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Silas had been in a foul mood all day. There wasn’t a particularly good reason for it. He’d taken breakfast in the kitchen with a few of the other staff, a couple of footmen and the groom. The latter had become something of a friend during his time in the country; Ned was bright and quick witted, and wasn’t offended easily, and Silas had warmed to him quickly.
“This damned rain’s got no consideration for my feelings,” Ned grumbled as he spread butter on a piece of toast. He was soaked to the skin and covered in mud, though he had dutifully washed his hands before coming to the table. Ella ruled her kitchen with an iron fist and was deadly serious on the subject of muddy hands at the table.
“Doesn’t look like it has,” Silas agreed. “You look as though you’ve been out rolling with the pigs.”
Ned snorted derisively. “Don’t have to, do I? In this downpour? You near as drown just looking out the window. Then I’ve been out waiting on the farrier damn near an hour gone, till his lad finally runs up, swims up more like, to say he won’t be here till this afternoon.”
One of the boy’s eyes lit up. “That pretty grey going to foal today then?”
“Nah, not for another week I reckon,” Ned shook his head. “Only the chestnut gelding of Mr. Frey’s twisted a foreleg last night, and I’m afraid he’ll have to be put down. Real shame too. He’s the sweetest tempered beast you ever did see.”
Silas felt a little jolt at this, though he quickly smothered any reaction that might show on his face. “Mr. Frey’s horse?” Silas frowned. “I figured all your charges belonged to His Lordship?” He had mostly gotten used to the ridiculous titles, though they still grated in his throat. At the very least he tried not to let his irritation show around the other servants, but only for David’s sake. They were friends, but if a wave of democratic sentiment were to break out among the staff, David would have his hide in a heartbeat. He was ruthless in his defense of Richard’s interests, and nothing as petty as friendship could get in the way of that.
“Most of ‘em, yeah,” Ned agreed around a mouthful of sausage. “But there’s always one or two of Mr. Frey’s as well, seeing as he don’t keep his own stables, and those two are so close. I raised this one from a colt. He’s been with us nigh on fifteen years now.”
Silas wasn’t sure why this information irritated him. Dominic was about to lose an animal he’d known and cared for for nearly half his life; anyone with half a heart would feel compassion. But Silas didn’t, and the fact that he didn’t only annoyed him further still.
“That’s too bad,” the boy was saying, when another boy came into the kitchen, this one even wetter than Ned, though not quite as dirty, and more than a little out of breath. He glanced around until he caught sight of the groom and then hurried over, only scurrying back to wipe his feet on the mat after a sharp glare from Ella.
“Message from Mr. Cyprian,” he told Ned, panting slightly. “He says get the farrier’s opinion, but don’t let him put him down yet. He’s sent to London for the horse doctor.”
“Aye, I figured he might want to try that,” Ned nodded. “I hear you, Tom. We’ll wait and see what this one says, but I can’t say I liked the look of that leg.”
A horse doctor from London. Silas felt suddenly queasy. The few bites of bacon and egg he’d eaten sat heavily in his stomach. He still wasn’t used to such hearty fair, especially first thing in the morning.
A gentleman’s horse twists his foot and they bring a doctor twenty miles to come see to it. Meanwhile children die every day for want of basic medical care. Starved for want of porridge while Lord Richard Vane’s servants eat bacon for breakfast.
No wonder London’s poor were so eager to give up their independence and go into service. He couldn’t help but wonder if they’d be so quick to fetch a doctor for them. This too wasn’t fair. Richard Vane was, by all accounts, a good man to work for, and Silas experience in his service had done nothing to contradict that reputation, must as he grated under the yoke of having to work for anyone but himself. He very much doubted there were very many Lords in England who fed their servants bacon and eggs, and toast with butter, or gave them a day off when they needed it to see to a sick mother, or whatnot.
No doubt David was behind most of these considerations, at least in terms of their execution, but he had his doubts as to who was ultimately responsible. David might be his friend, but he was no democrat; he was not popular among the staff and wasn’t the least bit sentimental. If he made certain the servants were well fed and paid, it was to ensure their loyalty. Acts of overt kindness or generosity, when they did not seem likely to confer any personal benefit, were either at Lord Richard’s direction, or else undertaken because Richard would have ordered them had he had all the facts before him.
Richard Vane was a good man, who happened to have been born with an ungodly amount of wealth and power, but unlike most others of his class, he at least attempted to carry his privilege with kindness and fairness. If he wanted to spend a princely sum to try to save a horse’s life for the sake of a friend, well, there were much worse things that money could be spent on. Visceral images of several of Harry Vane’s waistcoats came to mind, for starters, and he was only mildly annoyed by them. So why was this bothering him so?
Silas was still worrying these things over as he made his way to the book room. He knew he was being ridiculous. David was his friend , and he ought to be glad Richard had gone out of his way to make sure Dom’s horse was seen to properly. It was good that Ned and the boys got a hearty breakfast; they worked hard, and deserved to be well fed. There was nothing for him to be upset about. Even so, his dark mood only intensified as the day progressed, and he huffed and stomped his way around the house as he went about his work, so much so that he sent at least one housemade scurrying in alarm. Twenty miles, round trip, for a horse doctor.
