“You think I was expecting that? You think I expected help? Think I was waiting for you to call your men to order or give me a fair hearing, Tory?” He spat the word. Frey’s face was pale and drawn. “I know you now. I know right well what I can expect of you. So you just go off and do your duty, why don’t you, without worrying your pretty head about me. I don’t inform.” He gave the Tory a savage, mirthless grin. “Some of us have principles.”
—
Dominic made it through the rest of the day like a puppet on a single string. His limbs dragged. His skin felt as though it didn’t fit.
Silas. Silas Mason. The coarse name suited him, Dominic found himself thinking, and pushed the thought aside, but that just left space for the other thoughts, none of them welcome.
He listened to Skelton’s angry complaints of inadequate staffing and unenthusiastic searching, doing his best to nod along.
“They should have torn the place apart,” Skelton concluded. “He’s Cade. I’m sure of it. Have you ever seen a guiltier countenance?”
“Perhaps not, but I didn’t see any evidence either,” Dominic said. “Your belief isn’t enough to make a case.”
“I’ll find the evidence, believe me. Are you well, Mr. Frey? You look…”
Dominic grasped at the excuse. “I fear I may have some ailment, yes.”
“You looked dreadful in the bookshop,” Skelton said. “White as a ghost. Go home, sir.”
Dominic managed a smile. “I will.”
He took a hackney to Richard’s house in Albemarle Street. He’d sent a note to Richard late the previous night to let him know about the raid, so Harry would doubtless be there, or on his way, and probably his lover Julius with him, standing guard like a nervy whippet. They all came to Richard; everybody did. Richard knew what to do. Richard would help. Dominic clung to that.
It didn’t work as he’d hoped.
Julius and Harry arrived a few moments after he did, before he and Richard had had any chance to talk. Harry was white-faced and terrified. Julius’s fine, cold features were set like stone. Richard was simply furious, and Dominic, confronted with the full magnitude of the disgrace looming over them all, couldn’t face it. He doubled over as he sat, head in hands, struggling to breathe.
“For Christ’s sake, Frey!” Julius barked. “Sit up, pull yourself together, and talk to us!” The poised exquisite had been a cavalry officer at Waterloo, something that Dominic occasionally forgot in his impatience with Julius’s finicky ways, and his abrasiveness was more effective than any sympathy. Dominic forced himself upright and made himself recount the raid.
“Did they find anything?” Harry demanded.
“No. Our men made a damned mess of the place looking, but if there is anything illicit going on at the bookshop—don’t tell me—if there is, we didn’t find it.”
Harry collapsed into a seat, with evident relief, and Dominic’s last hope withered away at that unconscious admission. Harry knew something was going on, and was glad it hadn’t been discovered, and that meant it still could be. Would be, because Skelton was on the scent.
Silas was guilty. Dominic hadn’t known how much he had hoped it wouldn’t be true.
“Was this what you wanted to tell me last night?” Harry was asking.
He had gone late to Quex’s, the gentleman’s club and gambling hell where the Ricardians gathered, with a stupid, quixotic urge to warn Harry, and what would that have achieved but to spare a damned seditious criminal? “I shouldn’t have done. I was wrong to try. It was a matter of duty.”
“Your efforts were entirely useless, if that makes you feel better.” Julius had a vicious edge to his voice, and no wonder. He was protecting his lover. That was what lovers did for each other. Protected. Helped. They didn’t turn on one another or leave each other to swing alone.
A warm hand gripped Dominic’s shoulder, a touch he’d know out of a thousand. “Dom?” Richard said. “Is there something else?”
That was not for Harry’s and Julius’s ears. Dominic had one more disaster of the day to reveal first, though.
He took a breath. “Thaddeus Skelton is a protégé of Lord Maltravers.” That got a general subdued groan. Lord Maltravers had loathed the Ricardians for years, for the simple reason that they excluded him, and he did not care to be excluded. His animosity had grown ever since they had admitted his loathed younger brother Ash to their company. If Lord Maltravers had known that the requirement for membership was a taste for men, he would have had an apoplexy. Dominic wished he would.
