The door burst open. Everyone lunged for weaponry, then relaxed again as they saw who it was: George Edwards, out of breath and flapping his arms for attention. “Brothers!” he yelped, then, “Mason! Damn, it’s good to see you here, and just in time. Listen, brothers, I have news, the greatest news. Tomorrow, there is to be a cabinet dinner at the Earl of Harrowby’s house in Grosvenor Square.” He looked around the blank faces. “Don’t you see? They’ll all be there. All the king’s ministers. Liverpool, Castlereagh, Sidmouth, Eldon, every bloody murderer of Peterloo. We can do every one of them in at once!”
An excited babble rose up. “It’s in the New Times!” Edwards shouted, and a man fled to purchase a copy. He returned in a moment, and Thistlewood and Davidson, who could both read well, pored over the pages.
“You see?” Edwards demanded of the room at large. “A cabinet dinner tomorrow. We can scotch the whole nest of vipers at once.”
“I’ll be damned if I don’t believe there’s a God now,” Brunt growled. “I’ve prayed that those thieves might be collected all together so that we might destroy them, and God has answered my prayer!”
“I call the meeting to order,” Thistlewood shouted over the ruckus that caused in this company of atheists. “Adams, take the chair. This is what we shall do. A man must go to the door with a note for the Earl of Harrowby. When the door is open, our men will rush in directly, seize the servants, and threaten them with death for the least noise or resistance. Then—”
“Wait,” Adams said over him. “Wait. I am the chair, blast it. Gentlemen, after what I just told you, I hope you have given due consideration—”
There was an explosion of fury. Nobody wanted to be calmed; nobody wanted to be warned. A man named Harrison damned Adams’s eyes for cowardice and announced he would run any naysayer through rather than let the ardent spirits of the revolutionaries be cooled. “Out of the chair!” Thistlewood cried, and the meeting proceeded under Richard Tidd’s more belligerent chairmanship.
Silas took up the discarded newspaper. It was today’s New Times, and it did indeed give news of the dinner.
The whole cabinet would be in one place. The conspirators could launch a single, focused attack on the men who had plundered the nation and kept their feet on the people’s neck for so long. The murderers Sidmouth and Castlereagh could face vengeance for the dead of Peterloo. A strike and then…what?
“The first party must take command of the stairs, and the servants, with the threat of force,” Thistlewood was saying. “The object must be the securing of the house. Then the men who are to go in for the assassination will rush in directly after.”
“I’ll have a brace of pistols, a cutlass, and a knife!” Ings, the bankrupted butcher, was as wild-eyed as Thistlewood. “And when we’ve dispatched them all, I’ll cut off every head in the room, and I’ll bring Lord Sidmouth’s head, and Lord Castlereagh’s too, away in a bag. Two bags. I shall provide two bags for the purpose.” He gave a little nod, that point resolved.
And then nothing, Silas thought. Nothing, because of course it wouldn’t work. They were all mad, mad with desperate, self-blinding hope in the way only the hopeless could be. Silas remembered that feeling from when he’d helped Euphemia Gordon start a riot. He’d had to believe they could fight and win, refusing to face the obvious truth they couldn’t, because the alternative had been giving in to a despair so all-consuming that it would leave him empty forever. So he’d fought, and been gaoled and flogged for it.
The consequences of this would be much, much worse.
The planning went on. They would keep a watch on Harrowby’s house, in case Adams’s alarmism was justified and they were suspected. All agreed that this was merely a precaution. How could anyone know of a plan made this day to be carried out tomorrow? They would gather in a stable on Cato Street, close by the target, bringing the arms there throughout the afternoon. The attack was to commence around nine in the evening, when the cabinet ministers would be at their dinner.
“We will all be there,” Thistlewood announced.
“No,” Silas said. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed in anger and accusation. The hell with it. “No,” he repeated. “This is a damned foolish plan. Sidmouth’s office and Bow Street are expecting you to act. You’ve already been warned.” He gestured at Adams. “You won’t be ruling London on Thursday. If you’re lucky, you’ll be waiting the drop for murder. More like, you won’t get near them.”
