A Fashionable Indulgence (Society of Gentlemen #1) (21 page)

“Dom!” Richard said explosively and uselessly. “Stop!
Dominic!
”

Dominic closed the door behind him with a soft click. Julius looked from Harry’s face to Richard’s. “Wait a moment. Am I to understand— My God. He’s got even less sense than I thought.”

“I have no idea what’s going on,” Ash said, bewildered. “Who’s he going to see?”

“Very well.” Richard turned back from staring at the door. His face was set and tense. “The rest of you, get Harry to my house. I have to call a family meeting.”

Once again, Harry was seated on the edge of a chair in a Vane’s drawing room, feeling as though he were in the wrong world altogether. This time it was Richard’s drawing room, but once again he would have been more comfortable almost anywhere else, and once again, Gideon was angry.

“This is what my worthless son has brought down on me,” he snarled. “This is the shame, the ignominy, the disgrace—”

“This business of the fire is a false accusation,” Richard said over him. “It is not Harry’s fault that he is the victim of malice, or politics.”

“And what about his own damned law-breaking?” There was a fleck of spittle at Gideon’s lips.

“Harry was twelve years old at the time of the riot, acting under the direction of his parents,” Richard said. “Sir Absalom Lockwood will defend him should any prosecution be brought. He is confident of success.”

“Success?” Gideon demanded. “A Vane in the dock on charges of murder and you call that
success
?”

“He is not in the dock yet,” Richard said. “Nor will be if I have anything to say to it.”

“But do you, brother?” The Marquess of Cirencester stood by the fire, wearing a forbidding frown as he looked from Gideon to Harry. He was several years older than Richard and looked it; not as large as his younger brother but far more imposing in his unquestionable self-confidence. “I am displeased, Harry. I was made the subject of impertinent speech in the clubs last night because of your ill-considered words.
Mockery
,” he said, with majestic outrage.

“I’m very sorry, cousin,” Harry mumbled.

“We must rise above this.” That was Lady Cirencester, speaking for the first time. She had probably never been pretty, and the seven pledges of her affection with which she had presented her husband had taken their toll, lining her face and showing her age. But there was intelligence in her eyes, and determination in her cultivated voice, and it was noticeable that both Richard and Cirencester looked to her as soon as she opened her mouth. “Do I understand, Harry, that you are to wed Verona?”

“Uh—”

“That cannot take place for the moment.” She spoke with decision. “Any engagement must be celebrated. A ball, and a magnificent one, with nothing hole-and-corner about it. I should be quite happy to ignore the malicious whispers regarding the fire, and I venture to say that we could fill Cirencester House twice over with guests in the teeth of this spite. But if Harry is to be prosecuted for his part in his father’s activities, that is a different matter. I will not see Verona tied to you until that is resolved. It would be an injustice to the girl.”

“That is not your decision,” Gideon said. “I want them wed, and soon, or I will send the democratic brat back to his filthy stews.”

“No, you will not,” Lady Cirencester said, quite calmly.

Gideon took a breath. Cirencester held up his hand and the old man’s mouth snapped shut.

“Lady Cirencester is quite correct.” Cirencester drew out a mother-of-pearl snuffbox, flicked it open one-handed, and took a deliberate pinch. “The family will support Harry until such time as he is convicted of a crime. We will pay no regard to the nonsense about the fire. Richard, inform Lord Bunbury that I will be obliged by his silence. Gideon, you will continue to provide Harry with full financial support, no matter what his political views—”

“What?”
Gideon’s teeth were set.

“If you show your disapproval now, it will be interpreted as belief in his guilt. You will not do so, no matter the provocation.”

Gideon’s face worked. “I cannot accept that, my lord Cirencester.”

“I am the head of this family.” Cirencester let the words hang in the air, unchallengeable, unchallenged, until Gideon’s gaze dropped. “And I am profoundly displeased with this entire business.” He turned a look on Harry, who cringed. “Harry’s past is disgraceful. If he stands his trial it will shame us all. But he is your grandson, Gideon. You plucked him from deserved obscurity, you thrust him into the
ton
without consideration and had my brother stand his sponsor, and you will now take the consequences. You made this family a talking point when you disinherited your son.” Cirencester’s voice was level and compelling. “If you disinherit your grandson, you will make us
at best
a laughing stock. At worst, Richard will be seen to have introduced a seditionist or even a murderer to society. That is not acceptable.”

“It is not. But Harry is neither of those things,” Richard said.