Ash and Harry had developed a close friendship. Dominic had no doubt that Lord Maltravers would crush Harry underfoot for no better reason than to hurt Ash, and that humiliating the Ricardians by association would sweeten the act for him considerably. More than that, though, Maltravers was notable for his political ambition and deep loathing of reformers. He’d like nothing better than to prosecute Jack Cade, especially if he could disgrace Harry Vane at the same time. Dominic made himself spell it out: “If Skelton finds evidence of Harry’s involvement at Theobald’s, we may assume he will pass it to his patron.”
“If Maltravers learns information discreditable to my cousin,” Richard growled, “he will do well to keep it to himself.”
“Will they raid the shop again?” Harry asked. “Does Skelton intend to arrest Silas, do you think?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“You seem to be taking this very hard, considering it is merely a matter of duty,” Julius observed, and that word stabbed Dominic through the lungs so that he couldn’t breathe, could barely see.
“Go to hell,” he choked out. “Oh God, Rich, help me.”
Then Richard was holding his hand in his own, sending the other two away, dropping to his knees by Dominic’s chair as the door closed. “Dominic, dear one, what is it? What the devil has happened?”
“Oh, Richard, Richard.” He swallowed hard. “You know…Wednesdays.”
Richard knew his needs, despised them, and was well aware that Dominic had them met at Millay’s. “Yes.”
“And that it has been the same man, for the last year and more.”
“And?”
“I didn’t know his name,” Dominic said urgently. “You have to understand, Rich. I didn’t know his name. He didn’t know mine.”
“Very well, but why does this matter? What is his name?”
Dominic stared over Richard’s shoulder. “Silas Mason.”
There was a short silence.
“I pray that this is a jest in poor taste,” Richard said at last.
“No.”
“Harry’s accursed seditionist has been abusing you on a weekly basis, and…” Dominic could see understanding dawn. “And you found out today.”
“When I raided the bookshop.”
Richard released his hand in order to put both of his own over his face. “Sweet merciful heaven,” he said, his voice muffled. “Dominic.”
“I know.”
“Dominic. How—what—ah!” Richard pushed himself to his full, imposing height with a sound of explosive frustration. “At what point will you stop trying to have yourself killed? Will this not end until you are swinging by the neck, or dead in the streets? What the devil did you think you were playing at? And now you are like to arrest him, and, what, he’s threatening you? Demanding your protection? Or does he merely intend revenge?”
“None of those,” Dominic said. “He could have ruined me with a word, and he did not. He says he won’t inform against me.”
Richard exhaled. “You believe him?”
“I do, yes.”
“Why?”
“I…think he’s honest. I know he’s honest.”
“If he were honest, you would scarcely be arresting him,” Richard pointed out. “Think, for heaven’s sake. The man is a criminal. Can he be disposed of?” Dominic looked up with a pulse of horror. Richard waved an irritable hand. “I meant, can we put him on a ship to America? Pay him off, get him o
ut of the country?”
Could they? The idea brought a tiny flare of hope. “I don’t know if he’d agree. He isn’t very, uh, amenable, but perhaps. Harry might have a better idea of that.” Because of course Harry knew Silas. Harry was intimate with Dominic’s brutal, tender lover in ways he couldn’t dream. Harry shared trust with him, friendship, years of comfortable association.
Dominic found himself disliking Harry intensely.
“It could be done without his agreement,” Richard said. “Just get the fellow on a ship; it could be arranged. I don’t greatly like the idea, but I prefer it to your disgrace, and Harry’s.”
“I’m not seeing him press-ganged for Harry’s convenience,” Dominic snapped.
“The man holds your life in his hands, Dom. I am not disposed to trust him with it.”
“That’s the problem. He’s had my life in his hands for a year or more, and I trusted him utterly. I think I still do.”
“You cannot mean that. I’ve seen the bruises he’s left on you. I’d be glad to see him flogged.”
“I want the bruises!” Dominic hadn’t intended to shout, but the words rang around the room. “That’s the point; that’s what I need—oh, damn it, Rich, can you not try to understand?”
