A Seditious Affair (22 page)

“And you can?” Harry demanded hotly. “Do you think they’ll talk to you?”

Dominic put both hands through his hair. “I’m quite sure they won’t, but he wouldn’t thank you for damning yourself on his account. If you think of anything—hear anything—”

Harry subsided. “Of course. And if we can help, let us know.”

Dominic went to Millay’s anyway, though it was far too early to raise a house that shrouded its deeds in tactful darkness. Mistress Zoë, a yawning doorman informed him, was still abed in her own home and wasn’t to be raised nohow. He wouldn’t give the address, even with the prospect of a guinea twinkling in Dominic’s hand.

“Very generous of you, sir, but a guinea won’t do me long if Mistress Zoë bites my leg off and beats me bloody with it. She doesn’t like to be woke,” he explained, and Dominic had perforce to accept that.

He went back to his rooms, because there was damn all to be done. He didn’t allow himself to hope there would be a message there, and, indeed, there was none.

Perhaps Silas was injured. Dominic placed no faith in the reports that he had “looked well enough, considering.” At some ungodly hour, with him blackened by smoke, who could be accurate? And how much did the people of Paternoster Row even care, those for whom he’d fought so long, for whom he’d gone hungry, yet who had let him disappear into London destitute. It was a perfect practical example of why the democratic idea was a utopian folly, and Dominic wished to heaven that it had been himself rather than Silas proved wrong.

Think, Frey.

If Silas was dead or dying in the gutters, or hidden away in some radical’s den, Dominic had no means of finding him. Therefore, Dominic had to concentrate on what he could tackle. Silas wasn’t with Harry; he might be with Mistress Zoë, and if that was the case, he would be safe. He might be with other friends, but he never mentioned other friends . . .

Jon. He’d mentioned a Jon, the man who had paired them on Cyprian’s orders. And Zoë, talking of that, had muttered,
I’ve got something to say to that brother of mine.
Her brother was Shakespeare, partner of the club keeper Quex, and it was notorious among the Ricardians that Cyprian was thick as thieves with them both.

Silas’s Jon was, had to be, Shakespeare from Quex’s.

Dominic propelled himself upright and reached for his boots.

It was not far to Quex’s. The house didn’t open until four o’clock, but he hammered on the door, and the footman who answered let him in. He was, after all, Dominic Frey.

“I want Mr. Shakespeare, please. At once, and in private.”

There was a certain amount of subdued panic in the footman’s response. Clearly this was more than he was paid for. The public rooms were still being swept out. The place reeked of stale smoke and sweat, and, Dominic could not but notice, it was a little shabby in the unforgiving daylight.

He was brought to a study piled with ledgers and account books, where he waited for a few impatient minutes until Shakespeare entered, impassive as ever, with Quex limping at his heels.

“Mr. Frey, sir. May I help you?”

“I hope so. Do you know where Silas Mason is?”

A fractional pause, then Quex said, in that rather high voice of his, “Who’s that, sir?”

“Silas Mason,” Dominic said. “I am aware you know him, Mr. Shakespeare. Your sister told me of a conversation between you and her regarding Mr. Mason and myself.”

A longer silence. Shakespeare said at last, with caution, “Is there a problem, sir?”

“Yes. I want to know where Mr. Mason is, and you have not yet told me.”

Quex’s smooth face tightened. In the sun that streamed through the window, his chin appeared impeccably shaved to a point of smoothness not even Cyprian could achieve, whereas Shakespeare had a day’s worth of bristle. Both the men looked different, in fact. Perhaps it was that they weren’t in livery, or the effect of daylight rather than the usual candlelight, but Dominic seemed to see them for the first time. Shakespeare’s powerful muscles, a big man who nevertheless had a touch of wariness in his eyes, as though he were used to attack. And—

Dominic stared at “William” Quex, barely believing, and saw the second when Quex knew that he had seen. His—her?—eyes widened, and her narrow shoulders squared in a defiance all too familiar.

Dominic could use this. Quex was a masquerading woman running a gentlemen’s club. That outrageous truth would destroy their livelihood and might see her pilloried if any offended customer chose to object. All he had to do was say he knew her secret—or, surely,
their
secret, the both of theirs—and he could enforce them to do whatever he wanted.

A clumsy oaf might do that.

