Think of England by Kj Charles Page A

images, some a little blurry, black, grey and white snapshots of pleasure or depravity.
    “Christ!” he hissed as da Silva took out a photograph that made his guts turn over. “Put it away.”
    Da Silva didn’t. He was peering at the image, and Curtis glared at him. “For God’s sake. I know him. He was at Oxford a couple of years after me. Put it away.”
    “Which one do you know?”
    “The one—underneath.” The one on all fours, face contorted with pain or pleasure, shoulders gripped by the powerful man who knelt behind him.
    “Who is he?”
    “None of your business.”
    “Don’t be bloody stupid. Who is he, or more to the point, what does he do?” There was nothing louche in da Silva’s tone, rather a sharp urgency.
    “Foreign Office,” said Curtis reluctantly. “He’s an under-secretary.”
    “How ironic.” Da Silva’s words were clipped. “Because he’s under a secretary right there, or at least an attaché. The blond’s in the Prussian embassy.”
    Curtis stared at the fair-haired Prussian, captured in the act as he took the other man with obvious roughness. He felt peculiar, intrusive, quivering with illicit sensation. “I don’t think a Foreign Office man should be doing that with a Prussian diplomat.”
    “Nor do I.” Da Silva dropped the photo back into place and started going through more folders. “Here’s another one.”
    Curtis grabbed the photo, incredulous. “For the love of God. I know him as well. He was in my college. Belongs to my club.”
    “He belongs to a couple of mine, come to that. Not very discreet. Isn’t he an equerry of His Majesty?” Curtis nodded. “ Most indiscreet. Notice we can’t see the other chap’s face.” The equerry was obviously thrusting into a male body, but the recipient had his head buried in the sheets. Da Silva frowned. “Blond. I wonder if that’s the obliging footman.”
    “That fellow Wesley?” Curtis tried to call him to mind. “It could be, I suppose.”
    “And— Oh. Look.”
    Curtis looked at the photograph da Silva held out, a woman being enjoyed by, and taking a good deal of enjoyment from, a man with a Y-shaped scar on his shoulder. He didn’t recognise her, but as his gaze moved from the man’s body to his face, his mouth dropped open. “Isn’t that Lambdon?”
    “It is. And…” Da Silva flicked back to the beginning of the drawer and pulled out the first picture again. This photograph was framed so that the man in it was cut off at the neck, but da Silva’s finger tapped the distinctive scar on his shoulder. “It looks like this is too. Mr. Lambdon taking a leading role.”
    “Sir Hubert can’t be blackmailing his own brother-in-law!”
    “What makes you think it’s Lambdon being blackmailed? Come to that, what makes you think it’s just Sir Hubert blackmailing? Look at these, Curtis.” Da Silva swept his hand over the drawer of files. “How many Oxford contemporaries of yours have you seen in this lot, your time or younger?”
    “Three.” Two had been with men. The third was enjoying a meteoric rise in the Catholic Church, which would not be helped by the photograph of his copulation with a busty young woman.
    “Who in this house went to Oxford a couple of years after you? Who would know the gossip? Who’s best placed to invite these fearfully nice chaps for a spot of shooting, meet the pater?” Da Silva’s quiet tone was a vicious parody of an upper-class accent.
    “You can’t mean James Armstrong.”
    “Look at who they are. Think. James invites the young Turks, the ones with burgeoning careers and everything to lose. Sophie selects the ladies. Women talk, she’ll know who’s frustrated, who’s open to suggestions. They target them, they invite them, and then the footman, or her charming brother, or the bloody Prussian Ambassador beds them. It’s a family business.”
    Curtis thought about that, holding the torch while da Silva went through the next drawer at speed. It held a few more