A Seditious Affair (10 page)

“You know, I’m sure we discussed this. My station in life gives me greater responsibilities.” He gave a superior nod. “Don’t concern yourself anymore. It’s in my charge.”

The
bastard.
Silas opened his mouth, closed it in impotent fury, saw the glint of satisfaction in the other man’s eyes, and for one mad second, had to bite back an urge to laugh.

“Aye, well,” he managed, unable to think of a suitable retort. He should probably thank the sod, but he was damned if he’d do that.

“Very good.” Frey took up his hat and the coat. “I shall let Harry know not to do anything so foolhardy again.”

“Tell him about George too, will you?” Silas grimaced. “They were friends.”

Frey’s rigid shoulders seemed to soften a little. “Yes. I will. I am sorry for your loss.”

Silas nodded. Frey nodded back and walked out of the shop.

Silas stared after him. That was that then. Not even a goodbye. Fair enough, after he’d planted the man a facer. It said something for him that he’d come at all, in fact, let alone that he’d so unquestioningly taken a problem for Harry, Martha, and Silas onto his own shoulders.

He’d never thought of the Tory as weak. But Dominic Frey in full, effortless authority was something else. Something—

Something Silas would have liked to think of next Wednesday, to make that strength bend for him, but there would be no next Wednesday, not ever.

He’d known it was over. He’d punched Frey and told him to piss off and thought that was it. But somehow the reality of the Tory walking away without a farewell left a cavernous hole inside him that was too big to comprehend.

He was still staring dumbly at the door when it reopened.

“The devil with this.” Frey strode in and shut the door behind him with a bang. “Are we alone? Good. I’m not ending it this way.”

“What?”

“Our Wednesdays meant something to me, damn it. Not just the acts. I still have books of yours to return, for heaven’s sake. I wouldn’t have chosen to end our time together as we did. As
I
did. I panicked, to tell truth, and I regret that, and—Will you come next Wednesday?”

Silas sucked in a breath through his teeth, almost a gasp.

“Just to talk,” Frey added hastily. “To end things like decent men. I think we owe each other that, and I don’t want to do it over a body.”

“Just to talk?”

“Yes. Not—I can’t stress this enough—as an opportunity for violent assault.”

“Aye, I meant to say. Sorry about that.”

“You may damned well be, the trouble you caused me. Will you come?”

“To Millay’s?”

The Tory looked a little pink. “Well, it’s a safe place to talk, and easier than finding somewhere new. And I shouldn’t come back here.”

“No. All right. Just to talk, like you say.”

Frey gave him a fraction of a smile. “Thank you. I had better go. Get this corpse reported and buried.”

“Teach your grandmother to suck eggs. Wednesday then.”

They nodded at each other. A brief hesitation, and Frey departed once more, leaving Silas alone with a corpse, an appointment, and a lightening of the heart that would not be repressed, no matter how absurd.

Wednesday was just a couple of days away, but it seemed longer to Dominic. This was a farewell only, he knew that, but at least Silas had listened, would listen. At least everything wouldn’t end in hatred. That mattered.

He arrived early. Mistress Zoë gave him a warm smile as she walked with him to the usual room, doubtless because he’d ordered a bottle of imperial Tokay at eye-watering cost. It was an absurd extravagance, which Silas would not appreciate or understand, but Dominic had noticed his liking for the sweeter wines. And Silas would probably never drink good wine again. Dominic could not bring himself to make the last experience less than memorable.

He started pouring when he heard Silas’s tread.

“Celebrating?” Silas asked, shutting the door behind him. He’d shaved as well as ever he did, which was not very cleanly, and his shirt and neckcloth were quite respectable. Dominic tried not to read anything into that.

“Drinking. Here.”

Silas took the glass, sniffed, sipped. His eyes went wide. He tasted the wine again, gleaming gold in its glass, and said, “All right, I’m reckoning this is good stuff.”

Dominic shrugged. Silas took another mouthful, with obvious pleasure, and Dominic had the sudden, ludicrous thought that he could send the man a bottle sometime, anonymously, a simple gift . . .

Stop it.

“I should tell you,” Dominic said abruptly. “We know who killed your man, Charkin. I’m afraid it was Harry’s valet.”

That took a second to register. “You
what
?”

