Speak Its Name: A Trilogy by Lee Rowan, Charlie Cochrane, Erastes Page B

table.
    Why had McDonald survived the war, when so many good men were dead?
    And here he was back again, ruining what was left of another night’s rest. Jack sat up and flipped his pillow over, seeking a more comfortable position. He could not find one, and finally gave up on the prospect of getting to sleep. He wasn’t going to relax until he knew why Cecil McDonald was here and what he was up to.
    ~
    “McDonald!”
    “I’m afraid so, my lord.”
    “Damn.” Scoville closed his eyes again. He’d awakened feeling quite well, much better than he’d expected to, but Darling’s announcement was a headache all by itself. “Didn’t he tell you anything?”
    “Only that he believes there to be a man on board who is a danger to us all. I could not determine whether that was all he knew, or simply all he would tell me.”
    Scoville rubbed his forehead. “If we’re in danger, it’s stupid to play guessing games. What if he were killed before he told us?”
    “Well, my lord, should that happen, I suppose we would at least know that he was telling the truth.”
    “He’s a damned fool.”
    “I would certainly never contradict your lordship’s assessment of the gentleman’s character,” Darling said with an ironic look. “Ready for a shave, my lord? I’ve heated the water on the spirit lamp.”
    “Very well, Darling. I suppose if he’s going to inflict himself upon us I’d better be prepared. Seven, you said?”
    “That was the hour I suggested. I have no idea whether or not he will appear.”
    It was true that reliability had never been one of Cecil’s virtues. Hard to remember, now, whether he had actually been possessed of any apart from a willingness to engage in bedroom sport. That was all Scoville himself had been interested in when they were at Oxford, but he should have put the youthful indiscretion aside when he’d graduated. Allowing it to continue when they’d both entered the service had been a mistake.
    “Let’s make ourselves presentable, then. Or, rather, I must let you make me presentable—you are never anything less.”
    Their conversation ceased while Darling shaved him—sensible in any case, more so when the train’s movement made the ordinary task just a bit hazardous. If anyone else had been wielding the razor, Scoville would have postponed the shave until they reached their hotel. He considered being shaved a silly ritual—he could have done the job himself—but Darling did it better, his sure, deft hands scraping away the stubble with a surgeon’s skill. And the hot towel he drew across Scoville’s freshly-shaved face felt wonderful, easing the lingering headache from yesterday’s misadventure. By the time Darling patted on the bay rum, Scoville was feeling ready to take on the world.
    But seven a.m. came and went with no sign of a visitor. After they’d waited for half an hour, Darling went off to locate breakfast while his lordship gazed out the window at the scenery speeding by and mused on the night’s peculiar visitation.
    Cecil the ever-unreliable. Why the devil had he appeared on the train, instead of the café in Vienna in two days’ time? Why hadn’t he simply handed his parcel, whatever it was, to Darling? Surely he had to know that passing the information to Darling was every bit as secure as—
    No . Scoville’s thoughts hit a bump just as the train did, going over switch points. Perhaps he should consider the event in a different light. What if Cecil were not the courier?
    Well, if and when he appeared, that would be easy to ascertain; back in Whitehall, Smythe had given him coded countersigns. But McDonald might be playing some other game altogether, and if so it probably had nothing to do with their current errand. When they reached glorious Vienna, their first destination would be a telegraph counter, where he could wire a carefully worded query to Mr. Bloody Secretive Smythe. Something along the lines of, “Damn your eyes (stop) This is urgent (stop) Who