***
Dominic couldn’t remember when he’d had a worse day. He’d come down from London in the morning, but the weather had turned foul shortly after he started out, and what should have been a four hour trip took nearly six hours of slogging through a hard downpour and squelching in the mud. More than once he was forced to get out and walk alongside the carriage in order for it to have any hope of making it over the gentle hills he usually didn’t even notice.
By the time he finally made it to Arrandene he was soaked through, caked in mud, and shivering so badly his teeth chattered. He wanted nothing more than a hot bath, a large brandy, and to collapse into Silas Mason’s strong embrace for the night.
Such was not to be, however. He was greeted with the information that his favorite horse, a gelding he’d received as a colt from Richard on his twentieth birthday, had twisted his foot the previous night. Sandauer was limping and clearly in pain, and Dominic’s heart ached to see it. The farrier had said he didn’t think it was broken, but they would just have to wait and see. Richard, considerate as always, had sent to London for a veterinary surgeon, but he likely wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, or even later if the rain held.
Dominic spent the first hour after his arrival soothing and brushing Sandauer and feeding him carrots and sugar cubes, reassuring the horse, and himself, that it would be all right, even though he was far from convinced himself.
It was nearly ten before he was able to pull himself away and go inside, so he decided to forego the bath and simply wash and change for the night. At least, that was his initial thought.
I could let Silas help with the wash , he thought with a little smile. He’d like that . Ordinarily Dominic didn’t care for being tended by his lover, as many men would, but just now he was so bone sore and weary he certainly couldn’t contemplate any more aerobic activity tonight, and he desperately longed for Silas’s touch. After two weeks apart, he was reasonably confident Silas was eager to see him as well, and he could well imagine that his gentle lover would appreciate the chance to clean and caress him tonight.
He was surprised, therefore, that Silas wasn’t in Dominic’s bedroom when he made his way upstairs. Silas had his own room in the servants’ quarters, of course, but he always slept with Dom whenever he was there. Dominic glanced around the spacious bedroom, confirmed Silas was not there, and then hesitated. He ought to wash up first and then go in search of Silas, but he had become rather attached to this notion of allowing Silas to assist in the process. And so he merely set down his valise and turned and headed for the book room.
He wasn’t there either. The room was dark, the fire long gone out. Dominic’s frown deepened. He couldn’t possibly send a servant to find him; there was no possible reasonable excuse why he needed to see his best friend’s librarian at ten at night, particularly not in his current filthy state. But it also seemed unwise to visit the servants’ hall. Richard’s staff were well trained in discretion, but that didn’t mean he ought to advertise the affair.
But damn it all , he wanted his lover. All that miserable day he had consoled himself with the reassurance that Silas waited at the end of it, and he was not about to deny himself that. Cyprian could damn well handle things if anyone saw him in the hall, even assuming they were able to recognize him under all the mud.
He’d only been to Silas’ room at Arrandene once before, but he had a good sense of direction and an excellent memory, so there was little worry he might inadvertently knock on the wrong door.
“Come in,” Silas’s voice called through the door, lazy and unperterbed. Perhaps he assumed I would stay in London, with the roads in this condition . He let himself in.
“Good Lord, aren’t you in a state,” Silas grumbled without getting up from where he sat on the bed. “Did you ride here, or crawl?”
“Some of both, I think,” Dominic shut the door behind him.
“Sorry about your horse. Doctor seen him yet?”
“Not until tomorrow, I think. The rain.” Dominic glanced around, suddenly questioning his decision to put off the bath. There was no place to sit down apart from Silas’s bed, and he couldn’t possibly sit there in his current state. “I thought you’d be upstairs.”
“Didn’t know when to look for you,” Silas said gruffly, and Dominic paused. Something wasn’t right. Was Silas angry?
“Would you care to join me now? I thought perhaps you might like to help me clean up.” Dominic made a vague gesture encompassing essentially his entire body.
“Thought you had a valet for that sort of thing,” Silas said without getting up.
“I--” Dominic frowned. No, something was definitely wrong. “I have, only I thought perhaps you might enjoy it. Silas, what the devil is wrong? You’ve barely said two words to me since I came in.”
“Not true,” Silas protested. “What do you want me to say?”
“Why you’re so cross with me, for a start.” Dominic’s brow furrowed in worry. “Have I done something to offend you, my love? If so, I wish you’d tell me instead of sitting there sulking.”
That seemed to shake Silas somewhat. He let out a deep sigh and scrubbed a hand across his face. “No, you haven’t. I’m sorry. I suppose I’m not in the most companionable of moods tonight.”
“Would you rather I left you alone?” Dominic asked. The words felt cold and empty on his tongue. They had been lovers for nearly two years now, intimately for more than six months. In all that time Silas had never asked for time apart. They had cherished their hours together, so few at first and then luxuriously long later on, after Silas had become a part of Richard’s household.
Silas seemed to consider the question, but then shook his head. “No, I--” He stood up, took a step closer to Dominic, and then stopped. “I didn’t know you kept horses in Lord Richard’s stable,” he said, his voice strangely defiant.
Dominic froze. That was an absurd leap. Was Silas trying to change the subject? Honestly, he wasn’t even sure what the subject was . He was tired and sore, and just wanted to clean up and crawl into bed with Silas, but increasingly that did not seem to be in the cards.