“He has given that assurance,” Lady Cirencester agreed. “And the Vane family accepts his word, and there can be no public dissent. To show doubt now would be the worst possible course of action.”

“Then why shouldn’t he and Verona marry?” demanded Gideon. “If you have faith in the boy’s innocence.”

“It is not a matter of his innocence, but of Verona’s well-being.”

“Let her decide that.” Gideon’s face was working. “They’re thick as thieves, the pair of them. It’s a match. She’ll want to marry him, you’ll see.”

Lady Cirencester’s gaze swept Harry’s face. “Harry,
do
you and Verona wish to marry in the next six months?”

Harry swallowed. “Not really, my lady. No.”

“Then there will be no engagement.”

Cirencester gave his wife a nod. “Until such time as this accusation is entirely forgotten, you, Gideon, will treat your grandchildren—both of them—with public acceptance and complaisance.” There was no
or.
The Marquess and Marchioness of Cirencester did not stoop to
or.
“And you, Harry, will do your best to avert the consequences of your past. What you have brought upon us is bad enough. There will be no more radical views or objectionable outbursts, and you will do everything in your power to avert this prosecution.” He spoke the word with distaste. “You have been given a place in one of the great families of England and you will live up to it from now on as a gentleman should.”

“Yes, my lord,” Harry managed through dry lips, and tried very hard not to look at Gideon.

“I hope Lord Gideon is well, sir? He looked distressed.”

Harry flopped into the chair as Ballard hung up his afternoon coat. “Not terribly well, no. He was somewhat…” He was too tired to think of a tactful word. “Thwarted.”

“Oh dear,” Ballard murmured. “I trust all is well, Mr. Harry? I was sorry to hear of your recent troubles.”

“I suppose you know all about it. Yes, well. It’s been awful, but the Marquess is in charge now.” It had been rather dreadful seeing his grandfather’s force of personality wither in the full blast of Cirencester’s authority. Gideon lived and died a Vane; he would doubtless obey the head of the family if it killed him, but to take those orders had been a humiliation. Harry wondered if Verona might be able to soothe the old man’s pride. He doubtless wouldn’t take comfort from Harry.

“And may I ask…Miss Vane?” Ballard met his eyes in the mirror. “I beg your pardon, but I was Mr. Matthew’s valet for some years. All the servants became fond of Miss Vane’s lively spirit. I should be most glad to see her happy, sir.”

“Thank you, Ballard.” Harry smiled at him. “That’s very good of you— No, the waistcoat with the blue and silver broidery, please. I’m visiting Mr. Norreys, we must keep up appearances. Thank you. Verona…” Oh, for God’s sake, why hide it. “The engagement’s off.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Harry. I suppose Lord Gideon is not best pleased.” Ballard handed Harry a square of fine lawn for his cravat.

“Maybe not.” Harry tied the knot with satisfying deftness. “But he’ll have to lump it.”

“Is she to bestow her hand elsewhere, sir?”

“I don’t know.” Gideon might well try to get her married off quickly. Anything to avoid another
mésalliance.
“I shan’t let Lord Gideon force her into anything,” he said, half to himself. “I’ll make sure she’s all right. Pass me the cravat pin, please?”

Ballard picked up the lapis pin. “Is this new, Mr. Harry? Very elegant.”

“A gift.” That betraying flush heated his cheekbones.

“Very fine, sir. From Lord Gideon?”

“Uh, no, someone…someone else.” Julius would have told him he sounded like a schoolboy, and doubtless a smitten one at that.

“A token of affection, sir?”

“Never mind that.” Harry failed to repress his grin. A man was entitled to a little sentiment around such a precious object.

“No, sir,” Ballard murmured. “Which coat will you wear?”

There was a knock at the door. Ballard answered it while Harry selected his coat, and came back with a card on a salver.

“A Mr. Thaddeus Skelton to see you, Mr. Harry, in the book room.”

“Skelton,” Harry repeated, his voice hollow. Dominic’s colleague. The man who had raided the bookshop. “Right. I’ll, uh, I’ll go down. And, please, if Lord Richard should come in, will you advise him that Skelton’s here? Urgently?”

Skelton was waiting in the book room. He was tall, taller than Harry, with a strong face, much of it covered by a drooping pair of whiskers, and cold gray eyes that flickered over him with poorly disguised contempt.

He looked like the law, like the people Harry had spent his childhood running from.
I’m Harry Vane,
he told himself, and straightened his spine, but it did little good. The nervous sweat was springing already.

