for us.

I entered the great hall. While its dimensions were larger than those of Bellingham Hall, there was a quiet simplicity here that bespoke our nearness to the border. Von Kys had been a German bastion at the division between Slavic and Germanic Europe since the time that the Kingdom of Poland saved the Habsburgs and Europe from the Turks. That front-line mentality still showed in Schloß Kys, though the Fürst von Bismarck had secured the eastern borders of Germany nearly a century earlier.

"Come, Petersholme, I shall show you to your room," Janus said and started for the stairs.

"Our things?"

"Jorsten shall bring them from the car. Your luggage will have been placed out for you by the time you awaken." We reached the first room off the first floor landing. "You’ll like this, Robbie. It was my room when I was a youth."

Von Kys left me then, pulling the door closed behind him and leaving me to myself and the exhaustion spreading rapidly over me. Without pyjamas or dressing robe, I surrendered to my body and pulled back the covers. I quickly stripped down to my undergarments and climbed into the bed. As I began to slip into sleep, I realised that it had felt odd to enter Schloß Kys and not to have seen even one servant. At the house in Mayfair or at Bellingham Hall, someone would have greeted me, regardless of the hour.

* * *

I awoke slowly, almost as if drugged. I was almost uncomfortably warm, though I remembered being chilled when I had pulled the blankets over me. I opened my eyes to the sun-lighted room.

"He’s awoken, Vati!" a child’s high voice observed in German as if he had just seen a bug he had been watching do something interesting.

I forced my eyes to focus and looked around.

Von Kys laughed from the fireplace and I looked in that direction. My gaze fell upon a child Siegfried, directly from one of Wagner’s operas. Blond – almost white – hair fell down into the little face whose stark blue eyes watched me. "The Engländer looks like us," he said over his shoulder.

"That is because he is like us, Willi," Janus von Kys told his five year old son. "The English are a Germanic race like us."

The child turned back to study his father. "He’s as good as us then?" Von Kys nodded and the boy turned back to face me and smiled. "Will you play with me and Vati, English Baron?"

My word! What was this child being taught? I looked to von Kys for instruction but he simply shrugged. I cringed at the thought that Janus would allow his son to be so prejudiced.

"Perhaps a bit later," I told Willi. "Right now I need to wash and change into clean clothes."

"Wash? The washerwomen only wash once a week."

I smiled at the tyke’s confusion derived from my use of the German word for wash. I had translated literally. "I have to bathe myself," I told him and he nodded solemnly. He climbed up on the bed and sat beside my knee so that he could study me better.

"Willi," his father said and began to cross the room to us, "perhaps we should go and see if Cook is almost ready with our meal. That way, our friend the Baron, can take a quick bath and dress to join us."

I looked to see what von Kys was wearing that I might dress accordingly in his home. The boy stood on the edge of the bed and waited for my friend to reach him. When Janus had almost reached us, Willi sprang from the bed towards him, his arms splayed.

Von Kys laughed and caught the child, swinging him around the room one time before stopping and looking at me. "I built you a fire so that you won’t be chilled. Willi will come to get you in an hour, old man – if that’s acceptable?"

"Of course." I smiled at the boy. "I’m famished. You won’t lead me away from the food, will you, lad?"

He understood I was playing with him instantly and put a disgruntled look on his face, even as the twinkle in his eyes betrayed him. "Of course, I wouldn’t, Herr Baron. I’m a German gentleman." He laughed then and hugged von Kys. "Where is Cook, Vati?" he demanded. "Hurry! We must find her to make her get our food ready in time for this Engländer."

I was tying my shoes when the door slammed open behind me and young Wilhelm von Kys stormed into the room. I had barely had time to sit back up before he launched himself at me and, an instant later, landed on my back, his arms going around my neck. "Don’t you know to knock?" I asked.

"Why should I, Herr Baron? I am the son of the new Germany and this is my house, yes?"

"True. But a German gentleman respects the privacy of his guest."

He pulled himself further up onto my shoulders and looked into my face. "Vati says I should be the Reichsführer when I grow up."

"What?" I cried and pulled him off my back to sit him on my lap. "Why would your father say such a thing?"

"He says I have the manners and instincts of a Himmler, so I should grow up to be just like the Reichsführer, and even replace him in his job when he grows too old."

I forced myself not to laugh. I had just heard vintage Janus von Kys from this child’s mouth. I could only hope it would not be reported back to some Gestapo operative, like those I encountered at the Bahnhof in Berlin on my arrival.

Willi climbed out of my lap and took my hand. "Come, Herr Baron. Cook has made us soup and wurst, and Vati is waiting for us on the balcony."

"On the balcony?" I glanced over at the fire.

"Vati says a little bit of a chill makes you a real man."

I nodded and found a good Shetland that I had packed in my bag. After I had pulled the sweater over my head, I allowed young Willi to lead me to his father and our afternoon meal.

There was a chill breeze blowing across the balcony as we stepped into the open air. A table had been set on the leeward side, away from the wind. Von Kys wore a sweater and a tweed jacket for which I immediately envied him. The soup of pork dumplings with cabbage and potatoes was surprisingly good; or perhaps its warmth was what made it so pleasant in the cool autumn mid-day. The bratwurst and sauerkraut that followed was both pleasant and filling. Von Kys and I drank beer with our meal while young Willi drank hot cocoa with his.

"Where are we exactly?" I asked as the cook cleared the soup bowls from the table.

Von Kys leant back in his chair and pointed northward. "Almost two kilometres that way is the Baltic Sea. Eastward sixty kilometres is what is now called the Polish Corridor since the Versailler Diktat." He frowned. "You realise, of course, that the Führer has promised to reclaim the land of eastern Poland for the German people forced to flee their homes when the French forced Versailles upon us?"

"How in the world?" I knew better even as I spoke the words.

"However we must." He shrugged as the bratwurst and sauerkraut was set out before us. "Of course, what is now Poland – much of it – is German land and has been for centuries. And, after all, the party says the Poles are Slavs – an inferior race."

"You’re saying then that there will be more German territorial demands?"

He cut into a plump sausage and stuffed a third of it into his mouth. He chewed it thoughtfully. Swallowing he said: "You are my friend, Petersholme – and you need to understand the current thinking in Berlin. It has always been the duty – the honour as well – of the German people to defend Europe from the Slavs. Now that they are mostly Bolsheviks and united as the Soviet Union, our duty is even more imperative."

"I’m not particularly political, old man. What are you saying?"

"I’m saying that, with the Russians under the Jewish thumb and controlling most of the Slavic lands, Europe is in serious danger. This is Berlin’s thinking. Germany will be the vanguard in destroying that threat, of course. It always has been. But we shall need your help and that of France and the others."

"How does that concern Poland?"

"We shall need a substantial border with the Bolshie. That and uninterrupted supply routes to that border so that the Wehrmacht can move unimpeded to destroy them. Poland shall return to the historical rubbish heap from which the Versailler Diktat resurrected it."

"Chamberlain has said no more to Hitler."

Von Kys laughed heartily. "Chamberlain and Edward, now the Duke of Windsor, are the Führer’s friends, Petersholme! Have you not seen the newsreels of the Duke and Duchess holidaying at Berschtegarden with the Führer? They seem so comfortable with each other, laughing and jesting with each other."

I shook my head slowly at the realisation that Molloy was completely right about our government.

"Germany will establish the borders necessary for the destruction of the Bolshie menace – borders in what is now Poland. At that point, it will be Chamberlain’s duty to strut and pretend to his masses agitated by Jewish press lords but then to agree quietly to the necessity that will ensure Europe’s future." He began to eat again, feeling that the subject had been discussed thoroughly.

Willi was fidgeting in his chair as I finished my bratwurst and sauerkraut. "Would you like me to show you where Vati works, Herr Baron?" he asked as I began to chew on the last of the sausage.

I looked to von Kys for instruction. He shrugged. "Show me," I told the boy.

Willi hopped out of his chair and came around the table. I stood and, taking my hand, the boy led me to the far eastern corner of the balcony. "You really have to squint to see it, Herr Baron. The island is very, very little – right on the corner of the world over there."

I did squint and stared at the horizon where the child’s finger was pointing. For long moments, I saw nothing. Slowly, as my eyes adjusted to the distance, I saw what I thought were wisps of smoke there.

"Herr Baron?"

"Yes?"

"Mutti says Vati has Jews helping him build his rockets – but how can that be?"

I glanced back to von Kys on the other side of the balcony but he was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, enjoying the sun. All this harping about Jewishness made me uncomfortable. There were those in Britain who were anti-Semitic, of course; but I wasn’t one of them, nor could I imagine any intelligent, educated man being.

Yet, here I was attending my friend’s young son and the child was attempting to understand how the ignorant bigotry of his mother was affecting his own and his father’s world. "They are scientists like your father, Willi," I offered a neutral explanation.

"Mutti says they must be taken from Vati’s programme if it is to succeed. That his rockets will fly only if built by real Germans. She says keeping the Jews there make him look bad."

"I know very little about that, Willi."

"Is England already Judenrein then?"

I shuddered. I did not like the sound of that German word because it spoke volumes. "Our Jews are completely British. We accept them as equal citizens to ourselves."

The child stared out towards the east and was silent for long moments. Finally, he turned back to me and said: "Well, after we have got rid of the vermin we have here, we will help you get rid of yours – then, the whole world."

I stared at the little blond, blue-eyed boy beside me in shock. "Come. We probably need to get back to your father."

"Why?"

"Because he loves you very much and wants to spend as much time with you as he can," I told him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Barry Alexander kept his pace even with his grandfather’s and stayed at Roger Murray’s side Wednesday afternoon as they strolled towards the tobacconist’s in the small shops at the foot of Pall Mall. Roger had invited his grandson to join him, and Barry had instantly sensed this trip for snuff was a feint to get information out of him. Only, Roger was dogged at avoiding anything but the weather they were having.

"What’s up, Gramps?" he asked finally, breaking into the older man’s ruminating about how beautiful the autumn colours were.

Roger stopped and turned to face his American grandson. "Whatever do you think you are doing, young Barry?" he demanded, his voice raised louder than it had been since the night this boy’s mother announced she was marrying her Yank soldier. He was instantly embarrassed at his loudness, his face flushing.

"The wife wants to know," he continued in a lower voice that barely carried to the younger man. "The arrival of Miss Alice. The plans for this dinner tonight. Mrs. Murray can’t stand it any longer."

"And she’s driving you nuts to find out what’s going on, Gramps?" Barry asked quietly, his eyes twinkling with merriment.

