A Fashionable Indulgence (Society of Gentlemen #1) (17 page)

“He’s an excellent valet.”

“He ought to be your confidential secretary, or possibly your estate manager. He’s wasted blacking boots, and I say this with the greatest possible admiration for your boots.”

“Don’t jest.” Richard sat back in his chair. “This is a serious matter, Julius. Verona is every bit as vulnerable as Harry. She has eight more years of financial dependence on her grandfather, and he can and will make her life very unpleasant. I cannot protect Harry at her expense, no matter what game she’s playing.”

“It seems to me that the problem is Lord Gideon’s insistence on this damned marriage.”

“Which is explained by this Rawling business,” Richard said. “Of course he wants to see the girl settled. Given Harry’s father, one can sympathize with his urge to prevent any more mismatches.”

“But if they don’t want to marry each other…”

“Unfortunately, Gideon is his own master, and any attempt at intervention is as likely to send him the other way. I think Harry must speak frankly to Verona. Gideon can surely be persuaded to abandon this idea if they both say they will not suit.” He didn’t sound as certain as Julius would have liked. “But Harry will have to marry
someone,
if he is to remain Gideon’s heir.”

“I am well aware of that. If he chooses to do so, I shan’t stand in his way. Just…don’t obstruct us until then, Richard, hmm?”

“Understood.” Richard grimaced. “And I’m sorry. There is something quite unfair about discovering a man with whom one can imagine happiness, only to find him beyond one’s grasp.”

“Ah. You too?” Richard’s silence was answer enough. “Oh, curse it. My poor Richard. I did wonder.” Julius paused. “It’s not Dominic, is it?”

“No. No, I have the distinction of having loved twice, and both times impossibly. I cannot be what Dominic wants. He made that clear a long time ago.”

That made sense, since Richard was not a man to leave bruises, and Dominic liked to be bruised. Julius couldn’t imagine in what damned fool place Richard could have put his heart now. Some oaf who had eyes only for women? Please God he wasn’t smitten with Ash, whose absurd charm was sweeping through the older Ricardians like the influenza. “Would you care to speak of it?”

“No. It doesn’t matter. It’s impossible, and there is no more to be said.” Richard made a face. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t intend to bring my troubles to your doorstep.”

“You may, if you wish.” Julius was slightly surprised to realize he meant that. “You don’t have to bear your burdens alone as well as ours.”

“Thank you, Julius. If you can ease Harry’s path, you will ease mine greatly. I hope you find a way.”

Harry gave quite a lot of thought to his conversation with Verona. In the end he took her for a turn in St. James’s Park. It was public, but at least her Gorgon of a maidservant could walk far behind, observing but not overhearing.

Verona looked pretty in pale lilac as she sauntered along Birdcage Walk, keeping just a fraction too much distance between herself and Harry. “This is delightful, cousin. You must be so charmed by the fresh air. Was it terribly fetid where you were raised?”

“May I speak to you frankly, Verona? It’s rather important.”

Verona gave him a patronizing smile. “Dear Harry, in our class, gentlemen do not speak
frankly
to ladies. We expect a certain care. I hope you don’t mind me giving you a little guidance.”

“Not at all.” Harry smiled back at her. “The thing is, cousin, Edward Rawling threatened to kill me the night before last.”

He watched with some satisfaction as the blood drained from her face. She took a couple of attempts to master her voice before she managed, with tolerable composure, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Edward Rawling. The man you want to marry. He said he’d break my neck if I pursued my suit to you. I’ve a witness who knows him well,” he added, twisting the knife. “Did you ask him to do it, or was that his idea?”

Fury leapt in Verona’s eyes. “So is this your next move, this—this tissue of lies? I suppose you intend to take this to Grandfather and accuse me—”

“Will you listen? It’s obvious you don’t want to marry me, and you’ve done your best to ensure I don’t want to marry you, and it’s worked, because honestly, I would rather be disinherited.” Verona’s expression made up for several weeks’ worth of tiny digs. “I understand that you’d rather I cried off, but under the circumstances…”

Verona glanced round at her hovering maid and took a few steps forward, as though they were simply conversing. “So you intend to take your story about Sergeant Rawling to Grandfather, and elevate yourself in his opinion at my expense?”

“I may not have been brought up a gentleman,” Harry said, as calmly as possible. “That does not make me a cur. My mother was Euphemia Gordon, who wrote
The Woman’s Battle-Cry.
Mary Wollstonecraft attended my christening.” Verona looked entirely blank. Harry’s mother would have been tempted to shake her. “My mother believed that women and men have the same natural rights and should be held to the same standards. That a woman should control her own property and choose her own husband. If I used your affections against you, she’d—good God, she’d come back to haunt me, and I shouldn’t blame her.”

