A Seditious Affair (6 page)

“And write for them,” the Tory said. “Are you Jack Cade?”

“Rot in hell.”

They stared at each other. Breath coming too fast, faces too close, anger and fear roiling between them.

“What would you have me do?” The Tory sounded as though he was continuing a conversation, perhaps one in his own head. “I’m in the Home Office. This is my
duty.
”

“Aye, duty. You do yours and I do mine. Only, my duty, as I see it, is to tell people there’s a better way than tyranny and unjust law. And yours is to uphold the law when you ain’t too busy breaking it bent over in a whorehouse.” He saw the Tory’s nostrils flare, a little giveaway twitch of anger. It made him want to hit harder, to push the man until he pushed back and see what he was like in a real fight, but there was something he had to do. He cleared his throat. “What about Harry?”

The Tory blinked, just once. “Harry. Yes.” Impressive control. He’d come by that honestly. “I will try to keep him out of this, if I can. He went under a false name here, correct?”

“Harry Gordon. That’s what his parents called him.”

“Well, he’s Alexander Vane’s son, and some people know Alexander Vane, gentleman, became Alexander Gordon, demagogue. Skelton will remember Gordon, I have no doubt, but I don’t know if he’ll make the connection.”

“Will Harry suffer if he does?”

“Maybe. I will try to prevent that. Harry is sponsored by Lord Richard Vane, his cousin and my very good friend. I shan’t—”

“Richard?” Silas said. “The big fellow that took my Harry off to be a gentleman, is that
your
Richard? It is, ain’t it?”

The last vestiges of blood drained from the Tory’s skin, but when he spoke, his voice was commanding. “Listen well. If you choose to ruin me with what we have done, that is the law, and I will take the consequences. But I’ll cut your throat and mine before I let you use my words against Richard.”

Of course he would be loyal to his own sort, his old lover. The stupid, overgrown, arrogant bastard who’d set his claws in the Tory’s heart and left him so blinded with self-disgust that he’d probably never see clear again.

Gentlemen.
Fucksters, the lot of them.

“If I want you dealt with, I’ll do it myself,” Silas said. “And it won’t be through men who’ve never harmed me direct, any more than through latitats and lawcourts. And I tell you what else.” He could feel the anger rising through his muscles, the delayed shame at having to stand and watch men do as they pleased with his life. “Don’t you whine at me. You could have me gaoled at the crook of a finger on any charge you like and make sure I’ve no chance to talk, and you know it.”

“Is that what you think? That I would do that?” The Tory’s knuckles were white.

“You think I’m a fucking informer!”

The Tory breathed in and out. “I don’t think you’re an informer. But I have seen quite enough men inform on their friends, given inducement. How do you think we came to this shop?”

“Someone squawked, did they?” Silas bared his teeth. “Going to tell me who?”

“No.” The Tory stuck his hands deep into the pockets of his expensive coat—to hide their shaking, Silas would have wagered. “I know you are a seditionist. I don’t know how much of one. I imagine we will be back to find out. And I cannot spare you the consequences of what you have done because of what we have done. I cannot and I will not.”

“You think I was expecting that? You think I expected help? Think I was waiting for you to call your men to order or give me a fair hearing,
Tory
?” He spat the word. Frey’s face was pale and drawn. “I know you now. I know right well what I can expect of you. So you just go off and do your duty, why don’t you, without worrying your pretty head about me. I don’t inform.” He gave the Tory a savage, mirthless grin. “Some of us have principles.”

Dominic made it through the rest of the day like a puppet on a single string. His limbs dragged. His skin felt as though it didn’t fit.

Silas. Silas Mason.
The coarse name suited him, Dominic found himself thinking, and pushed the thought aside, but that just left space for the other thoughts, none of them welcome.

He listened to Skelton’s angry complaints of inadequate staffing and unenthusiastic searching, doing his best to nod along.

“They should have torn the place apart,” Skelton concluded. “He’s Cade. I’m sure of it. Have you ever seen a guiltier countenance?”

“Perhaps not, but I didn’t see any evidence either,” Dominic said. “Your belief isn’t enough to make a case.”

“I’ll find the evidence, believe me. Are you well, Mr. Frey? You look . . .”

Dominic grasped at the excuse. “I fear I may have some ailment, yes.”