Dominic cleared his throat. “My concern here is Mr. Mason. His shop has burned down; he has not been seen, as far as I can discover, since Tuesday morning. I want to find him. You know why.” He let that hang for a second.
We all have secrets.
“I do not know a good reason why he would not wish to see me. He may have a reason, and if he does, I would not ask his friends to go against his wishes. But I
must
know that he is safe, that he is well, that he is not in need. If you can tell me where he is, I beg that you will. If all you can tell me is how he is, then please, do so.”

“Why do you think we know where he is?” asked Shakespeare.

“But you do. Don’t you?”

“And if we don’t,” Quex said. “What then?”

“Then I continue looking,” Dominic said. “His well-being is my sole concern, Mr. Quex.”

Quex shot a glance at Shakespeare, who twitched one brow in silent communication that spoke of years side by side. A question being addressed.

Dominic had a weary certainty that Silas wouldn’t come to him for help, but he surely wouldn’t have told his friends to turn him away. So if Quex and Shakespeare were hesitating, it was for another reason. Such as that revealing Silas’s whereabouts could cause them trouble.

“He’s here, isn’t he?”

Quex’s face set. Shakespeare sighed. “You should play more, Mr. Frey. You’d stop Mr. Webster taking every trick. Sir, if Mr. Cyprian finds out we took him in here—”

“He won’t from me.” The relief was a physical, dizzying thing. “Thank the stars. Thank you. Is he all right?”

“Coughing a lot,” Quex said. “Hands got a bit burned. The rest . . . Well, you’ll see. You, uh, you do understand the problem with Mr. Cyprian, sir?”

They had brought Jack Cade, seditious rogue, into the house that Lord Richard Vane used to keep his charmed circle safe. Richard’s wrath would be terrible if he found out. Dominic winced at the thought. “I understand very well. He is fortunate in his friends.”

“Yes,” Quex said. “I was just thinking that myself, sir.”

Quex took Dominic into the service part of the house, up the back stairs. He didn’t limp. Evidently the usual halting motion was a disguise to conceal what would otherwise be the sway of hips. Quex was nothing if not thorough.

Dominic ought, he supposed, to be shocked, but under the circumstances, he couldn’t muster the energy.

“All right, Mr. Frey.” Quex opened a little door in a bare, dark corridor. “Oi, Silas. You got a visitor.”

Silas was lying in a low truckle bed. He looked older, his hands were bandaged, and his face was speckled red: from flying embers, no doubt. He had been staring at the ceiling, eyes blank; at Quex’s words he turned his head, then sat up so sharply he almost fell off the bed.

“Dom?”
he rasped, voice scratchier than usual. “How are you here?”

“Silas.” Dominic was on his knees at the side of the bed, reaching for Silas’s hands before pulling his own away for fear of doing harm. “Silas, you damned fool, why did you not tell me? I’ve been running mad wondering what happened to you. I thought—You
sod
. How are you?”

“What? Fine, fine.” Silas blinked. “What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

“Thursday?” Silas dropped his head back onto the pillow. “Hell. Sorry, Dom. I should’ve sent word to you. Been asleep, I reckon.”

“What happened?”

Silas shrugged. “Those young buggers who robbed Martha Charkin set fire to the shop, middle of the night. Few hours trying to put it out, everyone on the street pitched in, but . . .”

“I saw it. I came to find you. It’s gone.”

“Aye.” Silas stared at the ceiling. “Well, that’s that. I . . . went off after.”

“Why did nobody help you, for heaven’s sake?” Dominic blurted. “How could they let you—”

“Didn’t want help. Flapping round me like a set of hens, I couldn’t stand it. Did some walking. Went to see Jon . . . sometime yesterday, I suppose?”

Heaven knew what loneliness, what misery that covered. Dominic put a hand to Silas’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s the books,” Silas said. “All the books, gone to ash. All that thinking, all that writing. My Blakes, the lot of them. My
books.
Fucking hell, Dom, I know it ain’t the same, but it feels like my boy did. Gone, and naught I can do about it.”

His voice cracked, and Dom leaned forward, gathering him into his arms, holding his bulky brute like a child. “I know. I know.”

They held each other in silence, until Silas took a deep breath. “How’d you get here?”

“Guesswork. I recalled something Mistress Zoë said and concluded that your friend Jon must be her brother Shakespeare. Then I put two and two together.”

