A Fashionable Indulgence (Society of Gentlemen #1) (23 page)

Richard folded his arms. “I must say this. It is apparent that this man Mason is a seditionist. Must he be protected at the expense of Harry’s safety?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “I have to.”

“And you.” Richard’s eyes flicked to Dominic. “You’ll protect him at the cost of your self-respect? Assuming you have any left?”

Dominic stood. “I shall spare you my presence any further. Good night.”

Richard stood aside to let him by. They watched him as he left the room, without looking back, then Julius turned to Richard. “Dear fellow—”

“Don’t dare excuse him.” Richard’s voice was thick with anger. “A gentleman has obligations, no matter what his tastes. To himself, his class, to those below him. Dominic associates with the lowest sort, and degrades himself to the level of a beast,
with
beasts—” He broke off, turning away.

“Richard, you are speaking of my friend,” Harry said to his back, ignoring Julius’s nudge. “Silas is a good man, whatever he may be to Dominic.”

“Whose life you were concerned for in this man’s company,” Richard retorted. “A glowing endorsement indeed. The room is yours, gentlemen. I have no stomach for this today.”

“Damnation,” Julius said, as the door closed behind him. “He’s taking it hard.”

“So is Dominic, by the look of things.”

“If that was a vulgarity you should be ashamed of yourself,” Julius said, rather unfairly in Harry’s view. “Come, I suggest we return to my rooms. I have also had quite enough of other people today, and we should avoid Richard for a while. He rarely loses his temper, but when he does it brings to mind the wrath of pagan gods. Let us go home.”

By the next morning, Harry had a plan in mind.

He kissed a very drowsy, pliant Julius good-bye at an early hour, wrote and posted a couple of notes, and then returned to Richard’s house for fresh clothing and a slapping breakfast. He was grateful that his cousin did not appear.

He was walking with Verona in Hyde Park by eleven, pouring all his troubles out. It was the end of October, wet and cold, and her kid half-boots were not ideal for the muddy pathways, but she cared no more than Harry did.

“This is appalling,” she said, when he finally stopped talking. “And yes, of course I shall talk to Laura and she shall speak to Maltravers. Well, this explains why Grandfather has been in such a shocking mood in the past days.” She sighed. “I suppose you
had
to say we didn’t want to marry.”

“Lady Cirencester—”

“Yes, I know. She’s terribly difficult to lie to. Are you really a cicisbeo?”

“A what?”

“A cicisbeo,” Verona repeated. “I believe it means a young man kept by an older lady.”

“I’m quite sure you shouldn’t know about that,” Harry said, filing the word away for later use. “And I am most certainly not. Why on earth would you ask me that?”

“Grandfather said so. He had quite a lot to say on the subject.” Verona’s cheeks had little spots of red. “He thinks
you
are being kept by a wealthy lady, and
I
am preparing to run away with Edward. He does not have a high opinion of my conduct.”

“Are you all right, Vee?”

“No, I am not.” She laced her gloved fingers tightly. “It is appalling. He is so angry that it frightens me sometimes. I don’t want to be in that horrible house with him.”

Harry looked at her tightly pressed lips. “Has he hit you?”

“He slaps me, sometimes. And he raised his stick yesterday,” Verona said. “I shouted for my maid, and he lowered it, but…I don’t like it, Harry. I don’t like to be there.”

“Could we ask Lady Cirencester, or Richard, for help? Is there someone else you could live with?”

“He is my legal guardian. He is well within his rights to chastise me; he controls my money. And I don’t suppose the family would support a challenge to his guardianship, under the circumstances. I don’t know what else I can do, except—” She broke off with a glance at him.

“I don’t know what you have in mind,” Harry said. “But Cirencester has obliged Gideon to keep funding me at least until the current scandal subsides, to avoid the appearance of the family doubting me. I can get—” He calculated his funds swiftly. He’d been saving, in the growing awareness that the supply might be cut off at any time. “Fifty pounds now, and another hundred at the beginning of the month. If I give it to you, would that help?”

“Harry!” Verona’s eyes rounded.

“Whatever you need. I don’t know how long he’ll carry on funding me but I can save most of it, if that will do you any good. And if you want any other help, well, I couldn’t be in worse trouble than I am. I’ll very happily escort you to a church. Or see you off to Gretna, come to that.”

“Harry!”
Verona was scarlet.

“I’m sorry, that was impertinent.”

