“Mind your manners,” Skelton spat.
“You ain’t,” Silas retorted. “What is this farradiddle about Harry Gordon? What do I know or care? Boy stacked books for me—”
“For six years,” Skelton put in. “He was your friend.”
“Friend?” Silas loaded the word with scorn. “Shop boy. This look like a friend to you?” He grabbed George’s arm. The lad was trembling. “Doesn’t know a bloody thing. Turns up late as often as not, moves my boxes, eats my profits, and if he keeps out of the Spotted Cat on my time, it’s as much as he does. Like I’m going to tell this wastrel my business? He knows naught about anything, and him and Harry Gordon were peas in a pod. And that had better do you, ’cause it’s all I got for you.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Skelton said. “I don’t think so at all. You were a known associate of the Gordons when they fled England in the year eight. You took in their son when he slunk back to this country like a whipped dog—”
Frey cleared his throat. Skelton stopped.
“You must pursue your questioning as you see fit,” Frey said, voice reasonable. “But Harry Vane is cousin to the Marquess of Cirencester.” He didn’t say, Mind your tongue, still less, Leave this subject. Just the statement of fact.
Cold-blooded, treacherous fuckster.
“Very true, Mr. Frey,” Skelton said. “But if Lord Cirencester is nurturing a serpent in his bosom?”
Frey inclined his head graciously. Skelton turned back to Silas. “You know what happened with Harry Gordon.”
“No, I don’t,” Silas said. “Some great Gogmagog in a fancy coat came in my shop, called himself a lordship, took the lad off. I don’t know why.” Lord Richard Vane, that was. The Tory’s lost love. He could feel Frey’s tension.
“Then I shall enlighten you. Alexander Vane was disinherited by his father when he married a radical strumpet—”
“Oi,” Silas said. “Listen, friend, you can talk to me. You can order your clodhoppers to make a mess of my shop. But you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head when it comes to a woman whose boots you weren’t fit to button, or I’ll leave you shitting your own teeth, you dirty-mouthed arse rag.”
Skelton’s face darkened. He drew in a breath—to shout for his men, Silas would have wagered—but Frey said calmly, “Alexander Vane was disinherited, yes. Go on, Mr. Skelton. I should like to understand your line of questioning.”
“Disinherited,” Skelton said. “Harry Vane was left alone, with no prospects. A radical like his parents. Like you.”
“I’m a radical and proud to own it,” Silas said. “Harry? Ha. I never saw him take an interest in aught but drink and wenches. No backbone, that’s his trouble.”
“I say Harry Vane is a radical—”
“And I say he ain’t, and if he should be, what the devil has it to do with me or you?” Silas demanded. “An Englishman still had the right to the thoughts in his head when last I looked!”
“Lord Gideon Vane sought out his lost grandson Harry when his other son and grandson had both died. Do you know how they died?”
“How the bloody hell should I?”
“A house fire last autumn,” Skelton said. “Their deaths removed the obstacles standing between your radical shop boy and his grandfather’s immense wealth.”
“Lucky for Harry,” Silas said without sympathy.
“Lucky?” Skelton asked. “Or convenient?”
The Tory opened his mouth, snapped it shut again. Silas inhaled, feeling his chest swell. “You got something to say, you come out and say it.”
“Say what?” Skelton asked. “Say that those deaths left Lord Gideon Vane with just one living male descendant? Say that you knew Harry Gordon’s birth put him in line for a fortune? Say that an old man’s wealth would come in very handy when all you have is this.” He looked around the shabby shop with an expression of distaste. “And say that only a lighted candle was needed—”
“Bollocks,” Silas said with force. “Bull’s bollocks. Slander, spite, and shit. If you’ve got nothing better to say, piss off out of my shop, and take your lapdogs with you.” He jerked his chin at the Tory, just as there was a huge scrape-groan of wood, and a heavy bit of shelving moved behind him.
“Sir!” someone shouted. “We’ve found a trapdoor!”
“Ha!” ejaculated Skelton. “Now we shall see.”
“See all you like,” Silas told Skelton’s back as he strode away. “I’ve naught to hide.”