"Nuts?" The older man’s face was slack with incomprehension. "For the holidays, of course. No, we have a fair supply of nuts in the larder ... Oh, you mean bonkers. Yes, that she is, lad." He studied his grandson closely. "Does all this activity have something to do with Lord Molloy making an arse of himself and you putting him in his place Sunday?"

"It has everything to do with it, Gramps." Barry sighed. "You knew Elizabeth slipped into the study when you brought tea? She overheard everything I said to Molloy."

"No!"

"She did. She called Miss Alice and asked her to London."

"So, that explains that ... But why are we having dinner for five tonight? A quite nice one too, I might add. The wife can’t remember a time that Lady Alice set such a table."

Barry grinned. "I like it. Goose will be better than that kidney stuff Alan had me  eating Monday. It was okay but…"

"Offal’s good for the constitution, lad. And kidney’s quite wonderful – a delicacy, really. Alan? Who is this?"

"Alan Dudding. One of his Lordship’s friends from university. An Irishman…"

"Irish?" Roger yelped and stared at his grandson. "In Lord Petersholme’s house?"

"From northern Ireland – Belfast. He’s with the Admiralty, Gramps – and he was one of Robbie’s close friends at university. Like this Lord Molloy was."

"Another invert?"

Barry groaned. "I really don’t like that word. The most scientific word is homosexual – could we use that?"

Roger shrugged and made a mental note to use the word when he spoke with his grandson in future. "You’re planning to put Lord Molloy together with this Irishman tonight then?"

"They’re the only two homosexuals I know in London – other than Robbie and me. I want to get Molloy’s mind off of my lover – off of me too. This Mr. Dudding is a handsome man."

"And Miss Alice approves of this?" Barry nodded. "A common Irishman with a future Earl?"

"Aren’t I a commoner with a Baron?"

Roger avoided his grandson’s trap. "You’ve certainly not got Irish blood, lad. Not on my side of the family, you don’t. Your father’s supposed to have English and French sides to his family." He began to walk again, and Barry fell into step beside him. "We’ll stop in at the ironmonger’s too whilst we’re out," he said, assimilating the information Barry had given him. "I need a new pair of pliers."

They walked in silence for several moments. "Your Gran is a bit worried, young Barry," Roger allowed as he waved at a middle-aged man sweeping the path up to a graceful Georgian town house.

"Worried?"

"Truth to tell, we both are, lad."

"How so?"

"Understand we respect Lord Petersholme greatly. If anything, he’s even more attuned to his responsibilities than his father was…"

"But?"

"You’ve become the plaything of a nobleman, lad. You – uh – sleep with Lord Robert and, at present, he permits you an equality that is quite daring. But you’re still – I don’t know if you’re servant class or middle-class – but you’re not one of the gentry, Barry."

Barry stopped and turned to study his grandfather. "Are you saying that I shame you and Gran?"

"No." Roger faced him and forced a tight smile to his face. "Well, the wife and I would have preferred to be chasing the young girls away from our grandson."

"It won’t happen, Gramps."

Roger had to admit it, his grandson was a tough lad. Had a head on his shoulders too, he had. The worst of it was the boy knew how to throw a man’s words right back at man, twisted until they didn’t even sound like what the man had said. Yank or not, he admired Barry and the boy knew it. "Yes. You are what you are, and there’s no changing it. And you do seem to be able to defend yourself rather well. No, we’re not ashamed of you."

"Then what?"

"We don’t want you to end up hurt. I’ve known our young Lord since he was in nappies – he’s a good soul. He would never be unfair – or ungenerous."

"So?"

"Relationships that don’t have holy matrimony binding them can fall apart, lad. His interests – or yours – might drift over time."

Barry nodded, understanding. "And, of course, what Robbie and I have could never be legalised." He smiled. "But, then, matrimony isn’t all that sacred anymore. What was it – two years ago? Your King Edward abdicated in order to marry a woman who didn’t treat matrimony as very holy."

"Barry Alexander!" Roger growled.

"Wallis Simpson was reputed to be something of a golddigger, Gramps. She married for money and, once she had it, divorced the poor guy."

"We’re well rid of that sort," Roger grumbled.

"You’ve made a point, though, Gramps. One I agree with one hundred percent. I love Robbie. But I can only hope to keep him interested in me in the years ahead. There’s no guarantee of that. If for some reason, what he and I have begins to fall apart, I’ll let it go before it’s fallen down around my ears. It’ll hurt me a lot, but I’ll survive."

"You’ll have to work at it, lad – like Mrs. Murray and I have."

"I will. I also know I’ve got to live two lives with him too. There’s this one – where it’s him and me, or our families. When I’m in public, though, I’m going to have to remember his place and mine. That’s going to be hard to do."

Roger nodded, a smile quickly taking over his face. He began to walk again. "You’ll do it, young Barry. And you’ve got the best man I could imagine to do it with. Let’s go get that snuff and those pliers."

"You’ll tell Gran I don’t have my head in the clouds then?" Barry asked as he caught up with his grandfather.

"I hope you’re persuasive with these men tonight, lad," the older man told him gruffly. "We don’t want Lord Molloy getting the wrong ideas about our Lord Petersholme, do we?"

* * *

Barry was on his best behaviour when Roger knocked at the study door that evening. "Come," he called just as Robbie would. It was only seven o’clock and dinner would be served at eight, but he’d suspected that Max Molloy would try to worm out of dinner and meeting Alan. He was right.

"Lord Molloy to see you, Master Barry," Roger intoned before Molloy pushed past him and stormed into the room.

"Thank you, Roger," Barry said as he watched the nobleman clench and unclench his fists. The doors were pulled closed. "You’re a bit early – would you care for a whisky?" He made to rise from the desk, forcing back the smile as he told himself he was really beginning to sound like these people.

"I…" Maximillian Molloy looked around the room, anything but face the youth he saw as a snide little American guttersnipe. He wondered how anyone so foul-mouthed could be so handsome.

"Of course you do," Barry continued and moved to the sideboard. He filled two glasses and turned to walk back to the nobleman. "You’re a bit nervous, aren’t you, Max? Drink this – it’ll steady the nerves."

"You really should use my title, young man."

"Give me reason to respect the man behind it, and I’ll be happy to. Even if you don’t, I will always use it publicly."

"Thank you for that, at least." Molloy sipped his whisky. He forced himself to relax. "I really should not be here," he said.

"Oh?"

"Yes. I mean, I do appreciate your trying to introduce me to your clique of inverts, Barry – but I’m really quite satisfied with my wife in that way." He shrugged. "I’ll admit that I was probably overly intrigued when I learnt that Lord Petersholme had taken a lad into his bed."

"Don’t even try it, Max!" Barry growled. "You’re the rutting pig in this picture, so don’t even think of trying to bring Robert down to your level."

"I say!" He made to put his glass on the desk. "I shan’t have anyone speak to me in this way."

"Try that bullshit, fat boy, and I’m out the door looking for a policeman. Tomorrow morning, before you can even get out of gaol, I’ll be at the Foreign Office talking to security. Your ass will be grass, and you’ll be the one to blame. How long do you think it’ll take your wife to learn about you? Your father too."

Molloy blanched. He felt the beads of sweat forming on his brow. His knees felt weak. He stared at the American still smiling at him.

"You look ill, Max. Sit down please." His hand went to the nobleman’s arm and, gripping it, led him to the nearest chair. Barry took the whisky from him and raised it to Molloy's lips. "Drink this, Max. You look as if you need it." Molloy shuddered and closed his eyes. He parted his lips and felt the glass press against them.

He opened his eyes as he felt the soft burn of the whisky reach his stomach. He was relaxing. Perhaps the American was right after all – even if he did have a filthy mouth. He really was going to have to talk to Petersholme about that, to see if his friend could tone his strumpet down a bit so that he wasn’t so damned obvious.

At least, Dudding would know his place. He wouldn’t sound as if he were a fugitive from a whorehouse in King’s Cross. He might even be a bit of fun. Max had to admit there had been times back at Oxford when he’d wondered about the Irishman’s equipment. He felt himself erecting across his groin.

No! He sat up, pushing Barry’s hand away. He was not going to be matched off with a commoner, especially not an Irish commoner – a damned grocer’s lad. He’d rather go find his own rentboy than that.

"Max," Barry said, "stop resisting. You’re going to have dinner with Alan Dudding and you’re going to be nice to him. You’re going to try to win him over." He smiled. "Because, if you don’t, I’m talking – loud and clear."

Max heard the gentleness in the American’s voice. He also sensed the steel behind it. He forced himself to relax, accepting that he had been beaten by this boy. His thoughts changed course. He’d go out with Dudding as there seemed to be nothing he could do to divert this Barry Alexander. He’d get between the sheets with him if that was what it took to get this lad off his back. Dudding couldn’t be any worse than the stable boy his father found him with and had to be imminently safer.

"Good," Barry told him when he saw the nobleman relaxing and went to the sideboard to pour him another whisky. "Lady Alice and Elizabeth are going to be so pleased with your attitude, Max."

Molloy suddenly felt he could not breathe. His eyes bulged as he stared at the ginger-haired youth walking back towards him. "Robbie’s aunt is here?" he croaked.

Barry nodded and handed him his drink. Max brought the glass to his lips and drained it, the liquor burning the back of his throat. "She knows?" he sputtered, unable to take his eyes off the American.

"She does."

"Oh, God!" the nobleman groaned and collapsed against the back of the sofa. "She’s the biggest gossip in England."

Barry grinned down at him. "I think she’ll keep quiet – as long as you behave yourself with Mr. Dudding."

"I can’t…"

"You can and you will, Max Molloy. And you really do need to impress Alan. I think he has a poor impression of you."

"Bloody hell!"

Roger opened the doors to admit Alan Dudding. "Dinner is in fifteen minutes, sir," he told Barry as the Irishman stepped into the study.

"Hello, Barry," Alan greeted him and moved closer. "And, Lord Molloy – how are you this evening?" Barry noticed that, though there was still a trace of brogue in the man’s speech, he spoke much more like Robbie or, even, Molloy this evening.

"Fine, thank you, Dudding," Molloy answered, sitting up and meeting the Irishman’s gaze. "And you?"

"Would you like a drink, Alan?" Barry asked quickly.

"Yes, please. And I do well, m’Lord." The Irishman grinned widely. "I hope you didn’t approach this evening with the same trepidation that I did, sir."

Standing at the sideboard, Barry felt his heart begin to sink. He looked around at the other men.

"Trepidation?" Molloy wondered.

