He loved knowing Kim’s body, being able to choose the words and the acts that would transfigure his narrow face into beauty and make his dark eyes black with anguished pleasure. This time Will had him on his hands and knees, for the pleasure of seeing him twist and writhe, arching back towards him. Touch me; I shudder and my lips turn back Over my shoulder...

He bit that shoulder as Kim came, wanting to mark the pale skin, finished in a few forceful thrusts that wrung out a last spasm of pleasure from his lover, and collapsed over his back with a grunt.

“Missed me?” Kim enquired breathlessly.

“On and off.” Will kissed the place he’d bitten. “You’ve been all right?”

“Extremely so. I will tell you at dinner. On which—”

Will glanced at the clock and heaved himself off. Peacock seemed to accept his employer’s goings-on as a matter of course, but his work had to be respected, which meant not messing around when food was ready. “Better get dressed.”

They were restored to decency by the time Peacock announced that dinner was served, in tones more appropriate to a State funeral. Kim filled two wine glasses with a good French red. They clinked.

“Cheers,” Kim said. “To book sales and hidden treasures. And absent friends.”

There was something in his voice that made Will’s ears prick up. “What’s that?”

The smile on Kim’s face was like the sun breaking through after rain. “I’ve been waiting to tell you. I had a letter from Phoebe.”

Will put down his glass. “You did?”

Kim’s former fiancée was in Paris, working with aspiring couturier Marguerite Zie, also known as Will’s best friend Maisie Jones. Kim had written to her several times but Phoebe had not replied before. She’d lost her father, Lord Waring, just as she’d learned he was the head of Zodiac, the criminal organisation Kim and Will had been up against. Devastating stuff, played out in a pretty brutal way, and while that hadn’t been Kim’s fault as such, he’d handled the whole business about as badly as possible. Will couldn’t blame her for wanting space after that, but Kim loved her dearly and her absence was another of his unhealed wounds. A letter from Phoebe mattered.

“I did,” Kim said, turning the glass in his fingers. “Not a long one, but she’s a surprisingly poor epistolary correspondent, considering. She says that she’s well, that they’re both having a high old time. Detailed a few successes. Apparently Teddy Molyneux has asked after you. Should I be jealous?”

“Course you should. I might sod off to Paris any minute.”

“She said that she was looking forward to seeing me when they next come to visit. And she signed off with love.”