A Seditious Affair (31 page)

Silas’s fingers hardened on Dominic’s, thumbs digging into his palms. “I wouldn’t bet on that if I were you, Tory.” There was that little growl in his voice that made the hair rise on Dominic’s arms. “No, I wouldn’t bet on that at all.”

Epilogue

May 1820

Silas was in the book room at Albemarle Street, staring into the fire lit against the cool of the evening, when Dominic entered. He latched the door behind him. Silas didn’t turn.

“You’ve seen the newspapers,” Dominic said.

“Aye.”

“You didn’t go, did you?”

“No.”

Dominic came up behind him and put a light hand to his shoulder. “Good.”

The trial of the Cato Street conspirators had been as much a farce as the conspiracy itself. The prosecution had declined to call George Edwards, and in his absence the judge had refused to consider any evidence of his involvement. The mysterious notice of the dinner was dismissed as irrelevant. No question of an agent provocateur had been admitted. Robert Adams had stumbled his way through his highly coached testimony, and the sentences of high treason had been handed down.

Five of the conspirators, including Thistlewood, had hanged the previous morning. As an act of clemency, they had been spared drawing and quartering; instead, the corpses had been decapitated and the heads displayed, as traitors deserved. Five more had had their sentences commuted to transportation. A clean sweep, much as Lord Liverpool’s Tories had made of the election, holding on to power with an increased majority. It had all been a triumph for the Government. In another life, knowing less, Dominic would have been jubilant.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Aye, well, we knew it was coming. They died well by all accounts, and there’s an end to it. Enough.” Silas turned from the fire, or from his thoughts, and gave Dominic a long look. “Very nice.”

Dominic knew he looked well. He was dining here, a private meal with some of the Ricardians. It was intended to be a regrouping after the events of a dramatic twelve months that had tested old friendships and forged new ones, and he was looking forward to it. He was plainly dressed, in silent opposition to the peacock feathers Julius and Harry would doubtless be sporting, but he was pleased with his new waistcoat and with the subtle silver watch chain he wore across it.

That had caught Silas’s eye. He lifted it with a finger. “Chain, eh? What’s that for?”

“My watch.”

“Is it.” Silas gave it a tug, and Dominic swayed forward in response. “I reckon I should be the one putting chains on you.”

“You are,” Dominic said softly. “You have.”

Silas twisted his finger in the chain, tightening it. It was only attached to Dominic’s waistcoat, it was just cloth that pulled over his chest, but he still gave a little flinch at the shadow or anticipation of pain and saw the response leap in Silas’s eyes.

“I’ve got better ideas for you than a dinner, Tory.”

“I can’t be late,” Dominic said, telling himself as much as Silas, because Silas’s other hand was moving downward and taking commanding hold. Dominic shifted his legs apart, giving access. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t what?” Silas murmured in his ear. “Don’t put you on your knees and give you a mouthful? Don’t bend you over the desk and make a mess of your pretty clothes? Or . . .” Silas’s hand tightened. “Don’t pack you off to the drawing room with a stand you could use to poke the fire?”

“
Please
don’t do that.”

Silas’s strong fingers were working him through the cloth, with unquestioned ownership. His other hand was wound in the chain, keeping Dominic close. As though he could have pulled away. “Aye, that sounds good. You go mix with your gentry friends with your prick aching for it. Me, I’ll have a drink, put my feet up. Maybe I’ll pay David a visit, see if he fancies losing at backgammon.”

“I thought he mostly beat you.”

Silas tightened his grip punitively. Dominic whimpered.

“And when you can’t stand any more waiting, you come and find me, Tory, and we’ll see about a bit of backgammoning for you too.” Silas brushed his lips over Dominic’s ear, sending shivers over his scalp. “No doubt about who’ll win that round, is there?”

None at all. Dominic squirmed against him. “Couldn’t we—”

“No.” Silas’s hand pressed harder against Dominic’s constricted prick. “You’ll just have to wait.”

“I don’t want to wait,” Dominic objected breathlessly.

“Nor me.” Silas gave him a wolfish grin. “The difference is, I don’t have to. Get on your knees, Tory. I’ll spoil your supper for you.”

In half an hour, he was due to be in the drawing room. He’d be flushed, his hair disarranged; he’d have Silas on his breath and an ache between his legs that would render the entire evening a torture. “You can’t do this to me,” Dominic protested. “You swine.”

“That right? And here was me thinking I can do anything I want to you. Going to tell me otherwise?”

“No.”

“What can I do?”

Dominic shut his eyes. “Anything you want.”

Silas’s lips, open and demanding, met his. There was a tongue in his mouth, hard knuckles digging into his chest, a hand between his legs working his straining prick, and Dominic gave himself up to those long, commanding, hungry kisses.
Anything at all, my brute. For the taking.

Silas pulled away too soon, looking dazed, though his grip was unmerciful as ever. “That’s for later. A lot more of that. For now . . . got anything to say?”

Anything meant
Mason,
which meant
No. No, I don’t want you to fuck my mouth and send me off with swollen lips and an aching prick; I don’t want my friends quietly speculating about what I’ve been up to; I don’t want to spend the night shaking with anticipation . . .

“Nothing at all,” Dominic said.

Silas smiled at him, that look of conspiratorial understanding between the two of them, and Dominic felt his own lips curve in response. “I’m glad to hear it, Tory. Now get on your knees.”

Author’s Note

This is a romance, but the tragic farce of the Cato Street Conspiracy was real. I have taken all the details and much of the conspirators’ dialogue from the accounts given at the trial. They really were that deluded, that desperate; their plan really was that bad; and they really were set up by George Edwards, acting as agent provocateur for a reactionary government, and a judge who ensured their trial could only go one way.

Arthur Thistlewood, James Ings, Richard Tidd, John Thomas Brunt, and William Davidson were hanged on May 1, 1820.

For May Peterson, who is definitely Team Radical

Acknowledgments

Slang lexicographer Jonathon Green is extraordinarily generous with his help, and his slang timelines and dictionaries are invaluable to any lover of historical slang, swearing, and abuse. Follow him on Twitter @MisterSlang. Tim Heath of the Blake Society was very kind and helpful in explaining the production of Blake’s illuminated books. I have been heavily reliant on John Stanhope’s book
The Cato Street Conspiracy,
a detailed and comprehensive account of this sorry affair, and Iain McCalman’s
Radical Underworld.
Any errors on the topics they cover are of my own making.

As ever, I owe a great deal to my agent, Deidre Knight, and everything to my family. (Except the cat. He’s useless.)

By K. J. Charles

Society of Gentlemen

A Fashionable Indulgence

A Seditious Affair

A Gentleman’s Position
(coming soon)

About the Author

K. J. Charles is a writer and freelance editor living in London. She has two kids, one cat, a shed to write in, and a big mug for tea—she’s not sure what else you need in life. Find K.J. all too often on Twitter or on
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