"Yes. I couldn’t comprehend what you could possibly see in me. Thus, I couldn’t understand why Barry here would invite me ... A gentleman such as yourself is so capable of finding what he wants with little help from others."

Barry knew then Alan Dudding was laying it on the nobleman – what the Irish back home in New York called the gift of the blarney – and he was smearing it on thick. It was almost enough to make him gag; he could imagine what it was doing to Molloy.

The nobleman chuckled. "Me? Dudding, I’m so boring that I just go home after a day of holding the Minister’s hand. You, now – I would expect you to have nosed around London until you knew every back alleyway that promised a lad a bit of fun."

Carrying their drinks to the men, Barry could see that Molloy was eating Dudding's blarney up. Could the man be that hungry for attention?

"It seems that what fun I find comes in drawing a chemical equation with just one symbol in a different position. Quite exciting to us lads in my section at the Admiralty, you know."

"That’s right, you are with the Admiralty. Is the First Sea Lord still running the tight ship that is his reputation?"

Alan’s face darkened as he frowned. "Stanhope is in a continuous search for ways to stave off England’s debacle while Chamberlain continues to seek ways to grease the tracks beneath us." He shrugged. "Of course, Mr. Churchill stands behind him, threatening a whip across his back."

"Oh, right! But at least he is First Sea Lord there. He only has to grit his teeth when he’s with Chamberlain."

English politics was something Barry knew little about. But the gist of the conversation around him indicated that the two men had found they were on the same political side. It was a common ground. He leant on the side of the desk and watched.

The doors to the study pulled open and Roger bowed to the three men. "Gentlemen, dinner is served." Barry watched his two guests quickly down their drinks and start towards the door. He followed after them.

* * *

Barry surrendered what control he’d maintained over the situation in the study to Miss Alice the moment they were seated at table. He wondered if Alan Dudding would take over the dining room as he had the study – and if the older woman would allow him to do so. Part of him was embarrassed by the games he and the other two men had been playing, but he was also intrigued by all the jockeying for position. This was the adult version of king of the castle and, from what Elizabeth had told him, Alice Adshead was a master at the game. He had already seen that Alan was good at it too.

He sat beside Elizabeth across from the two men as Alice began to exert her authority as the senior Petersholme present. "Mr. Dudding, Barry here tells us that you’re Irish?"

Alan chuckled and carefully swallowed the asparagus spear he’d been chewing. "There are those in Dublin who would dispute that, ma’am." Barry noticed that there wasn’t even the lilt to his voice that had been there in the study. It was now all Oxford. "My family’s in Belfast, in Ulster – a province as proudly British as Scotland and Wales are."

"And you’re with the Admiralty?" she asked.

"Yes, ma’am. Ordinance development." He chuckled. "We play with things, trying to make them more deadly for any who’d think of challenging the Royal Navy." He glanced down at his plate. "My compliments to you and your cook, ma’am. This goose is delicious, and a bachelor rarely has occasion to say that unless he sits at his mother’s table."

Alice smiled, and Barry knew that the Irishman with the intense eyes had won her over.

"Dudding here was at Oxford with Petersholme and myself," Molloy told the table. "He tutored Robert in chemistry." He flushed and his gaze fell to his plate. "Both of us, actually. Made it seem more comprehensible than the old don ever did."

Alice nodded as if she’d been privy to her nephew’s tales of university. "Intelligent, a teacher, and discreet," she mumbled loud enough for everyone to hear. "Quite admirable qualities, I must say."

Barry was almost certain he could hear her add to her list the thought that Alan Dudding was quite handsome too. He wondered if Molloy had come around. When he glanced at Elizabeth beside him, he saw that she was wiping her lips and grinning. She looked back at him and arched her brow; the grin broadened behind her napkin.

Across the table, he noticed that Molloy was watching the Irishman with what seemed like a bemused acceptance. Barry wondered what was going through the nobleman’s mind. He decided he was probably just appreciating the poise the man was showing.

After dinner, Barry nervously sat across from the two men as Roger poured brandy for the three of them. This was where Dudding and Molloy went off together or left separately. He couldn’t manhandle the nobleman as he had earlier or he’d surely lose everything that had already been put into place. He wished that Miss Alice could have joined them – she and Elizabeth both. It sure would be a lot more comfortable with them there, and Alice Adshead probably would know what to do to get the men to leave together.

He was pretty sure that Lord Molloy was willing; it was Alan Dudding he couldn’t figure. While the nobleman had been quiet during dinner, he’d been attentive too. The Irishman had won him over as he had Robbie’s aunt. It had seemed to be a game to him, though. And that was what was bothering the American. Was Alan Dudding through playing his game or was he willing to play it all the way to the bedroom.

"Barry, thank you for inviting me," Alan told him as Roger handed him his snifter. "I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed myself more."

Molloy looked uncomfortable for a moment. "I would second that, lad." he said then and looked to the Irishman. "I think I’ve had my interest piqued as well," he continued.

Alan arched a brow in question. "Really?" A smile played at the corner of his lips. "I was afraid that it was only me."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Young Wilhelm von Kys took me in hand and led me to the stables so that we could ride the German moors. He led me to the farthest outbuilding behind the Schloß and, still holding my hand, marched me to the end stall. A handsome bay mare whickered softly at the child’s approach. "This will be our horse this afternoon, Herr Baron," he told me as he stooped to peek under the gate and held out a carrot. She lipped it from his hand. "Walküre is almost Vati’s favourite."

"Almost his favourite?"

Willi looked at me. "Vati has his own horse which he rides – unless I am with him. When we ride together, we ride Walküre – or if I ride with Nurse." He lowered his voice slightly. "That is because Walküre knows the importance of being well-behaved when she has her master’s son on her back."

I nodded. "Of course, we shall ride the knowledgeable Walküre then, young Willi."

The boy showed me which tack was Walküre's. The mare moved aside as I entered her stall and stood quietly as I saddled her. She didn't even try to swell up when I tightened the girth. I slipped the bit into her mouth and pulled the headstall over her ears. She remained pliant and I had to admit this was the perfect horse to ride with a young boy.

"Where shall we ride?" I asked as Willi and I led Walküre into the open. The mare stood like a rock as I swung up. I cleared the stirrup and gave Willi a hand up. I had placed him on the mare’s front haunches before he answered me.

He leant back against my chest and grinned up at me. "We go out to the potato field towards Vati’s island, Herr Baron. Nurse’s young man works there."

"Your nurse’s young man?" I asked in surprise. The young woman I had seen several times already hovering near this lad had appeared to be constantly reminded of something unpleasant that she had eaten. Her pinched face made it difficult for me to think of her in an amorous situation.

The boy’s grin widened. "If he is alone, Nurse stops. He gives me a sweet if I go play across the field."

I understood. I almost laughed. Some Prussian peasant had a remarkably successful way of making things work for him – quietly and effectively.

We rode slowly along tracks laid down over centuries by horse-drawn vehicles. The boy pointed out what had grown during the summer in this field and that as we passed. I realised how flat the land was – and how boringly the same, painted in the browns of late autumn, compared to the hills and forests of my estate in Northamptonshire. Von Kys felt the same way towards Schloß Kys that I did Bellingham Hall, and I found myself imagining him showing this young boy the beauty and peace he had always known when he was growing up here. It was far too easy to imagine this flaxen-headed tyke with von Kys as my friend showed him what would be his. At that moment, I wanted my own fair-haired boy that I could do the same with at Bellingham Hall.

I pulled myself away from the thoughts of the Hall and the estate that had come to hold me. I ruffled the child’s hair. He glanced back up at me and smiled. "We’re almost to the potato field where Alexander digs," he told me and wiggled about on the saddle. "Do you think he might give me a sweet, even though you aren’t Nurse?"

We rounded a bend fronted on either side by brown pastures dotted with the black and white Freisan cattle I was supposed to be interested in. Ahead and to the right of the track was a tended field – and a man pulling plants and forking potatoes from the sandy coastal soil. I watched as he shook the soil off each forkful, then dropped them into a large basket. It surprised me to see that he was the only one working, but the wagon beside him was already half-filled with full baskets.

He looked up as we approached and shielded his eyes to see us better. He doffed his hat and clicked his heels as we came closer. "Herr Graf!" he called, raising his arm in greeting, mistaking me for von Kys.

"Alexander!" Willi greeted him. "This is my new friend, Baron Peterholme."

I studied the farmhand who had won the heart of Willi’s nurse as we approached him. I realised that he was studying me and that he had the most intelligent grey eyes. I shifted in the saddle, becoming unnerved before I knew it. I instantly reined in my unease and studied him for a moment. He was a burly man I would place at around thirty. He also had the appearance of a peasant oaf, until one looked into his eyes.

I told myself there was no reason this peasant could not be intelligent. After all, D. H. Lawrence had been a coal miner’s son and was in the first generation of working class boys provided a free education. Lawrence was perhaps a bit too fixated on sexual matters and body components for my taste, but there was no doubt his writing was brilliant. The same genetic miracle could well have happened here in Prussia.

The man smiled calmly at me and returned to his forking.

"We should be getting back, Willi," I told the boy, feeling again unsettled. As we rode back to the manor I struggled to convince myself my edginess was but my reaction to something I had eaten at lunch.

* * *

I sat before von Kys, both of us in highback wooden chairs, beside the fire. Dinner had been served and it was grown late. I found myself relaxing in the warmth of the room and my thoughts beginning to turn to Britain and young Barry there waiting for my return.

"I assume, Petersholme, that you have wondered at the scarcity of servants in this house…"

I pulled my thoughts back to Prussia and this man who once was my friend but who now had bought into something I had difficulty accepting. "You mentioned it last night as we were driving." I smiled. "The reality of it struck me only this afternoon. I – well, I thought that, perhaps, a German house might operate with a smaller staff."

Von Kys laughed. "If anything, my friend, we are more ostentatious than you are. No. Gisele was uncomfortable with many of my retainers. There were many mixed breed and genetic Poles." He shrugged. "They’re no longer a part of Schloß Kys, Petersholme. I had to let them go from the house because of her and from the estate because of the Nürnberg racial laws of 1935. I helped them to enter Poland, of course."

"But, surely, there were others you could bring on?"

He pushed himself from his chair and stepped to the fireplace. Turning, he faced me, his hands behind his back. "I did not choose too – although Gisele sought to bring on some of her girls from the Bund Deutscher Mädel. When she learnt that she wasn’t the only von Kys with a backbone, she chose to stay in Berlin."