“Naught to hide,” George echoed, voice quavering a little.
Frey hadn’t moved. He stood, staring at Silas, and Silas couldn’t but look back.
Frey looked bad. Those familiar lines of tension around his eyes that Silas had liked to see relax after— And there were dark rings under them. Silas was glad to see the sod hadn’t slept, bloody annoyed to think his own face would betray him as much. Frey was shaved clean, which was a lot more than Silas could say, his own chin with four days’ pepper-and-salt bristles. He’d always shaved for the Tory, every Wednesday morning. Well, no more. Frey would have to face him as he was.
Slamming. Creaking. Footsteps on the stairs.
Frey’s dark eyes were fixed on him. “You don’t seem worried about them finding anything, Mason.”
“I said I’ve naught to hide.” His voice was a rasp. “And when I said to piss off out of my shop, I meant you too.”
“Silas,” George whimpered. “Don’t.”
Don’t argue. Don’t speak up. Don’t provoke the important, rich man with your livelihood in his hands and your freedom at his whim. Bugger that.
“I’m no murderer.” He pitched it loud, to the men he could hear coming up again from the cellar. “I’m no murderer, Harry’s no radical, my cellar is no more than a hole in the ground, and you pox-addled whores’ get are wasting my time. You prove your case or get out.”
“Mason!” Skelton came back to the counter, his face tight with repressed feeling. Disappointment, Silas would wager, and anger too. “There are ink stains on the walls of your cellar! Paper dust in the air!”
“That a crime now?”
“Where is your press?” bellowed Skelton, right in his face, spittle flying. “Where do you print your seditious libels?”
“Where’s your mother, you whining hound? Piss off.”
Skelton raised a fist. Frey, behind him, caught it in his own hand, with an audible slap. Skelton looked around furiously; Frey gave a shake of his head. “When we have proof, Mr. Skelton. Until then, this is, in law, an innocent tradesman.”
“Until then,” Skelton echoed. He brought his hand down, not quite wrenching it from the Tory’s grip. “I tell you this, Mason: We will find proof. We know your past. You’re a felon. A habitual gaolbird. A revolutionary. I know you set the Vane fire. You will hang.” He lifted a finger. “Unless you turn king’s evidence. That’s your only chance, and it won’t last long. If you admit the truth, it will go easier on you.”
“King’s evidence, eh?” Silas said. “And there’s me thinking the king you serve is too mad to know what day of the week it is.”
“It’s Wednesday,” Frey said over Skelton’s splutter. Voice strong and clear, eyes on Silas. “It is Wednesday, and I for one have appointments. This is not a fruitful use of my time or yours, Mr. Skelton. I suggest we leave.”
Skelton’s mouth was drawn tight as a cat’s arse against that, but Frey was clearly the senior. He gave a tight nod. “We will be back, Mason. We know about you. Think on it.”
—
Dominic walked up the anonymous side street to Millay’s feeling as though he might be sick.
This was a mistake, a terrible, stupid one. At best, Silas would not be there. Why would he come, after all?
For revenge, perhaps. He’d have every reason. The soldiers had smashed though the shop, and even disregarding that it was the man’s livelihood, Dominic knew how the brute loved books, with a passion that left him silent and incapable of more than turning a precious volume in his
hands with reverent care. He wouldn’t be any happier about that careless damage than about the prospect of being gaoled for seditious libel.
Dominic took the little alleyway, nodded to the gatekeeper. The discreet, anonymous door swung open as soon as he raised his fist to knock.
“Welcome, sir.” Mistress Zoë approached in a rustle of skirts as he entered. Millay’s had three madams, of whom he much preferred Zoë, a handsome black woman. She was never bawdy, never jested, never gave a hint of the purpose of the house or his visit. Her grave professional deportment reminded him irresistibly of Shakespeare, the majordomo at Quex’s.
Now he thought of it, the majordomo and Zoë had very similar skin, an unusually deep, near-ebony tone. “Do you know Shakespeare?” he found himself asking.
She shot him a glance. “To be or not to be, sir?”