Dominic set out, as far as possible, to explain. This was not easy. Harry’s grandfather had paid the valet to kill his own grandson and shot himself yesterday evening when his plans had been scotched, two facts that had to be concealed at all costs. “The valet seems to have been homicidal. He came after Harry on Friday evening and, as far as we can tell, stabbed Charkin as a matter of mistaken identity. The puce coat.” Silas swore. “He then made another attempt last night, in the street—”

“On Harry? Is he all right?”

“He wasn’t badly hurt, but he’s taken ill. He’s feverish, but not feared for. I will let you know if he worsens.”

Silas nodded. “And this valet. What’s to become of him? Will he face trial?”

“I assume so.”

“I’ll want to see that. See justice for George.”

“Yes.” Dominic had serious doubts as to the likelihood of such a thing. Heaven alone knew what the valet might say on the witness stand; Dominic suspected the Vanes had too much at stake to permit a trial. Suspected but did not know, because all his information came from Julius, who had been ranging nervously around Quex’s since he could not be seated by Harry’s bedside.

Dominic and Richard had not spoken since he’d turned up with a black eye. The disgust in Richard’s face when Dominic had defended Silas for that . . .

It couldn’t be helped. Richard’s moral compass was his own. Dominic’s was spinning wildly, but he knew his instincts regarding Silas to be right. He was a seditionist, but Dominic did not believe him a villain.

Silas was looking at him. Dominic sighed. “I’ll let you know what I can. It only happened last night, and I was at work today.”

“Aye. I see.” Silas sipped the wine once more. “This is damn good, I can tell that much. What are we—What am I drinking?”

“Imperial Tokay.”

“Right,” Silas said, with care. “I’ve heard of that.”

“And now you’ve tasted it. I, uh . . . since it’s the last time we’ll meet.”

“Might change my mind about that, for this wine,” Silas muttered.

“Look, it’s as I said. What we had, here, was important to me. I have enjoyed your company. Your opinions, wrong as they all are. Your understanding. That has been . . .” Dominic couldn’t find a word to say how much it had meant.

“Aye. It has.” Silas stared doggedly into the honey depths of the wine. “Listen, you’ll find someone else, right? You won’t just listen to your bloody Richard and not do as you need?”

“It’s not Richard—”

“Bollocks it’s not. Doesn’t matter. What’s important . . . There’s nothing wrong with you, understand? Remember that. And be careful about it
.
No damn fool risks.”

Dominic’s throat was tight. “Yes. I will.”

“Good.” Silas attempted a smile.
“He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Something I’ve been reading, sort of philosopher-poet-artist fellow. You call me a radical? This stuff’ll make your hair curl. No God, no king, no law.” Silas grinned at Dominic’s noise of exasperation. “He uses this new printing technique, relief etching, and paints the plates. Beautiful work. I’ll lend—”

“No,” Dominic said as Silas broke off.

“No. I won’t, will I? Ah, hell. Tory?”

“Yes?”

Silas’s mongrel eyes were on Dominic’s, intent. He felt his fingers curling tighter around the stem of the glass. He swallowed. Silas’s lips drew back at that movement into a smile that had nothing to do with amusement and raised the hairs on Dominic’s skin. “Tory,” Silas repeated, soft and low. “Get on your knees.”

It was madness, and pure sobbing relief. He knelt.

“Eyes down.” Silas walked around Dominic, slowly. “Well, now.” He ran his fingers through Dominic’s hair, over his scalp, down his bowed neck. The touch was so tender for a moment; then Dominic felt rough fingers shove beneath the folds of his cravat, a deliberate intrusion, and shuddered.

“Eyes down,” Silas repeated. “Hands behind your back. And . . . now, you just wait a moment.”

Dominic stared at the rug, a faded Indian pattern. He heard Silas’s footsteps move away, a drawer creak, a sound of rummaging.

He was looking through the toys of the house, the things he had never wanted to use. Floggers. Whips.

They were both still fully dressed.

“Right, now.” Silas was behind him. He knelt, making the boards creak, and Dominic felt something cold close around one wrist, then the other. He heard the jingle of chain.

“Tell you what.” Silas sounded almost conversational. “We’ll do this same rules as ever. You want me to stop, you just put out your hands.”

Dominic tugged, hard. The cuffs kept his wrists just a few inches apart.

“You got that?” Silas was in front of him now, a finger under his chin, tilting Dominic’s head up so their eyes met once more. “This time, the last time . . . you don’t get to say no.”

Dominic shook his head. He couldn’t speak; he could barely breathe. He was so hard it hurt.

