A Seditious Affair (16 page)

What? What would a firebrand do once extinguished? What would Silas do without his cause, or his pride?

Dominic held him in silence, listening to distant shouts, and wondered why this had to be impossible.

Chapter 7

They were next due to meet on the last Wednesday before Christmas.

Silas had little enough Yuletide spirit. He had nobody to share Christmas with, for one thing, with Harry gone to be a gentleman. He’d never made a fuss about the day, but Harry, with that irrepressible joy of his, had put up greenery and candles too, when the extravagance could be justified, and usually found something decent to make a meal. Silas, atheist to the core, had grumbled about waste and foolish superstition, but now there was no Harry after six years, and the prospect of a cheerless, lonely Christmas was bleak.

Not that he’d have it different. Harry had been a useless mouth to feed, that was all; if he was now rich and safe, that just spared Silas a responsibility. The boy would be a bloody fool to come back even to visit anyway, and Silas was glad to know he wasn’t. It was for the best.

It was bitter cold these days, the wind howling through the gaps in the bookshop walls and windows, and times were hard. Sales weren’t bad, but so many of the people around him were out of work, all of them needing help that nobody else would give, and then there was the endless, endless expense of printing.

He was running off his pamphlets after hours at his cousin’s printshop now, finding himself, to his own shame, too fearful to do the work on the handpress. Someone had exerted influence at the Home Office in some way Dominic hadn’t chosen to explain, but Silas hadn’t noticed any shadows on his tail in the last few days. That wasn’t going to last, though. Sidmouth’s bills were still going through Parliament, but Silas had a deep, sick conviction they’d pass, and when they did, the legitimate voices for reform would be silenced or driven underground, and the Government’s men would swoop like vultures on them all.

The measures might not pass,
he repeated to himself. Even Dominic didn’t like them. Surely there weren’t enough reactionaries, surely the Whigs and the moderate Tories would oppose . . .

He couldn’t quite make himself believe it.

These were his days. Hunger and desperation around him, writing with ever more anger and a growing sense of furious futility, and all of it harder and sharper because of Dominic, who loved him.

There were, Silas had learned from Zoë, men with tastes far odder than Dominic’s. Men who wore devices all the time, under their clothes: spiked things that dug in or
consolateurs
that stayed in place while you went about your business. Not something Silas would want. And yet, in some peculiar way, it was what he had, because Dom’s words stayed with him like a spiked collar, scraping at his skin, the points digging in sharp at unexpected moments, but always producing a steady hum of pain.

Wednesday by Wednesday, week by week, I have loved you.

Like Silas hadn’t. Like he didn’t dream of the Tory asleep and awake, like he hadn’t shamed himself with fantasies of lives together, like he hadn’t surrendered in his soul as much as Dom ever had on his knees. Like he didn’t want to give up everything he’d ever fought for, every scrap of it, for his dark-eyed beauty.

He feared in his bones that he’d give in if Dom asked, and Dom knew it and didn’t ask. Silas loved him more for that, with a heart so poorly suited and so unaccustomed to love that he felt it might burst its banks like one of London’s choked, fetid rivers.

He had no idea what to do with what he felt.

If you truly cared, you’d make him stop this before he runs his head into a noose.
He told himself that every day. He might have been able to do it except that Dom had been left before, by that worthless, oversized prick who’d hurt him again and again, and Silas would not walk in that bastard’s shiny-booted footsteps.

He kept a weather eye out for spies on his way to the address he’d been sent. It was up west, near Grosvenor Square, a place called Bishop’s Yard. He’d had to look that up, and found it backing on to Mount Street, where Dominic lived. Convenient for him; a good few miles on foot for Silas.

That seemed oddly selfish—for Dominic, not for gentry in general—right up to the moment Silas gave the false name he’d been supplied, and the leather-jerkined man in the yard replied, with utter boredom: “Here about the binding? Gawd, him and his books. First floor, up the back stairs and round.”

“Hold on. Where’m I going to?”

“Mr. Frey’s. Go on, get on. It’s too cold for chat.”

Disbelieving, sure this was wrong, but unwilling to draw attention, Silas went through the indicated door and up the stairs. He knocked.

