They made their goodbyes. Dominic showed Harry and Julius out and returned to the study where Silas sat by the fire.
“Are you all right?” Dominic asked.
“Can’t say I’m pleased.”
“Nor I. Blast Julius. I wanted this evening to be a pleasure for you.”
“It has.” Silas reached for his hand. “God damn you, Tory, you don’t give a cove a chance. Listen. If your Richard fellow still loves you—”
“He doesn’t.”
“He must. Talking about having me put on a ship and taken off to America or what have you? To keep you safe, when that’s not what you want? Sounds like love to me.”
There was a long pause.
“Did you ever have someone, like that?” Dominic asked.
“No. Well. Got married, but—”
“Married?”
Silas shrugged. “I was not much over twenty; she had a brat on the way. Annie, her name was. She wanted me to leave off the politics, though, soon as we wed, and I wouldn’t. Then the child was stillborn. She left not long after.”
“What happened to her?” Dominic asked.
“No idea. Not seen her in years.”
“You’re still married?”
“For aught I know. That a problem?”
Dominic opened his mouth, shut it again, and finally said, “I suppose not. You don’t sound…affected.”
“I think about my boy sometimes.” He didn’t even know where that had come from. It was true, but a truth for nobody’s hearing. “He never had a chance. Little white scrap of a thing. I’d have liked him to have a chance. But as for Annie, it was twenty years ago. Most people don’t care that long.” He took a breath, made himself say it, because it was only fair, after this. “You do, for your Richard. He does for you.”
“Not like that. Not at all.” Dominic dropped to his knees by the chair. “I love him dearly and always will, even if I am inclined to wring his neck at the moment. But I very much doubt that he wants me back, and I am quite sure he would not know what to do with me if he had me. You, on the other hand…”
“Aye.” Make the effort. Smile. “Aye, I know what to do with you. How long have we got?”
“Nobody is returning until ten o’clock tomorrow.”
Silas looked around the glorious, elegant comfort of the room. “Can I fuck you in here?”
Dominic took his other hand, clasped them together. “Silas, my firebrand, you may fuck me wherever you choose.”
Chapter 8
The House passed the Six Acts in the last days of 1819, sending out the old year on a roar of popular anger and discontent. Dominic was glad he’d seen Silas the night before. He didn’t want to see his lover’s fear.
Fourteen years’ transportation on a second conviction for seditious libel. That was law now. A law intended to make people afraid, and it had worked, because Dominic was terrified.
Silas would be fearful and angry but not silent. Of course he would not be silent. He would find a way to write, somehow, of that Dominic was sure. Because Silas had true courage, which looked into the face of consequence, and was afraid, and fought on.
If Dominic had had that courage, he might not have spent quite so long in a limbo of unconfronted misery.
He had written to Richard at Arrandene. The letter had probably ruined his friend’s Christmas; it had certainly shadowed his own. He had told Richard in plain words that to move against Silas would be to end a lifetime’s friendship and informed him that they would speak on Richard’s return to London. Richard had made an appointment with him, his note a single curt line, and now it was time.
Dominic waited in the private room at Quex’s, where two men might safely shout at each other on unlawful topics, feeling sick.
He’d loved Richard so overwhelmingly, for so long, before he’d known what his prick was for, let alone that what he wanted to do with it was wrong. His entire youth had revolved around big, comforting Richard, the marquess’s younger son. Dominic remembered it all. His parents’ intense pride, never spoken aloud, that their clever third son had graced their old but undistinguished line by winning the Vanes’ patronage. The charmed circle Richard had always cast around his friends, so that Dominic had walked unscathed through the schoolboy brutality of Harrow. Their first tentative, bewildering embrace under an ancient oak on the grounds of Tarlton March, Richard’s family seat. Dominic had kissed the marquess’s son in the marquess’s lands, and even then, the sense of transgression had shivered through him with terrible pleasure. He remembered the first confused, sticky groping and spending, and the way they had laughed because it was too absurd and too perfect. The bad times, when Richard had needed someone to weep with. The first time Richard had fucked him.
He’d grown into manhood in the knowledge that he and Richard, against all the odds, were one. David and Jonathan, they’d called themselves, Achilles and Patroclus, and forgotten that neither of those stories had a happy ending. They’d had their own Garden of Eden, and sure enough the curse of knowledge had come upon them, with Dominic’s growing, sick awareness that what they had wasn’t enough.
He had spent fifteen miserable years knowing himself to be the man who had despoiled paradise.
Silas was not paradise regained or anything like it. He was rough, inarticulate, or far too articulate and always at the wrong times, a grimy self-taught artisan with an exquisite apprehension of beauty and a compassion as savage as his sense of justice. And he was isolated and in danger, and Dominic had had enough of it.
He stood by the fire, too nervous to sit. He’d instructed the men to allow nobody but Richard up. Easily done; his order was second only to Richard’s here. It always had been, because Richard had always protected him, and Dominic had always allowed it.
The door opened at last, and Richard came in.
He was a big man, who looked bigger when he was angry. Today he looked very imposing indeed.