Verona was scarlet now. Harry noted that she blushed as freely as he did, and the little resemblance was a sudden jab to his heart.

“I am not going to tell Gideon about Sergeant Rawling,” he went on. “It’s just, well, we both know you don’t want to marry me any more than I want to marry you. So why don’t we tell Gideon together that we cannot suit? I’ve no desire to cut you out, and unless you want to cut me out, I don’t see that we need be at daggers drawn.”

“How is it not a dagger if you threaten me with this story of Edward?”

“I don’t mean to threaten you. Look, suppose I give you my mother’s book, the
Battle-Cry,
as a guarantee of my good faith. Then if I tell Gideon about Sergeant Rawling, you can show him that I’m peddling radical literature, and we’ll ruin each other. Or we could
not
do that, and cry friends.” He shrugged. “I think you believe I’m your enemy, but I’m not.”

“You’re a grandson. Grandfather values you. I am
female.
”

“He values the name, not me. I’m not going to try to cut you out of any inheritance, and I’m not going to be party to a forced marriage. My mother would turn in her grave.”

“Are you a radical?” Verona asked in a rush.

“No. I don’t know. I’d back my mother against Gideon any day, I’ll say that much.”

Verona’s mouth worked. “I— Yes. I see. I think I’d like to read her book.”

It occurred to Harry with an inward qualm that he might have started something. Oh well; two days ago he’d been determined to renounce the world. “I’ll get you a copy.”

“Thank you.”

“And can we talk to Gideon, do you think?”

Verona put her hands to her face. “Harry, I’m so sorry.” Her voice was muffled. “I’ve been foul to you and I feel utterly ashamed of myself. I thought—well, never mind what I thought. I should have talked to you. I assumed— Did Edward really attack you?”

“Yes.”

“You mustn’t think badly of him. He’s so dreadfully upset by this engagement. I told him that I had no choice, that I wouldn’t go through with it, but of course he’s distressed.”

“Of course he is,” Harry said. “Could you tell him not to break my neck, though?”

Verona gave a little sobbing laugh. “Yes, I will. I am sorry.”

Harry had to ask. “Do you
want
to marry him?”

She looked up with glowing eyes. “More than anything. I’ve loved him since I was a little girl, bringing him my dollies to be mended. I shall never marry anyone else. We’ve been pledged since I was fifteen, when he was just a young man in the village going off to the war. Father refused him again and again, of course, and then after—the fire—Grandfather was even worse. And Father’s will made everything impossible. Edward is penniless, and I don’t have anything until I’m thirty. I’d run away with him
tomorrow
but he won’t do it. He keeps telling me I’m too gently bred.” She glowered. “I could be poor. Your father did it.”

Harry cast his mind back over debt, dirt, privation. “It wasn’t easy for him,” he said, with some restraint.

“But he did it, for love. Your mother must have been absolutely
wonderful
for him to do that—Harry? Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Harry managed. “No. You didn’t. She was. In her way,” he was forced to add.

“Well, so is Edward. But, the thing is…” She made a face. “You see, Grandfather suspects about Edward. If we tell him that you and I won’t marry each other, I’m afraid he’ll find me someone else, someone who’ll do it for the money no matter
how
horrible I am to him.”

“He can’t make you marry.”

“No, he can’t. But he can refuse me any pin money at all if I defy him, or send me off to one of the family houses in the middle of nowhere, or all sorts of extremely uncomfortable things. It’s been a horrible year. He’s kept me in deep mourning until it felt like
prison.
And yet Edward seems to think that I’d be better off miserable in a big house than happy in a cottage with him. It’s so
frustrating.
”

“Do you think Gideon might come round?”

“No,” Verona said, with conviction. “He won’t.”

“Then what will you do?”

Verona didn’t answer for a moment, pacing on down the path. “Harry,” she said eventually, “is there someone you
do
want to marry?”

“Not at all. I’m enjoying bachelorhood.”

“Then what would you say to perhaps not speaking to Grandfather yet?”

Harry blinked. “Allowing him to believe we’re courting?”

“Exactly.” Verona put a hand on his arm, looking up appealingly at him. She really was very pretty indeed. A world without Rawling or Julius would have had its advantages. “If he believes that we’re trying to do his bidding for some months more—”

“Won’t he be all the angrier when we don’t?”

“We can tell him we’ve tried and tried and simply cannot suit,” Verona suggested. “Perhaps we could have a great blazing argument in public?”