“No, it…it’s wonderful.” She stood on tiptoes and planted a swift kiss to his cheek. “Thank you. Thank you so much. Do you suppose you can get me the money soon?”

“I’ll send what I have as soon as I go home.”

“I can repay you when I have my inheritance, you know. I will do that. But Grandfather keeps me on such a tight rein, with no pin money at all. And if I can just have enough…” She took his arm with a little snuggle into his side. “Goodness. I feel quite hopeful all of a sudden.”

Harry didn’t, much, but there was something rather joyful in forgetting all those painstakingly taught rules of conformity. He’d help Verona, and be damned to the consequences. The rashness of it gave him the rush along his nerves that gambling never did.

He wondered if his father had had the same giddy feeling of freedom.

Harry left Richard’s Albemarle Street house early that afternoon on the pretext of a late visit to the panorama in Leicester Square. He’d seen it three times already, and been stunned by its power, a whole great view of the north coast of Spitzbergen, laid out before him from the balcony. He wanted to go again, but in the middle of the day, not on an overcast autumn afternoon where the light was insufficient to give the full effect. However, it had been the best story he could think of when Ballard asked his intentions for the afternoon, and it would do.

He met George Charkin in the Falcon public house on Lisle Street, just north of Leicester Square. George looked bad. He had bruises to his face, which was a little hollow-cheeked, and he was huddled in an old, ill-fitting jacket, torn and poorly mended, and coming apart at the seams.

“God,” Harry said as they settled in a dim corner with their ale. “It’s been bad, then?”

“Pretty bad, aye. All right for you.”

“I’m so sorry, George. Did they hurt you?”

“Bit rough, nothing I can’t take. Nancies.”

“I’m sure. Uh…how is Silas?”

George drained about a third of his ale in a single draught. “Mad as fire. I tell you what, Harry, he’s getting too old for this game. The first time we got raided, he didn’t say a word. Didn’t give ’em a piece of his mind, didn’t use his fists, nuffink. Like he’d been slapped in the face with a wet fish, he looked. Still, he made up for it second time round. Cor, dear, he didn’t half lay into ’em. Still and all, it ain’t funny.”

“No. I know. Look, here.” He took George’s hand under the table and pressed a small but heavy bag into it with trained stealth. “I know things are hard, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there’s more trouble coming. There’s twenty guineas there.” George’s eyes rounded wide. “It’ll help you run.”

“You reckon I need to run?”

“They’re after Silas,” Harry said briefly. “They’ve tried to get him through me, and now they’ll be trying through you. You don’t want to be there.”

“Well. Good of you.” George pocketed the purse. “You’re all right, Harry. There’s others would have forgot their friends in your shoes.”

Harry had wanted to make his excuses, to abandon the murky tavern and get back to brighter rooms and less odiferous company, but that artless comment pricked him. He asked instead after George’s little sister, and other acquaintances, and somehow found himself caught up in reminiscence and anecdote that had them both laughing for the best part of an hour, until it was quite dark outside.

“I must go,” Harry said at last. “It was good to see you. Take care.”

“Aye, you too.” They hurried out of the little pub, and found themselves blasted by a wind that brought a rattle of raindrops on its cold breath, as though autumn had edged toward winter while they drank.

“God almighty.” George huddled into his thin jacket. “Bitter as a witch’s tit.”

There would be months more of cold. “Here, wait.” Harry pulled George back into the entrance-way. “Hold my greatcoat, will you?” He stripped it and then his tailcoat off as hastily as he could. “Take this.”

“You what?”

“Have it.” Harry handed him the puce coat. “It…It’s warm. You’re about my size. Just have it, please.” He probably should have given George the greatcoat, it might have been more useful, but every time he wore the puce it reminded him of that awful breach with Julius. He’d rather it were gone.

Gaping, George handed back the greatcoat, which Harry donned over his waistcoat and shirt, then slid his arms into the puce coat. It was loose, since he was thinner than the well-fed Harry, but they were much of a size.

“Well,” George said. “How’d I look?”

“Very grand.” Absurd, with his worn, dirty linen and knitted neck cloth under a gentleman’s coat. At least the puce suited him, since his curls were as dark as Harry’s own. “It should keep you a little warmer. Be well, George.”