A housemaid answered. “Delivery? Oh, no, you’re the book man.” She looked him up and down, gave a little sniff. “Well, in you come.” She ushered him into a book-lined study, curtains drawn and fire blazing, warmly decorated in shades of red that made him think of the wines they had drunk. “I’ll let the master know you’re here.”

And then, a few long moments later, Dominic. He walked in with a word of courteous greeting, shut the door, and took Silas, astonished and unresisting, in his arms.

Silas allowed himself one long, greedy kiss, because he couldn’t not, then wrenched away. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Possibly.” Dom’s eyes were sparkling darkness. “Probably. On the other hand, I do have some small powers of planning. You are chilled to the bone.”

“It’s damned cold out.”

“Bath,” Dominic said. “I had one drawn. No, I am quite serious.”

“You can’t just put a passing bookseller into a bath,” Silas growled. “You don’t think the servants will notice?”

“The servants have all gone home but one, and she is leaving now,” Dominic said, rather smugly. “I gave them the evening off. You and I, my friend, have the place to ourselves. And I don’t think we will be able to repeat this, so shall we not waste our time in argument?”

Silas blinked at him. “Right. Bath, you say?”

He’d never had a bath, not in a private way. He washed, like everyone else, under the pump or with a pitcher and a bowl, went to the bathhouse as a luxury. Dom had had people boiling water for this, lugging great pitchers of the stuff up the stairs, and Silas didn’t believe for a second that it was leftover bathwater either. This was for him.

The bath stood in a bedroom, in front of another fire. Coals that could keep half the street warm in a set of rooms for one man that had enough space for twenty. The water was deep enough to soak in up to his neck and so hot that it seared his chilled toes before warming them. He shut his eyes, feeling the soothing heat, and heard a soft tread on the floor.

“How’s that?” Dominic asked.

“Very nice. Thought I needed cleaning up, did you?”

“Honestly? Yes.”

Fair enough. He was dirty, and knew it. It wasn’t possible to be otherwise. His cropped hair kept him free of lice, and he sluiced himself down whatever the weather because he’d read a lot on hygienic living, but there wasn’t much more a working man could do.

Except take a wealthy man as lover, of course.

He harrumphed in response and reached for the washcloth Dominic held out. It was a rare pleasure, scrubbing at himself, sluicing water through his hair, with the frothiest, sweetest soap he’d ever touched. It was Dom’s soap, the stuff Silas had smelled on his skin. He’d smell of it for a little while, carrying the Tory around with him in a cloud, before it wore off with time and grime, and the thought was a painful joy.

The bathwater, when he opened his eyes to look at it, was murky.

“God’s tits,” he muttered.
Honest dirt shouldn’t be an embarrassment, of course. B
athing was another luxury the rich kept to themselves, that was all. But in this clean, airy room, the dirt made him feel his place.

Was this Dominic’s bedroom? It had a large bed, with an iron frame that brought ideas to mind and a mirror opposite that added to them. No pictures on the wall, no china or trinkets or silver knickknacks or whatever gentlemen usually had, no anything that spoke of his personality. Just a bed, a chest, and a lot of shelves with a lot of books.

Books and a bed. If the floor had been bare, rather than covered in rugs, and the bed had been smaller and harder, the blankets coarse instead of fine, and the walls dirty, it could have been Silas’s own room.

Dominic had gone out while he washed. Silas could have sworn he heard voices, low, somewhere outside. He didn’t let it worry him. It might be people in the hallway of the building; if it was an unexpectedly returned servant, well, Dom was no fool.

The man in his thoughts came back in a moment later. “Done? Good heavens.”

“Aye, well.” Silas gave his short hair a last scrub and a doglike shake and hauled himself out of the tub. Dominic stood with a towel, a great clean sheet. “Reckon I might get that dirty.”

“It doesn’t matter if you do.” Dominic enfolded him in the towel, warm and dry and the softest thing he’d ever felt against his skin, rubbing it gently over him. “That looks like it feels better.”

“Not so bad. Comfortable things, your luxuries.”

“That’s what they’re for,” Dominic agreed. “Silas, I hope you know—I
know
you know that I have no desire to change you. Or, at least, that I am not fool enough to embark on any such fruitless quest. You do me very well as you are. You know that, yes?”

“What are you getting at?”