“You and your memory. You ought to do a show at Astley’s.” Silas looked around. “This isn’t Jon’s place.”

“It’s Quex’s, the club.”

“Is it, now? Your—Lord Richard ain’t going to like this.”

“He’s not going to find out. Silas, I am aware that you would never willingly endanger me. But I hope you know that if you had come to me, you would have found nothing but welcome.”

“Aye.” Silas rested his head on Dominic’s shoulder for a moment. “I know.”

“I’ll talk to Quex. Ensure that you can stay here safely.” Dominic glanced around, checking the room was otherwise empty and the door shut. “I, uh, assume you know that Quex is a woman?”

“He ain’t.”

“I assure you—”

“What Will Quex is is a cove with a cunny,” Silas said. “He reckons he’s a man, so does Jon, and it’s nobody else’s business until they ask you to join them in bed. Don’t start thinking of him any other way, or you might say something that’ll land a lot of people in trouble.”

That was undeniable, and Quex had made sure Silas was cared for. Dominic decided that he might never have noticed anything. “As you will. Goodness knows there are more pressing issues. Have you debts?”

“No. Always been careful.”

“Any savings? I don’t suppose you had insurance?”

Silas snorted. “No.”

“Then will you let me help? A loan. I’ll charge you interest.” Or, of course, Silas could take the work Richard had offered, but to press that now would be criminally foolish.

“Usurer.” Silas pushed his stubbled cheek against Dominic’s hair. “Ah, Dom. I don’t know. I can’t think about it yet.”

“No, of course not. Just make me one promise? Don’t vanish again. I spent last night and this morning wondering if you had been arrested for high treason or were dead in a gutter, and I should rather not repeat that.”

Silas smiled against Dominic’s skin, and Dominic held him, carefully, until he was asleep again, then went to find Mr. Quex.

Chapter 11

The next few days were . . . odd.

The calamity was such that Silas couldn’t seem to take it in. He slept heavily and dreamed, of the shop or the fire. Once he dreamed that he was sitting at the counter with Dominic, reading
The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
while the shop burned around them. He kept remembering that they had to flee, in little bursts of panic, and then forgetting because Dominic had read out,
He who has suffer’d you to impose on him, knows you,
and they were arguing over the meaning as the flames licked their feet.

Sleep was still better than waking and remembering that he was ruined. No home, no business, no income, no possessions. Not a penny in his pocket and barely a pocket, come to that, because the few clothes he’d scrambled to pull on when the alarm was raised were scorched full of holes.

And yet. He was safe and warm in the little room, with four good meals a day, even if they were porridge or stew spooned into his mouth by a patient maid because his hands were bandaged up. He was pretty sure Dom had ordered Will and Jon to get him fed, as sure that they’d have done it anyway. Harry had come, half-running along the corridor in his distress, and then turned up the next day with a pile of clothes in his arms, good sober clothes for a respectable working man, and a pile of smarter things for a respectable clerk. Silas had asked him,
Why not bring one of your fancy weskits and an earring while you’re at it?
He grinned at the memory.

If you had to lose everything, you couldn’t do it in better company.

It was a few days before the quack agreed to take off the bandages on his hands. He’d come twice daily to apply salves, and Silas was of the opinion he was just bumping up his bill. Whether it was the ointment or that his hands hadn’t been worth making a fuss about to begin with, they weren’t too bad at all on Sunday evening. Pink in a fair few patches, a little sore still, but no lasting damage done.

He was turning them over, trying to be glad for what he had instead of cursing what he’d lost, when Dominic came in.

“Your hands.” Dominic came to sit by him on the bed. “They look better than I feared. Do they hurt?”

“Not so much.”

“Good. Tell me, have you left this room at all?”

Silas hadn’t left the bloody room since Wednesday afternoon or whenever Jon had brought him there. Four days between the same walls. It didn’t feel like prison—he knew damn well what prison felt like—but it didn’t precisely hold a man’s interest either.

“No, I’ve not. There a problem?”

“I thought you might be bored.” Dominic gave him that quick, flashing smile he used when he wasn’t certain. “Dine with me?”

“Dine with you,” Silas repeated.

“There are rooms downstairs which we, our set, use for private engagements. A meeting room where one can dine, and a bedroom. I’ve taken them for tonight. Nobody else will come.”