Ings seized a short sword from the pile and swung it through the air, causing Brunt and Davidson to leap back with curses. “Damn your eyes, you’ll not dampen our spirits! We’ll take the house without a drop of our blood shed! Have you turned coward?”
“You wave that at me again and you’ll find out,” Silas informed him. “Put it down and listen, you fool. For God’s sake, even if you were to succeed, even with Sidmouth’s head in a bag, you’ll all swing for treason. Do you not see that?”
“And wouldn’t that be worth it?” Davidson demanded, his deep tones rolling out with a preacher’s cadence. “The deaths of tyrants? Vengeance for Peterloo? Is there any man among us who would rather live a craven than die a martyr?”
“You’ll die a martyr, and then the rest of us will be martyred with you. You think they’ll stand for a revolution like this? They’ll crack down harder,” Silas said. “You’ll be proving the Six Acts were needed and Sidmouth was right. They’ll make it worse.”
“It can’t get worse!” Brunt shouted, voice cracking. “We’re starving, we’re losing. This is our chance!”
“Come, Mason,” George Edwards said, his tone reasonable. “You’ve not been in the planning. You don’t have the spirit of it yet. It’s a God-given opportunity. And you’re a strong man, a fighter. You could make the difference for us. Vengeance for Peterloo!”
“Vengeance for Peterloo,” the other voices came in, fierce and intent and together.
“At least agree you’ll think about it,” Edwards urged. “We’ll hope to see you there. We’ll trust you to come. Say you’ll come. For us all, for Spence, for freedom.”
“Tom Spence wouldn’t have wanted this.” Silas looked around him, saw no weakening in any of the faces except Adams’s, and gave it up as a bad job. “I say you don’t have a chance, you’ll do naught here but harm to the cause, and you’re fools. If you want to be martyred fools, you do that. I’ve done with martyrdom.”
“You’ve lost your nerve,” Thistlewood said with contempt.
“Don’t turn on us now. Don’t betray us,” Edwards beseeched.
“I’m not an informer, curse you.”
“No, you’re part of this. Don’t you want to see the cabinet fall, and the king too?”
“Of course,” Silas said impatiently.
“Then you’ll wish us success in our work. And you’ll help us if you can. You’ll write the truth for people to read. If we fail, you can tell the world we were martyrs for their sake, urge them to throw off their chains and bring down the king!” Edwards gripped Silas’s forearm with sweaty hands. “You’ll stand by us, won’t you, Mason?”
“Aye, aye.” Silas wondered if he’d ever looked like that, face set in a fanatic’s wide-eyed grimace. “Aye, as you say. Death to all tyrants. I’m going.”
He turned his back on them all then and left, wondering what the devil to do.
Time was he’d have seized a pike and damned the gentry to hell. The Peterloo Massacre had been plain murder, and Silas would have had no hesitation in bringing summary justice to its architects or taking arms against tyranny. He did, however, balk at the prospect of being hanged, drawn, and quartered for a pointless act, and that much would be inevitable, even if they succeeded in taking a few lives.
What the devil would Dom say, if it came off? Call it mass murder, probably. A moot point, because Silas couldn’t believe it would happen. Ings and his fantasy of Castlereagh’s head in a bag—he’d never killed in his life. He’d fold. Thistlewood, who had been a soldier, was the only one Silas w
ould trust to strike.
Well, it was not down to him. The Spenceans would act as they chose in the end, or as they dared, and there was damn all he could do about it but wait.
He spent the rest of the day looking for a room in Ludgate, because he couldn’t stay in Quex’s forever or even much longer, no matter how perfect that might be for Dom. They’d seen each other every night now, Thursday to Monday; they’d even had one whole night in a bed for two. It wasn’t worth the loss of Silas’s shop, but he’d happily endure burned hands again for such a prize.
The thought propelled him back to Quex’s and the little room. There was a pile of the day’s newspapers there and a couple of books Dom had left him: The Vampyre, which purported to be by Lord Byron and looked like a lot of nonsense, and The Bride of Lammermoor, by the anonymous author of Ivanhoe. He’d enjoyed Ivanhoe more for Robin of Locksley and the Jewess Rebecca than the knight hero and his bland, virtuous lady, but the author could spin a tale, and the medieval past seemed, at this moment, a more friendly place than the present.
