A Seditious Affair (7 page)

If one fell, they all might fall.

“Indeed,” Richard said. “You cannot let your indiscretions affect the others.”

“No.” Dominic’s voice sounded stifled in his own ears. “I don’t intend to allow that.”

“So this man must be removed or placated. Will you shield him from justice if he proves to deserve punishment?”

“I have not sunk quite that low. I will not, and I told him that.”

“Then we must get him out of the way before that becomes an issue. Be reasonable, Dominic. Leave it to me; I’ll have it done.”

He doubtless could. He would give the order to his quiet, watchful valet, and Silas would be spirited out of the country. It would solve the problem but the idea grated.

“Let us not rush to action yet,” Dominic said. “Mason doesn’t want Harry hurt, I am sure of that. Skelton may not find further evidence. You know I won’t let the others suffer, Rich. Just leave it to me for now.”

“If you say so.” Richard looked deeply troubled. “You will ask me for whatever you need?”

What he needed. Dominic wanted to laugh, but it hurt too much. “Yes, Richard. I will.”

Chapter 4

The whole week hurt.

It had started hurting when Silas threw the bastard Tory out of his shop. Not his Tory, never that again. Just Dominic Frey, another damned bully of the upper classes. A tool of the Home Office. A hypocrite and a liar. He wasn’t losing anything that mattered more than a hole to fuck.

But still it hurt, with a stupid feeling of disappointment or something worse, and it didn’t help when Harry Vane turned up with his la-di-da new clothes on his back and concern in his eyes. He stripped off his fine coat and helped Silas put the shop to rights—a decent lad, Harry, for all the gentleman’s airs he put on these days—and for a few moments, Silas began to feel like he could breathe again.

Except of course Harry had to ask.

“Dominic Frey told me the place had been wrecked.” He spoke cautiously. “I told you he was a friend, and you said you knew his name.”

He’d known the name and known the man. Just not put one to the other. “I know who he is now,” Silas snarled. “He stood there while those bastards wrecked my shop and
watched
—” He couldn’t finish, the betrayal choking him all over again.

“He did try to warn me,” Harry said. It sounded almost like an apology. “He couldn’t find me, but he tried. Silas, what is it that you do on Wednesday evenings? Because the thing is, Dominic—”

Silas didn’t even think, flaring up in instant, stupid defensiveness. “I was you, I’d shut my mouth now, and keep it shut.”

Harry did shut his mouth, because he wasn’t a fool, but Silas could see the questions in his eyes.
What the devil was Dominic doing with you? What were you doing to him?

Because if Frey was Harry’s friend, Harry would have seen the bruises that Silas had left.

He’d enjoyed doing that. Marking the Tory, stamping him his. Making sure any trespassing society gentleman would know Silas had been there first.

But that had been anonymous. Now Harry knew, and Silas didn’t want him to, little though he probably cared. Silas didn’t want Harry to look at Frey and see something weak, something wrong. The bastard could take the consequences of his dirty work and his betrayal, but his bedroom habits should have been naught to anyone else, and Silas felt an urge to tell Harry,
You don’t understand.

No way to explain it, and none of Harry’s business anyway. Frey could look after himself. He wouldn’t think twice about Silas, that was for certain.

That should have been all he needed. But still it hurt, and it carried on hurting all through the week, with a growing sense of ache as Wednesday approached. He used the misery, drove through it, so that the tedious chore of dismantling the press and emptying the printing cellar in the dead of night became an offering to his anger, every armful of metal or paper carried in resentment against Dominic Frey, who had brought this to him.

He could barely sleep on Tuesday night. Lying wakeful in his hard, narrow bed in the attic over the shop, monotonous thoughts circling around his head.

I can’t go. He won’t be there. If I turn up, and he’s not there, and they look at me with pity—no. He’ll turn up and I won’t be there. Better. He can take the pity. He can bloody miss me.

He won’t turn up. Of course he won’t. So I shan’t. That’s over.

But if he did . . .

Every thought led him to the inevitable: no more Tory, no more Wednesdays. But he couldn’t stem his vengeful imaginings: the Tory waiting there, alone, realizing that Silas wasn’t coming, with an open bottle undrunk by the bed. And every time that thought led to the sneaking thought,
Maybe I should go. Just to give him a piece of my mind.

