Chapter TwoA rising wind spattered rain against the panes and rattled the frame of the tiny window with its view of Whitehall. Watters slammed a hand on the pile of papers on his desk as the draught threatened to skiff them onto the floor.
'Blasted wind!' Running his gaze over the desk, he lifted a bottle of ink and placed it on the papers. 'We'll have to get a better office.' Lifting a candle, he applied the flame to the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe, puffing until it glowed red. 'When the world is glum,' he said, 'the only consolation is a good smoke.' He looked up, 'you remember that William when that woman of yours starts giving you trouble.'
'Angela will never give me trouble,' Silver said. 'She's a trump.'
'Wait until you're married to her.' Watters shielded the guttering candle