“No, I cannot!” Richard slammed a hand on the tabletop, then drew a breath and spoke more quietly. “I truly can’t. I cannot understand why you threw away everything between us to indulge this urge for degradation. I would have cherished you, Dom. I wanted to. I don’t understand why you would not let me.”
Please, please, not this, not now. “I wish I had wanted you to,” Dominic said, calming his voice. “More than you can know. But I don’t. I can’t. It’s not my nature.”
“Your nature.” Richard let out a hissing sigh. “Which has brought you to this pass. I don’t know what to say. What do you want from me?”
Friendship. Comfort. Forgiveness.
“I don’t know what I should do,” Dominic said. “I feel that I should excuse myself from the business and let the law take its course—”
“You should indeed do that. But what if the man does lay information against you?”
“Take the consequences, I suppose.”
“Except that the consequences may be further reaching. If you are prosecuted for abominable acts—”
“Suspicion may attach to my friends,” Dominic supplied. The Ricardians: Ash and Francis, inseparable to the point of indiscretion. Harry and Julius, who had had a flagrant lovers’ quarrel in public not much more than a fortnight ago. Absalom Lockwood, the Whig lawyer with too many enemies and a tendency to make sheep’s eyes at pretty young men. Richard.
Their little private group offered not just a space in which they could be honest, but also mutual protection. Richard’s wealth, Julius’s exquisite dress, Dominic’s respectability, Ash’s noble birth: as a set they were unassailable. But if Dominic brought disgrace and scandal into their midst and people began to look closely…
If one fell, they all might fall.
“Indeed,” Richard said. “You cannot let your indiscretions affect the others.”
“No.” Dominic’s voice sounded stifled in his own ears. “I don’t intend to allow that.”
“So this man must be removed or placated. Will you shield him from justice if he proves to deserve punishment?”
“I have not sunk quite that low. I will not, and I told him that.”
“Then we must get him out of the way before that becomes an issue. Be reasonable, Dominic. Leave it to me; I’ll have it done.”
He doubtless could. He would give the order to his quiet, watchful valet, and Silas would be spirited out of the country. It would solve the problem, but the idea grated.
“Let us not rush to action yet,” Dominic said. “Mason doesn’t want Harry hurt, I am sure of that. Skelton may not find further evidence. You know I won’t let the others suffer, Rich. Just leave it to me for now.”
“If you say so.” Richard looked deeply troubled. “You will ask me for whatever you need?”
What he needed. Dominic wanted to laugh, but it hurt too much. “Yes, Richard. I will.”
Chapter 4
The whole week hurt.
It had started hurting when Silas threw the bastard Tory out of his shop. Not his Tory, never that again. Just Dominic Frey, another damned bully of the upper classes. A tool of the Home Office. A hypocrite and a liar. He wasn’t losing anything that mattered more ,than a hole to fuck.
But still it hurt, with a stupid feeling of disappointment or something worse, and it didn’t help when Harry Vane turned up with his la-di-da new clothes on his back and concern in his eyes. He stripped off his fine coat and helped Silas put the shop to rights—a decent lad, Harry, for all the gentleman’s airs he put on these days—and for a few moments, Silas began to feel like he could breathe again.
Except of course Harry had to ask.
“Dominic Frey told me the place had been wrecked.” He spoke cautiously. “I told you he was a friend, and you said you knew his name.”
He’d known the name and known the man. Just not put one to the other. “I know who he is now,” Silas snarled. “He stood there while those bastards wrecked my shop and watched—” He couldn’t finish, the betrayal choking him all over again.
“He did try to warn me,” Harry said. It sounded almost like an apology. “He couldn’t find me, but he tried. Silas, what is it that you do on Wednesday evenings? Because the thing is, Dominic—”
Silas didn’t even think, flaring up in instant, stupid defensiveness. “I was you, I’d shut my mouth now, and keep it shut.”
Harry did shut his mouth, because he wasn’t a fool, but Silas could see the questions in his eyes. What the devil was Dominic doing with you? What were you doing to him?
