A Fashionable Indulgence (Society of Gentlemen #1) (20 page)

“I want you to have it. It was, ah…I had it made for Marcus, for our birthday. We were going to be twenty-six. And then, Waterloo. I’d ordered it in advance, and it was waiting for me on my return. I could not wear it, I could not sell it, and it has lain there untouched for four years.” He took a deep breath. “It is past time it had an owner, Harry. And it matches your eyes to perfection. Will you have it?”

Harry stared down at the pin. “Because it was for Marcus?”

“Because he would be pleased that I can give it to you.” Julius felt his voice crack on the words. “He would have liked you, Harry. You’d have liked him.”

“I know I would,” Harry said, and leaned forward to hold him tight.

If Julius was understanding, Gideon was incensed. Harry stood before him the next day, having made confession of his sins, and bowed his head as the storm raged.

“You’re my last grandson.” Gideon was panting a little, clutching the knob of his stick. His face was flushed with anger. “I’ve nobody else to continue my name. Otherwise—” He broke off, mumbling, then continued, lower but still angry. “I won’t have this damned democratic sentiment. I will not hear it. It should have been beaten out of you.” He gripped the stick as though he proposed to administer that beating now. Harry took a step back in instinctive alarm. “I’ll see you up to scratch, boy, or I’ll see you damned. You’ll marry, no more of this shilly-shallying. Take Verona to wife, get me some great-grandchildren on her. It will knock the notions out of the pair of you.”

“I’m sorry, Grandfather,” Harry said humbly, “but I don’t think Cousin Verona is very pleased with me. She doesn’t want to be made the object of ridicule.” She had, in fact, applauded him wildly. Lord Bunbury was not a beloved relative.

“She will do as she’s told!” Gideon bellowed. “You’ve made a fool of yourself and me, you may as well make a fool of her too. If I could send you packing…Do you know why I don’t?”

“The natural affection of a grandparent?”

Harry hadn’t meant to say it.
Too much time with Julius,
he thought dizzily, as the words left his mouth. Gideon’s face was so dark that Harry thought he might have a stroke, and felt a pulse of real alarm. “Sir, are you quite well? Sir?”

“You…” Gideon shut his eyes for a moment, then looked up into Harry’s face. “You wanted to be taken into my bosom like the Prodigal Son, eh? Well, I had a son, a fine son once. When he married that woman, the damned stupid boy, I told him.
I owe you nothing,
I said,
and you are nothing to me.
If you wanted a family, your fool of a father shouldn’t have turned his back on me.”

“Would you have taken me in if Paul and his son hadn’t died?” Harry asked, as calmly as he could.

“No. I should not. Your father chose his own way and be damned to him. I took you in when I had no other heir and hoped you would have more sense. But…” Gideon paused, mouth moving slightly, apparently in time with his thoughts. “My son is dead. His daughter is a foolish, flighty wench. My line is ending, in frivolity and sedition, or in ridicule and contempt. It seems that a man may no longer direct his children without becoming an object of mockery and disgust to the sentimental.”

That was a familiar phrase. Julius had spoken to Richard that morning, and he had clearly paved the way with Gideon. That should have been good, but the old man’s angry solitude was written on his wrinkled face and Harry couldn’t bear it.

“Sir.” He dropped to one knee by Gideon’s chair. “I’ve no desire to expose you to ridicule. I lost my temper at Lord Bunbury’s house and I am very sorry. I
am
grateful for what you’ve done for me. I should like to know you better.” That wasn’t true, as such, but it ought to be. “I would like to know my grandfather—”

“You’d like a fortune,” Gideon said harshly.

Easy, Harry. The first to anger loses.
“I should rather be rich than poor, sir. But I’d also rather be grandfathered than alone. Could we not be…”
Friends,
he wanted to say, or
family.
Nothing in Gideon’s faded stare encouraged either. He began again. “I really will try to be satisfactory, sir. I want to earn your regard. I’d like that to be possible.”

Gideon’s rheumy eyes were locked on his. “
Regard.
Just like your father, all highfaluting sentiment. This is your last chance. No more of this reformist rubbish, no more treasonous notions embarrassing me and shaming your line. And you’ll marry your fool of a cousin or I’ll see you both damned!”

By the following evening, Harry was ready to renounce the world and flee, as long as he never had to speak to anyone ever again.

