“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.”