Because if Frey was Harry’s friend, Harry would have seen the bruises that Silas had left.
He’d enjoyed doing that. Marking the Tory, stamping him his. Making sure any trespassing society gentleman would know Silas had been there first.
But that had been anonymous. Now Harry knew, and Silas didn’t want him to, little though he probably cared. Silas didn’t want Harry to look at Frey and see something weak, something wrong. The bastard could take the consequences of his dirty work and his betrayal, but his bedroom habits should have been naught to anyone else, and Silas felt an urge to tell Harry, You don’t understand.
No way to explain it, and none of Harry’s business anyway. Frey could look after himself. He wouldn’t think twice about Silas, that was for certain.
That should have been all he needed. But still it hurt, and it carried on hurting all through the week, with a growing sense of ache as Wednesday approached. He used the misery, drove through it, so that the tedious chore of dismantling the press and emptying the printing cellar in the dead of night became an offering to his anger, every armful of metal or paper carried in resentment against Dominic Frey, who had brought this to him.
He could barely sleep on Tuesday night. Lying wakeful in his hard, narrow bed in the attic over the shop, monotonous thoughts circling around his head.
I can’t go. He won’t be there. If I turn up, and he’s not there, and they look at me with pity—no. He’ll turn up and I won’t be there. Better. He can take the pity. He can bloody miss me.
He won’t turn up. Of course he won’t. So I shan’t. That’s over.
But if he did…
Every thought led him to the inevitable: no more Tory, no more Wednesdays. But he couldn’t stem his vengeful imaginings: the Tory waiting there, alone, realizing that Silas wasn’t coming, with an open bottle undrunk by the bed. And every time that thought led to the sneaking thought, Maybe I should go. Just to give him a piece of my mind.
He cursed himself. Brought himself off, twice, in the small hours, for lack of anything better to do, first trying not to think of the Tory—Dominic Frey, get it right—then giving up that effort and going in hard. Remembering the times he’d pushed it so
far that he’d been sure Frey would let go his grip and really plead for mercy. Imagining he had. Imagining that Silas hadn’t given it.
He embarked on Wednesday sleepless and miserable, with an aching hole in his chest where anticipation used to be, and snarled at George until the ratty youth turned away, muttering about getting some air. He opened the shop door, peered out, and jerked upright. The alarm in his posture had Silas on alert even before George whispered the words.
“Oh Gawd. Silas. They’re back.”
The soldiers came in rougher this time, and there were more of them. Redcoats, Home Office men in faded black. Skelton with his drooping whiskers and fierce, cold eyes. And Dominic Frey, face set, watching.
Silas planted his hands on the counter top. “Right, you swine. I want to see your warrant. I want to know by what right you bring your Jack-in-office petty tyranny to my shop. I want your grounds.”
“Find the press,” Skelton said to the soldiers, who fanned out, shoving past George. Silas grabbed his arm to draw him away, pulling him behind the counter.
“Oi. I said—”
Skelton came up to him. Walked around the counter, facing Silas directly, with Frey following. Silas kept his eyes on Skelton’s face. He didn’t want to look at Frey, didn’t want to see if his impression of dark-ringed eyes was correct, in case it wasn’t. Didn’t want to know if the bastard had been sleeping well.
“Harry Vane,” Skelton said, and Silas stopped thinking about himself. Frey’s head came up, a startled twitch.
“Who?” Silas asked.
“Henry Alexander Vane, who called himself Harry Gordon when he worked for you in this shop. The son of Alexander and Euphemia Gordon, the revolutionaries. Now going under the name of Harry Vane. A gentleman.” The word held a sneer.
Silas set his jaw. “Lad named Harry Gordon worked for me for a while. Now he don’t. That’s all I know.”
“Is it really,” Skelton said.
There was a crash as a bookcase went over. “Oi!” Silas bellowed, not holding back the volume for the man right in front of him, and relished Skelton’s involuntary flinch. “You sodding respect my stock, you cow-handed lackeys!”
A Seditious Affair Page 5