He smiled. "Like you, I suspect, I am an old-fashioned aristocrat, Petersholme. I want my people’s loyalty first, before they give the state what is left. I did not want giggling, gossiping girls whose first loyalty was to Gisele and the party. I still have some secrets I do not want Berlin to know."

"So, you have brought on no-one?"

"This is a rural district, Petersholme. Once you add in the racial laws, I don’t have many people to choose from. And even fewer for the house itself."

"These racial laws…" I paused remembering young Wilhelm’s offer of German help to make Britain free of Jews. "You’re an educated man, Janus. Must you teach your son to hate people he doesn’t even know?"

"Ah, yes, the Jews." He slammed his fist into the stone of the wall and, holding it, stepped past our chairs and began to pace. "There are times that I almost agree with the Party that they are vermin – they certainly can be worrisome. They gnaw at me even when I sleep, Petersholme," he told me over his shoulder. "Von Braun swears by the two who are on his team. I have myself seen their work on many occasions – it is brilliant. Yet, I have Gisele and Himmler on my arse to rid myself of them."

"If you need them, that should be enough to keep them on…"

Von Kys stopped his pacing and gazed at me for several moments before breaking out laughing. "Petersholme, the Party intends to make Europe free of all Jews – Judenrein. That means exterminating them like lice in the pubis of a soldier back in camp after a weekend with whores. The Party has begun a big push for this – leading normally intelligent people to become insane. The SS is gearing up to begin this programme of extermination. In a year – two at most – Jews in the heartland of Europe will begin to die like poisoned flies."

I stared at him, unable to think of a retort. All I could think of was that Germany was supposed to be a civilised and educated country. What had happened?

"Petersholme, I have two Jews on staff at Peenemünde who are helping Germany win a war that has yet to begin. But the country has already labelled them as inferior, on the level of lice and rats. How do I save them when von Braun has succeeded in giving us rockets that can hit the Urals?" He shrugged. "Or do they even merit being saved?"

"Will you protect them? Even against Party edits?"

"I am von Kys before I am anything else. They are my people and I am responsible to them as they are to me. But I can’t save them alone." He began to pace again. "As soon as von Braun admits that he and the rest of his team can go it alone, they will be gone. Or as soon as someone close to Reichsführer Himmler gets off on vermin again and remembers Peenemünde at the same time." He stopped again and turned to face me. "Which they did last night. Gisele has such a one track brain when it comes to racial purity."

He sighed and turned to me. "I want those two men out of here, Petersholme. Safely. I don’t care how close a shave that gives me. I can weather it – and I owe them their lives and safety. I suspect that you are in a position to do so, my friend, so I ask you to get them out of here."

"Me?"

"I am not asking why you’re in Germany. I assume nothing. You are my friend and are with me here because you want to buy milk cows. Himmler wants you to have a feel of the new Germany to carry back to England’s warmongers. But, if you can, do it."

"You said Gisele’s father has a title and is an industrialist? Where did she develop such hatred?"

"She mouths the party line. She doesn’t have a brain in her head, they’re all in her clitoris! I’ll take care of her – even if it kills her."

I decided to take my friend at his word – and lay my life on the line by doing so. "How would I even know these scientists of yours?"

"I am having a small dinner party here tomorrow night – if all goes with the afternoon’s experiment. You will meet them then. Get them out of Germany, Petersholme. Von Kys’ honour demands I make it possible."

I pulled back, accepting his need and the commitments that went with it. "Where did young Willi learn to hate Jews so much?"

"His mother. As I said, she mouths the party line. He is a young parrot, and she has taught him well."

"Is she here often then? Around him?"

"No, but his nurse is under instruction to reinforce Gisele’s teachings while ensuring that the boy looks up to me." He shrugged. "It is a game we play – a deadly serious game. Gisele controls my future through her connections in the Reichskanzlerei and the party. I have accepted Wilhelm as my heir and, through science, am giving Germany one of the weapons that it will use to acquire the lebensraum the Führer says we need."

"Why don’t you and the child simply leave, Janus?"

He continued to stand and gaze at me, as a lecturer with a very dull student. "Even if I could leave, Robbie, there is no place for me to go. Berlin would get to me if I did get out of the country – and they would get to me through Willi. Besides, Germany is my country. Regardless of the government in power, von Kys belongs to the Fatherland."

"You’re tired, Janus."

He snorted. "Yes, I am. So very tired. But, as your friend, I must make you understand the future as well." Concern spread across his face. "You must make your friends in Whitehall understand about the new Germany. Either that or, if Britain does stand in the way, we will squash you as we shall the Slavs."

"You are tired!" I grumbled, standing with my hands clenching into fists. "It’s off to bed with you, old lad – before you say something that even friendship cannot forgive."

He studied me. "I don’t mean to insult, Petersholme. I love England almost as much as you do. I only want you to understand." He smiled tightly. "For yourself and for the report you will make to London."

Slowly I shrugged my acquiescence.

"We shall have occupied Poland within the year. The rest of what remains of Czechoslovakia will have become ours even sooner. Nothing can stop us. Neither the British nor the French have the armies in place that could. Pilsudski in Poland has not modernised his country’s army – it still marches to war instead of being driven there. There will be no Polish army left within a week of the invasion. Afterwards, we will then be in position to do what even Napoleon was unable to do – take Russia, regardless of the elements.

"Britain has two choices: one is that which your Duke of Windsor apparently sees – allow Germany to complete its duty once and for all to defend Europe by destroying the communist and Slavic threat. We shall be satisfied with that. We can live in peace with Britain – two Germanic states with the world divided between them.

"Your other choice is to re-arm immediately and be defeated as any other enemy of the Reich will be. Our Luftwaffe will bomb our enemies’ cites to rubble. Our mechanised Wehrmacht can be on any battlefront in Europe in ten days or less – rested and ready to destroy the enemy. And the panzers of the Wehrmacht will break through any enemy line."

Von Kys began to pace again. "Look at the map of Europe, Petersholme. Study it closely. The English sea – the Mediterranean – the northern tier of it is already fascist. Spain and Italy are German allies. If France resists our penetration into the east, it faces a two-front war. If Britain resists, it faces a Europe quickly united against it."

Von Kys stopped pacing at the far end of the room and turned back to face me. "I don’t want to see Britain destroyed, Robbie. There is so much that is good there." He shrugged. "After we have divided the world between us, we in the Reich shall need you to help us become a gentler people than we are now."

I studied Janus von Kys and saw the tightness of the skin around his eyes. Even how his eyes blazed. I knew he was far tireder than I had thought or he had admitted. I forced myself to accept his tirade to be a product of that tiredness affecting his mind. I smiled and stood. "I think we should go to bed, my friend."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I was pulled out of the soundest sleep by – something. I thought I had heard a noise but, now as I strained to hear, there was only silence. I lay in the dark, my eyes open, and looked about the room without moving my head. And sought to understand what could have awoke me.

The curtain fluttered at the opened window, pulling my attention there. I forced myself to relax when I remembered I had left it open when I retired. I smiled to myself then, accepting that perhaps a gust of wind had done the deed.

In my peripheral vision, a shadow moved near the door. So softly that there was no noise and so slowly that I was not sure I had seen it, though I had. I moved my head in that direction, knowing now that it had been the door opening and closing that had awoken me.

Tensed now that I had something physical to connect with my awakening, I continued to lay still and waited for whoever it was to move again.

My imagination dredged up men from the Gestapo dressed in their cheap suits, slinking into my room to take me without Janus’ knowledge. Men who obeyed no law – moral or legal – like the rubbish at the central railway station when I arrived in Berlin. I could see young Dagold Jorsten marching me to the walls of the stable so that other black uniformed men could line up and shoot me. And young Willi in his high child’s voice giving the order to fire.

Perspiration beaded across my forehead even in the night-chilled room. I struggled to remain calm but was rapidly losing to my rampant fears. I had almost begun to sit up and jump towards where I had seen the movement.

A thick, callused hand covered my mouth and pushed my head back into the pillows. "It is I, Herr Baron Petersholme, the Polish agent who is to watch out for you," a male voice whispered against my ear. Somehow, my heart found its way out of my throat and back into my chest where it belonged. "Will you not give alarm?" the voice asked in strangely accented German. I nodded and his hand left my mouth.

I was not at sure what I would do to Maximillian Molloy once I was returned to London, but do something I would. I had lost ten years of life to the fear of the few moments I’d lain there under the Polish agent’s power. Molloy deserved nothing less. It is what friends got for putting their pals in such situations. I was exceedingly pleased that I’d not had a coronary right then and there.

"May I sit up?" I asked in a similar whisper.

"Of course, my Lord. Only, you may not turn on the lights. The Schloß has been under Gestapo observation for the past three days."

My eyes widened. Did von Kys know? What sort of bloody hell did the Third Reich visit upon those who served it? "Under observation?" I asked quietly.

"The two local bullies. They have nothing else to do so they sit in the wood behind the Schloß and freeze during the night." He chuckled softly. "Perhaps someone thought it was a good way to be rid of them."

"But you are here?"

The agent snorted. "I am intelligent, Herr Baron – although it takes very little to deceive the two brothers who operated the local abattoir before someone in Berlin made them policemen." He stood then. "I am Colonel Alexis Kolawaski, Army Intelligence, Republic of Poland."

I smiled and reached out in his direction. His hand found mine and grasped it. "I’m happy to meet you, Colonel Kolawaski. But how did you get in?"

He chuckled. "Remember, I am the lover of young Wilhelm’s nurse. I have also been ordered to make myself available to you if you required assistance."

"Do you know why I am here?"

"To learn if the Germans have a rocket programme and, if so, the extent of that programme."

I nodded, studying the burly man I had seen in the potato field earlier in the day. London had certainly had great faith in my abilities; I wondered why Molloy even bothered to enlist me on this little adventure. He could have just sent me off singing "God Save The King". He probably thought I could have walked across the Channel. "Is that your assignment as well?"

Alexis grunted angrily. "Six months ago, elements in Warsaw woke up to the possibility of a German menace. I was ordered to develop a picture of that from inside Germany. Once I was here and the Graf had me well hidden in his service, London apparently asked my country to learn what we could about Peenemünde as well."

"There is a German menace to Poland," I told him, remembering my earlier discussion with Janus.

"I knew that within the first week that I was in the country," he snorted. "There are ten divisions of Wehrmacht massed within twenty kilometres of the border. There are another forty divisions placed at several other points along the Corridor."

"It sounds as if they are ready."

"No, Baron Petersholme. Not yet. They will take the rump that is left of Czechoslovakia and digest it before they move against my country. It will come in another six months to a year, however – and my country shall fall quickly."