“You looked dreadful in the bookshop,” Skelton said. “White as a ghost. Go home, sir.”

Dominic managed a smile. “I will.”

He took a hackney to Richard’s house in Albemarle Street. He’d sent a note to Richard late the previous night to let him know about the raid, so Harry would doubtless be there, or on his way, and probably his lover Julius with him, standing guard like a nervy whippet. They all came to Richard; everybody did. Richard knew what to do. Richard would help. Dominic clung to that.

It didn’t work as he’d hoped.

Julius and Harry arrived a few moments after he did, before he and Richard had had any chance to talk. Harry was white-faced and terrified. Julius’s fine, cold features were set like stone. Richard was simply furious, and Dominic, confronted with the full magnitude of the disgrace looming over them all, couldn’t face it. He doubled over as he sat, head in hands, struggling to breathe.

“For Christ’s sake, Frey!” Julius barked. “Sit up, pull yourself together, and talk to us!” The poised exquisite had been a cavalry officer at Waterloo, something that Dominic occasionally forgot in his impatience with Julius’s finicky ways, and his abrasiveness was more effective than any sympathy. Dominic forced himself upright and made himself recount the raid.

“Did they find anything?” Harry demanded.

“No. Our men made a damned mess of the place looking, but if there is anything illicit going on at the bookshop—
don’t tell me
—if there is, we didn’t find it.”

Harry collapsed into a seat, with evident relief, and Dominic’s last hope withered away at that unconscious admission. Harry knew something was going on, and was glad it hadn’t been discovered, and that meant it still could be.
Would
be, because Skelton was on the scent.

Silas was guilty. Dominic hadn’t known how much he had hoped it wouldn’t be true.

“Was this what you wanted to tell me last night?” Harry was asking.

He had gone late to Quex’s, the gentleman’s club and gambling hell where the Ricardians gathered, with a stupid, quixotic urge to warn Harry, and what would that have achieved but to spare a damned seditious criminal? “I shouldn’t have done. I was wrong to try. It was a matter of duty.”

“Your efforts were entirely useless, if that makes you feel better.” Julius had a vicious edge to his voice, and no wonder. He was protecting his lover. That was what lovers did for each other. Protected. Helped. They didn’t turn on one another or leave each other to swing alone.

A warm hand gripped Dominic’s shoulder, a touch he’d know out of a thousand. “Dom?” Richard said. “Is there something else?”

That was not for Harry and Julius’s ears. Dominic had one more disaster of the day to reveal first, though.

He took a breath. “Thaddeus Skelton is a protégé of Lord Maltravers.” That got a general subdued groan. Lord Maltravers had loathed the Ricardians for years, for the simple reason that they excluded him, and he did not care to be excluded. His animosity had grown ever since they had admitted his loathed younger brother Ash to their company. If Lord Maltravers had known that the requirement for membership was a taste for men, he would have had an apoplexy. Dominic wished he would.

Ash and Harry had developed a close friendship. Dominic had no doubt that Lord Maltravers would crush Harry underfoot for no better reason than to hurt Ash, and that humiliating the Ricardians by association would sweeten the act for him considerably. More than that, though, Maltravers was notable for his political ambition and deep loathing of reformers. He’d like nothing better than to prosecute Jack Cade, especially if he could disgrace Harry Vane at the same time. Dominic made himself spell it out: “If Skelton finds evidence of Harry’s involvement at Theobald’s, we may assume he will pass it to his patron.”

“If Maltravers learns information discreditable to my cousin,” Richard growled, “he will do well to keep it to himself.”

“Will they raid the shop again?” Harry asked. “Does Skelton intend to arrest Silas, do you think?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“You seem to be taking this very hard, considering it is merely a matter of duty,” Julius observed, and that word stabbed Dominic through the lungs so that he couldn’t breathe, could barely see.

“Go to hell,” he choked out. “Oh God, Rich, help me.”

Then Richard was holding his hand in his own, sending the other two away, dropping to his knees by Dominic’s chair as the door closed. “Dominic, dear one, what is it? What the devil has happened?”

“Oh, Richard, Richard.” He swallowed hard. “You know . . . Wednesdays.”

Richard knew his needs, despised them, and was well aware that Dominic had them met at Millay’s. “Yes.”

