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Aqib frowned and took a deep breath. “Fine. I need someone who’s stupid enough to steal from one of the richest British businessmen in the Colony. I’ve only known you three weeks, but you seem the type. You game?”
Reluctantly, Lightfoot unwound the string holding the docket together and opened it. Inside were handwritten notes on documents and a number of illustrations — the biggest being one of a diamond. A rather ethereal diamond.
He closed the docket and looked straight into Aqib’s eyes. “And the October House never finds out?”
“Trust me, Lightfoot.”
Lightfoot had only known Aqib since his ship arrived in the harbour, which wasn’t long. Although he could be stern at times, the handler was kind when the occasion arose for him to be. It must have been hard for him to be an agent of colour at the October House.
The agency reprimanded agents they caught doing missions on the side. Sure, Lightfoot had heard of agents who’d accepted small jobs and bagged the swag, but those whose freelance stories made their way back to superior ears were soon expelled from the House and disappeared. For good.
After much contemplation, Lightfoot tucked the docket under his left arm and swallowed. “One hundred pounds is a lot of coin. In and out?” He wasn’t even sure what he could possibly do with all that money. Perhaps buy his own way to Santorini.
“Like the wind.”
If Lightfoot’s career, and quite possibly his life, was on the line, it had to be done on his terms and his alone. He gave Aqib a tight smile, then nodded his head. “Right. Then in that case, I’m off to sleep. Because the Lord knows I’ll need all the strength I can muster for evening-suit shopping later.”
Chapter Four
Harley awoke on the morning of the sixth to a feeling of absolute dread. It pushed down on his ribs as though a phantom from a night terror held him in place in the centre of the bed with a calcified grip. He was at once icy cold and feverishly warm. It was the most uncomfortable sensation he had ever experienced. To admit that was quite something. Harley had once spent six months in Great Britain after all. How his father did it yearly was beyond him.
He sat up and sucked in the muggy air of his bedroom through his teeth. The pressure nestled deep within his chest eased, but only just. Once he’d fully woken up and his brain jogged to life, Harley’s eyes surveyed his bedroom. The oriental rug on the floor, a walnut bookcase bursting with volumes of art theories, and old paintings of children and flowers on the walls were still draped in evening gloom from the curtains pulled tightly together from the night before. Only a pale blush of what appeared to be sunlight could be seen through the lattice brocade fabric.
It was yet another morning, and Harley still lacked both the inspiration and gumption he desired to practice his sketch technique. College began in a few weeks, and if he intended to impress his future professors with his craft and become the envy of his fellow students, he sure wasn’t acting as though he wanted to. But he did, that was the worst part. It was all that consumed every waking hour of his days. That, and of course, Theodore Quick. Dastardly, discourteous and diabolical —
No, Harley thought. I shan’t be diving into that endless loop of misery again. There were truly only so many times an individual could torment themselves in a cycle of overthinking. He had exceeded his limit, at least for now. Instead, he kicked off the thick blanket, swung his legs through the mosquito canopy and padded towards the curtains, pulling them open one after the other.
Once he had parted the lace behind them, the emerald green lawns beyond the window greeted him as a pair of orange-breasted sunbirds could be heard chirping in the Outeniqua Yellowwood a few metres away. Harley squinted his eyes against the almost sickly idyllic summer’s day and pushed open the window.
The torrid air that poured in did little to stagger the ball of anxiety in his chest. It was the time of the year when every day was a constant swelter. The air was thick, and heavied Harley’s eyelids. He had considered sleeping in one of the downstairs bedrooms where it was cooler during the summer months — although only just — but his mother wouldn’t have it. She was at that dizzy age where parents became increasingly particular with how their homes should be run and how its occupants were to behave. It played on Harley’s nerves, but it didn’t take much to brush his mother off. It was only during those moments when her useless chatter interrupted his train of thought when he was outside attempting to sketch their Dutch Renaissance manor in all its white marble and red stone glory, that irritation crept under Harley’s skin. It wasn’t that he blamed his mother’s constant badgering on his inability to sit down and draw, but it certainly lent its hand in distracting him from making any progress.
He groaned and ran a sticky hand over his mouth. No cool air to calm the anxious boil In his chest. No motivation to seek creativity. No Theodore.
Yes, it was yet another morning.
Dorcas and Vera, two of the family’s chambermaids, entered Harley’s bedroom just as he finished smoking his Duke cigarette. He could tell by the way they wrinkled their button noses that they found the stench of the smoke to be nauseating, but to their credit they still managed to greet him cheerfully as they got to work.
Dorcas scratched around the bowels of his wardrobe, removing items of clothing and placing them on the unmade bed. She was supposed to have made the bed first, but Harley didn’t mind. He only hoped she didn’t slip up when preparing his mother’s room in the mornings, or God forbid, his father’s.
A brushed cotton frock coat from London lay by the pillow, as well as black plaid trousers, a high-collared dress shirt, a double-breasted vest and Harley’s favourite black cotton cravat.
Harley held the cuff of the dress shirt between his thumb and index fingers. How can one wear such stuffy clothing on a scalding day like this? He considered lighting another Duke to see how Dorcas would react and contemplated how far he could push her until the chambermaid’s eyes watered and she’d have to excuse herself, but thought against it on the last second. It was far too malicious to poke fun at a chambermaid, and Harley was not a malicious gentleman. But he knew someone who was.
Suddenly, despite the oppressive heat of the day, Harley felt the urge to flee the comfort of his house almost at once, and venture into the hellish outside. His intention for doing so, an epiphany of sorts, was not only foolish but reckless too. In God’s almighty name, don’t I deserve some damned long overdue answers? Something consumed him then, transforming his ball of anxiety into one of nervous excitement as he stripped himself of his thin night gown and began to dress once Dorcas and Vera had exited the room.
Chapter Five
His mother was returning from her morning visit to the conservatory in the back of the garden when Harley stepped out onto the porch, straw hat in hand. She appeared wraith-like, nearly transparent in her white dress underneath the parasol she held over her greying head. She held an issue of The Argus in her pale right hand.
His mother’s thin mouth twisted in surprise when her eyes landed on Harley, who hadn’t left the house in days. Yet here he was, standing in front of her, his hair slicked and combed, face baby smooth and perfume dabbed against the sides of his neck.
A cautious expression arrested her features. “Where are you off to?”
Harley shrugged. “I don’t intend to go anywhere in particular.” He knew exactly where he intended to go.
“I’ll walk you to the gate.”
Harley rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to, Mother. It’s not very far.”