"How do you know that?"

The Pole sighed and stood. "We have handsome young men mounted on the most attractive horseflesh in the world. Those young men have beautifully ornate swords. They look much like your Guards units trooping the colours before Buckingham Palace. Unfortunately, the Germans have Stuka divebombers and mechanised infantry. They will slice through us as if they were a hot knife cutting through butter. Poland’s army is like a group of young boys playing at war, Germany’s army is a well-oiled war machine. Remember, Berlin has already trained this army in the Spanish Civil War that brought that Generalismo Franco to power."

A gust of wind blew against the curtain and it became a ghostly streamer stretching out into the room. Kolawaski jumped and turned at its touch, his whole body stiffening. A horse whinnied in the stables and its sound reached us in the still night.

"I fear I have grown too old to do this sort of work," the Polish agent grumbled and turned from the window.

"How does Warsaw view your intelligence then, Colonel?" I asked, remembering that Molloy had voiced no concern over Poland.

Kolawaski snorted derisively. "The government is short-sighted as only governments can be. When the German intentions become obvious – in the few months before they attack us – then official Warsaw will wake up. Until then, Berlin’s diplomats tell us that all is well between us and we believe them."

I nodded. London had much the same problem. Chamberlain had no intention of waking Britain with something as inconsequential as war on the continent. His backers among the Tories were still worried at what sort of mischief Gandhi would next start in India.

He walked to the large window and gazed out at the night. "My position has become difficult these past three weeks, Herr Baron." He turned to face me. "The Waffen-SS has begun rounding up ethnic Poles in this far eastern area of Prussia. The old, women and children – they are being taken to the border and sent across. The Nazi, however, keep the single men they find for more extensive questioning – so they say. But those young, single men disappear into the interior."

"That would endanger you…"

"It does. Yet, my papers show me to be a German born in Gdansk – that’s Danzig to the Germans. I did grow up there but, if someone intelligent enough questioned me, they would wonder how the son of a German shipfitter came to be forking potatoes in hectolitre baskets – it wouldn’t fit."

"And you have the information on German troop movements you came for?" He nodded. "You shall be going home soon then."

He nodded. "I waited for you to arrive. To learn if you would need me."

"My situation seems satisfactory at the moment."

"I have some of the information you were sent to gather."

I studied him closely. There was no sense in duplicating our efforts and endangering me for no reason at all. Mine was but a fishing expedition. Between what I had learnt from von Kys and what this man had seen on the ground here, Whitehall would have enough to begin piecing together what the Germans were doing out here. "Will your people allow MI-5 to debrief you then?"

He nodded and returned to the side of my bed to face me again. "I need you to help me return safely to Poland," he said, his voice barely loud enough to hear as he made his admission and asked for my help. "I take two scientists with me back to Poland, my Lord, men from Peenemünde whose lives are increasingly at danger. Jews who, I am sure, soon enough will be in England. Will you help me get these men out of Germany?"

"Of course. How do you suggest we do it?"

"Two months ago, we moved their families to Warsaw."

"Really?"

"A Polish trawler – it took three dinghies to carry them all. One of them even had his grandmother and two aunts taken to Poland."

"We can use the same way out for you and these two men then."

"I doubt it." I arched my brow in question. "The Germans had not started to build their prototype rocket then – and the edict to begin evicting ethnic Poles had not yet come from Berlin. Now, they patrol the coast much more thoroughly."

I attempted to imagine that but couldn’t. I let it drop. "How long do we have then?"

"The Nürnburg racial laws were released in 1935 – three years ago. Those laws said Jews could not work for German companies or own companies in Germany. But there were exceptions. The village with only one doctor who was Jewish. The secret government programme that needed more skill than just the German population permitted. I hear, however, that the party high command will terminate all exemptions very soon."

"Would that explain the Gestapo watching von Kys' home then?"

"Possibly. Von Kys is the only German supervising Jews within a hundred kilometres." He smiled tightly. "And those two know everything that Germany has done to develop rocketry. The Gestapo would be watching their German contacts."

"How about their families? You got them out of the country two months ago, you said. Hasn’t someone noticed that they were missing?"

Alexis Kolawaski chuckled softly. "Ah, but, Herr Baron, Jews are officially vermin in the new Germany – as bad as lice, so it is said. This is official policy in the Third Reich. No intelligent German is going to notice lice as it would draw attention to him – unless he is bitten by them. So, two families of officially designated vermin made it to the shore one moonless night and disappeared. No-one will have noticed, even people who were good friends before 1933 when the Nazis came to power."

"And the Gestapo?"

Again Kolawaski chuckled. "Remember what is the Gestapo here in this area. Those two boys are only marginally brighter than the cattle they once slaughtered at the abattoir. They have dreams of becoming great and close aides to the Reichsführer-SS himself – they would not lower themselves to notice lice or the lack of such vermin."

"Will that be the case with these scientists then?"

"No. That is not possible. They have had access to state military secrets. And they are building a prototype or a rocket right now at Peenemünde. Presumably, that means that the von Kys team believe they have learnt enough to make one of these things fly. Those two Jews do not have a life ten minutes after the Gestapo arrests them. Berlin will only be satisfied with a report of their deaths and their identification in hand."

"My God!" I groaned, finally understanding what it was like to be German in Nazi Germany. "Listen, Kolawaski, those two are watching the Schloß because those scientists are going to be picked up tomorrow."

He studied me for several moments before asking: "Why do you think that?"

"Von Kys intends to invite his team here tomorrow." I tried to remember what he’d said about it. "They’re going to do something at Peenemünde tomorrow – if it goes well, everyone is invited to a celebration dinner."

"So!" The man nodded to himself. "That would explain all of the extra work that has been going on there this past week. It is eminently sensible, yes."

"We’re going to have to get those two men out of the party and away from here tomorrow night – before they go home."

"Or they will never be seen again, is that what you’re suggesting?"

I nodded.

"Warsaw can never have a trawler here in that time. A week – perhaps longer. And the patrols…"

"Where could they be hidden then until…?"

"No place that would be safe. If they disappear and the local Gestapo doesn’t have their identification to show Berlin, we’ll have a division of Waffen-SS moving into this gau tomorrow. By tomorrow night, they would be conducting door to door searches. No-one will be safe then."

"How?" My eyes seemed to threaten to bulge out of my head as memory suddenly assailed me.

Von Kys and myself in our aviator’s kit. We had both been avid flyers at Oxford. I maintained a small bi-plane at Bellingham Hall and still found time three or four times a month to fly. I had never been able completely to surrender the exhilarating freedom that was mine when I was in the air. And von Kys had been just as committed as I was. That was nearly six years ago, but I could not imagine the man simply giving up such a love.

"Have you seen an aeroplane anywhere on the estate, Kolawaski?" I asked carefully.

"An aeroplane?"

"The Graf was an avid aviator at university. It’s difficult to believe he would completely surrender such a love in these past few years."

"The Nazis don’t like their citizens having aeroplanes."

"Even a Waffen-SS Colonel?"

He studied me for a moment. "That could work in his favour."

"So have you seen an aeroplane?"

"No – but then I’ve not explored every outbuilding there is on this estate. There may be one…"

"Please look tomorrow."

"Lord Petersholme, why not simply ask him?"

I stared at him standing beside me in the deep shadows of my room. "Von Kys?" I whispered. "He asked me to help these Jews to get out – last night. Have you turned him?"

Kolawaski chuckled. "The Graf is as German as they come, Herr Baron. But he is an intelligent German, one who accepts his responsibilities. He knows of me and what I am about. He has helped the ethnic Poles to leave his estate comfortably. We work together when it benefits us to do so, and ignore each other when that is the wisest course."

I gazed at the Polish agent and renewed my respect for my friend. "You still must think of a hiding place if there is no aeroplane. These men have to escape while they’re still at the house tomorrow night, Kolawaski."

"I doubt I can get into the Graf’s dinner, Herr Baron. How do they get to me?"

"I can do that. The first outhouse can be our rendezvous point, don’t you think?"

"The storehouse? I don’t see why not. But it can only be temporary. But your secreting them from that dinner will make you an enemy of Germany, my Lord."

I gazed at him and finally chuckled. "Are you suggesting that flying a Polish spy and two Jewish scientists out of the Fatherland wouldn’t make me an enemy then?"

He laughed softly. "Well said. One final thing and I shall leave you to your rest."

"Yes?"

"Can you kill if you find yourself in a situation where you have to?"

I groaned at the images his words threatened to pull up in me. "I have never shot anything larger than a deer but – yes ... If I find myself forced into that situation, I won’t stop to think about it."

He smiled and nodded. "Tomorrow will be a long day, Herr Baron. Sleep well." He slid into the shadows nearest the door and, a moment later, I heard the door whisper on well-oiled hinges as it opened and Alexis Kolawaski slipped away into the night.

* * *

I lay awake for hours once I was again alone.

I was committed and had put myself into danger by doing so. But I could not in good conscience allow the thugs of the German secret police to murder two men who had done nothing but improve Germany’s military position in the world. Especially if I could take those same men to my country where they could help us defend against what Germany could unleash. Von Kys had already asked me to get the men out of the country. Kolawaski had committed me to do so.

But how?

If the Pole and I were correct in our assessment of the situation and the Jews were to be arrested tomorrow evening, I had to involve von Kys in helping them escape. Either with an aeroplane, if there was one, or in some other way to keep the scientists hidden until the Polish government could get a ship to us. Or until we could somehow make our way through ten divisions of Wehrmacht on the German side of the Neisse River twenty or so kilometres away.

His involvement would expose him as an enemy of the Nazi state and, regardless of his rank in the Waffen-SS, he would be a dead man were we captured. I, at least, had a passport from the British Empire and it might save my life. I suspected Kolawaski would be in much the same predicament in which I, of necessity, was going to put von Kys come the morning.

I was still unsure of how it all had happened. I had retired a perfectly safe English gentleman visiting his friend and perchance about to buy a few head of milk cows. As dawn began to colour the eastern sky, I was become a spy with very little protection on any front. My imagination was very effective at producing images of me standing against a wall and the sounds of rifles cocking.

I wanted nothing more than to be holding Barry in my arms. To make mindless love to him. To walk the streets of London with him. To walk the hills and dales of Bellingham Hall with him. And once again be naïve about the world around me.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I woke as two sharp, small elbows pressed into my chest and small knees rode hard against my lower ribs through the covers. I opened my eyes to find the room filled with bright sunlight and young Willi kneeling over me, studying me closely, his face only inches from mine. He smiled when he saw I was awake.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you have bony elbows?" I groused and rubbed sleep from my eyes.