“I--yes, I do,” Dominic said at last. “I usually only ride when I’m here anyway.” There was something vaguely unsettling about hearing Silas call him Lord Richard , particularly considering they were alone. He wasn’t sure he liked it.
“Is that what you’re doing with me?” Silas bit out. “Keeping me in Lord Richard’s stable so you can ride me when you can tear yourself away from the Board of Taxes?”
Was this some sort of joke? It didn’t sound funny to Dominic, but Silas did have a dark sense of humor at times, as his printed work so frighteningly demonstrated. “Certainly not. You know perfectly well you’re the one who does the riding.”
“Am I?” Silas asked, his voice utterly humorless. “Seems to me you’re still the one calling the shots. Like how you came down here to fetch me to make your bath?”
“That’s not what I--what the devil is wrong with you?” Dominic asked. “Is there any rational reason for this outburst? Because it seems to me you searching for excuses to pick a fight, and all you’ve got so far is that you’re angry I own a horse. Or is this about Richard? I thought we were past that?”
“How on earth can we be past fucking Richard Vane?” Silas snapped, not even bothering to keep his voice down. He stood up, his bulk hard and menacing in the small room.
Dominic took a step back instinctively. He wasn’t afraid of Silas exactly, even in this mood, but he was viscerally aware that the last time he’d seen him this angry he’d come out of the encounter with a throbbing black eye, and he didn’t relish having to explain a second occurance to Richard, under his roof no less.
“Will you please tell me what you’re on about?” Dominic asked wearily. He was tired, his back ached from being jostled in the carriage all day, his head was throbbing fiercely, he was worried about Sandauer, and he didn’t know what it was he’d done wrong. “If I’ve done something to hurt you--”
Silas’s anger seemed to deflate a little at this. “No, you haven’t, I know it isn’t--it’s this fucking house , Dom. I’m either another one of Lord Richard’s things , like those hundreds of damn books he’ll never open, or I’m a horse you’re stabling here because you haven’t got another place for me. And honestly I don’t know which one is worse.” He was pacing the room now, long strides stalking the room like a caged tiger at a menagerie.
Dominic felt like his heart was breaking. This . My poor democrat. “No, Silas, please. That isn’t--” He didn’t know what to say, how to make it better. He felt the hot sting of tears behind his eyes confounded with the fierce throbbing at his temples. He needed it to stop, needed to just be with his lover for a while, and they could figure this out, but he couldn’t stand here with Silas hurting and shouting like this. He couldn’t bear it.
“Mas--”
“Frey.”
Silas’s voice cut Dominic cold. It was impossible to doubt what he meant by it, though they had never discussed using their watch word in that direction. Dominic’s mouth went dry.
“What do you want?” he asked quietly.
“I have to get back to London,” Silas said quietly, not looking at him now. “I’ll get David to help me find a way back in the morning.”
Dominic gripped the doorknobbehind his back, his knuckles turning white with the effort to maintain his composure. “Very well. I--” He hesitated. He didn’t know where Silas would go, or what he would do, but he also knew that he couldn’t fix this. He’d done too much already. “Well, you know where to find me,” he managed. He turned and left, feeling weak and sick and utterly miserable.
***
By morning, Silas felt like an absolute cunt. What the devil had he wanted to yell at Dominic for? Dom’s absence had been like a missing tooth all this last fortnight he’d been in London, an ache Silas couldn’t help worrying. And now he’d gone and spoiled it.
Aww, fuck it all , Silas thought to himself, as he tugged his own rough linen shirt over his head. None of Richard Vane’s green livery today, not anymore. The damn bath . His own peculiar lover, asking to be caressed and cared for. Any time he was in his right mind he’d have given a month’s wages for such an offer. And now he’d gone and thrown it back in his face.
But… he couldn’t take it back. He’d been chafing at the yoke of “Lord Richard’s service” for months, and it had finally come to a head last night, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it now but go forward.
David didn’t knock. He let himself in and shut the door behind him. “I see you are no better prepared to make your escape than I was,” he observed, noting Silas’s state of undress. He’d got his shirt and breeches on, but his coat was still in his hand and he hadn’t put his shoes and stockings on yet.
“What, come to help?” Silas barely glanced up. “Are you going to valet me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” David said crisply. “The Great Cyprian dressing Jack Cade. It would destroy both our reputations.”
Silas snorted. “That’s true enough. At least you see it.”
“I do see it,” David observed. “As does Mr. Frey, I’ll wager.”
“I don’t want to talk about Dom.”
“All right. Shall we speak of the weather?”
“I’d rather know how you know so much of my business. Dom didn’t talk to you.” The last wasn’t a question. Dominic and David had never been on particularly good terms. It was more likely that Dominic had spoken to Richard about their fight, and that galled him worst of all.
You fucking prat. Will you ever stop being jealous of Richard fucking Vane?
“I have my ways,” David said curtly. “As you well know. Though, when you engage in shouting matches in the servants’ hall, it does make it easier. Incidentally, I ’ d much rather if you refrained from such displays in the future. It does make the staff uncomfortable.”