He threw his gloves on a side table. “Well, Dominic. You wanted to have this out; here I am.”
No beating about the bush then. “Compliments of the season to you too,” Dominic said. “Be advised that you have no right, none at all, to comment on how I choose to conduct my affairs. I regret extremely that I brought trouble to Millay’s, but that was misfortune, and it will not be repeated—”
“Let us be honest, at least,” Richard cut in. “Your gutter-blood brought the trouble, because he was pursued by men of, I understand, the Home Office.”
“I brought him to Millay’s. It is my responsibility. And not Cyprian’s business.”
“On the contrary,” Richard said swiftly. “He is about my business. His acts are mine.”
“Then you are an interfering spy.” Dominic relished the look of shock that brought. “Yes, I mean it, and while I am on the topic, I will not see the madam Zoë punished for what happened there, let alone for what is between Silas and myself. You may rule your empire, via your spymaster, with an iron hand, but Silas is not in your power. And as for what lies between me and you, that is our business and you will keep your accursed sneaking valet out of it.”
Richard’s fist was clenched. “You will not insult my staff, and you are greatly mistaken—”
“I am not. How dare you send your valet to act as my flashman?”
“I beg your pardon,” Richard said. “I am not familiar with the language of the stews.”
“Procurer then,” Dominic said with great clarity. “Was it your idea or the ubiquitous Cyprian’s to find—I believe I have the wording correct—‘a bully to do Mr. Frey as he likes it’? Did you presume to discuss my desires with your valet?”
Richard was reddening. “What the devil should I have done? For God’s sake, man, you were to get yourself killed! You were beaten bloody—”
“Yes, I was,” Dominic agreed. “I went and sought relief in the most sordid alleys of London, and do you know why?”
“No. I do not, I never have—”
“That’s why. That t
one in your voice. Your contempt, Richard, your scorn—”
“Are you blaming me for your perversions?”
Dominic took a very deep breath. “You may say that, if you will. If you intend to keep twisting the knife. They are my desires, Richard, just as you have desires. It is possible to differ with respect, you know.”
Richard snorted. “You are hardly the man to say that.”
“I have learned it. I have learned it from a radical democratic agitator. Not, my friend, from you.”
Richard’s jaw set. “Then perhaps it ill suits you to complain that Cyprian put him in your way.”
“Oh, I am grateful for the meeting. I am even grateful for the care that I must believe motivated your interference. But I am not grateful to know that your servant sneaks around my life, and I am telling you, Richard, no more.”
“If we are safe here, it is Cyprian’s work,” Richard said low. “If we are safe at Millay’s—and you may have destroyed that—it is Cyprian’s work.”
“Then raise his pay, but keep him out of my business. I will not have it, Richard. My connection with Silas is not your concern, and you have no right over it. If you choose to close the doors of this place to me, you may do so; if you no longer wish to extend me your friendship because of it, that is your privilege, but you will not presume to act on me, or him. How dare you suggest press-ganging a free Englishman to get him out of your way!”
“I was angry.” Richard looked a little shamefaced. “I should not have written it, but—”
“But you listened to your valet’s gossip.”
“Will you leave him out of this!” Richard snapped. “He does my bidding, just as your accursed democrat flagellator does yours.”
“As a matter of fact,” Dominic said, “I do not indulge in flagellation, and if I did, it would be none of your damned business since I do not ask you to wield the whip, and most of all, Silas is not my servant!” Perhaps it was his increasing volume, but Richard flinched. “Silas is an independent man and a free man, and if he chooses to—to share my bed in the way that pleases us both—”
“It is an abuse.”
Dominic made a frustrated sound in his throat. “It is not abuse, for heaven’s sake. When will you listen to me? I want what he does—”
“I don’t mean the way he treats you, repugnant though that is,” Richard said coldly. “I mean your abuses.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are protecting the very sort of criminal revolutionary you are bound by duty to hunt down. Using the knowledge and power your position gives you in order to defy the law. Is that not an abuse? And this man—you say you have a connection with him. What connection? How can there be a relationship between so low and so high? You are wealthy, of good family, and you could have him arrested at any time. How is that right, Dominic? How is it fair that you hold every card and he must do what you ask of him?”
It was like a blow. Dominic had to struggle to respond. “That is not how it is. That is not remotely how it is.”
“Really?” Richard took an impatient turn around the room. “You may think not. But when one party has everything and the other nothing, can there be any sort of parity between them? Any justice, any balance, any match? Look at my cousin Verona, married to her penniless sergeant. She has birth, wealth, and beauty. He had nothing. When the first flush of enthusiasm subsides, will he not be ever conscious of his inferior position?”
“I understood she’d been set on him since childhood. And I dare say her birth and wealth will do much to ease their way—”
“Which yours cannot,” Richard retorted. “If you had given your heart to a scullery maid even, you could at least give her the protection of your name and rank, disgrace yourself but elevate her. But in our position—”
“In our position we have nobody to rely on but one another,” Dominic said. “You taught us that, Rich. You have given us safety and companionship in our little society, and we all owe you a great deal. But, my friend, you are not the master of hearts or the arbiter of principles.”