“And you, mate.” George gave him a swift embrace and they parted, heading through Leicester Square, doubtless to spend some of his windfall on riotous living, and Harry back to Albemarle Street, thinking of excuses for arriving home in his shirtsleeves. Thank goodness Ballard had the rest of the day off. Harry had no doubt the impassive footman who took his greatcoat would report his arrival in a state of undress back to Cyprian, but in the meantime, he selected another coat and hurried out once more to meet Julius. He felt, on the whole, that he’d managed the business rather neatly.

Julius generally disliked the end of the Season. It wasn’t so much that he enjoyed the company of his peers as that he was bored by the need to find a hunting party, or a Yule invitation, or an excuse to stay in Town, or anything to avoid returning to that bleak shrine to Marcus where his parents lived.

This time, it was a relief. Every one of the
ton
who left London felt like one fewer to be counted for or against Harry. If only they could get through the next week or so, as the hunters and shooters headed for the countryside, as long as they could avoid any sort of political discussion, as long as they mustered enough allies to keep Harry in credit with the world, the whole sordid business of the bookshop might yet blow over. It would all be for naught if Skelton pursued his prosecution, of course, but pressure was to be applied to Maltravers via his fiancée, her mother, and a sister to whom Ash had made a heartfelt appeal. It might work: Maltravers was a great deal more likely to confer a benefit on a lady than on one of Ash’s friends, and he might yet find it tactful to rein in his protégé.

Richard’s party was supposed to decamp to Arrandene for the hunting season. Julius suspected the Vanes would now be among the last to leave Town, to avoid the appearance of flight. He wasn’t sorry. It would be a mixed party, not the Ricardians alone, and that meant caution. No stolen kisses behind curtains, no shirt-dances in the study. Hardly worth the journey, really.

Dominic would not be coming. He and Richard were now entirely avoiding each other’s presence. Julius had no desire to involve himself, so his heart sank when Dominic arrived at his rooms in the early evening to ask for a moment of his time.

“How may I serve you?” he asked. Dominic looked exhausted, the silver at his temples seeming a touch more prominent. “Sherry?”

“Thank you.” Dominic took the glass and sat heavily in Julius’s usual chair. “I shan’t dress this up. You know that at Theobald’s Harry worked with Silas, and his assistant George Charkin?”

Silas.
Dominic’s black eye was ripening nicely into green and blue. It looked very painful. Julius wondered if he enjoyed it. “I am aware, yes.”

“Charkin’s been killed.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Stabbed in the street,” Dominic said. “In the shadows of Leicester Square. They found the body late, the day before yesterday. Silas asked me to let Harry know.”

Another kick to the teeth for his lover. And Dominic expected him to break the news, damn him. “Poor fellow,” he said with cursory sympathy. “Robbery, was it?”

“No. He had twenty guineas in his pocket when he was found, which Silas assures me is nineteen guineas, twenty shillings and sixpence more than he should have had. He was also wearing a coat of an unpleasantly pink hue which had been cut extremely well for somebody else.”

“Harry. Harry gave him that damned puce coat and the money too.”

“Quite.”

Thank God Dominic had brought this to him, and not Albemarle Street. Richard would be furious. “Blast the boy. Leicester Square after dark,” Julius mused. “Apaches, I suppose? Odd timing, though.”

“There is no benefit to Skelton in his death, if you mean that. The reverse, even. Charkin was the potential weak link, the one who might provide support for Skelton’s accusations, given a little pressure.”

“Let me be clear, dear Dominic,” Julius said. “If your bloody shit of a Skelton proposes to accuse Harry of stabbing his friend to keep him quiet, I shall make him answer for his words.”

“Good God, you’re fierce. You must have terrified the French from horseback. No. Skelton isn’t in society, he didn’t recognize the coat. Which is fortunate, as it is a clear piece of evidence that Harry’s still associating with his old radical set, and that is damned foolish under the circumstances.”

“It is, isn’t it. How likely is this to come out?”

“Not,” Dominic said. “I had it burned.”

Julius blinked. “You destroyed evidence in a murder?”

“What the devil else was I to do? It would bring hell down on Silas with this tangle of murder and collusion and suspicion. And you can tell Harry from me that if he doesn’t stay away from that thrice-damned
bloody
bookshop from now on, I’ll break his neck.”

“Not if I get to him first. Thank you, Dominic. Thank you very much.”

“I want this done with.” Dominic tipped his head back, shutting his eyes. “It’s caused too much damage to Harry, and Richard.” He swallowed the rest of his sherry. “And Silas.”