"No, but we’re going on a picnic, Herr Baron," he told me and shoved off me now that his intention to awaken me had been realised. He pushed himself over the side of the bed and went to stand in the pool of sunlight before the fireplace.

At that moment, I did not envy my German friend the dubious pleasures of fatherhood. It was only too easy to imagine that constant scrutiny by young, impressionable eyes and ears. The need to be always on one’s guard. Becoming more completely awake, I realised that a young Willi was not something I was going to have to be concerned about – not as long as Barry Alexander possessed my bed as thoroughly as he had before I left England.

I decided to treat the child as if he were a fully intelligent adult human being as I had the day before. "We’re going on a picnic?" I asked.

He smiled and nodded. I could not imagine how a child could be so appealing, and Wilhelm von Kys was especially so. I wanted to hold him, to cuddle him. "There’s a promontory – you’ll love it, Herr Baron. It is von Kys, of course – all the land around here is. Nurse says Cook will fix us men her special chicken." He smacked his lips, brought his finger to his lips, and licked it as if he’d just held a piece of roasted chicken.

I cringed. I had no idea the Germans were so inept in child-rearing. Young Willi needed a year in Miss Murray’s care. He might well develop the thinnest veneer of being civilised under her tutelage.

His eyes rounded. "We’ll have a bowl of Cook’s very special potato salad with us too. You’ll love that!" He giggled. "I can’t tell you what she puts in it, but I saw her making it just before I came to wake you."

"I thought your father’s rocket was to be – whatever one does to a rocket?"

"That’s why we’re going on this outing, Petersholme – to watch our first test firing."

I turned towards the door and saw von Kys standing there, leaning against the door jamb. He grinned when he had my attention. "You’re going to love Cook’s potato salad, my friend."

I glanced to Willi and back to his father. "I think I would prefer taking my immersion into fatherhood much slower, thank you."

Von Kys laughed. "The lad’s been wanting to wake you since first light. Nurse and I had to be very emphatic, old boy."

I saw what the child was doing then. Von Kys’ boy had a bright silver-painted tube and had begun to play as his father and I chatted. It took several moments for me to connect the sounds the lad was making to anything. Willi was pretending the tube was a rocket and making the appropriate noises. "Good God! Is that what I think it is?" I asked.

Janus entered the room and walked to where his son stood. "Show it to our friend, Wilhelm," he told him. Turning to me, he said: "This is a prototype of what we’re testing today – the V-1 rocket. We’re that close to making the thing work."

I studied it as the child brought the tube closer. I saw the stubby wings and curving attachments that were miniature fuel tanks before the boy had reached the bed. At my side, he lifted the top quarter of the tube to show me what I knew would be the warhead on a full-sized version of the thing.

"Actually, the V-1 isn’t exactly a rocket," von Kys said from the fireplace. "Rather, it is half a rocket."

I studied my friend, my brow raised in question, as I unconsciously ruffled the hair of the flaxen-headed lad at the side of my bed.

"It’s more of a jet engine than it is a rocket engine, Petersholme. A much easier gadget to make."

I had never heard of a jet engine and I showed it.

Von Kys laughed at my confusion. A jet engine uses air and petrol – much as a propeller-driven engine does. Only, it doesn’t use a propeller."

I was beginning to understand. He was talking aeroplanes then. And that reminded me of my need to find an aeroplane. I glanced at young Willi playing with his rocket and making soft whooshes with his lips.

The lad was quite too good at regurgitating what he heard – indiscriminately. I did not want to ask his father for an aeroplane and then have the boy telling his mother or her cronies that I had. Especially if I had not yet got the scientists and Polish agent out of country. I would wait until we were out in the open at this picnic and I had a chance to speak to von Kys alone.

"No propeller?" I asked, latching onto his last comment to stay in the conversation.

He smiled. "I doubt you would understand the physics of it, old boy – especially as I remember how weak your comprehension of chemistry was. Suffice it to say that it works theoretically and even in the laboratory. We’ll learn if that translates into reality this afternoon."

Von Kys was silent for a moment and I realised he was studying me. "Here we are, dear chum, binding you to your bed – how thoughtless." His gaze moved to his son. "Come, Willi, we must give the Baron time alone to bathe and dress – so he can join us for the picnic."

"Thank you." I suddenly realised I had to relieve myself. Quickly. I glanced at the lad to see if he was going to resist or be reasonable. Willi chose to be reasonable – in a way. He propped his elbow on the bed beside me and, looking directly at me, put his chin in the palm of his hand. "You will hurry, won’t you, Herr Baron?" I nodded. "We’ll wait for you in Vati’s study then." He pulled back and, clutching his rocket tightly, ran to his father at the door.

Turning back, he held his toy rocket towards me. "I’ll have to send my V-1 after you, Baron, if you’re late." Janus took the boy by the hand and led him into the hallway and he pulled the door closed behind them.

I pushed back the covers and ran to the toilet off my room.

* * *

Jorsten set out lunch on an outcropping that rose perhaps fifteen feet above the water. The seagrass was thin and already turned brown with the arrival of autumn. Young Willi insisted that he show me his ocean as the corporal spread a cloth for our picnic. As the lad took my hand, I thought I saw the corporal nod to von Kys.

"Show our English Baron both Finland and Sweden from Landsende, Willi," his father told him while smiling mischievously at me. The boy immediately led me onto a nearly overgrown path that carried us down along the side of the promontory onto a thin shingle at water’s edge.

I understood well what was beginning to happen on the outcropping behind us. I had known that mischievous smile of von Kys’ for three years at Oxford. Knowing him, he had waited for us to disappear along the overhang before he reached for his Corporal Jorsten.

The German lad seemed nice enough and was quite handsome. I did not begrudge my old friend a few moments of sexual release. Nor did I mind watching his young son while he achieved it with his corporal.

As my feet tracked through the cold, muddy sand, however, I did mind that I was more than a thousand miles from where I increasingly found myself wanting to be. I wondered what Barry was doing. Had classes begun? No, not yet. That was still a week away. Perhaps he was entertaining students he and Eliza had already met and become friends with. I smiled as I wondered if Roger and his wife had yet managed to acclimatised themselves to having an eighteen year old American under foot. A mischievous one who so thoroughly complimented Elizabeth’s own behaviour.

"You are daydreaming, Herr Baron," Willi informed me and tapped my shin lightly with the width of his shoe. "Come back. I do not like to be alone."

I chuckled at the plaintiveness of his tone. "And are you alone often, Wilhelm von Kys?"

He studied me, his arms at his side. "Too often, Herr Baron. There is only Nurse and Cook and Vati – and sometimes Mutti. Oh! And sometimes Alexander."

"Alexander?"

"Nurse’s friend. You met him yesterday."

Alexis Kolawaski. Alexander was the German version of the man’s name. I nodded absently. So, that was how the man had managed not to be rounded up with other ethnic Poles. I wondered how Janus rationalised harbouring a Pole on his estate – and a spy at that.

"You sound as if you have a full queue of friends, Willi."

"They’re all grown-ups like you, Herr Baron. They’re all servants except for Vati and Mutti."

I gazed at him and wondered how old I had been when I finally realised part of Miss Murray’s interest in me was because she was paid to be concerned. I had been nine or ten years of age then – double young Willi’s few years. Even after I had known that a duty of a servant was to watch me, I had still thought of him or her as my friend.

"You begin school – what? In two years time?"

He looked down at the sand and began to draw small circles with the toe of his shoe. "Yes. And, then, I shall really be alone."

"But, Willi, you’ll meet a whole queue of lads your age, of your social position too. They will become your friends – friends you’ll have all your life."

"Mutti won’t like that. Sometimes I think she wishes I wasn’t even here."

"How could she?" I cried in surprise. "You’re the most interesting boy I know. I certainly would like to be your friend."

"You would?" he asked, looking up and studying me again.

I nodded and knew I meant it. I did rather like the child. Pulling out my watch, I saw that we had given von Kys and his corporal thirty minutes already. "We should probably start back, don’t you think?"

"Why? I like being here with you, Herr Baron."

"Because I want to try Cook’s special potato salad before your father and Jorsten eat it all up."

He laughed and grabbed my hand. "Then, come, my friend. We need to hurry back or you will get none."

We had begun to make our way back when a sound pulled my attention back towards the sea. A roar. I glanced up to see if a storm had suddenly come upon us.

The sky was clear above us and I was momentarily confused.

The boy beside me giggled as I strained to peer into the distance at the sound. "It’s Vati’s security, Herr Baron. They patrol the shore in motorised boats."

I spotted something on the horizon moving quickly towards us then and watched it come closer to us, speeding towards us. A moment later, I discerned a second sound coming from the opposite direction, from near the island this child had pointed out to me yesterday on the balcony.

I watched as each boat raced towards the shore of our promontory and each other. They passed at less than a hundred yards from us. They each held two men dressed in Waffen-SS black. And I could not help but see the machine guns set prominently near the bow of each small boat. In each boat, one of the uniformed men leant forward to hold the weapon at ready.

Willi waved frantically as the boats passed each other and sped on. "They never wave back," he said with dejection in both his voice and face.

"Are they looking for someone then?" I asked without really expecting a reply as young Willi and I stood in the sand beneath the elevated rock.

"They patrol, Herr Baron. Every hour."

I knew with a sinking heart that there was no way Alexis could get the scientists to Poland by water. I needed an aeroplane.

Food had been laid out on the cloth and von Kys lay beside it, waiting for us. His face was still flushed from sex and he had discarded his tie, sweater, and jacket. He smiled knowingly at me as young Willi and I approached him.

"We saw the motor boats, Vati," the boy told him.

"Did they wave back at you this time?"

"They never do – even after you say you’re going to talk to them."

Von Kys nodded. "They have their assignments, Wilhelm – and too many in the new Germany have already forgotten the fun that there is in just living."

Kneeling on the edge of the cloth, Jorsten asked his Graf if he wanted potato salad and leant to spoon a dollop on the plate he was holding.

"Dagi, fix a plate for Willi first, please." von Kys said and turning to me continued: "Do you remember as a child how they always served the adults first? I could never understand that – it’s the child who becomes hungry the fastest. He eats less at a sitting and burns more energy."

I nodded and watched the corporal as he looked to the flaxen-haired boy. Willi nodded to the uniformed man and smiled his thanks to his father.