Silas didn’t answer. He hadn’t meant to make things harder for David, who was already run ragged trying to keep the gears of Lord Richard’s household, and half of London, running smoothly.
“Then again, I suppose that’s rather the point, isn’t it?” David went on. “You aren’t going to be here in the future. I don’t suppose there’s any way I could change your mind?”
Silas shook his head. He wanted so desperately to stay. Here was a comfortable home, a warm bed, clean clothes, more books than he’d ever seen in his life. A good friend. And Dom, the brightest and most perfect thing that had ever touched his life. In London he had no place to live, no work, no money. Virtually no friends, now that he’d been out of his usual circles for so long. No bookshop.
But in London he was free, not beholden to anyone, least of all Richard Vane. He’d tried for the better part of a year to make that trade, but it turned out he just couldn’t swallow it, not even for Dom.
“I have to go home,” Silas shook his head. “You know as well as I do I don’t belong here.”
David smiled sadly. “I suppose I do. Do you know where you’ll go?”
Silas shook his head. He had no idea what he was going to go next, or even where he would sleep tonight, only that it wouldn’t be there. “I’ll figure it out when I get there.”
David nodded. “Jasper Brown, of the neighboring farmers, is driving into London this morning with a cart full of salt pork for the London markets. With the roads in this dreadful state, I imagine he’d be more than happy to have you ride along on the box, if only to have an extra pair of hands if he gets a wheel stuck in the mud. When , I should say.”
Silas let out a slow breath. He had prepared himself to accept a carriage ride into town, one final indignity as the price for his freedom. But this…
“Thank you,” Silas said quietly, reaching out to squeeze David’s arm. “You’re a good man. And a better friend than I deserve.”
“Indeed. I should think that much was obvious.”
“Fuck off, ginger boots.”
“As you say.”
***
Dominic went through the next few weeks in something of a daze. He missed Silas. Desperately, horribly. He’d never gone so long without seeing him, without touching him, hearing his voice, sharing a drink, hearing his thoughts on the affairs of the day, or the latest book he’d read. Their relationship had begun as something purely venial, and no doubt some of his friends believed that was still the extent of it, but sex was the last thing he cared about now. He missed his friend.
From the first he was eager to return to London. He had no idea where Silas might go or what he would do, but at least in London Silas could reach him. He could leave word with Harry, or with Shakespeare, if he didn’t want to come to Dominic’s home directly. But there was still the matter of Sandauer.
The veterinarian arrived the day after Silas left and spent a long while examining the patient gelding, his face full of concern, his hands knowledgeable and gentle. In the end, he declared Sandauer’s leg was merely sprained, not broken, and that he might be able to make a full recovery with proper care, if they were able to manage his pain well enough to allow him to bear weight on the injured leg.
Ned Foster, Richard’s groom, was eager to do all he could for him, but Dominic wanted to stay nearby himself for the first few days at least to watch his progress. He spent most of his days with him in the stable, hardly even speaking to his friends gathered in the house. They were all full of questions and concern, but Dominic refused to tell them anything other than that Silas had chosen to return to London.
Richard in particular did not want to leave the subject alone. Dominic appreciated his concern, but he could hardly admit that Richard himself was a large part of the problem, particularly not when he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. Richard had taken Silas in and protected him when he needed it, and given him a job he was good at and a fair wage and the space to be with Dominic; it wasn’t Richard’s fault that it was those very kindnesses that had driven Silas away.
But without any proper answers, Richard leapt to assumptions, most of which were entirely unflattering as regards Silas’ motivations. No doubt Richard believed Silas was eager to return to a life of treasonous plots and starting riots. And perhaps he was.
Finally, Dominic was forced simply draw the line with him. “I am sorry, but on my honour I can tell you nothing else. Silas has not hurt me or broken faith, he simply desired to return to London, and I doubt very much he is coming back. His reasons for that, as for everything he does, are his own. If you need more details on the matter you may get them from your sneaking valet; you won’t get anything from me.”
Richard, predictably, was infuriated at the aspersions on Cyprian, though for the life of him Dominic couldn’t understand why. It was certainly true enough. For that matter, he had few doubts that Cyprian already knew as much about the fight as he did; possibly he even knew something of Silas’s whereabouts in London, that Dominic steadfastly refused to ask him. For one thing, he doubted he would break Silas’s trust for anyone but Richard. But more importantly, Silas had wanted space; surely that did not include borrowing his best friend’s spymaster to keep him informed of his whereabouts.
And so Dominic went through the next week at Arrendene in something of a daze, alternately seeing to Sandauer in the stables and taking long walks. He tried once to get a book to read, but merely setting foot in the book room nearly broke him. It was Richard’s home, and Dominic had been visiting him there for two decades, but the room was so full of Silas he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t stop himself from glancing behind shelves or up ladders, looking for where it was Silas had lost himself in his work. He turned and fled empty handed, and so spent his days with nothing to distract him from his thoughts.
After a week spent skulking around Arrendene like a ghost, Dominic simply had to return to London. Sandauer was doing a little better, in Foster’s patient care, and he was going to tear his own hair out from misery if he didn’t get back to work.
And then of course was the lingering hope that he would return to some sort of message from Silas, that he wanted to talk, that he missed him. That he was alive, and had a roof over his head. Anything.