“This.” Dominic stepped away and indicated a neat pile of clothes on the bed.

“What’s that?”

“Christmas. I wanted you here, and I wanted you to be comfortable here, so, uh, I hope they fit.”

Silas picked up the garments with exaggerated disbelief. They were . . .

They were, in fact, perfect.

Not shining new. Not obtrusive. Not smart. The decent garb of a decent man. Precisely the sort of thing that a prosperous bookseller of the middle sort might wear: a good linen shirt, a decent brown waistcoat and darker coat. A pair of breeches.

“You bought me clothes,” Silas said.

“I have so much.” Dominic sounded a little stifled. “Please, let me give you something of use. I promise, I did consider—Look, could you just
try
to take this in the spirit in which it’s meant?”

“And what spirit’s that?”

“A radical one, of course. Sharing my wealth. We both know this isn’t going to happen twice, Silas. I hoped to make it good.”

Silas forced out his instinctive reluctance on a breath. “Ah, you bugger. All right. But you’re a prick.”

“You’re welcome.”

The clothes did fit, very well. Dominic knew his body, of course, none better, but it was still a little odd. Odder to look in the mirror and see himself appear respectable. A white shirt, a neat neckcloth, a coat that wasn’t torn or dusty. Himself pink with scrubbing, and his brindled hair looking rather more flecked with white than usual.

Dominic came behind him, looking into the mirror, slipping hands around his waist. “Most suitable.”

“Aye, well.” He did look . . . not a match for his Welsh lovely, fine as ever in a smart blue coat, but the contrast was less aggressive than usual.
Fine clothes make the man,
people said with a sneer. “Here’s a question, Tory. Why have we got me dressed instead of getting you undressed?”

Dominic didn’t quite meet his eye. “Later. Come through to the study.”

“Why?”

“Come on.” Dom headed off. Baffled, Silas followed, back into the warm book-lined room.

There was a man there. A handsome young gentleman standing by the fire, and Silas had time for one shocked inhalation before he saw who it was.

“Harry?”

“Oh God, Silas.” Harry was in his arms, hugging him ferociously. “Oh God, I am so glad to see you!”

“Harry.” Silas hugged him back, squeezing his eyes shut. “What are you doing here?”

“Dominic asked me what you wanted for Christmas,” Harry said, with a choke of a laugh, “and I said you’d want to see me, which I dare say was terribly arrogant, but if he gave you anything else, you’d just sell whatever it was and hand the proceeds over to the first half-starved beggar you saw, and oh, Silas, I have missed you so much. God, it’s good to see you.” He pulled away a little so they could look at one another. “Oh, yes, they fit. You look so respectable I wouldn’t have known you.”

“I don’t know you. Is that an
earring
? You prancing fop.”

Harry flushed, grinning. “I had it done last week. Julius says we should set a new fashion.”

Behind them, Dominic made a despairing sort of noise. Dominic, who had given him Harry for Christmas. Silas looked round and saw him, standing there, watching.

“Ah, Tory,” he said roughly. “I . . .” He couldn’t find words somehow. Anger, scathing denunciation or accusation, came to his pen without trouble. This rendered him speechless.

Dominic smiled, with something almost painful in his expression. “The plan is to dine here, as best we can, so you—we—have the whole evening. I’ll let you two reacquaint yourselves. Excuse me.”

Silas reached out, grabbing Dominic’s hand before he could leave the room. “Dom.” He wanted to say,
Nobody has ever, in my life, done anything like this for me.
He gripped the hand he held harder, looking into Dom’s dark eyes, and saw the smile there.

“I know,” Dominic said softly. “My pleasure.”

Silas let him go and turned back to Harry, who was watching him with a somewhat slack-jawed expression.

“What?”

“What do you mean, what? You know perfectly well what. Good God, Silas. You, uh, you do know he’s a Tory?” Silas glowered. Harry spread his hands. “Well, for heaven’s sake, you must see it’s a little . . . unexpected.”

“I’ve not changed my views.” It was important Harry should know that. “Fine clothes be damned. I’m not changing, nor giving up the fight, either.”

“Well, I know that, you fool. So what
are
you doing?”

Silas snorted. “Wish I knew. Look, you tell me how you are, all right?”