“How is your man of Wednesdays?” Julius asked, unable to restrain his curiosity.

“Betrayed. Angry. He’ll be my ruin yet, and I suppose I deserve it. Give Harry my condolences, won’t you?” He stood as he spoke.

“No, wait. I don’t claim to understand, but may I not help?” Dominic gave him a sardonic look. Julius raised his palms. “Well, Richard will never forgive himself if anything happens to you.”

“Richard made his feelings known a long time ago. That’s between him and me, Julius.”

“If you insist,” Julius sighed. “Also, we had a bet.”

“I resign all claim.” Dominic gave him a little apologetic smile. “I was drunk and angry, and I provoked Harry. You might convey my regrets for that, if you will. It is not easy to live between two worlds and I should have been more sympathetic to his predicament. Good evening.”

Harry was dining with Lady Beaufort that night. The fashionable widow held excellent dinners, and liked to surround herself with handsome young men, but unlike some of the older beauties, she did not foment rivalries. There would be no political talk and no argument; the only danger Harry ran in that company was the likelihood of waking up with the devil’s own head the next day.

So it proved, when Julius arrived at Albemarle Street at one o’clock. Harry, he was informed, was still in bed. Julius sent up his compliments, with the instruction that Harry would be ready to ride in half an hour or he would find himself tied to a horse and galloped around Hyde Park in his nightshirt. The footman to whom he confided the message repeated it with an exceptionally wooden expression, and made it half way up the stairs before he gave vent to an explosive snort of laughter.

“You’re corrupting my staff,” Richard remarked from behind him. “Are you here for Harry? If you have a moment, I should like to speak to you.”

Julius took his accustomed seat in the book room. “What may I do for you?”

“You may well ask. Gideon asked me about Harry’s unsuitable attachment. It seems he has wind that Harry’s agreement to marry Verona was undermined by the bestowal of his affections elsewhere.”

Julius felt a prickle of alarm over his skin. “Damnation. What does he know?”

Richard turned up his hands. “He seems to think Harry has a wealthy mistress. He gave no explanation.”

“Might he mean Lady Beaufort? Harry has dined there a couple of times.”

“Perhaps. Be careful, though. The only way this business could possibly get worse is by leading to you.”

“Indeed. Good God, Harry is a positive honeypot for trouble.”

“Too true.” Richard tapped his fingers on his knee. “I suppose you haven’t seen Dominic.” The effort to be casual was all too obvious.

“Yesterday. He came to tell me something.” Julius hesitated, not sure how best to act. “Curse it. A man was murdered two days ago. The other assistant at Theobald’s Bookshop.”

“Murdered?” Richard demanded. “Great God, what next?”

“I wish I knew. It’s a little odd, Richard. The victim wasn’t robbed. He had money on him, but it wasn’t taken.”

“Well, men are killed over disagreements often enough, and radicals are quarrelsome sorts. A tragedy for the man’s family but I cannot see any connection to Harry, or us.” Richard paused, the line of his jaw hardening. “I take it Dominic had this from—”

“The Wednesday man,” Julius supplied. “Yes. Dear fellow, I know your feelings, but if ever I saw a man in trouble, it is Dominic.”

“I can’t help him,” Richard said shortly. “I never could. We all have urges we should like to indulge, we all face temptation to take the unworthy path—”

“We are all human, yes,” Julius interrupted, with some annoyance. He could not understand this. Richard was moral, but not usually moralistic. “You will regret it if you don’t extend a hand, I fear.”

“You used not to involve yourself in other people’s troubles. I think I preferred that.”

“Charming. I take it that is my dismissal.” Julius shoved his chair back.

Richard did too. “No, stop. I beg your pardon. That was damned rude of me. I apologize.”

“Accepted,” Julius said, without enthusiasm. “Any news on Maltravers?”

“None as yet. Gideon asked me that as well. It was an unpleasant interview. He is convinced that Harry will face trial for murder, and I cannot persuade him otherwise. You might keep Harry out of his way.”

“I will. I should go.”

“Yes.” Richard attempted a smile. “Go get Harry out of bed. And pass him my sympathies.”

It was no easy task to break the news of a tragedy to a man who had dipped so deep the previous night. Julius made Harry take a few circuits of the park, until his pallor had improved somewhat, and then insisted on getting a mug of ale and a beefsteak into him. He told himself it was to fortify Harry, but he knew it was his own reluctance.