“No, I mean—” He had no idea what the man’s first name was, but how many black men of that surname could there be in London? “Shakespeare. A man who works at Quex’s hell.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir.” Just a hint of a smile there. “He’s my brother.”
Dominic blinked. “You’re Mistress Shakespeare?”
“Miss, until I married. Our mother was owned by a literary gentleman,” she added, without inflection.
Owned. Was this handsome, serious woman a slave? The trade in human lives had been outlawed more than ten years earlier, but the state of slavery was still legal. That was not Dominic’s idea of good law. “If I may ask, mistress, are you emancipated?”
She gave him a curious look. “Why, sir?”
“Slavery does not exist under English common law.” Her brows shot up in understandable disbelief. Dominic hastened to explain. “That was handed down by Lord Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice, fifty years ago. It is a legal absurdity that anyone on British soil should be counted a slave. If you wish to seek freedom, and you need help…?”
Her smile touched her eyes for a moment. “Thank you, sir, but I was born free. Slaves cannot breathe in England.”
“If their lungs receive our air, that moment they are free. They touch our country and their shackles fall,” Dominic completed. He loved the Cowper poem and had had a blistering argument over it with the brute. I’ll listen to your sentimental slop when slavery’s against the law and Englishmen not profiting from it. “I’m glad to know it, mistress.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said again and led the way up the stairs. Dominic followed, wishing she’d keep talking. He needed some sort of human connection, urgently.
He’d said he was going to meet Silas, and Richard’s face…
He didn’t think he could explain to anyone. Not to Richard, not even to himself. The only person who might understand why he was going to meet Silas now was Silas, assuming the brute didn’t want to kill him.
“Is he there?” Dominic asked.
“In the room? Not yet, sir.”
“I don’t think—I didn’t order wine.” He hadn’t been able to decide what it would mean if he did or didn’t, if it would be contemptible to do so or contemptuous not to. In the end he hadn’t done it and now, panicking, wished he had.
“No, sir,” Zoë said. “I took the liberty of bringing up a bottle of claret from the cellar, in case it was wanted. Shall I remove it?”
“No. No, leave it. Thank you. You do an excellent job here; you always have.” Was he looking for sympathy from a brothel keeper now? “Thank you.”
“Your servant, sir,” she murmured, and opened the door.
As always in cold weather, a blazing fire waited, along with a bottle of wine and two glasses on the table. He had no idea what would happen now. His hands were shaking a little and not with pleasant anticipation.
It seemed a very long time until the door opened and the brute—Silas—walked in.
He hadn’t shaved. That was the first thing Dominic saw, and his heart sank further. He’d a jaw you could break rocks on as it was, aggressively set, and now it was covered with several days’ scruffy beard that made him appear the ruffian he was.
Silas shut the door. He looked Dominic up and down, nodded to himself, took three paces toward him, and punched him in the eye.
The pain flared white through his senses, blotting out everything else. He doubled over, clutching his face, aware at some level there would be another blow coming but utterly incapacitated by the intense, throbbing agony. All he could do was brace himself, but the second punch didn’t come.
He straightened, still holding his face. Silas stood, stance aggressive, but he looked a little shocked.
“I suppose you had to do that,” Dominic managed.
“Aye, I did. My fucking shop torn apart, I accused of arson and murder, Harry being set up for God knows what, and you stand and watch!”
“Did you want me to intervene?” Dominic took his hand away from his face, cautiously. “That hurt.”
“Good. And go bugger yourself.”
“You’re Jack Cade.” Silas’s face darkened. Dominic lifted a hand. “I’m not trying to trick you into an admission. I could hardly use one, under the circumstances. But I know. You’re Jack Cade, and you’re spreading sedition, and it is my duty to prevent that.”
Silas folded his arms. “All right, then, say it’s so. Why don’t you arrest me?”
“Good question.” Dominic went to pour two glasses of wine, splashing some on the table. He didn’t try to conceal the tremor of his hand. “Here.”
“Christ’s sake.” Silas didn’t take the glass. “You think this is a social call?”
