Chapter Two
James
He closes the heavy front door to the townhouse and rests his forehead against the cool wood. If he never attends another
ball in his life, he could die a happy man. Between the politics, the dancing, and the endless stream of mothers and daughters
he disappointed with his utter lack of social flair, he’s exhausted.
Dancing with Lady Gwen and his cousin MissBertram wasn’t terrible, but spending the night surrounded by their chatter, with
Lady Gwen’s cousins Lord Mason and the younger Mason chiming in, was almost dizzying.
He’s not sure if it’s the hour, the faint buzz of alcohol in his system, or the lighting, but he thinks his mother may have
purchased yet another bust. The statues and paintings all seem to meld together in the narrow, tall space of the foyer. It’s
oppressive.
But it isn’t as if he tried to stop her. At least it gives her something to focus on, now that she’s here and separated from
her friends back home. His stepfather couldn’t wait to get to the city, but he knows his mother took much solace in the community
she’d made in Epworth.
She may have purchased herself an entire set of evening ball gowns for the season, but she didn’t even make it out of bed today. Her lady’s maid, Miss Marina, said it was a headache, but he thinks it’s likely just melancholy. They don’t deal well with change, he and his mother.
His stepfather, on the other hand—
“’S that you, Demeroven?”
James winces, considering making a break for it up the stairs rather than facing the smoke-filled haze that is his stepfather’s
study. What should be his study.
But if he doesn’t face the man now, he’ll be banging down his door tomorrow, bright and early, demanding a full report. So
James shuffles across the narrow hall and into the study, coughing at the smoke. The man could at least crack a window.
The space is filled with heavy, half-empty bookshelves. His stepfather brought down his own dark, dour chairs to face the
enormous desk left behind by the late Viscount Demeroven. The room has a strange, out-of-time feeling, half full, half considered,
half his stepfather’s and half a dead man’s. There’s nothing of James in here at all.
His stepfather looks up from yet another financial ledger. Ever since they arrived, he’s been nose-deep in the late viscount’s
London accounting, not that he truly knows the first thing about managing an estate. Though neither does James, really.
His stepfather’s beady eyes peer through the haze, his round, ruddy face set in a scowl. “You’re home early,” he grunts.
James bites back the automatic retort that he is a man of age now and needn’t answer to his stepfather any longer. He’s in
control of the title now. He’s the new Viscount Demeroven. The reign of his stepfather—the gentleman Mr. Griggs—as regent
to the estate is over. James is about to sit in parliament, for God’s sake. This is, in fact, his house now.
But the words never manage to pass his lips. Instead, he shrugs, like an insolent little boy.
His stepfather frowns and takes a swig of the late viscount’s brandy. “Did you meet Lord Henchey?”
James shakes his head. “No. Lord Havenfort introduced me to a fair few, but they were all his lot.”
His stepfather groans. “You let that man walk all over you, didn’t you? I told your mother you didn’t have the backbone for
it.”
James tries to straighten said weak backbone, curling his fingers into fists as his stepfather slips into one of his tried-and-true
rants. James is meek. James is fragile. James is bad with people. James isn’t cut out for this life, and if they’d just spoken
to the late viscount, they could have ensured that Stepfather maintained official control of the finances once James came
of age. But no, Stepfather is saddled with this lump of a boy instead of the man he needs.
“I’ll do better,” James cuts in, his ears ringing with phantom previous lectures. “Tomorrow. I’ll make sure to meet Henchey.
Brighton wasn’t there, for the record.”
“Of course he wasn’t. Wouldn’t waste his time with something so frivolous.”
James yawns theatrically. “Right, well, I’m knackered. I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner.”
He ducks out of the room before his stepfather can get another word in and pads back across the foyer and down the corridor
to the kitchen. He can’t face his bed just yet, not with his stepfather’s tirade still ringing in his ears.
Instead, he collapses at the long oak staff table in the red-tiled kitchen and lets his head fall into his hands. He just
needs a few minutes for the echo of his stepfather’s words, the latent sound of the orchestra, the chatter of his cousin,
her stepsister, and the Mason boys talking too fast and too furious to fade away.
But as he stares at the backs of his eyelids, Bobby Mason’s face fills his mind. His broad jaw, his thoughtful hazel eyes, his frown at finding James as lacking as everyone else always does—
Their chef, Reginald, smacks a plate of scones down in front of James and he jumps.
“Jesus,” James says.
Reginald pours him a glass of milk, plops it down beside the plate, and strides around the table to sit heavily across from
him. His blue eyes sparkle with interest and James wants to hide his face again.
Reginald has been teasing secrets out of James since he was small and Reginald was just a kitchen hand, plying him with cookies
and shielding him from his stepfather whenever possible. Often his only refuge, and friend, Reginald knows every one of James’
tells, which is bloody annoying sometimes, even as the smell of the scones does release the tension in his shoulders.
“So?”
James groans and stuffs half a scone into his mouth to stall.
“Come on, tell me. Is he everything you thought he’d be?” Reginald asks.
James feels himself flush. “Shut up,” he mumbles.
Reginald grins, rubbing his hands together. His dimples make his smile almost irresistible, but James does not want to discuss
this. Not when the night felt like such an unmitigated failure.