“Easily said, when you seem to have discarded yours.”
“I see. Tell me, is your outrage truly concern for Silas’s well-being? Or are you merely angry that I have presumed to creep out from your shadow at last?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I am tired of missing you, Richard. In fact, I do not miss you. I’m sorry I could not love you as we both wished, back then. But I will not spend any more of my life mourning that we are not a bedroom match, or listening to your opinions on the subject.”
“That is grossly unfair.” Richard sounded strangled.
“You made me feel less of a man. You made me feel unworthy of you.” Dominic was half-shouting now, years of suppressed, unacknowledged hurt rushing through his veins. “I felt unworthy of anyone because I believed what happened between us was my fault. Well, it was not. And if it has taken a self-taught gutter revolutionary to show me that, I can only conclude that Silas’s views have something to commend them after all. Because I will tell you this, Richard Vane, he has been a better man to me than you ever were.”
Richard’s mouth was open, his face patched red and white. Dominic had the distinct sensation that he might have gone too far. But it had needed saying, and with it he had felt the cleansing pain of a bursting cyst, the poison draining away.
“There’s a line of Blake’s,” he went on. “Love seeketh only self to please, to bind another to its delight—”
“That is not what I wanted. It is not.”
“It is not what either of us wanted, I imagine, but it is what both of us did. I wanted you to meet my desires and you wanted me to forget them. Neither of us was reasonable, but we were very young.” He managed a smile. “I love you dearly, my friend. I always will, but even without my tastes, I think we would not have grown well together. The fact is, you want an ally. I prefer a challenge. You want agreement; I want contraries. I want Silas.”
Richard swallowed convulsively. “How can you know? How can you risk yourself with so much uncertainty? What damage might be done by this?”
“What’s the alternative to risk?” Dominic demanded. “Live celibate? Bed whores? Swive each other for the lack of anything better to do, the pack of us alone together? Do you remember we had a conversation about Julius, that inhuman, miserable distance at which he set himself? He’s come back to life—”
“With Harry, who is his equal in birth and a man with whom he can be seen to spend time.”
“As far as any of us can,” Dominic retorted. “I don’t need you to shake Silas’s hand and I don’t want to make him part of our society. He is Ludgate radical to the bone, and I would not change that if I could.”
“You cannot love across a divide,” Richard said. “It’s not possible. The world doesn’t allow it.”
“Since the world would hang me equally quickly whether the prick in my arse was attached to you or Silas, I cannot see it matters.”
“It matters to me,” Richard said. “It is everything. If there is no legitimacy for our affairs, no framework, then we must be our own arbiters of right and wrong. We have to watch ourselves because we cannot let the world do it, and again, Dominic, can you say that this business of yours is fair?”
“I cannot defend the contradictions in my position. I see no way whatever to reconcile my duty and my personal obligations, and heaven knows how this will end. You are quite right about that, and I have no answer. And furthermore, I know damned well that I have more power than Silas in the world outside. He wouldn’t let me forget it, even if I was inclined to. So…I give him the truth. I don’t ask for his; I give him mine.” The shames, the fears, the desires. He stared into the fire. “I have made myself vulnerable to him, I have put my soul in his hands, and he has cherished it. I wish you’d see that, Richard. I wish you understood.”
There was a long silence.
“You gave me the truth too, once,” Richard said at last. “And I could
not see then how there could be caring in what you asked of me, and I don’t see now. You frighten me, Dominic. I spent a decade wondering if any unexpected note would be the news that you had been found dead in some filthy gutter, if whoever you’d found to abuse you had gone too far. So, yes, I did ask Cyprian to find me a solution to the problem you present, and I am repaid for my interference now, because it seems he succeeded all too well.”
“Perhaps he should establish a marriage mart of some kind. He could apply his powers to finding someone for you.”
Richard made a jerky movement, then stopped himself. “I think not.” The tone was light, but the pause had been too long. If Julius was right about his love affair, Richard evidently did not intend to speak of it.
Dominic tried not to be hurt by that. “I wish you would. I wish you could let yourself love someone worthy of you.”
“I wish you the same.” Richard grimaced. “Ah, Dom. I cannot like this business of yours, I cannot understand it, and I cannot see it ending well.” He moved forward, dropping a hand to Dominic’s shoulder, a tentative motion that stung because they should not be wary of each other. “I have only ever wanted your happiness.”
“For that, you have to let me be the arbiter of what makes me happy.”
“Yes, but you must understand that I know best.”
Dominic looked up with outrage, saw his friend’s rueful, apologetic smile, and couldn’t help but laugh.
Richard smiled back, relieved. “Ah, curse it. I overstepped, I know I did, and I am sorry. I don’t agree with your course, but if you are sure this is what you want…”
Dominic put his own hand over the large, strong fingers and felt them tighten, that old familiar sign of friendship. The relief was a physical, palpable thing. “Truly, Rich.”
“And—I must ask this—if he is arrested? If, indeed, you learn something that makes it imperative to have him arrested?”
A Seditious Affair Page 14
