A Seditious Affair(13)

Dominic had to take a moment before he could reply. His throat felt absurdly tight. “Thank you.” The brute’s arm tightened, and Dominic blurted, “I wish—”

“What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

I wish you’d tell me your name.

I wish I dared tell you mine.





Chapter 3


Silas looked around the shop with some satisfaction, ignoring George Charkin’s grumbles. It felt like a good day.

They’d put the heavy bookcase over the trapdoor to the cellar, where he kept the handpress. It was a nuisance to do, especially since they’d just have to move it all back in a couple of days when he finished the next Jack Cade pamphlet, but better sure than sorry. Wouldn’t want to risk the law, after all.

The law. That made him think of the Tory last night, torn by his dilemma. Looking for the right thing to do when his body was still marked by Silas’s fingers and teeth and prick, when he’d just been on his knees, begging for permission to spend. There was something Silas planned to do again—keep him on the verge of firing his shot for an hour or more, make him plead and gasp for it. That was what the Tory needed, not the pain or the shame but the surrender. He had to give it all up, and he had to be forced to it.

It was no surprise he was fretting about a duty. Silas would have wagered he was some kind of upstanding citizen in the rest of his life. A minister or a lawyer maybe, a man who put principle before everything and was brought low by a blackguard radical in his private hours.

His precious, peculiar Tory.

“You going to help me with this or what?” George’s skinny arms strained to lift a crate. Silas shook himself out of his reverie and hurried over. Work to do.

He could have sworn that the Tory was going to ask his name, though. Had known he would, with a sense of leaping anticipation for something, he wasn’t sure what, and had been disappointed when the question hadn’t come. He’d already decided he’d give his name if asked. Maybe that was rash, but he wanted to hear the Tory say it. Would it sound vulgar in that educated gentleman’s voice? Would the Tory use it to beg him, Please, Silas, please…?

“Ow!” bellowed George. “You landed that right on my foot! Bloody wake up!”

Silas mumbled an apology of sorts. Wake up indeed. It felt like a very long time till next Wednesday.

An hour or so later, he was going through the ledger when he heard a noise outside. Tramping feet, a familiar stir in the crowd.

“What’s going on?” he asked George, indicating the door.

George went and peered out. “Couple of swells and a squad with ’em. Six men, two redcoats.”

“Where are they going?”

George paused, then said, voice a little strangled, “Looks like…no, but…God’s tits, Silas, they’re coming here.”

“Hell!” Silas shoved himself to his feet as George lurched away from the door, and the men crashed in.

“Oi!” Silas bellowed, coming out from behind the counter as a redcoat shoved George back. “What d’you think you’re doing?” That was ignored. The men jostled their way into the dusty little shop. It was crammed with books and shelving, no room for so many people, especially not ones who intended to cause damage. There was a heavy crash as a shelf was upturned and books cascaded to the floor. “Oi!” A plain-clothed man heaved at another pile of books, and Silas grabbed at his arm, knowing it was foolish, but too angry to care. “You! Get off that.”

“Assault!” the man bellowed, and a fist crashed into Silas’s face from the side. Silas shook his head, swinging to fight, and caught a glimpse of two men at the back watching.

“Stop,” said a voice, cold and clear. Not a gentleman’s, by the tones of it. A jackal of the law. “Silas Mason?”

“Aye.” A redcoat was gripping his sleeve. Silas snarled at him, barely bothering to glance at the speaker. “Get off me. Get your dogs out of my shop.”

“My name is Thaddeus Skelton of the Home Office,” said the speaker. “I am here with my colleague Mr. Frey to investigate reports of the printing and distribution of seditious and treasonous pamphlets from these premises. What have you to say?”

Silas looked up then, looked from Skelton, an evil-faced weasel if ever he saw one, to his companion, and found he had nothing to say at all.

The Tory stood in his shop. He was dressed with quiet severity, his expensive caped greatcoat giving his outline deceptive size and breadth. I’d have known you otherwise, Silas thought. I’d have known you the second you came in. He wore a curly-brimmed hat, held a gold-topped black cane. Looked like a gentleman.