“How are you, Harry?” Ash asked tentatively. They were at Quex’s: Julius and himself, Ash and Francis, Richard. No Dominic. He had been notably absent from their circle since that disastrous dinner.

“Not terribly good.” Harry’s outburst had been repeated, of course, and in highly exaggerated form. That itself wasn’t so bad. Peterloo was a subject that caused arguments. The Whigs in society might not approve of radicals but nevertheless condemned the massacre in strong terms. If it hadn’t been for his parentage, he’d merely have been a poorly mannered and overenthusiastic young man.

But there was his parentage. Bunbury hadn’t scrupled to spread word, and now Alexander Vane’s scandalous marriage and disappearance from the polite world had once again become a sensation.

He’d been cut a couple of times, which was bad, and then the direct questions had begun.
I say, Vane.
Do I hear your mother was a seamstress?

“How should Vane know what you hear?” Julius had come in over Harry’s stammer. “I suppose it depends from which old maids you obtain your gossip.”

It had ended that conversation very effectively, but it had only been one. Julius had also given Harry a form of words for politer enquiries—“My father married a woman whose character and education far exceeded her birth. They lived on the Continent.” It was acceptable, more or less, for those who chose to be kind, or to talk directly to him rather than whisper.

If anybody found out the truth about his parents’ lives, or his work in the bookshop, Harry had no doubt that he’d be ruined.

Ash was still patting his arm sympathetically. He looked a little guilty, and Harry knew why. “I suppose you know that your brother asked me about my parents yesterday. In the street.”

“I’m sorry. He’s a swine.”

“He said, wasn’t I the son of that fellow Alexander Vane who—who disgraced himself with a washerwoman.
Like father, like son,
he said.” Lord Maltravers had laughed then, an ugly sneer on his face, and men around them had laughed too.

“I am extremely inclined to speak to my lord Maltravers,” Julius said. “Would you mind, Ash?”

“No, that is the last thing we need,” Richard said. “If you insult him to the point of calling you out—”

“Not even Julius is sufficiently offensive to make Maltravers risk his person,” Francis remarked caustically.

Julius raised a brow. “Would you care to wager on that?”

“No,” Richard repeated firmly. “Absolutely not. Can you imagine the consequences of Harry’s friend forcing a quarrel on Lord Warminster’s heir? Cirencester sits by him in the House of Lords, for heaven’s sake.”

“Oh, well, if your brother would be displeased…” Julius began,

“Yes, he would,” Richard said. “That is not trivial. Cirencester is the head of the family.” A simple statement, but Harry was coming to understand what that meant to the Vanes. Richard, strong-willed and extraordinarily wealthy in his own right, took a subordinate role in Cirencester’s presence as though by instinct, deferring to his brother without hesitation. The Marquess’s disapproval was no light thing to a Vane. Harry knew he’d earned it and the thought was terrifying. “Harry will have to tolerate a certain amount of criticism.”

“Not insults to his mother,” Julius said.

“No, granted, but the jests. We all need to—” Richard broke off as the door opened.

“Good God,” Francis said. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Dominic stood in the doorway. He seemed to have lost weight in the last day or so, and his eyes were ringed with darkness. He walked over, into his friends’ silence, and sat down without a word.

“Dom?” Richard asked.

“You should know that there was another raid on Theobald’s this morning.”

“What?” Harry said. “You didn’t warn me!”

“I didn’t know it was coming. Skelton, my colleague, discovered some letter among Mason’s confiscated papers revealing that one Harry Gordon had been working at Theobald’s. He went back to ask about that this morning. He
knows,
Harry, knows about you and your parents. And he will take it to Maltravers.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Harry whispered.

“Harry?” Julius grabbed his hand. “Head between your legs. Come on.” He shoved Harry’s head down forcefully. “Breathe. You knew this might happen.”

“There’s worse,” Dominic said. “Skelton asked Mason about the Vane fire.”

“The
fire
?” Richard repeated blankly. “Why?”

Dominic took a deep breath. “Because Harry is a radical, associated with dangerous seditionists, and his prospects were vastly improved by the strange accident of a fire that killed his uncle and cousin.”

There was a stunned silence. Then Julius and Ash were both on their feet, Ash shouting, Julius leaning over the table to jab a finger at Dominic, as Harry sat, unable to take that in.