“And that it has been the same man, for the last year and more.”

“And?”

“I didn’t know his name,” Dominic said urgently. “You have to understand, Rich. I didn’t know his name. He didn’t know mine.”

“Very well, but why does this matter? What is his name?”

Dominic stared over Richard’s shoulder. “Silas Mason.”

There was a short silence.

“I pray that this is a jest in poor taste,” Richard said at last.

“No.”

“Harry’s accursed seditionist has been abusing you on a weekly basis, and . . .” Dominic could see understanding dawn. “And you found out today.”

“When I raided the bookshop.”

Richard released his hand in order to put both of his own over his face. “Sweet merciful heaven,” he said, his voice muffled. “Dominic.”

“I know.”

“Dominic. How—what—ah!” Richard pushed himself to his full, imposing height with a sound of explosive frustration. “At what point will you stop trying to have yourself killed? Will this not end until you are swinging by the neck, or dead in the streets? What the devil did you think you were playing at? And now you are like to arrest him, and, what, he’s threatening you? Demanding your protection? Or does he merely intend revenge?”

“None of those,” Dominic said. “He could have ruined me with a word, and he did not. He says he won’t inform against me.”

Richard exhaled. “You believe him?”

“I do, yes.”

“Why?”

“I . . . think he’s honest. I know he’s honest.”

“If he were honest, you would scarcely be arresting him,” Richard pointed out. “Think, for heaven’s sake. The man is a criminal. Can he be disposed of?” Dominic looked up with a pulse of horror. Richard waved an irritable hand. “I meant, can we put him on a ship to America? Pay him off, get him out of the country?”

Could they? The idea brought a tiny flare of hope. “I don’t know if he’d agree. He isn’t very, uh, amenable, but perhaps. Harry might have a better idea of that.” Because of course Harry knew Silas. Harry was intimate with Dominic’s brutal, tender lover in ways he couldn’t dream. Harry shared trust with him, friendship, years of comfortable association.

Dominic found himself disliking Harry intensely.

“It could be done without his agreement,” Richard said. “Just get the fellow on a ship; it could be arranged. I don’t greatly like the idea, but I prefer it to your disgrace, and Harry’s.”

“I’m not seeing him press-ganged for Harry’s convenience,” Dominic snapped.

“The man holds your life in his hands, Dom. I am not disposed to trust him with it.”

“That’s the problem. He’s had my life in his hands for a year or more, and I trusted him utterly. I think I still do.”

“You cannot mean that. I’ve seen the bruises he’s left on you. I’d be glad to see him flogged.”

“I want the bruises!” Dominic hadn’t intended to shout, but the words rang round the room. “That’s the point; that’s what I need—oh, damn it, Rich, can you not try to understand?”

“No, I cannot!” Richard slammed a hand on the tabletop, then drew a breath and spoke more quietly. “I truly can’t. I cannot understand why you threw away everything between us to indulge this urge for degradation. I would have cherished you, Dom. I
wanted
to. I don’t understand why you would not let me.”

Please, please, not this, not now.
“I wish I had wanted you to,” Dominic said, calming his voice. “More than you can know. But I don’t. I can’t. It’s not my nature.”

“Your nature.” Richard let out a hissing sigh. “Which has brought you to this pass. I don’t know what to say. What do you want from me?”

Friendship. Comfort. Forgiveness.

“I don’t know what I should do,” Dominic said. “I feel that I should excuse myself from the business and let the law take its course—”

“You should indeed do that. But what if the man does lay information against you?”

“Take the consequences, I suppose.”

“Except that the consequences may be further reaching. If you are prosecuted for abominable acts—”

“Suspicion may attach to my friends,” Dominic supplied. The Ricardians: Ash and Francis, inseparable to the point of indiscretion. Harry and Julius, who had had a flagrant lovers’ quarrel in public not much more than a fortnight ago. Absalom Lockwood, the Whig lawyer with too many enemies and a tendency to make sheep’s eyes at pretty young men. Richard.

Their little private group offered not just a space in which they could be honest, but also mutual protection. Richard’s wealth, Julius’s exquisite dress, Dominic’s respectability, Ash’s noble birth: as a set they were unassailable. But if Dominic brought disgrace and scandal into their midst and people began to look closely . . .