There was no message.
***
Silas had only been gone from London a month, though he’d spent half a year in Lord Richard’s home before that. Half a year, but it felt like half a lifetime. Everything had changed. So many of his friends had been killed or arrested, or just vanished. Not just the Spencereans, either. The entire landscape of the city had been altered, while he’d been off playing at gentleman. Well, no more. He had work to do.
He was staying with Martha Charkin while he tried to find work. Revolutionary polemics didn’t exactly put bread on the table, but he was able to pick up work as a porter, carrying trunks from the docks to nearby inns, delivering messages. It wouldn’t get him his shop back, but it kept him from being too much of a burden on Martha. Lord knew the woman had suffered enough, and he couldn’t help feeling responsible for her loss. If George had never gotten mixed up with him… well, then he’d probably have died on the street or ended up in a workhouse. He knew that much well enough, but that didn’t make him any more comfortable about his role in George’s death.
Breaking his back for a few shillings during the day meant he could have a roof over his head and a place to write at night, and that would have to be worth it. He wouldn’t think about Dom; he couldn’t, couldn’t fathom what he’d given up by coming home. If he thought too hard that direction, he’d run back in a heartbeat, walk barefoot back to Arrendene until his feet bled if he had to. Back to his lovely Tory, who made him feel wanted and valued and respected, who almost made him feel that he could stop fighting and just live in the world as it was, because any world that had Dominic Frey in it couldn’t be that bad. But then he remembered that damned horse. He wanted Dom like oxygen, but if they were to be together it had to be as equals, not with him as some sort of pet. And he had to have his work. There was too much horror and injustice all around them for him to sit still any longer.
Now if only he could write.
For the first time in his life, the words wouldn’t come. What could he say that wasn’t rampant hypocrisy? The few shouldn’t live in wealth and privilege while the many starved? It was true enough, but if it weren’t for that privilege he’d have been hanged for treason a year ago. He would never have known Dom, or learned how to coax that excruciating release from his bones. He would never have--
Aww, hell . He’d get nowhere thinking of Dom. He had to put those thoughts out of his head. This was more important. It had to be.
Trouble was, it wasn’t just Dom. It was Harry, too, with his fine clothes that could feed half of London for the cost of their tailoring. But then Harry had suffered so much, had endured as much privation and hardship as anyone, and it was damned good to see him happy. And he was using his money to help the poor. As though Euphemia Gordon’s boy could do anything less.
And Ash, the son of a fucking Duke, who was as kind and compassionate a man as any Silas had ever known. Sure, he wasn’t good for a lick of work or anything useful , but that was the fault of his upbringing. And Absalom Lockwood, the Whig lawyer, who had money but dedicated his life to fighting for those who didn’t. And Richard bloody Vane, who fed his servants bacon.
The trouble was, the injustice of the inequality was real, but the methods he’d advocated for all his life didn’t sit well with him anymore. How could he urge London’s poor to rise up and overthrow the government, when that government included men like Absalom Lockwood and Richard Vane?
And Dominic Frey .
Silas looked up at the sound of the door. He had a pen in his hand, the blank paper before him, same as it had been an hour before. Martha Charkin set her basket down on the table and hung her shawl by the door.
“I got you some more candles,” she offered, pulling a bundle of tallow tapers from her basket. “If you’re going to sit up half the night staring at that paper, I suppose you’ll need them.”
“Thanks, Martha,” Silas sighed, setting the pen down. “What do I owe you?”
“There’s still a little left, from that shilling you gave me yesterday,” Martha shook her head. “You know you’re welcome here long as you need, whether you have coin to give me or not.” She hadn’t asked about Silas’s apparent disappearance for half a year, and for that Silas was grateful. There was no part of that that he could possibly explain.
“I hear you, Martha, and I appreciate it,” Silas said kindly. “But you know I can’t live off your kindness.” Living at the expense of a poor widow was hardly an improvement over Arrendene.
“You could, if you weren’t such a contrary so and so,” Martha spat back. “You looked after my boy for more’n three years, I won’t forget that in a hurry. It ain’t much more to feed two mouths than one.”
Silas acknowledged the assertion with a nod and looked back at his paper. He couldn’t think too hard about George. He’d almost rather think about Dom than that. Dom, with his dark, intelligent eyes, those soft curls just greying at the temples . Aw, hell. He was back in London by now, like as not. Perhaps he could find him at Quex’s? He could be there in half an hour. They could talk it over, find some way to move forward.
If Dom even wanted to see him anymore. It had been three weeks. What if he’d decided, now that they’d been apart, that his attraction to a Ludgate radical wasn’t really worth the risk? What if Richard had convinced him he shouldn’t want the things he did, Silas or their bedroom games, or any of it? What it--
Mason . Fucking stop. He couldn’t think about Dom, couldn’t think of any of it. He had to be able to write. He picked up the pen.
There was a knock at the door. Martha set down the dress she’d been mending. “Now who the devil is that?” she muttered, as she crossed to the door.
Silas jumped to his feet, his heart racing. God, please let it be Dominic .