Harry winced. “Let’s not.”

“Well, we can think about it. If we can just win another few months, a few weeks even—”

“You still won’t have control of your money and Rawling won’t be any more an acceptable suitor than he is now.” And Harry would be lying, taking Gideon’s money under false pretenses. He’d just resolved to turn his back on that way of life. The thought was still tempting. “Is that quite fair to Gideon?”

“Do you think he’s fair to me? Or you? Do you think he cares a whit for either of us?”

“I…don’t know.”

“I do,” Verona said. “He’d be badgering me to marry some fat old man with a title if he hadn’t been able to find you. He had Lord Dunsany in mind before you turned up, and he’s dreadful. Harry, please. I just need a little time, and you can give me that.”

She clearly had a plan. Harry contemplated the sparkle in her eyes with misgiving. “I really don’t think I should—”

“But you will. Oh, thank you!” Verona clapped her hands. “Oh, I’m so glad you spoke to me. I’m glad you’re my cousin. Thank you, thank you. Now I feel sure everything will come right.”

Harry went to visit Silas a couple of days later. He went during the day. Perhaps people might see him, but it was unlikely, and damn it, he was a Vane. He could do as he pleased.

His mood was bolstered by recent events. Verona, dropping her endless sniping, proved to be charming company, and Harry was rapidly developing an affection for her. Lovers came and went, but it would be rather pleasant to have a woman one could call
sister
.

And then Julius. Harry had stayed at his rooms again, for blissful, sleepy lovemaking all night and morning. God knew what they could have between them in the long run, but he had it now, and he intended to give and take all the pleasure he could.

He’d told him everything, about Verona’s love affair and her request, since he wasn’t going to be caught out keeping secrets from Julius again. As expected, his lover had been entirely uninterested in the morality of her proceedings.

“Good luck to her,” he’d said. “Gideon’s brought it on himself, in my view, and the Vanes can take a bit of scandal. Cirencester and his lady are sufficiently superior to humanity to get over anything short of criminal conversation on Almack’s dance floor.” That was probably true. Harry had met the Marquess, Richard’s older brother, just once, and had frozen like a rabbit in the aura of his noble self-regard.

Julius had spoken to Richard too. God knew what had been said there, but Harry’s engagement was still nominally in force, and nominally private, and Richard had not raised an eyebrow when Julius had taken Harry’s arm in public and fended off a number of jokes about the puce coat with whip-sharp retorts.

He’d also informed Harry that facing down their little scandal involved wearing the puce coat until people stopped finding it amusing, which was why Harry had it on as he pushed at the door of Theobald’s Bookshop. It was bolted, which doubtless meant illegal pamphlet-printing was taking place in the cellar. He hammered at the wood until the bolt rattled, the door opened, and George Charkin’s ratty face peered out.

“Sorry, sir, we’re cl—” George’s mouth dropped open in a most satisfactory manner. “
Harry?
I mean…Mr. Vane?”

“Harry, you fool. Good to see you. Is the master in?”

“Well, he is, but…”

“Oh, let me in, for God’s sake. I shan’t cause trouble.”

George stepped away to admit Harry, bolted the door again, and bellowed, “Oi! Silas!” down the trapdoor, and then settled back to give Harry a close examination. “Cor blimey,” he said with naked envy. “You don’t half look swell. What you doing here?”

“Just come to say hello,” Harry assured him. “I’ve not forgotten you.”

“Ain’t you?”

“I’ve been very busy. Out of Town, you know.”

“La.”

“Well, I couldn’t—”

“Harry, lad.” Silas tramped up the steps. “You look better. Come back to stay, then?”

“Not yet. It’s all a little complicated, but better. You helped me, again.”

Silas clapped him on the arm. “Time you start helping yourself, then. Hmph. Now I see it in daylight, that coat’s God-awful.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Harry assured him. “What are you up to?” He indicated the underground press with a jerk of the head.

“It’s a stinker,” George said eagerly, and a little nervously. “You should see it.”

“Peterloo,” Silas added. “Got an eyewitness account of the child ridden down in the street. Got some words for Lord High Murderer Sidmouth as well.”

Silas’s pamphlet was going to attack the Home Secretary directly, and Sidmouth was not a conciliatory man. Harry winced. “Be careful, won’t you?”

“Aye, aye. This just a social call? Got five hundred of these to run off, so I need to get on, unless you want to help.”

“I wondered if you had a
Battle-Cry,
actually. It’s for a society lady of my acquaintance.”

Silas flung back his head and gave a crack of laughter. “That’s Euphemia’s boy. You want it bound or in boards?”