“Silence!” Richard roared, so loud the glassware rang. “All of you, sit down and be quiet!
Now
, Julius! Dom, for God’s sake—”

“Mason told him to go to the devil,” Dominic said. “Skelton was shouting in his face while his—our—men wrought havoc in the shop, and he didn’t flinch. He’s a good friend to you, Harry.”

“And were you a good friend?” demanded Julius savagely. “What the devil did you do, watch?”

“What else could I do?” It was a cry of protest. “Damn it, I’m Richard’s friend. I couldn’t be seen to stop that line of questioning, could I? I’d have made it worse for Harry—”

“And Silas took the punishment,” Harry said. “Did—did Skelton believe him?”

“Of course not,” Dominic said. “He’s a seditionist.”

“Excuse me,” Julius put in. “Is this a formal accusation of murder?”

“It’s implication.” Dominic sounded weary. “Imputation. Enough to start whispers of Harry’s dangerous friends and the strange advantage he accrued from the deaths.”

“Why?”
demanded Julius. “Why would Skelton come up with this?”

Harry didn’t have to think about that. “Because after Peterloo, the victims are reformers and the murderers are the magistrates, the state. They want it to be the other way around. If the fire was set deliberately, that’s a case of radicals murdering gentlemen, and that justifies everything they want to do, to quash reform and muzzle protestors, don’t you see?”

Dominic raised his head, met Harry’s eye. Harry stared back, daring him to disagree.

“You’re suggesting a calculated malevolence that I should be very sorry to see exist,” Richard said into the nasty silence. “In any case, your birth—”

“But that’s the point,” Harry said. “My birth and my upbringing. If I’m implicated—well, I’m not really a gentleman, am I?”

Ash bristled. “You’re as much a gentleman as anyone, no matter what your mother may have been!”

“Dear Gabriel,” Francis murmured, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Shh.”

Richard frowned. “What now, Dom?”

“I don’t know. Maltravers gives his patronage to at least one magistrate at Bow Street, so I suspect a Runner will be tasked to investigate.”

Harry put his face in his hands. This was it. His past revealed, and discussed by his enemies: his shameful birth, his politics, his seditious acts. The whispers would be everywhere, and of course they would be believed. The French Revolution had proved that radicals in pursuit of reform were bloody murderers. The upper classes feared those they kept below, and fear bred hate and suspicion.

There could, surely, be no charge laid, no proof. He hadn’t done it, for God’s sake. But…

He licked his lips. “Uh. Richard. There’s something you should know.”

“Oh, God,” Julius said, in tones of the deepest foreboding.

“When I was a boy—or rather, when I was twelve—my parents spoke at a meeting, against the war. It, uh, they started a riot. It was April of the year eight, and a soldier was killed. A warrant was put out for our arrest. All of us.”

“You?” Julius asked into the silence.

Harry nodded, staring at his feet. “It was for Harry Gordon. But if people know my parents were Alexander and Euphemia Gordon, that would be clear enough. I don’t know how likely this man Skelton is to dig that out.”

Every head turned to Dominic.

“Would that still be valid?” Richard demanded. “Is it likely to be remembered? Can a new warrant be sworn after this time?”

“Skelton will certainly remember the Gordons and their damned rabble-rousing.” Dominic put his hands through his hair. “I don’t know. One could certainly make the case that the inciters to riot were guilty of murder, but unless you were actually on the platform calling for the overthrow of the government…” Harry shook his head. “Thank heaven for that at least. I don’t know.”

“Is there anything you can do?” Richard asked.

“If Skelton thinks there’s a case for prosecution, I can try to argue him out of it. But I can’t stop him, and I can’t prevent him looking into Harry’s past, or using it to bolster his suspicions about that damned fire.”

“I’ll speak to Cirencester,” Richard said grimly. “My brother will need to know this. You will have to talk to him, Harry. Go home, I shall meet you there. The rest of you, kindly refrain from public argument, we do not need more attention. Dom, come with me please.”

“I can’t.” Dominic wasn’t meeting anyone’s eye now. “It’s Wednesday.”

“You’re not serious,” Richard said. “You cannot mean that.”

Harry threw discretion to the wind. “Dominic, he’ll kill you. I mean it, he will
kill
you. For the love of God, don’t go.”

“I’ve done what I can here, which is very little good to anyone.” Dominic rose. “Gentlemen.”