He cursed himself. Brought himself off, twice, in the small hours, for lack of anything better to do, first trying not to think of the Tory—Dominic Frey, get it right—then giving up that effort and going in hard. Remembering the times he’d pushed it so far that he’d been sure Frey would let go his grip and really plead for mercy. Imagining he had. Imagining that Silas hadn’t given it.

He embarked on Wednesday sleepless and miserable, with an aching hole in his chest where anticipation used to be, and snarled at George until the ratty youth turned away, muttering about getting some air. He opened the shop door, peered out, and jerked upright. The alarm in his posture had Silas on alert even before George whispered the words.

“Oh Gawd. Silas. They’re back.”

The soldiers came in rougher this time, and there were more of them. Redcoats, Home Office men in faded black. Skelton with his drooping whiskers and fierce, cold eyes. And Dominic Frey, face set, watching.

Silas planted his hands on the counter top. “Right, you swine. I want to see your warrant. I want to know by what right you bring your Jack-in-office petty tyranny to my shop. I want your grounds.”

“Find the press,” Skelton said to the soldiers, who fanned out, shoving past George. Silas grabbed his arm to draw him away, pulling him behind the counter.

“Oi. I said—”

Skelton came up to him. Walked around the counter, facing Silas directly, with Frey following. Silas kept his eyes on Skelton’s face. He didn’t want to look at Frey, didn’t want to see if his impression of dark-ringed eyes was correct, in case it wasn’t. Didn’t want to know if the bastard had been sleeping well.

“Harry Vane,” Skelton said, and Silas stopped thinking about himself. Frey’s head came up, a startled twitch.

“Who?” Silas asked.

“Henry Alexander Vane, who called himself Harry Gordon when he worked for you in this shop. The son of Alexander and Euphemia Gordon, the revolutionaries. Now going under the name of Harry Vane. A gentleman.” The word held a sneer.

Silas set his jaw. “Lad named Harry Gordon worked for me for a while. Now he don’t. That’s all I know.”

“Is it really,” Skelton said.

There was a crash as a bookcase went over. “Oi!” Silas bellowed, not holding back the volume for the man right in front of him, and relished Skelton’s involuntary flinch. “You sodding respect my stock, you cow-handed lackeys!”

“Mind your manners,” Skelton spat.

“You ain’t,” Silas retorted. “What is this farradiddle about Harry Gordon? What do I know or care? Boy stacked books for me—”

“For six years,” Skelton put in. “He was your friend.”

“Friend?” Silas loaded the word with scorn. “Shop boy. This look like a friend to you?” He grabbed George’s arm. The lad was trembling. “Doesn’t know a bloody thing. Turns up late as often as not, moves my boxes, eats my profits, and if he keeps out of the Spotted Cat on my time, it’s as much as he does. Like I’m going to tell this wastrel my business? He knows naught about anything, and him and Harry Gordon were peas in a pod. And that had better do you, ’cause it’s all I got for you.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Skelton said. “I don’t think so at all. You were a known associate of the Gordons when they fled England in the year eight. You took in their son when he slunk back to this country like a whipped dog—”

Frey cleared his throat. Skelton stopped.

“You must pursue your questioning as you see fit,” Frey said, voice reasonable. “But Harry Vane is cousin to the Marquess of Cirencester.” He didn’t say,
Mind your tongue,
still less,
Leave this subject.
Just the statement of fact.

Cold-blooded, treacherous fuckster.

“Very true, Mr. Frey,” Skelton said. “But if Lord Cirencester is nurturing a serpent in his bosom?”

Frey inclined his head graciously. Skelton turned back to Silas. “You know what happened with Harry Gordon.”

“No, I don’t,” Silas said. “Some great Gogmagog in a fancy coat came in my shop, called himself a lordship, took the lad off. I don’t know why.” Lord Richard Vane, that was. The Tory’s lost love. He could feel Frey’s tension.

“Then I shall enlighten you. Alexander Vane was disinherited by his father when he married a radical strumpet—”

“Oi,” Silas said. “Listen, friend, you can talk to me. You can order your clodhoppers to make a mess of my shop. But you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head when it comes to a woman whose boots you weren’t fit to button, or I’ll leave you shitting your own teeth, you dirty-mouthed arse rag.”

Skelton’s face darkened. He drew in a breath—Silas would have wagered to shout for his men—but Frey said calmly, “Alexander Vane was disinherited, yes. Go on, Mr. Skelton. I should like to understand your line of questioning.”

“Disinherited,” Skelton said. “Harry Vane was left alone, with no prospects. A radical like his parents. Like you.”