“Bound, if you have it.” Harry took out his purse, put it back at Silas’s menacing look, then slipped a coin to George when Silas turned his back to reach up to the shelf.

Silas handed him a neat octavo volume bound in dull red leather. His mother’s voice, still not silenced. Harry flicked through the familiar pages before looking up. “Thank you.”

“No trouble. You get those noble ladies reading. Off you go now, you don’t want to be here.”

Harry came over and hugged him, careless of the sweat and ink. “I do. Just not when you’re printing sedition. Thank you, Silas. I’ll see you soon.”

Silas’s pamphlet was on the streets the next day, entitled
The Gallows Tree: Just Retribution for Murder at Manchester,
and it was even worse than Harry had imagined. Silas laid out the deaths of the innocents in blistering terms, skewered the yeomanry and magistrates, called for resignations and prosecutions, hanging and revolution. It was written to enrage and, at the very least, was flogging material if its author was discovered.

The damned thing felt hot to Harry’s touch, and he should not have it in Richard’s house. He already had a growing stack of the regular
Faithful Narrative
fortnightly pamphlets and other accounts of the massacre.

He wasn’t sure why Peterloo had such a grip on his mind. The scale of the crime, of course. The reports said eighteen dead now, five hundred injured, and he could imagine it as though he’d been there. An angry crowd, the men’s hoarse shouts, the women’s shrill cries. The press and heave of bodies, frightening and intoxicating at once. The sense of people standing together, which so quickly became a sense of
us
against
them
, of a mob forming…

And it could form. Francis had called fifty thousand people a potential riot, and he was right. Harry had been in enough riots as a boy to know that. He remembered them in a flood of terrifying impressions. Silas hauling him off the ground when he’d lost his footing. Throwing stones at the redcoats, caught up in his father’s fanaticism.

He could have been one of those trampled by sharp hooves at Peterloo. It could have been him, and some nights he dreamed it was.

He was sitting with
The Gallows Tree
in his hands when Ballard came in.

“Excuse me, sir.” Ballard moved to attend to the closet, but his shrewd eyes had flickered to the pamphlet.

“Do you concern yourself in politics?” Harry asked recklessly.

“No, sir. I don’t think it my place.”

“Every man’s entitled to his thoughts.”

“I prefer to have none, sir.”

Well, it was a choice. Probably best if he didn’t lend his valet seditionary materials anyway. Harry moved to store
The Gallows Tree
with the rest of his collection.

“If I may ask, sir…”

“Mmm?”

Ballard smoothed the lapel of a coat, with loving care. “There is speculation amid the servants as to whether we might wish you happy soon, Mr. Harry. I hope I don’t overstep the mark if I ask…?”

“Not at all.” Julius had told him, with mild outrage, that there was betting below stairs. Harry’s arrangement with Verona had to be kept secret, but the man knew plenty of his secrets already, and surely he could help out his own valet. He chose his words with care. “Let’s say, the world is an uncertain place, and ladies change their minds. I, uh, wouldn’t place too much reliance on a wedding, just in case. Whatever I might hope for,” he added, trying to look like an ardent suitor.

Ballard inclined his head with great gravity. “Thank you, Mr. Harry. I am most appreciative.”

There was a rout first, then Lady Beaufort’s card party to attend afterward—Harry had been admitted to the dashing widow’s set of admiring young men—and he’d declined two more invitations for the evening. If this was the Little Season, God knew what it would be like in April. Harry enjoyed dancing, and the more people he knew the more enjoyable it was, but he was still glad to leave Mrs. Martindale’s
conversazione
the next night and retreat to the private rooms at Quex’s, where Julius and a few of the other Ricardians were also sheltering from the social storm.

“I see we are all in hiding.” Julius poured him a glass of port. “I am weary of London. Has anyone plans for the hunting?”

“I’m hosting a party at Arrandene if you’d care to join me,” Richard offered. “Ash and Francis are promised to me, and Dominic, if he can get away.”

“He’ll be lucky,” said Sir Absalom. “The Home Office is buzzing like an overset hive, and there are to be measures going through Parliament.”

“About what?”

“Oh, the latest round of pamphlets have driven Sidmouth past endurance and his government are looking at a new raft of measures to crack down on dissent. Disgraceful, and we’ll oppose them. Where is Dominic? I should like to discuss this with him.”

“Wednesday,” said Richard elliptically.

“Thank God,” Julius said. “Spare us the politics.”

“You should take an interest in the world around you,” Absalom told him severely. “I’ll look for him tomorrow, then.”

“What
is
it that Dominic does on Wednesdays?” Harry asked.