He’d never wanted a way to say
stop.
That had always been Silas’s care. Dominic was almost sure that if he said it now, Silas would stop, just in case.
Almost
sure. The fractional uncertainty sang along his nerves and skin.

He knelt there, pinioned and helpless, and felt the blood pound through him like army drums.

Silas unbuttoned his trousers. One, two. Freed his thick erection and rubbed it, almost thoughtfully, then took a step forward and swiped the tip along Dominic’s parted lips. He inhaled male must, the scent of Silas.

“All right then, Tory.” He took a grip on Dominic’s hair. They were still staring into one another’s eyes. “Go on.”

Dominic leaned forward, feeling the tug of chain between his wrists, and took Silas’s cock in his mouth. He was braced for a hard thrust, one to make him choke. It didn’t come.

He glanced up. Silas was looking down at him, face unreadable.

He played his tongue over the end, not quite sure what Silas wanted. Tightened his lips around the ridged shaft, slid his mouth along the length, heard Silas groan. The fingers in his hair were gentle now, not tugging. Stroking.

“Aye, that. No, not too fast.”

Dominic slowed his pace, hollowing his cheeks to increase the suction. Pleasured Silas, on his knees, with his mouth because he couldn’t use his hands, with Silas’s own rough hands caressing his scalp, Silas’s savage groans a contrast to his stillness.

He could have fucked Dominic’s throat raw and, instead, this. This was what he wanted?

Dominic made some noise, he wasn’t sure what, around Silas’s prick. Poured everything he had into the act, using lips and tongue and the gentlest of teeth, serving him as lovingly as ever he’d served Richard.
You’ll never get a gamahuching like this, not from anyone else.
Pulled away a little when he could taste Silas was close, earning a groan.

“Aye,” Silas whispered. “Take your time. Oh, my Tory. I want to chain you to the bed and make you yell all night.” His hand ran through Dominic’s hair, shaking. His legs were shaking too, planted wide as they were. “You beautiful fuckster. God.
Stop.
”

He jerked away. Dominic sat back on his heels. Silas’s eyes were shut, teeth gritted against impending climax. Savage, and vulnerable.

After a moment, Silas opened his eyes and looked down. “Last time, then,” he rasped.

He squatted, bringing them to the same level. He didn’t look away from Dominic’s face as his hands found the buttons of his breeches. Dominic gave a gasp of relief as the constricting cloth came loose.

“Tell you again.” Silas sounded hoarse. “You want me to stop, just put out your hands.”

He had a hold of Dominic’s prick. Stroking, nothing more, thumb and forefinger making a ring to pull him off. Nothing at all special, except for his helplessness.

“God.” Dominic could barely form speech. “Please.”

“Say it,” Silas said softly, watching his eyes. “I
know
you. Say it.”

“Stop,” Dominic whispered, and—
thank you, thank you
—felt the pressure on his length increase. “Stop. Please. Don’t. Oh God, you know I can’t, I don’t, please . . .” He strained against the cuffs in the dark joy of helplessness. Silas put a hand on his shoulder for balance, leaning in so close Dominic could feel his breath, hand working Dominic harder now. And Dominic knew his own face gave away everything, couldn’t stop it as he stared into the mongrel eyes of the one man in the world who knew him.

Silas leaned an inch further and kissed him.

It was almost tentative. Tender. Dominic’s mouth slackened in astonishment. A hand moved round the back of his skull, and then Silas’s mouth was hot and hard over his own, and Dominic was being as thoroughly kissed as ever he had been. Silas’s lips on his, Silas’s tongue in his mouth, and Dominic kissed him back with a frenzy of need, straining against the damned cuffs because he wanted his hands now, wanted to hold Silas as he was being held.

No use there. Silas scooped an arm round his waist and bent him back as if he were an actress being ravished in a melodrama, other hand gripping the back of his head. Dominic gasped against his mouth, bit at his lips, felt stubble rasp over his face. Hungry, wet, savage kisses that had been pent up for too long, Silas’s prick hard against his own, his powerful body pressed to Dominic’s, weight bearing him down.

Silas leaned in that bit too far. Dominic grunted and went over backward under him, hitting the floor, chained hands trapped behind his back, Silas heavy between his legs and on his chest. Weighing him down, kissing him still, and the pressure of cocks and bellies hard against each other. Silas gripping his face with hot, shaking hands; Dominic thrusting against him, helpless and desperate and open, needing Silas’s lips and teeth and tongue, wrists pressed hard against their bonds.