“Oh!” Martha cried out as she opened the door. “I beg your pardon, sir, what can I--”
“Now don’t tell me you don’t recognize me, Mrs. Charkin,” Harry’s bright voice carried easily to fill the room. He speaks like his father now , Silas thought suddenly over the rush of disappointment that it wasn’t Dom. Only he sounds friendlier, more approachable . “Just cause I dress like a gentleman, doesn’t mean I’m any different.” He stepped through the open door into the room, followed, Silas saw with confusion, by Absalom Lockwood. Neither of them seemed surprised to see Silas there.
“Good heavens, Harry Gordon!” Martha cried out as she recognized his voice, and she embraced him easily.
“How’ve you been, Mrs, Charkin?” Harry asked warmly. “Keeping out of trouble?”
“With this one around?” Martha nodded toward Silas. “I do what I can.”
“All anyone can do, ma’am,” Absalom said with a warm smile.
“Mrs. Charkin, could I trouble you for a pot of tea?” Harry asked, setting aside his hat. “I need to talk to Silas for a few minutes.”
Silas bit back all the questions he longed to ask. You’ve no right to ask about him, even if Martha weren’t around to hear, he reminded himself firmly. Still, he couldn’t help but think if Harry had any sense he’d at least throw him a scrap of news.
He sat at the table, and Harry and Lockwood sat across from him while Martha busied herself with the tea.
“I need your help,” Harry said as they sat down.
Silas snorted. “ Shit , what trouble have you got yourself into now? Another pink coat?”
Harry colored helplessly, as though demonstrating the color in question. “No, no, nothing like that. I’m not in trouble. At least, I’m not in trouble yet. The thing is--” He glanced at Lockwood. “Absalom was convinced me to run for Parliament.”
“You’re joking .”
“No, I’m not,” Harry prickled at Silas’s response. “I’m not used to being so idle, and I’m not sure it’s good for me. I can’t just do nothing , while all these horrible things happen, and people get killed, and Absalom thinks I’ve actually got a shot at winning.”
“He does indeed,” Lockwood cut in. “The Vane name carries weight everywhere, and Harry is consistently liked everywhere he goes. His father was an impressive orator, I understand. Harry has something of his gift for public speaking, from what I’ve seen, and with a little practice in delivery could be a very powerful speaker.”
“Interesting,” Silas mused, sitting back in his chair. He wasn’t used to thinking of Harry as anything other than a twelve year old kid, to be honest, but now that the question was before him…
He did speak like his father. He had brains, and education, and the right family name. People would listen. More than they ever would to Silas, anyway. It wasn’t a bad idea.
No, it wasn’t a bad idea at all. Harry’s parents had been driven by anger, as Silas was himself, as well as an overwhelming conviction of what was right . A man shouldn’t have different status under law because he was poor, or female, or dark skinned. Everyone should have representation in government. Money would never justify wrongdoing.
Harry had some of that anger, but he could see the other side, too. Well, sometimes he could; he was guided by a warm, compassionate heart, and it was kindness, rather than anger, that predominated.
Not a bad idea at all.
“Your mother would be proud,” Silas said quietly, imagining Euphemia seeing the man her boy had become.
“I--thank you,” Harry said, visibly shaken. They took the tea Martha offered them and poured, settling the cups as Harry settled his expression.
“I think Harry could do a world of good for a lot of people,” Lockwood said, directing his words to Silas. “I’ve offered to help him, to help direct his campaign, and teach him what he needs to know to get elected, and to be successful in the role.”
“That’s very good of you.”
“But I need you, too.”
Harry’s words caught Silas completely off guard. The cup rattled in its saucer. “You-- what? ”
“Please,” Harry said firmly, meeting Silas’s eyes. “You’re my rock, you’ve always been there for me. And I haven’t read and studied the way you have, and I’m sure to mess up. I want to help people, and work for reform in government, but you’ve been working all your life to figure out what sort of government would be the most fair, good for the most people. I can’t--I mean, I’m not going to be blowing up Parliament, or starting riots, but I will need help, writing speeches, and studying bills, and drafting new ones, and I can’t do that on my own. If I get elected and get the opportunity to serve, I need to be able to represent Londoners, and no one can give me that perspective better than you. Silas, I can’t do this without your help; I don’t even think I should try.”
Silas felt like his head was spinning. He’d never considered fighting from within government, because the people didn’t have a voice there. One MP might be a bit better than others, but they always spoke from a position of privilege, and so in a very real way, their words didn’t matter.
Harry was different. He had known want and privation for more than a quarter of a century; he’d been with Silas that winter they’d barely been able to buy coals, and they’d had not a scrap of food but soused turnips for six weeks.
And then Harry had become unexpectedly rich, and instead of letting all that he’d endured fall away like a bad dream, he’d clung to that, spoken out against the injustice the people around him supported without thinking.
Maybe… the idea was certainly appealing.
Silas cleared his throat. “And, what does your grand cousin think of this idea?”
“Richard is all for it,” Harry said firmly. “I think he likes the idea of my political fervor being directed into more official channels. Lord Cirencester is more cautious, but he said that holding a seat in the House of Commons is an honorable profession, that could do credit to the family, if I comport myself well.”
Silas snorted. He had heard some of Harry’s stories of the Marquess of Cirencester, the head of the Vane family, of whom Harry was absolutely terrified. He doubted all would go according to the Marquess’s ideals of ‘comportment,’ but he also didn’t really give a shit.
