The Sleeping Sands Read Online Free Page B

own glass and took a long, thirsty draught. Layard dutifully sipped his glass, savouring the sweet, luxurious taste and taking the opportunity to survey his uncle.
    William Layard was an imposing figure. He was as tall as young Henry, to which he added a girth that seemed to almost match his height, inch for inch. His hair, neck and cravat were all red; as was his nose and a number of blood vessels that appeared to have randomly burst across his features. This internal map of the bon viveur was sister to a similar, external map of his gastronomic adventures, spread across the globe of his body. His eyes, which, regardless of his bodily preoccupations, never left their study of his nephew, twinkled with mischief. His clothes, though well-made, were old and faded, with antique stains of dubious parentage. He had a faint scar, running from the corner of his right eye to the line of his jaw, which only became visible when his face flushed in mirth, or else to splutter on an over-hasty gulp of wine. Although adipose to the point of apparent incapacity, those movements he did make seemed to possess a balletic and almost feminine grace. Layard mentally noted that he had never before seen a decanter and glass handled so adroitly, not even by the most experienced Parisian sommelier, so that not a single drop was spilled nor wasted. William Layard seemed in fact to his nephew to be a complete opposite of his other uncle, the dry, particular Benjamin Austen. While one offered a lifetime of service to the dispassionate law, the other promised a lifetime of life. William Layard seemed to delight in every word he spoke, playing with each sentence the way a cat plays with a mouse.
    ‘I have to apologise for entertaining you in this dungeon, dear boy,’ continued his uncle, mopping at the corner of his mouth with a red silk handkerchief. ‘The other rooms are far more comfortable, but I felt the need for intimacy, since this is such an important family reunion. Besides,’ he added, pouring himself another glass and topping up Layard’s barely sipped one, ‘I have some reason for staying below the notice of certain individuals. I find it such a bore to complicate one set of business with another.
    ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘dear Sara writes exceedingly well of you’ he made a small sound like a sigh and flicked at his jacket sleeve, as if removing an imaginary crumb, ‘and I believe that others have spoken well of you, too. Mr Disraeli, Sir John and Mr Murray concur at the very least that you are not an imbecile and Canning has a faint notion that you may find some sort of useful purpose in life.’
    Layard opened his mouth to protest but was interrupted by his uncle.
    ‘More Madeira? Good. Never could stand modesty.
    ‘As I was saying, there are some of the less discerning among London society who consider you to be not beyond redemption. So, entertaining the fantasy that you may have some interesting qualities, I decided after all these years to make your acquaintance. But what do I find? You are articled to that pinnacle of tedium, Benjamin Austen.’
    ‘Mr Austen has been good to me –‘
    ‘I don’t doubt it, dear boy. Good is about the only thing Austen ever does, and then in the most unimaginative way possible. However, I suspect that it is due to Sara you get any consideration at all. No, no, no. If Mr Austen has his way, you shall end your days under a layer of dust and wig powder in the corner of some crumbling inn of court. That is not for you, boy. Not for a Layard. London is not for you.’
    ‘London?’
    His uncle leant forward, his bulk looming ominously over the table, which looked very frail by comparison.
    ‘Do you like tea, dear boy?’
    ‘Tea?’ Layard looked around, half expecting to see a tea service appear.
    ‘Tea,’ William Layard repeated. ‘Never touch it myself, but I believe some find it favourable.
    ‘The thing about tea, dear boy,’ continued his uncle, pronouncing each word with an