With enough concentration, he managed to make The Bride of Lammermoor’s action chase his dilemma to the back of his mind. He was halfway through the book, stretched out on the bed, when Will Quex came in.
“Bookworm. How you feeling?”
“Good enough.” Silas sat up. “Is it late?”
“Eleven, near as. Got a message from your sweetheart.” He grinned at Silas’s glare. “Won’t be coming by tonight, busy at work, he says, but put on something pretty for him tomorrow.”
“Rot you. What did he say?”
“He’ll be with you around three tomorrow. He’s asked for the private room again. We’ll do it this time, but—”
“I know. You need me out of here.”
“We’ve to do whatever Lord Richard says.” Will spread his hands. “And Lord Richard’s first order is to do what Mr. Frey says. But what Mr. Frey says would piss Lord Richard right off. And if you can tell me how to untangle that, I’d be grateful.”
“Not your problem. I’ll be gone…” He thought about the private room. A last afternoon and night with Dominic. “Thursday afternoon?”
“Make it lunchtime,” Will said. “Sweet dreams.”
—
The next day Silas lunched on bread and cheese and The Vampyre, which was, as he’d guessed, nonsense, although its portrait of nobleman as murderous blood drinker gave him some fine ideas for a pamphlet. Will took him down to the private rooms a little later, with a few caustic comments, and he read in the bedroom, because he couldn’t feel right in the grand meeting room with its fine papered walls and upholstered chairs, not without Dom. He couldn’t shake the feeling that a gentleman might come in.
So he sat with a pile of yesterday’s newspapers and a book he didn’t like and tried not to think about the evening and what would happen on Cato Street.
Dom arrived a few minutes after three. Silas heard his footsteps: pausing in the room outside, then hurrying to the bedroom a little too fast. He pushed open the door, with force, and stopped on the threshold, looking at Silas.
Silas rose. “Afternoon. You all right?”
“Yes.” Dominic shut the door behind him. “Yes. Glad to see you.”
He didn’t look all right. He hadn’t even taken off his fine greatcoat, he looked as unnaturally nervy as a galvanized frog, and there was a plea in his dark eyes that Silas knew. He took three steps forward, scowling as Dom turned his face away; grabbed his chin and pulled it back. They stared at each other.
“Right,” Silas said. “Looks to me like you’re thinking again. I could swear I told you about that.” He tightened his fingers just a little. “Do I need to give you something to think about?”
Dom’s lips moved in soundless agreement. Silas nodded. “So what do you want, Tory?”
Dominic hesitated for a second, watching his eyes. “What do I want?”
“Aye, go on. You tell me just what you want, just how you’d like it.” He paused, let the confusion build in Dom’s expression, then added, “I’m warning you, though, this is what you might call a trick question.”
“What I want…” Dominic looked down, then back up. “What I want is academic. You’re going to fuck me how you choose, aren’t you?”
“And be damned to what you want. I don’t care, you Tory whore.” Silas shoved him away. “Get your clothes off.”
He moved to obey, hands shaking. Silas snapped his fingers as Dominic pulled the snowy length of starched cloth from his neck. “Give me that.” He had a use for Dom’s cravat.
Silas waited till he had the Tory naked, then jerked a thumb at the bed. “On your back. Hold the rail.” For what he had in mind, he wanted the familiarity of their long-standing signal. That, and it would be a long time before he could tie Dom up again without one eye on the door.
Dominic’s eyes widened, but he took the position ordered. Silas straddled him, sitting heavily on his chest, hearing the grunt as Dominic bore his weight.
“Right.” He brandished the cravat. “You and me, Tory, we’ve got unfinished business. Head up.”
Dominic’s eyes had that look of genuine alarm they’d had before at the prospect of blindfolding, but his hands didn’t release their grip on the rail. He raised his head, and Silas wound the cravat around it, over his eyes. It was good linen, opaque, cutting out any chance of a peek.
Dominic was breathing hard, and Silas could feel the tension in the chest under him. “Don’t like it?”
“No,” Dominic said. “I don’t like it. I don’t.”