“What do you want?”
“We’ve taken an office, near Lincoln’s Inn,” Harry explained. “That’s where we’re setting up my campaign, trying to get our feet under us on this. I’d like you to come work for me there.”
“To work for you,” Silas repeated.
“Please,” Harry said quietly. “I can’t do this without you. I don’t want to try. You gave me work and a place to live six years ago when I needed it. Turns out, I still need you. Help me again?”
Silas looked between Harry and Lockwood, and back to Harry. “You really going to sit in Parliament with that fucking earring?” he asked suddenly. “And those pastel waistcoats?”
“If they’ll have me, I will,” Harry said with a grin. “I want both .”
Silas let out a bark of laughter. “You really are a dreamer, aren’t you? Very well, we’ll give it a go. I’m game.”
****
They were at Quex’s for the evening, in the private room. Dominic wasn’t fit for anywhere else. Come to think of it, he wasn’t in a fit state to be seen by his friends either, as Julius had pointed out rather loudly a half hour after he’d arrived, but Richard had insisted on dragging him out for the evening. Even he seemed to be regretting the choice, though. At home, Dominic had no one to irritate but himself. He sat slumped in a chair drinking glass after glass of wine, and glaring at Harry.
He knew Harry had seen him. He knew it, and yet Harry said nothing. In fact, Harry was uncharacteristically quiet of late, spending less time out carousing with Ash late into the night, and spending more evenings at home. Lucky Julius.
Dominic downed his glass.
It was Wednesday. Funny how his body still followed the same rhythms, though he hadn’t seen Silas in nearly two months, and before that it had been six since they’d been on their weekly schedule. Still, Wednesday came, and his unmarked skin ached for Silas’s hands, for the bruises that weren’t there.
God, I miss you. Tell me what I did wrong. I can do better.
He didn’t look up as a figure sat in the chair beside him. Company was the last thing he needed.
“Have you tried going to talk to him?”
Dominic looked up. No one had mentioned Silas to him in so long, it almost felt like a relief for someone to broach the subject. He didn’t expect it would be Ash. The handsome young man was sitting on the edge of the chair, looking at Dominic with concern and compassion.
Dominic shook his head. “He left. He doesn’t want to hear from me. Besides, I’ve no idea where he is.”
“Why did he leave?” Ash asked quietly. “You don’t have to answer, I know that’s personal, but--”
Dominic gave a sad little laugh, swirling the last drops in his glass. “Irreconcilable differences, I suppose. You know, most people are more surprised we were ever together in the first place.”
“What, because you’re a Tory?” Ash asked, apparently surprised that was even a question. “But you so obviously cared about each other. That’s more important than politics, isn’t it?”
“I thought so,” Dominic murmured. But Silas didn’t. Nothing was more important than politics, not even Dominic. He’d been a fool to think he could be. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter, it’s done now.” He got up, a little unsteadily, and set his empty glass aside. He squeezed Ash’s shoulder as he passed out into the hall.
Sighing, he made his way downstairs to the public rooms and ordered another bottle of Imperial Tokay. That was all he wanted to drink now, even though it was cloying on his tongue. Silas had always preferred sweet wines.
He waited a few minutes for the bottle and then carried it back upstairs with him.
There was a man standing in the corridor, his hand on the door to the private drawing room. Dominic didn’t think he recognized him, though it was hard to be sure, as the man stood with his back to the stairs. He didn’t think it was one of the footmen; there were only a few who ever came up to this part of the club at all, and Dominic thought he knew them all on sight. Besides, this man was wearing a plain brown coat, not the deep green worn by the staff.
He wasn’t moving. He just stood there, hand on the door, as though trying to make up his mind. Dominic stood frozen for a moment on the top step, watching him.
And then the man moved. The smallest gesture; he dropped his hand from the door, and shifted his weight back on his heel, as though reconsidering.
“Silas,” Dominic said, his voice catching in his throat. He looked different . It wasn’t just his clothes, of a finer cut and cloth than any Dominic had seen him wear. His hair had been cut too, and cleaned, neatly brushed back from his temples. He didn’t turn around.
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me,” Silas murmured.
“I never wanted you to leave.”
“Aye, but I did anyway.”
Dominic nodded. It was taking all the restraint he had not to throw himself at his lover right now. Former lover. He didn’t say anything else. It felt like his heart had forgotten how to beat.
Slowly, Silas turned around. He didn’t speak either, just twisted his hands beside him.
“I understand why you had to leave,” Dominic offered, if only to fill the increasingly uncomfortable silence. “You know I would do anything for you, to help you regain your independence, but that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”
Silas smiled sadly. “Aye, I suppose it is.”
Dominic took a step closer without entirely realizing he was moving. “You look good. You look--I don’t know, like a country solicitor, or some sort of clerk. Different.”
Silas let out a little bark of laughter. “That what you like?”
“I like you ,” Dominic said seriously. “Whatever form that comes in. Silas, I--these past two months have been hell. I’ve missed you abominably. I know you can’t go back to work for Richard, and I won’t ask it of you, but can I not see you at least? Wherever you’ve been, whatever you’ve been doing, can I not be a part of it? Could we not have Wednesdays, even? You know very well I’m not above begging.”