“I’m a radical and proud to own it,” Silas said. “Harry? Ha. I never saw him take an interest in aught but drink and wenches. No backbone, that’s his trouble.”

“I say Harry Vane is a radical—”

“And I say he ain’t, and if he should be, what the devil has it to do with me or you?” Silas demanded. “An Englishman still had the right to the thoughts in his head when last I looked!”

“Lord Gideon Vane sought out his lost grandson Harry when his other son and grandson had both died. Do you know how they died?”

“How the bloody hell should I?”

“A house fire last autumn,” Skelton said. “Their deaths removed the obstacles standing between your radical shop boy and his grandfather’s immense wealth.”

“Lucky for Harry,” Silas said without sympathy.

“Lucky?” Skelton asked. “Or convenient?”

The Tory opened his mouth, snapped it shut again. Silas inhaled, feeling his chest swell. “You got something to say, you come out and say it.”

“Say what?” Skelton asked. “Say that those deaths left Lord Gideon Vane with just one living male descendant? Say that you knew Harry Gordon’s birth put him in line for a fortune? Say that an old man’s wealth would come in very handy when all you have is
this.
” He looked around the shabby shop with an expression of distaste. “And say that only a lighted candle was needed—”

“Bollocks,” Silas said, with force. “Bull’s bollocks. Slander, spite, and shit. If you’ve got nothing better to say, piss off out of my shop, and take your lapdogs with you.” He jerked his chin at the Tory, just as there was a huge scrape-groan of wood, and a heavy bit of shelving moved behind him.

“Sir!” someone shouted. “We’ve found a trapdoor!”

“Ha!” ejaculated Skelton. “Now we shall see.”

“See all you like,” Silas told Skelton’s back as he strode away. “I’ve naught to hide.”

“Naught to hide,” George echoed, voice quavering a little.

Frey hadn’t moved. He stood, staring at Silas, and Silas couldn’t but look back.

Frey looked bad. Those familiar lines of tension around his eyes that Silas had liked to see relax after—And there were dark rings under them. Silas was glad to see the sod hadn’t slept, bloody annoyed to think his own face would betray him as much. Frey was shaved clean, which was a lot more than Silas could say, his own chin with four days’ pepper-and-salt bristles. He’d always shaved for the Tory, every Wednesday morning. Well, no more. Frey would have to face him as he was.

Slamming. Creaking. Footsteps on the stairs.

Frey’s dark eyes were fixed on him. “You don’t seem worried about them finding anything, Mason.”

“I said. I’ve naught to hide.” His voice was a rasp. “And when I said to piss off out of my shop, I meant you too.”

“Silas,” George whimpered. “Don’t.”

Don’t argue. Don’t speak up. Don’t provoke the important, rich man with your livelihood in his hands and your freedom at his whim. Bugger that.

“I’m no murderer.” He pitched it loud, to the men he could hear coming up again from the cellar. “I’m no murderer, Harry’s no radical, my cellar is no more than a hole in the ground, and you pox-addled whores’ get are wasting my time. You prove your case or get out.”

“Mason!” Skelton came back to the counter, his face tight with repressed feeling. Disappointment, Silas would wager, and anger too. “There are ink stains on the walls of your cellar! Paper dust in the air!”

“That a crime now?”

“Where is your press?” bellowed Skelton, right in his face, spittle flying. “Where do you print your seditious libels?”

“Where’s your mother, you whining hound? Piss off.”

Skelton raised a fist. Frey, behind him, caught it in his own hand, with an audible slap. Skelton looked around furiously; Frey gave a shake of his head. “When we have proof, Mr. Skelton. Until then, this is, in law, an innocent tradesman.”

“Until then,” Skelton echoed. He brought his hand down, not quite wrenching it from the Tory’s grip. “I tell you this, Mason: We will find proof. We know your past. You’re a felon. A habitual gaolbird. A revolutionary. I know you set the Vane fire. You will hang.” He lifted a finger. “Unless you turn king’s evidence. That’s your only chance, and it won’t last long. If you admit the truth, it will go easier on you.”

“King’s evidence, eh?” Silas said. “And there’s me thinking the king you serve is too mad to know what day of the week it is.”

“It’s Wednesday,” Frey said over Skelton’s splutter. Voice strong and clear, eyes on Silas. “It is Wednesday, and I for one have appointments. This is not a fruitful use of my time or yours, Mr. Skelton. I suggest we leave.”