“Mr. Skelton,” he said, and realized that he had no idea if he was supposed to know about the man. Had Dominic revealed their connection? Was it a secret? He mustn’t let Skelton know about Dominic, but to imply that he was still on terms with Silas would be a disaster. “I’m Harry Vane. What can I do for you?” He gestured Skelton to a seat. The man didn’t move.

“Mr. Vane.” A cool voice, with a little bit of London to it. An educated man of the middling sort, no gentleman here. “Or should I say, Mr. Harry Gordon?”

“Vane,” Harry said. “That’s my name.”

“You went by Gordon as a boy, Mr. Vane.” Skelton took a step toward him, a hunting dog’s move. “You went by the name of Gordon on the ninth of April in the year eight, when your parents fomented a riot that led to the death of a soldier.”

What would Julius do now? Cold superiority, probably, but Harry had none of that to fall back on. He remembered the riot too well: remembered his mother’s shrill tones of exhortation to anger, and the swell of a rising crowd. Remembered picking a stone off the ground and throwing it at a man in uniform. He could feel the blood rising in his face, knew it looked guilty, couldn’t stop it.

“That was a long time ago.” His voice was reasonably steady.

“It’s not long since you worked for Silas Mason, though.” Skelton smiled. “Less than six months ago you were a printer’s devil, weren’t you?”

And here it came. “Bookshop assistant,” Harry said, putting a drawl on the words. “Theobald’s is a bookshop.”

“With a printing press.”

“No.”

Skelton moved another pace closer. “You were Alexander Gordon’s accomplice in sedition. He’s as guilty of murder as the men who threw those stones and killed that soldier. You’re accomplice to murder at the least.”

“No.”

“You worked six years for Silas Mason. We know all about Mason and his treasonous rhetoric. And he knew who your father was. He knew you’d inherit if your cousins could be cleared out of the way.” Skelton stabbed a finger at him. Harry jerked back, involuntarily. “Did Silas Mason set the fire that killed your cousins?”

“No!” Harry yelped, and then, pulling control together, “No. He did not, because he’s not a murderer, and also because you’re wrong. I won’t inherit anything. My grandfather can leave his fortune as he wishes, and at the moment I expect he’s bequeathing the lot to the Crown. There would have been no reason in the world to suppose he’d even take me in, let alone make me his heir.
I
certainly didn’t expect it. Your motive for arson is nonsense.”

Skelton went blank for a second, assimilating that, but came back fast. “Ah, and who’s to say you’d have known that? You might have thought—”

“But I did not,” Harry said. “Prosecute me because my parents took me to a riot, if you must. But if you spread this filth about my cousins’ deaths, I will take out a writ of slander against you, and your patron, and anyone else who repeats it.” He’d approximated Richard quite well there, he thought.

Skelton had probably expected defiance, because he changed tack smoothly. “Let’s be frank, Mr. Vane. What I want is Mason. He’s a Spencean and a seditionist. I know his associates. I
know
he had a press in that hidden cellar.”

“Hardly hidden,” Harry said. They’d found the trapdoor then, but Silas must have moved the press in time. Thank God. “It’s just a cellar.”

“Ink-stained and reeking of paper dust.”

“It’s a bookshop. They have ink, and paper.”

“Protecting your mentor, Mr. Gordon?”

They glared at each other. Skelton’s nostrils flared, then his features stilled, calm closing over them like a settling pond. He smiled. “Who’s Jack Cade?”

“What?”

“Jack Cade.”
Skelton bit the name out. “I know Mason prints his pamphlets. Who writes them? Is it Mason? Is it you?”

“Me? Don’t be absurd,” Harry said. “I can’t write like that.”

“Then you’ve read them.”

Damn. “Yes, I have. But I didn’t write them and I’ve no idea who did.”

Skelton let out a long sigh. “You know, Mr. Vane, this isn’t the way. You’re a gentleman now, hmm?” He looked round the book-lined room. “Noble relatives. A comfortable life. You don’t want to lose that.” Another pace. He was very close now. “I
could
prosecute for the riot. You were twelve, criminally responsible, and a soldier died. I’ve spoken to Bow Street, to a magistrate. I can bring a prosecution for murder against you, and I’ve a man who’ll bear the costs of it too. Now, maybe I’ll get a conviction and maybe I won’t.” Skelton leaned in, hissing. “But it’ll ruin you, either way.”

It would. No question. To stand in the dock, accused of murder, and God knows what else Skelton would be able to dredge up…Harry locked his knees to keep himself upright.

“Unless.”

Of course there was an
unless.
Harry knew before Skelton spoke what it would be.