After Jorsten had served the three of us, he pushed himself to his feet and made to leave us to eat. "No, Dagi, you shall stay with us," von Kys told him. "You are family with Willi and myself."

I blinked at my friend’s slip and quickly looked out to the sea to hide my momentary embarrassment for him. Accepting one’s paramour publicly, especially a lover from a lower class, was simply too gauche; but I suspected young Willi would not comprehend his father’s breach of social behaviour. I pretended not to.

The autumn sun was warm despite the brisk breeze blowing off the sea. I pulled off my jacket and lay at one end of the cloth, propping myself up on an elbow as I ate – as did my companions.

"I loved coming here as a child," von Kys observed, waving a jointed leg and thigh above his head to indicate the whole promontory. "I could lay just at the edge of the rock there," he pointed to the cliff face, "and stare towards Finland and Sweden and listen to the surf on the sand below me. It was as if I could see and hear the whole world, right here – that I was at the edge of the world, studying it in its entirety." He smiled. "I hope Wilhelm as he grows older will love it as much as I have." He laughed and reached over to ruffle the boy’s hair. "It helps to imagine yourself as a god when you’re growing up – then, if you do it properly, you can appreciate that things must work at their own pace, and why."

I had been relaxing, becoming hypnotised by the sound of his voice, the sound of the surf below us, the warmth of the sun, and having a stomach filled with good food. I was pulled from my stupor by the roar of the boats as they made yet another pass along the shore. I glanced at von Kys but he appeared to be paying them no attention. Jorsten, too, seemed oblivious to them. I realised Willi had curled up and was taking a nap. I smiled at the peacefulness that covered us all like a glove.

"Come, Petersholme," von Kys said as he stood. "I would show you the future – at least, its birthplace."

I stood and followed him to the right side of the promontory. Below us and stretching for what seemed miles towards the east was a thin, muddy shingle of sand. He pointed towards the horizon.

"There, at approximately five kilometres – you can just make out the top of the buildings – is Peenemünde."

I squinted and gazed towards the east. I thought I could just make out at least one building that must have been quite tall. "I think I can see them," I told him.

He chuckled. "Wait another half hour, my friend. You shall be absolutely sure you see it then."

I glanced about us and saw that Willi was still asleep and that Jorsten was cleaning up. I took a deep breath and said softly: "I need an aeroplane, old lad."

Von Kys turned to face me slowly. He kept the smile on his face. "That will involve me deeper than I can easily dig myself out, Petersholme."

"Your Jews cannot leave by ship as their families did," I explained. "You did ask me to ensure they were safe, didn't you?"

He nodded and shuddered. "Do you still fly?"

I smiled. "You can’t take away that freedom from a man once he’s tasted it, von Kys."

"They have mine, Robbie. It is illegal for a private citizen to own an aeroplane. It would be treason if the government knew I did."

"But you do have one?"

He nodded. "How many will you carry out?"

"Three. Your two scientists and the Polish agent…"

He chuckled. "So! Alexis is still here at Schloß Kys?"

I stared at him. "You know about him, don’t you?"

He grinned more broadly. "It would appear that Nurse cannot do without him." He looked back at where Jorsten was folding the cloth. "I have kept my Dragonfly serviced, though I’ve not flown it in nearly two years."

"The De Havilland Dragonfly?" He nodded. "I saw one at an air show last year. It’ll do nicely."

"It will be perfect, Petersholme. It sits the pilot and three passengers."

I shrugged. "That is nice. Alexis is of the opinion we’ll need to leave tonight – as am I."

"Is there a reason?"

"You’re being watched by the Gestapo – the Schloß is. The increased patrols along the shore. The removal of ethnic Poles from the area."

"So, we’re being watched." He snorted. "I'd assumed as much. And, yes, we have completed this leg of the development, Petersholme – whether this test succeeds or not. It would be just like the Reichsführer to kill my faithful Jews now that they’ve done their job. It would make Gisele a happy woman."

I raised a brow in question.

"She intends to visit Peenemünde as the Gräfin – if we succeed today. With those two gone, there would be no Jews to muck up her sweet Aryan nostrils when she appears with her camera crew."

Von Kys saw that Jorsten was returning from the car and lowered his voice. "The aeroplane is in the lean-to about a kilometre west of where we stand now. You’ll have to use the track that runs along the shore. It should be packed solid enough. You’ll need petrol, but Alexis can take care of that. Just tell him that there can be no witnesses."

A quick smile played across my lips in acknowledgement. "You said you sold this delta island to the government?" I asked loudly enough for my voice to carry.

He laughed as Jorsten reached us. "I was lucky, what? But, then, it was more a swamp than anything. The saline content of the island’s soil is so high that it’s useless for planting." He looked back towards the car and beyond. "The Dutch do it, of course – but reclaiming land from the sea is the only way they can have land. I have ten thousand hectare here, Petersholme – most of it in cultivation. I didn’t need Peenemünde or the expense of making it useful to me. The government was quite willing to take it and use it in ways no farmer would imagine."

"And if your project is successful, von Kys?"

He smiled and his pride was evident. "This will become the Adolf Hitler Space Port someday, my friend – the centre of the solar system. They might even name a rocket pad after me."

"Fifteen minutes, Herr Graf," Jorsten told Janus.

I felt cold suddenly. Successful or not, the ability of the Germans even to be testing a rocket meant they were far ahead of Britain. I remembered again Molloy’s fear of the things as weapons.

Von Kys grinned like a small boy and clapped his hands. "Yes. Oh, yes!" he whooped. "Finally!" He stepped quickly to Willi and, awakening the child, picked him up and came back to join us at the edge of the overhang. "Now we’ll see what Vati has been working on, Wilhelm – the future of Germany itself." He glanced at me and smiled. "Your binoculars, Dagi. I would ensure that the English Baron sees one of the weapons that will make the Fatherland invincible."

"Vati, may I use yours?" Willi asked and wiped sleep from his eyes. "I want to see too ... Please?"

"Of course, Liebchen," von Kys told his son and ruffled his head, pulling him closer to himself. "You’re the one who must see what I’ve worked so long for."

I focused the corporal’s binoculars towards the east. I found two buildings rising out of what should have been marsh along the shore and guessed I had found Peenemünde. I couldn’t see much at five kilometres.

There was a sudden plume of smoke there across the dark sea and, a moment later, something began rising from the island. A speck even with the help of the binoculars, but one that seemed to grow quickly.

A wave of sound crashed over the promontory. A shrieking drone, rising higher and higher in the afternoon silence.

"We did it!" von Kys yelled. I glanced over at him and saw that he had begun to dance with young Wilhelm in his arms. He danced in place but his excitement was absolute. "We have done it, Willi! The eagle flies!"

I turned back towards the east and watched what had been a speck in the binoculars become a long cylinder-shaped monster seemingly heading directly at me. Its droning scream was deafening.

"My God!" I groaned as the monster passed over us in an unimaginable rush and the noise began slowly to abate. With the binoculars, I followed its progress as it rushed along the shore.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"Herr Graf?" the housekeeper called to von Kys as our car pulled to a stop in front of the entrance of the manor.

We had just returned from our picnic where we had watched the successful test of von Kys’ rocket. Janus stepped out of the car and quickly approached the housekeeper standing at the entrance. I got out more slowly, waking Willi enough to let him climb into my arms where he promptly returned to his nap. I stood beside the car across the drive from von Kys and watched as the housekeeper spoke to him. Corporal Jorsten drove the car around to the garage.

Turning, von Kys stared out at the visa behind me, all trace of his earlier high spirits gone. "What’s wrong?" I asked as I stepped towards him, the sleeping boy snuggled against me.

"I cannot even have my moment of victory without Gisele upstaging me," he responded, his voice expressionless. "She has telephoned and would have me ring her back."

"Perhaps she simply wanted to congratulate you?" I offered as I approached him.

"She is not capable of being that human, Petersholme. But I shall call her back." He dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand and smiled at me. "You handle the role of loving father well, old lad. You should have a few of your own."

"Not for some time, I think, von Kys. Being a momentary substitute for a real father isn’t the same as having twenty-four hour duty as one."

He nodded but his thoughts had already slipped from young Willi in my arms. "The gall of that woman!" he grumbled through clinched teeth.

We stood for several moments at the entrance of the house while he pulled his thoughts back from contemplation of his wife. "Verdammte!" he growled as anger suffused his face again with an even darker blush. "The swine actually dared to come here to call on me!"

"Who did, old lad?" I asked, realising that he had changed gender and was referring to someone other than his wife. I was surprised by his vehemence, forgetting the weight of the sleeping child in my arms.

"Our local Gauleiter."

"Gauleiter?" The word meant ‘district leader’, but even knowing that meant nothing to me – except that my friend was probably referring to some local official.

"He’s the party’s area administrator, but he is an incompetent buffoon if he is anything. For some reason, he has it firmly fixed in his head that von Kys is the cause of everything bad that has ever happened to him and his family." He snorted. "The moron would do anything to damage my family and its reputation." He took a deep breath and shrugged. "He has never been a guest at Schloß Kys, Petersholme – and never will. Still, I can’t help but wonder what titbit of slime he intended to give me when he appeared at my door."

"Could he endanger you – or your people?"

"No. At least not directly. Because of my position in the Waffen-SS and Gisele’s at the Reichskanzlerei with Hitler and Hess, he has no real authority over this estate. And he cannot enter Peenemünde for any reason  so he cannot affect my work."

"Forget about him then," I suggested. "He can only be obnoxious if you permit him to be."

Von Kys chuckled. "Good old Petersholme – always the pragmatist." He looked at Willi sleeping in my arms. "We should go in and get warm. I’ll telephone Gisele and learn what the newest gossip is in Berlin." He opened the door and held it for me. "Could it be that Reichsmarschall Göring has put another inch to his already ample girth? Or, perhaps, that the Propaganda Minister is to be a father yet again?" He scratched his head as he veered towards the study and the telephone there. "I think he has seven little Goebbels now – or is it only six?"

As I carried him inside, Willi’s nurse arrived at the foot of the stairs and took the sleeping boy from me. I turned to see von Kys slip into the study. Wondering what it would be like to be married to a woman I neither loved nor respected, I crossed the hall and stood gazing out at the entrance to the estate through the window beside the front doors.

I wondered how my friend had come to be in this mess as I heard the murmur of his voice through the opened doors to his study. It would be unthinkable for someone from the small village of Bellingham to attempt to oppose me. For that matter, the constabulary in Coventry would give a lad a whack if someone there sought to embarrass me unless he had piles of evidence to support himself.