The barest hint of a smile flickered across Silas’s face. “I thought maybe I’d been gone long enough for you to get me out of your system.”
“I’m not sure I’ll live that long.”
Silas’s face looked somewhat pained at this, but he didn’t comment. Instead he looked away, smoothing his cuff absently. “I couldn’t write.”
“I know, that’s why you had to leave--”
“No,” Silas cut in. “I mean after. I sat there night after night with a sheet of paper and I couldn’t write.”
Dominic froze. Writing was in Silas’s blood, it was what he was made for. If he had lost that, if his association with Dominic had somehow robbed him of that--
“My God, Silas, I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m sure it will come back, just give it time.”
Silas shook his head. “I couldn’t write that people should rise up and drag down the people in power and throw them in irons, when those people are your friends, some of them, and Harry’s. That sort of language, everything I’ve said and done and fought for, it leads nowhere. Harsher laws, your lot get afraid, and mine get hanged. It doesn’t work . I’ve known it doesn’t work all my life, that’s what makes me so angry. But it wasn’t until I met you that it even occurred to me that there might be another way.”
Dominic’s mouth felt dry. “Wh-what do you mean?” he asked quietly.
“ You ,” Silas said firmly, gathering confidence as he spoke. “You and I are as different as two men could be, politically speaking. But--well, it isn’t that we want the same things, but we can at least talk about it. Hear and consider each other’s perspective. Maybe--possibly--find some middle ground.”
Dominic nodded. “I believe we have.”
“So that’s what I’ve been thinking,” Silas went on. “That maybe, what’s not been working, it’s not the message, it’s the tone of voice. Maybe I just need to talk more, and shout less.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Harry--” Silas laughed suddenly. “Lord bless him, Harry is going to run for Parliament.”
“He’s what?” Dominic’s jaw dropped. He knew Harry had been busy with his own projects lately, and certainly that he cared about politics, but this he never would have guessed. “He’s been keeping that one close to the chest.”
“I think he’s afraid you all will laugh at him for it,” Silas confided. “Richard knows, and Lockwood, but we haven’t told anyone else.”
“We?”
“Yeah, well. Something like that.”
“Silas, what’s going on?”
“Harry’s asked me to come work for him,” Silas admitted. “Writing speeches, drafting legislation, if he can get himself elected, that sort of thing.”
Dominic’s chest flooded with warmth. Silas , his Silas, having a voice in government; a voice that was charming and personable, and people might actually listen to, if Harry could reign in his temper. To fight for the rights of the poor without trampling the wealthy in the process. Talking , like he and Silas had always done, but on a much larger scale.
He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I think--I think that sounds perfect .”
“He’s the best of both of his parents, you know,” Silas said quietly. “His mother’s compassion and brains, with his father’s charm. It feels right.”
“And--you don’t mind taking money from Harry?” Dominic asked. “A salary, I mean?” He gestured toward Silas’s clothes.
“Nah, it was never really about the money. I can’t work for Richard Vane, or for you, but I don’t have the shop, so I’ve got to work for somebody. And this--I think it’s what I needed, Dom.”
“I’m glad,” Dominic said. Hearing Silas call him Dom, it almost felt like everything was going to be all right. So what now? He wanted to ask, but said nothing, just watched Silas quietly.
Silas glanced again around the hallway, as though unsure what to do with himself. His eyes lit on the bottle in Dominic’s hand.
“What’s that?”
“Imperial Tokay.”
Silas flinched, and for a moment Dominic was afraid he’d offended him somehow. It was an expensive wine, the sort of excess Silas didn’t approve of, but he’d never seemed to have a problem with it before.
Silas’s eyes took in Dominic, and the bottle, and then he seemed to make up his mind. In two steps he was at Dominic’s side, pushing him roughly against the wall, one hand taking hold of the bottle so it wouldn’t fall.
“ Fucking hell, Tory ,” he growled against Dominic’s ear, the hand that wasn’t holding the wine clamping onto Dominic’s wrist. “I’ve been gone two months, and here I find you’re drinking that fine wine without me, the one you know I like?” His voice was a low growl, and every inch of Dominic’s skin seemed to vibrate with it.
God. Yes. Please. My Brute.
“I--I have, yes,” he admitted, staring helplessly into Silas’s eyes.
“We can’t have that, now, can we?”
Dominic shook his head.
“So just what do you propose to do about it?”
Dominic couldn’t speak. The relief of Silas’s touch, his hands on him, the growl of his words, it was all too much.
And then, strangely, Silas’s grip and eyes softened, but he didn’t let go. “You still want me?”
“Yes.”
“As Harry’s campaign secretary?”
“Yes.”
“Even--”
This was too much for Dominic’s patience to bear. “Will you shut the hell up and kiss me, you Republican swine?”
Silas grinned widely. “Since when do you give the orders?”
But Dominic had had enough talking, even of this sort. He lunged forward the few inches to capture Silas’s mouth, kissing him with the desperation of a drowning man, heightened by all their time apart. Silas responded with equal fervor, thought startled by the motion. Dimly Dominic heard the crash of a bottle hitting the floor and breaking, but he didn’t care. This was all he needed.