A Seditious Affair(15)

Silas was filthy and shirt-sleeved. He was never more than a decent working man at best; now he knew he looked like the refuse of the streets. And here was the Tory—Dominic Frey—in his full magnificence. Rich, well dressed, and so far above Silas he couldn’t even see that far down.

Well, he’d come here, so he could start talking. Silas rested his elbows on the shop counter and waited.

The Tory licked his lips. “What do you intend to do?”

“About what?”

“You have my reputation in your hands.” His voice shook a little. “We both know you could have destroyed me with a word.”

“Aye,” Silas said. “I could have. If I was the kind of man who threw his fellows to the dogs for his own benefit.”

“I tried.” The Tory sounded as though he were suffocating. “I tried to find Harry last night, to warn him. I came here with the express intent of making sure he wasn’t implicated, and—” He choked. “You.”

“Me.”

“You’re a seditionist,” the Tory said. It sounded—not incredulous. More as though he was finally acknowledging something he’d have seen a long time ago if he hadn’t been so careful to look the other way. “A radical. A freethinker.”

“Atheist,” Silas said, and saw Frey flinch. Let him know it; let him have his pretty face rubbed in it. “That’s what I am. An atheist and a democrat, and I say be damned to your God, and your law, and your mad king too. Your whole stinking state.”

Anger warred with fear on the Tory’s face now. “If you speak like that, I will arrest you. I will not conceal treason to save myself.”

“I won’t be muzzled,” Silas snarled. “Not by you, Mr. Frey of the Home Office, nor by anyone. I speak for the people.”

“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 clearly 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.