It was past three when they returned to Great Ryder Street, and Julius’s rooms, where he finally sat Harry down and told him that Charkin had been stabbed in the street.

He was glad he’d done it in private. Harry’s face whitened dramatically, and he buried his face in Julius’s shoulder with painful need as they sat together on the settle.

“I’m sorry,” Julius murmured, stroking Harry’s curly hair. “It’s a hard thing to lose a friend. Were you close?”

“I knew him for a long time. He wasn’t my dearest friend, but he was—alive. He was alive and now he’s dead.”

Julius knew that shock well enough. He made soothing noises.

“And it’s my fault,” Harry choked. “If I hadn’t—”

“Given him money?” Julius put in. “Yes, I do know about that, you young imbecile. And you’re wrong. He wasn’t robbed.”

“Then why—?”

“We don’t know. A disagreement in the street, perhaps? Was he quarrelsome?”

“No, not at all. He could be irritating,” Harry admitted. “He’d take a joke too far. But I never knew him as a brawler. Poor George.”

“Mmm. Is there any way I can persuade you to stay away from this blasted bookshop for a while? You know that the egregious Skelton is attempting to implicate you in its dealings, and when a dead man who might have testified against you is found wearing your coat, that has the potential to do a great deal of harm.” He saw Harry’s look of horror, kissed it away. “The coat has been burned. Dominic saw to that. But please, dear boy,
please
will you listen? Don’t go and give your sympathy in person. Don’t write. Don’t waste the efforts so many people have made to help you.”

“Silas—”

“Will understand. Dominic fears your association may bring more trouble upon him.”

“On Silas?” Harry looked horrified. “Oh God. Yes, I see.”

“It sounds as though he has quite enough of his own,” Julius added, shamelessly.

“Yes, all right,” Harry mumbled. “All right. But I hate it.”

“I know, dear boy.” Julius kissed him again. “It will all be over soon enough.”

The note arrived a little while later. It was delivered by messenger boy, from Richard’s house, but the letter inside was to Harry, from Gideon, and the contents were astounding.

“Good God,” Harry said, reading it for the third time. “He says he regrets our last meeting. He wants to talk about how we may do better in future. Listen.
I have been at fault. I have asked too much, and been too choleric. I am an old man now, with little time left, and you, my only grandson
— Julius, he’s summoned me to dinner. He wants to be friends.”

“So he does.” Julius was reading over his shoulder, or trying to. Gideon’s handwriting was appalling. “Well, now.”

“But this is wonderful.” Harry turned a glowing face to him. “If we could get on with each other, and I could persuade him to be kinder to Verona, and— Oh, this could change everything. If he will just give me a chance. I could have a
grandfather.
I should like that.”

“I’m sure you would.” Harry’s eyes were deep and bright as the Spanish seas, sparkling with hope. Julius couldn’t help smiling. “Your grandfather is a Bedlamite if he cannot find joy in you.”

Harry slipped an arm round his waist. “I can at least make him less lonely, surely. I’d so much rather earn my place. And perhaps, if we can be reconciled, he can make his peace with my father too. Whatever he says, surely he must have loved my father, to be so angry with him still after twenty-five years?”

“Perhaps.” Julius dropped a kiss on his ear. He wasn’t convinced that Gideon was repentant, found it a great deal more likely that the old man was either drunk or descending into senility, but it was pleasant to see unbridled happiness on Harry’s face. He wasn’t born to worry. “It seems today is looking up a little. How’s your head?”

“Painful.”

“As you deserve, dining with Lady Beaufort.” Harry’s ear was irresistible, the curves of it, the soft swell of the lobe. It was a damned shame men no longer wore earrings. He’d have bought Harry sapphires. Julius licked it instead, tickling the pliant flesh until Harry squirmed. “Suppose we retire to the bedroom, and I attempt to alleviate your suffering?”

“No sudden movements,” Harry warned. “My brain feels too large for my skull.”

“You need only lie back,” Julius assured him.

He was as good as his word when he had Harry naked and draped across the bed. His lover was normally exuberant, hands and lips roving, demanding satisfaction
now,
full of active, youthful enthusiasm. There was something to be said for having him more or less unable to move. Julius kissed his way from ear to neck to chest, tongue curling and caressing, feeling Harry’s helpless squirms. He circled Harry’s nipples with his tongue till they stood hard, licked his way down the curling chest hair toward his rigid stand, and detoured off to his muscular inner thigh.