“Uh-huh.” Silas pulled off his own neckcloth, with deliberate friction. He wanted Dom to hear the movement and to wonder. He tightened and twisted the cloth in his hands. “Well, if you don’t want it, you’d better say so. Just a moment, though. Head up. Right, now open wide.”
He pushed the makeshift gag into Dominic’s mouth. Dom made a noise that sounded bloody like terror. His knuckles on the rail were white, skin tight-drawn over bone, but he didn’t let go.
Silas knotted the gag, controlling his hands because they had to feel sure to Dominic, even if he’d never felt anything less himself. He couldn’t tell if this was going a bit too far, or a lot.
But he was no use to his Tory if he went soft, was he?
“Right,” he managed. “You can say what you like now.”
He swung himself off the bed to undress, watching Dominic stretched over the sheets. Silas missed watching his eyes, but there was something about the way the gag pulled at Dom’s mouth and forced his lips apart that made up for it.
Dom’s body was rigid with tension, muscles standing out on his arms, toes curling into the mattress. Fighting for control, and afraid, and prick undeniably flagging. He was scared, blinded, and silenced, but he had his hands on the rail, and he still wasn’t letting go.
There really were no chains like the ones in your head.
Silas crossed to the dressing table. There was oil but no toys here—Quex’s gentlemen probably brought their own or were too dainty to use them, and anyway, that wasn’t what he was after. He’d found what he needed on the marble stand of toiletries for making the gentry look respectable again. A comb with long, sharp steel teeth.
He sat on the bed, listening to Dominic breathing harshly through his nose, watching the tension of his body. Silas contemplated the expanse of chest and thigh, the goose pimples on Dominic’s skin though the fire had been blazing all day.
He ran the comb across Dominic’s chest.
The Tory arced like a bow, lifting right off the bed in shocked reaction, and cried out, sound muffled by the gag. Silas did it again, a little harder, leaving a faint white line, and again, every scrape of the teeth making Dominic thrash and twitch. Caressing his lover with steel, leaving a lacework tracery of fine grazes, watching him curl and groan and make noises that sounded like begging. Didn’t matter what he was begging for, to Silas’s mind, as long as he was doing it.
Up his chest. Skimming the nipple
, which elicited a hoarse shout of pain. Across his throat like a murderer’s razor. Over every inch of him, slow and careful, and then faster, light slashes, and then pressing the teeth in till they left pinprick dents. Over and over, until Dominic looked like every inch of him was quivering, and he was as hard as a barber’s pole. Silas had decided the steel comb might be excessive there. Perhaps Dominic might like even that, but he wasn’t going to find out, because the thought made Silas’s eyes water.
“How’s that, Tory?” he murmured, stroking the comb down the inside of one tensed thigh instead and watching Dominic shudder. Silas pressed the teeth in a little harder, forced a cry that sounded like protest. “Not that it matters if you like it or not, not if it gets you ready. And you are, aren’t you?”
Dom was thrashing now, fighting it so hard you could almost believe he was tied to the bed by anything but his own will, and the sense of power was dreamlike. Silas could take something that Dominic hated and make him need and want and plead for it. His Tory, every inch of him, belonging to Silas. He wanted to dig the comb in, to break the skin and leave a mark that wouldn’t fade. Mine. Mine.
“God, I’d do anything,” he whispered aloud and had to pull himself together. “I could make you do anything. Look at you, desperate for it. Like a bitch in heat.” Dominic jerked as if struck. Silas ran his other hand over Dominic’s tensed arse. “You’ll take all the fucking you can get, won’t you? I ought to bring someone in. Rent you out.”
Dominic made the kind of anguished noise that suggested Silas had hit a nerve. Hard words could do more than steel to bring his Tory down.
“Aye, I could do that,” he went on. “Get some strong young lad in to fuck you a few times, scratch that itch of yours, till you’re begging him to stop for real. However long that takes. I’d like to see that. Sit back and watch while some big bravo makes you yell. Stroke my prick and let him do the hard work on you, and then once you’ve had enough, I’ll make you kneel for it myself. Christ.” Dom was curling up, whimpering his need, and the picture Silas had conjured was too fucking much. He nearly spilled the oil, his hand was shaking so.
A Seditious Affair Page 19