Dominic put the glasses back down hard. “Listen, curse you. We have each other’s lives in our hands. You could see me hanged as easily as I could you, and we’ve both earned it, come to that. Harry has not, and I’m damned if I’ll allow this nonsense about the fire to be used against him or you, but I can’t and I won’t protect you against the consequences of what you have done.”
“Never asked you to.”
“As I never asked you to hide my crimes. And yet, so far, you have.”
“So?” Silas shifted a little. “I told you, I don’t bow to unjust law.”
“You don’t take thanks well, do you?”
“I don’t want your thanks.” A snarl of pure pain. “I don’t want your thanks or your protection or your wine or any other damn thing of yours, you sodding, fucking, bastard Tory.” Silas’s chest was heaving, and there was ferocious misery in his dark-ringed mongrel eyes. “What the hell d’you call me here for? You want me to fuck you, is that it? It’ll make you that bit harder when you go to your knees now you know I’m a seditionist?”
“I think I always knew your views. It’s not as though you hid them. I didn’t ask your name because I didn’t want to find out.”
Silas snorted. “At least you’re honest there.”
“I shan’t arrest you,” Dominic went on. “I won’t share any knowledge I have—”
“Am I supposed to thank you?”
“Oh, go to the devil, you obstreperous swine. You’re Jack Cade, whom I have wanted to hunt down for a year and more, and I have found you in my bed, damn it, and you expect what of me? That I pretend it makes no difference? Protect you from the course of the law?”
“I expect you to do your job just as I do mine,” Silas said. “Unless you’re offering me a bargain, of course. Silence for silence, is that it?”
“No, and you know damned well I’m not. Stop being so awkward.”
“Very sorry, your lordship.”
“Are you trying to enrage me?” Dominic breathed deeply, calming himself. “Listen to me. To me, not to what you seem to think I’m going to say. For the sake of—Wednesdays—I don’t propose to use what I know of you or to play a part in your well-deserved punishment. I am well aware that’s hypocrisy and dereliction of duty and anything else you care to call it. And, heaven help me, if you will take a way out, I will give you one.”
“A what?”
“America.” Dominic attempted a
smile. It didn’t feel convincing at all, and his eye hurt like the very devil. “Or elsewhere if you prefer. I’ll pay the passage.”
“You’re offering to get me out of the country?”
So far had he sunk. “You’re in trouble. Skelton is determined and he’s on your scent. I can’t, won’t prevent him doing his job if you remain in the country. But I can reconcile it with my conscience to remove you, if it means you take your sedition elsewhere.” Somewhere he wouldn’t make trouble, somewhere he wouldn’t be flogged for it. Dominic could feel the memory of ridged skin on his fingertips, the scars that still marked Silas, and he had to be forty at least. Strong, obstinate as hell, but not young, and sooner or later men lost their resilience. The thought of his brute taking the punishment he deserved churned in Dominic’s stomach. “What do you say?”
“I say, sod you. Born in London, die in London. You’re not getting me to foreign parts.”
“Don’t be so parochial. America’s a republic. A democracy, even. You’d feel quite at home.”
“I’m at home now, and I’m not running from my own bloody city with your jackals at my heels, just to ease your path. Go to hell.” Silas’s face was dark with anger. “You want me to piss off to America of all the places, leave my work here, just to get out of your way? Don’t want the inconvenience?”
“You’ll be damned well inconvenienced when Skelton arrests you!”
“And until then I’m a free man. I make my own choice, for myself. I. Not lords, not Home Office, not gentlemen, and not whatever you are.”
“What?” Dominic’s fist clenched. “What did you say to me?”
“You call yourself a gentleman,” Silas said, very deliberately. “Breaking the law here, bending it there, making damn sure other people obey it, but it’s not for you and your sort, is it, Mr. Frey? You act as you will. It’s other people who have to face the laws and the gaols and the gallows. Other people who belong on their knees. And there’s a thing.” His face was set, brutal, cruel in a way Dominic had never seen. “If I said, You come here right now, get on your knees, and suck my prick, you’d do it. If I pushed you to your knees and used your mouth right now, you wouldn’t fight it, would you, Dominic?”
A Seditious Affair Page 6