It was, of course, true that Britain was a Monarchy and Germany had been a republic since 1918. But, still, I had watched von Kys’ few remaining servants and recognised the same feelings among them as my own had towards me. There was the same respect and mutual trust here as there was at Bellingham Hall.

I wondered how the Nazis had managed to pervert the local culture so severely that is could destroy the relationship between a Lord and his dependants. Even Cromwell's so-called Republic in England hadn't been able to sever the link between the people and the Lords who protected them. Yet, after only five short years of Hitler’s Nazis, someone like the Count von Kys could be intimidated by a dissatisfied local commoner. It was difficult for me to understand.

"Verdammte!" von Kys bellowed. A moment later there was a crash as something landed against a wall in the study.

I walked quickly to the open study and looked in. Von Kys was pacing back and forth in front of his desk. "Are you all right?" I asked.

"She is coming to Schloß Kys – tonight!" He stopped in midstride and his head snapped around to face me. "Shut the door, Petersholme. There are things we need to discuss."

I shut the door and walked over to him. "Whatever is the matter, old lad?"

"Nothing!" he growled.

"I’ve never seen you this agitated, von Kys. Something is disturbing you."

He studied me in silence so long I became increasingly nervous. He sighed then. "Tonight, you’ll need to include Dagold to your passenger list," he said with a cold smile painted across his face.

"Corporal Jorsten?" He nodded. "A Waffen-SS non-commissioned officer is going to want to flee the Fatherland and the leader he’s pledged to give his life for?" I asked, not understanding at all. The idea of it even, from what I had learnt of the party’s military arm, was ludicrous.

Von Kys grunted and moved behind his desk. He collapsed into it. "You have to understand that Dagold’s brother is Wilhelm’s biological father, Petersholme. When the lad wouldn’t marry Gisele to give the child a legal father, she was enraged."

"But you married her…"

He laughed. "Oh, yes, I married her. I, a Drecksau, married a woman with child. Her father was so pleased that he paid off my dead father’s debts. She was so relieved that she introduced me to the top party hierarchy and made possible what I have accomplished here. But Gisele is truly made for hate. And she has hated the Jorsten family these past five, almost six years – starting with the young student with whom she had slept and spreading to include all family members. She becomes quite insane where that family is involved, my friend."

"I can see that she would be a bit piqued but how does this relate to young Jorsten?

"Dagi’s brother was executed this morning."

I stared at him in disbelief. My knees felt weak as I attempted to grapple with this insertion of insanity into the conversation. I moved to a chair beside von Kys’ desk and sank into it gratefully. "Whatever for?" I managed to ask.

"She had one of the women from her office in the Bund Deutscher Mädel claim he raped her. He was arrested last week. Charges were brought before a people’s court yesterday – Gisele was quite gleeful that he was convicted within the hour. Sentence was carried out at dawn. The Gräfin was actually there to watch."

"But Jorsten’s done nothing, has he?"

"He was born a Jorsten – that’s enough for the woman. Her revenge won’t be complete until she has killed both of the brothers." He smiled suddenly. "She put us together, you know?"

"What?"

"Four years ago, he was sixteen – still a student at gymnasium. Just before the purge, she had Röhm send his SA goons to pick the lad up. He was brought here. I watched in shock as she gave him a choice – be buggered by me or she would give him to a squad of SA to work him over. She made it very obvious that, either way, he lost his virginity."

Von Kys snorted. "Dagi only thought about it for a moment before he asked where my bedroom was. I got him into the Waffen-SS immediately after he graduated the gymnasium and assigned to me. It was the only way I could protect him from her."

"That’s horrible!" I groaned, instantly wishing I were comfortably in England.

"That wasn’t all of her news." Von Kys stepped to the fireplace and, turning to face me, propped his elbows on the mantel. I watched him with fascination, like a vole watching the cat preparing to devour him.

"The Führer has removed the last exemptions for employing members of an inferior race. All employers have one week to remove non-Germans from their work rosters. The only exemptions are those approved personally by Himmler’s office."

I stared at him in surprise, my mouth agape.

"This includes my two scientists, Petersholme." He turned suddenly, balled his fist and slammed it against the wall. "Those men just gave Germany the weapon that will win any war we march into. Their contribution was at least as great as von Braun’s or the other gentiles. How could he do this to them?" He shook his head slowly. "They were good Germans," he groaned to himself. "Good men."

"Does your aeroplane have petrol, von Kys?"

He nodded and, beginning to smile, turned back to face me fully. "The Dragonfly. That’s right, you’re going to get them out – after dinner." He took a deep breath. "Alexis shall need to siphon every machine on the farm this afternoon. You’ll have your petrol, just get these people out of here."

"How about you?" I asked. "Will you be found out?" I studied him closely. "Can you survive something like that?"

Von Kys snorted. "My eagle flew only this morning, Petersholme. Göring and Jodl will prevail at the Reichskanzlei if I am ever suspected, not Himmler and Gisele."

The smile melted from his lips as his face went lax. "Verdammte!" he growled finally. "So, that’s what this was all about."

"What was what all about?"

"The Gauleiter’s visit this morning. That brute would not have dared to come here unless Gisele suggested it to him."

"You don’t know that, von Kys."

"Don’t I? Look at my position, Petersholme. No piece of offal, even if he is a party official, would invade the home of a German noble who is also a colonel in the Waffen-SS. Unless the Countess invited him."

"How would their collusion benefit either of them?"

"Dagi or the Jews – or both – for Gisele. For him, just being able to embarrass me in my own home would be pleasure enough."

"We need to get the petrol from your cars and tractors – then to the aeroplane," I told him, beginning to sort this thing out. I did not like the sense of fear already nipping at my heels. I knew if I simply sat through the afternoon and thought about this mess I had walked into, it would not be just my heels my fears would be nipping at by the time I was aboard von Kys’ aeroplane.

"You’re going to have to do most of this yourself, Petersholme. Can you get Alexis to help you?"

"I suppose I can. But what are you going to be doing?"

He chuckled. "Remember? I’m having a dinner to celebrate our success this afternoon. And, thanks to Gisele, I am very short of servants."

Ah, yes! A party. Good thing, that. As, from every direction, danger crept stealthily towards us. Nero fiddling whilst Rome burnt.

I stood. "You need to give me detailed instructions to where you’ve hidden your aeroplane, old lad. I need to give them to Alexis."

I saddled a horse and went in search of Alexis. I found him in his potato field.

"No time for that, lad," I called out to him as I approached. He looked up and watched as I pulled up beside him.

"Lord Petersholme, you seem…" he paused and appeared to fumble for a word, "excited."

"You need to siphon off petrol from the cars – from the tractors as well and anything else you can find."

"What for?"

"We have an aeroplane but need the fuel."

"How much do we need?"

Bloody arse! This Alexis Kolawaski would have to ask a perfectly sensible question like that. With me acting like some excitable Frenchmen instead of using my head.

"It’s a de Havilland Dragonfly – that’s two engines," I told him, trying to think my way to an answer. "It has a passenger cabin that sits four, including the pilot – a maximum of a ton, don’t you think?" He waited, studying me blankly. "Two thousand pounds, that is."

"How many litres would that require?"

Litres? Why couldn’t these people on the continent learn to use normal measures? I tried to remember my summer in Germany and the damnable weights and measures I’d used then. A litre was a little less than a quarter of a gallon. "How far are we from Polish territory?" I asked, beginning to figure fuel needs in my head.

"Directly, as a bird would fly?" He pursed his lips. "Perhaps a hundred and seventy-five kilometres to the nearest aerodrome. Somewhat less if you can set down in a small air field."

"We’ll need at least fifty gallons for me to be comfortable – say, two hundred and fifty litres."

"That is a lot of petrol, Lord Petersholme."

"Do what you can then."

"Has something happened to rush things?"

"Hitler just took the exemption off employing Jews – those two men need to leave tonight or their families will never see them again."

"I may not be able to get to their living quarters – they are more closely guarded."

"They’ll be here at von Kys’ celebration dinner. Their rocket flew today."

"I saw, my Lord."

"You should have heard the thing! It sounded like it was coming directly from hell."

"It will sound even worse, my Lord, when Poland is already ground into the dirt under their boots, and that thing is a weapon of war and comes raining down out of the sky over one of your cities."

"Will you be able to ferret out the farm machinery for its petrol?"

He laughed and wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead. "It is autumn, most of the machinery has already been put away – what there is of it. The Graf von Kys has failed to modernise his estate. So – yes ... I have time." He studied me for a few moments. "And what will you be doing while I look for petrol, Lord Petersholme?"

"I want to inspect this aeroplane of von Kys’. I’ve never seen a Dragonfly up close. I’m used to open bi-planes."

"I would suggest you refrain from that activity until we are ready to depart." I stared at him without comprehension. "We should suppose that you – that we – are being watched, my Lord. We do not want to be followed closely when it is time to make our escape." He shrugged. "It is a risk that you will not be comfortable with the controls, but it is one we shall need to take."

I cringed. He was right. And I had forgotten the two Gestapo agents he mentioned the night before. I suspected immediately that I made a terrible spy. I was the sort that the nasty lads found out and shot at dawn – like poor Jorsten's brother.

"Let me show you where the aeroplane is located," I told Kolawaski and slipped out of the saddle. I handed him the map von Kys had drawn for me and pointed out the shed. "We’ll have another passenger tonight."

He looked up and studied me. "Escapes are usually easier, my Lord, the fewer people who are involved."

I explained about Jorsten, deleting only the sexual connection between the Graf and the boy. I also told the Pole that von Kys expected that the security of the estate would be breached through the connection he'd seen existing between the Gräfin and the Gauleiter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Max Molloy opened his eyes and glanced over his shoulder to see that his companion was still asleep, his body spooned against Max’s backside. Max moved to lie on his back and turned his head to study Alan Dudding’s face better.

It had already been three weeks since that bloody Yank of Petersholme’s had forced him to meet Dudding – as an equal.

He couldn’t remember a time since his student days that he’d been happier. Thanks to Alan Dudding. He allowed himself a smirk – and thanks to that damnable Barry Alexander as well. Not that he would ever admit it to the American. He wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

It had, however, taken the Yank finding him out to bring down his barriers, barriers that Molloy hadn’t even realised were there much before three weeks ago. Barry had done so most rudely, even crudely. It was what he’d come to expect of England’s former colonials after spending most of the summer in the overheated kitchen they called a Capital. Brash, rude, and crude. No sense of propriety at all. It took that kind of approach to make some people wake up to themselves and to their needs. Ruefully, Molloy admitted it had with him.