A Seditious Affair(66)

Dominic stared at “William” Quex, barely believing, and saw the second when Quex knew that he had seen. His—her?—eyes widened, and her narrow shoulders squared in a defiance all too familiar.

Dominic could use this. Quex was a masquerading woman running a gentlemen’s club. That outrageous truth would destroy their livelihood and might see her pilloried if any offended customer chose to object. All he had to do was say he knew her secret—or, surely, their secret, the both of theirs—and he could enforce them to do whatever he wanted.

A clumsy oaf might do that.

Dominic cleared his throat. “My concern here is Mr. Mason. His shop has burned down; he has not been seen, as far as I can discover, since Tuesday morning. I want to find him. You know why.” He let that hang for a second. We all have secrets. “I do not know a good reason why he would not wish to see me. He may have a reason, and if he does, I would not ask his friends to go against his wishes. But I must know that he is safe, that he is well, that he is not in need. If you can tell me where he is, I beg that you will. If all you can tell me is how he is, then please, do so.”

“Why do you think we know where he is?” asked Shakespeare.

“But you do. Don’t you?”

“And if we don’t,” Quex said. “What then?”

“Then I continue looking,” Dominic said. “His well-being is my sole concern, Mr. Quex.”

Quex shot a glance at Shakespeare, who twitched one brow in silent communication that spoke of years side by side. A question being addressed.

Dominic had a weary certainty that Silas wouldn’t come to him for help, but he surely wouldn’t have told his friends to turn him away. So if Quex and Shakespeare were hesitating, it was for another reason. Such as that revealing Silas’s whereabouts could cause them trouble.

“He’s here, isn’t he?”

Quex’s face set. Shakespeare sighed. “You should play more, Mr. Frey. You’d stop Mr. Webster taking every trick. Sir, if Mr. Cyprian finds out we took him in here—”

“He won’t from me.” The relief was a physical, dizzying thing. “Thank the stars. Thank you. Is he all right?”

“Coughing a lot,” Quex said. “Hands got a bit burned. The rest…Well, you’ll see. You, uh, you do understand the problem with Mr. Cyprian, sir?”

They had brought Jack Cade, seditious rogue, into the house that Lord Richard Vane used to keep his charmed circle safe. Richard’s wrath would be terrible if he found out. Dominic winced at the thought. “I understand very well. He is fortunate in his friends.”

“Yes,” Quex said. “I was just thinking that myself, sir.”

Quex took Dominic into the service part of the house, up the back stairs. He didn’t limp. Evidently the usual halting motion was a disguise to conceal what would otherwise be the sway of hips. Quex was nothing if not thorough.

Dominic ought, he supposed, to be shocked, but under the circumstances, he couldn’t muster the energy.

“All right, Mr. Frey.” Quex opened a little door in a bare, dark corridor. “Oi, Silas. You got a visitor.”

Silas was lying in a low truckle bed. He looked older, his hands were bandaged, and his face was speckled red: from flying embers, no doubt. He had been staring at the ceiling, eyes blank; at Quex’s words he turned his head, then sat up so sharply he almost fell off the bed.

“Dom?” he rasped, voice scratchier than usual. “How are you here?”

“Silas.” Dominic was on his knees at the side of the bed, reaching for Silas’s hands before pulling his own away for fear of doing harm. “Silas, you damned fool, why did you not tell me? I’ve been running mad wondering what happened to you. I thought— You sod. How are you?”

“What? Fine, fine.” Silas blinked. “What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

“Thursday?” Silas dropped his head back onto the pillow. “Hell. Sorry, Dom. I should’ve sent word to you. Been asleep, I reckon.”

“What happened?”

Silas shrugged. “Those young buggers who robbed Martha Charkin set fire to the shop, middle of the night. Few hours trying to put it out, everyone on the street pitched in, but…”

“I saw it. I came to find you. It’s gone.”

“Aye.” Silas stared at the ceiling. “Well, that’s that. I…went off after.”

“Why did nobody help you, for heaven’s sake?” Dominic blurted. “How could they let you—”

“Didn’t want help. Flapping round me like a set of hens, I couldn’t stand it. Did some walking. Went to see Jon…sometime yesterday, I suppose?”