“Who can say,” Julius said. “I merely observe that he usually looks like the cat that got the cream on Thursdays. Anyone for whist?”

They played late, switching to hazard when Absalom made his excuses before midnight. Around one o’clock in the morning, Richard went to relieve himself, and Harry touched Julius’s hand.

“Do you want to go?”

“I should rather like to stay,” Harry said. “In the rooms here, I mean.”

“Here? Why?”

Harry brushed a stray strand of gilt away from his face. “Well, to be honest, I was thinking you might fuck me.”

Julius’s mouth opened slightly. They’d played at backgammon twice more since that memorable evening, both times Harry taking the active part—although to call it that was a nonsense, since Julius squirmed like an eel—and he felt a need to turn things about.

“That might have been the first thing I thought about when I saw you.” Harry heard the husk in his own voice. “I sat there and imagined you taking me up against a wall—”

“That explains why you looked quite so like a stunned fish,” Julius managed, but his darkening eyes belied the effort to be casual.

“I felt stunned. I looked at you and thought I’d never seen anything so lovely in my life.” Harry gave it a second and added, “But it is a particularly good waistcoat.”

“I
am
going to bugger you tonight,” Julius said. “Forcefully.”

Harry grinned. “And if we stay here we don’t need to worry about the servants in the morning, so…”

“Enough said. I’ll bid Richard goodnight if you advise Shakespeare the bedroom will be occupied?”

It took a few moments to find Shakespeare: frustrating minutes, with Julius upstairs and waiting. He ran the major-domo to earth in the front hall, where he looked momentarily startled to see Harry.

“Ah, Shakespeare. Could you have the staff note that the private rooms are in use tonight?” Even knowing that these were Richard’s men and this the safest place in London, he felt a certain self-consciousness, but Shakespeare simply bowed.

“Certainly, Mr. Vane. Would you wish to be woken at any time?”

“I’ll ring.”

“Very good, sir. I am sorry to report that Mr. Dominic Frey was just here a few moments ago asking for you, and Frederick informed him that you had left.” His tone was quite level, but Harry saw a footman quail out of the corner of his eye. “Shall I send Frederick after Mr. Frey, sir?”

“Good Lord, no. I’m quite sure it will wait till tomorrow.” That was more than Harry could do, and be damned to Dominic. They would be busy.

The next morning, Harry woke first.

Julius was asleep by his side, hair a gilt tangle on the white linen, fine features lax. His mouth was a little open, his chin a little rough with dark blond stubble, and Harry wanted nothing more than to lie over him and feel every inch.

He could still feel that from last night, come to think of it. The thought made his lips curve smugly. Julius’s first time taking a man, and Harry had claimed that milestone for himself, never to be forgotten. He’d been clumsy with desire and nerves, and Harry was undeniably a little sore this morning, but it had been worth every bit and more to feel Julius flailing, utterly out of control, gasping his name as he spent, and burying his face in Harry’s shoulder afterward.

I made you happy,
Harry thought, looking at his sleeping lover, as a powerful knock resounded at the door.

It had to be a servant. This was Quex’s, where they were safe. But that hadn’t been a servant’s respectful tap.

Harry looked round in sudden panic. One bed in the room, two naked men in the bed, the smell of fucking strong in the air. There was no way out of this.
Don’t panic,
he ordered himself, and shook Julius by the shoulder, as the pounding on the door came again.

“Julius,” he hissed. “Wake up!”

Julius grunted. Harry shook him harder, and the door opened.

“Fuck!” Harry yelped aloud. “What the—
Richard?
”

His cousin stood in the doorway, an imposing presence. “Get up,” he said shortly, closing the door behind him. “Now. Julius?”

“Mmph.” Julius had his face in the pillow. Richard took two steps over and looked down at him with a curious expression Harry couldn’t quite identify.

“What is it?” Harry demanded.

“He’s asleep.” Richard sounded oddly moved. “I didn’t think— Well, I’m sorry.” He planted a large hand on Julius’s pale shoulder, hauled him up several inches, and dropped him back on the bed with a thump.

“God’s balls!” Julius erupted explosively at that unceremonious waking. “You bedamned whoreson— Richard?” He glared up. “What the hell are you doing here? I wasn’t that drunk.”

“Julius, Harry, listen to me. Dominic is even now engaged on a raid of Theobald’s Bookshop.”

The words sluiced through Harry in a rush of cold, turning his guts liquid. “Raid?” he repeated hoarsely.

“He sent me a note,” Richard said. “I had it this morning. If he was to inform us at all, I should have preferred it to be when it might be of use.”