was propping himself up against a far wall of the huge marble-covered private bathroom, seemingly engrossed in pursuit of a stray eyelash.
'Quentin, do you remember King Edward the Second?'
'You mean the one they did for with the red-hot poker?' He puckered his lips in distaste at the legend of sordid butchery.
'If I hear a word of this conversation breathed outside these walls, you're going to become Quentin the First. And I personally am going to administer the poker. Get it?'
Quentin tried hard, very hard, to imagine the newspaper man was joking. He smiled encouragingly, but all he received in return was a sustained glare which left no room for doubt. Quentin remembered that Landless had never joked. He went back to cutting the hair, and said not another word.
She had taken the first editions up herself. She'd bumped into the messenger on the stairs.
'Nice to see you again, Miss.'
'Again' - Sally thought she detected undue inflexion on the word. Perhaps it was her imagination - or her guilt? No, not guilt. She had long ago decided not to run her life by codes and rules which others so blithely ignored. She owed no one, and there was no sense in being the only impoverished virgin in the cemetery.
He laid the newspapers side by side on the floor, and stood over them for a considerable time, lost in thought.
'It's started, Sally,' he said at last. She noted an edge of apprehension. 'Soon we shall be beyond the point of no return.'
'To victory.'
'Or to hell.'
'Come on, Francis, it's what you wanted. People beginning to ask questions.'
'Don't misunderstand. I'm not despondent, only a little cautious. I'm an Englishman, after all, and he is my King. And it appears we are not alone in asking questions. Who is this Quillington, this unknown peer with a mission?'
'Don't you know? He's the brother of the man who is, as it is said, close enough to Princess Charlotte to catch her colds. Always in the gossip columns.'
'You read gossip columns?' He was surprised; it was one of Elizabeth's least attractive breakfast traits. He eyed Sally closely, wondering if he would ever get the chance to eat breakfast with her.
'Many of my clients live in them. Pretend to be upset when they appear, are mortified when they don't.'
'So Quillington's a King's man, is he? And the King's men are already answering the call to battle.' He was still standing over the papers.
Talking of clients, Francis, you said you'd introduce me to some new contacts, but I've not met anyone apart from the occasional messenger and tea lady. For some reason we seem to spend all our time alone.'
'We're never truly alone. It's impossible in this place.'
She came behind him and slid her hands around his chest, burying her face in the crisp, clean cotton of his shirt. She could smell him, the male smell, its muskiness mixed with the pine starch and the faint tang of cologne, and she could feel the body heat already rising. She knew it was the danger he enjoyed, which made him feel he was conquering not only her but, through her, the entire world. The fact that at any moment a messenger or civil servant might blunder in only heightened his sense of awareness and drive; while he was having her he felt invincible. The time would come when he would feel like that all the time, would dispense with caution and recognize no rules other than his own, and even as he reached the height of his powers he would begin the downward slide to defeat. It happened to them all. They begin to convince themselves that each new challenge is no longer new but is simply a repeat of old battles already fought and won. Their minds begin to close, they lose touch and flexibility, are no longer attuned to the dangers they confront. Vision becomes stale repetition. Not Urquhart, not yet, but sometime. She didn't mind being used, so long as she could use him, too, and so long as she remembered that this, like all things, couldn't last forever. She ran her hands down his chest, poking her fingers between his shirt buttons. Prime Ministers are always pushed, initially by their own vanity and sense of impregnability, and eventually by the electorate or their own colleagues and political friends. Although not by a King, not for many years.
'Don't worry about your clients, Sally. I'll fix it.'
'Thank you, Francis.' She kissed the back of his neck, the fingers still