“All right. How was the dancing?”
James stuffs another scone in his mouth and Reginald laughs.
“Really? Anyone of interest?”
James shrugs. Lady Gwen wasn’t a terrible partner, though she hardly seemed focused on him. Lady Gwen and his cousin, MissBertram,
are thick as thieves and seem to be able to communicate with nary a glance between them, always laughing and filling out their
Spot-the-Scion cards.
“It was fine,” he says after he gets the scone down. Usually they’re his favorite, but he’s parched from all the dancing and alcohol.
He takes a long drink of milk, closing his eyes to hide from Reginald’s raised eyebrow.
“Fine,” Reginald repeats, waiting him out until he can’t drink any more. “You must have met someone .”
“Lord Havenfort introduced me to the lords,” James mumbles, taking another scone simply to crumble it to bits on the plate.
“And?”
“And they were rather boring,” he admits, finally looking up to meet Reginald’s eyes. “A lot of whose wife was where and which
daughter was available.”
“Any of those daughters the ones your mother keeps harping on about?”
James sighs. “Plenty.”
“And how many did you dance with?”
“Two?” he guesses. He really wasn’t paying much attention to anyone but his cousin and Lady Gwen. “The rest were friends of
my cousin’s, and they’re all already taken.”
Reginald reaches out for his own scone with a frown. “Your mother won’t be happy.”
“I went, didn’t I?”
Reginald gives him a disapproving look. James crushes a bit of scone between his fingers, agitated.
“There’ll be other balls,” he says.
Reginald bobs his head. “Of course, of course.” He takes a bite of his scone and chews thoughtfully. It almost lulls James
into a false sense of security. “And Mr.Mason?”
James groans again and drops his head. “Stop it.”
“You’ve got to give me something,” Reginald insists. “All those summers when you were home from Oxford, waxing poetic, and you never even talked to him. Surely, surely , you spoke tonight.”
James squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself, before looking up to meet Reginald’s rampant curiosity. “He’s fine.”
“Fine?” Reginald huffs. “That’s all I get? My years of loyalty, my sympathy biscuits, my words of wooing wisdom—”
James shushes him, his shoulders going up as he glances back toward the foyer. But all is quiet, which means, for better or
worse, no one is coming to save him.
“Tell me you at least plucked up the courage to talk to the man now that you’re tangentially connected.”
James blows out a breath and looks back at Reginald. “We talked.”
Reginald glowers at him. “Out with it, Viscount.”
The title makes him wince and straighten his shoulders all at once. He’s a viscount now. He can face his cook’s teasing. He
danced, he rubbed shoulders, he... made possibly the world’s least charming impression on blasted Bobby Mason—
“Well?” Reginald prompts.
“He’s nosy,” James decides, returning to picking at his scone so he won’t have to look Reginald in the eye. “And Lady Gwen
says he’s a poor dancer. My cousin likes him, but it seems he’s truly just a pretty face.”
He trails a finger through the remains of his scone in the ensuing silence, hoping perhaps Reginald will take that as enough
truth for the night and leave him be. Instead, when the silence has lasted long enough that it’s uncomfortable, James raises
his eyes to find Reginald waiting, entirely unconvinced.
“That’s it? The great Bobby Mason, wonder of Oxford, protagonist of half your stories, is just a stuffed shirt? Surely not.”
James shrugs. “Don’t know what else to tell you,” he says, playing at nonchalance. “He’s gotten pretty muscular since school.” Reginald’s mouth twitches and James hurries to add, “And all he wanted to talk about was the Medical Act.”
“That’s not enough substance for you?”
“And the clubs,” James says quickly. “He kept telling me I’d need to learn to gamble.”
Reginald furrows his brow and James works to keep his face blank. He probably didn’t need to lay it on quite so thick about
the gambling, especially given what Lord Havenfort told him about how the late Viscount Mason wasted away the Mason fortune
before his untimely death. But he doesn’t want to talk about the clubs, doesn’t want to think about having to hobnob with
more of these men in small, crowded spaces. Doesn’t want to consider them judging him and finding him as lacking as his stepfather
does.
And since he doesn’t like to frequent the usual clubs, he hardly thinks he’ll get along with Bobby Mason, who seems to be
all about them. Better that he never discovers how little Bobby Mason could care for him.
Not that he’s been dreaming of meeting the man since school, only to find himself tongue-tied and anxious to the point of
rudeness in the face of his beauty up close. No. He just simply doesn’t care what Bobby Mason thinks. He doesn’t care what
anyone thinks. It’s easier that way.
“Well, if Bobby Mason isn’t the catch we thought, were there any other pretty faces to consider?”
James glances back toward the hallway to the foyer again and waits, listening. But they’re still safely alone.
“Not really,” he says, turning back to Reginald. “Wasn’t a lot of time to look or talk to anyone outside of Lord Havenfort’s
lords, and they’re...”
“Not who you’re looking to meet,” Reginald agrees. “Well, Thomas’ standing invitation is still there. He would love to have you at the club, introduce you to some nice gentlemen.”
James feels his shoulders coming back up. “Right.”
Reginald’s eyes soften. “It’ll be just like back home, only fancier. You’ll see.”
“I guess,” James says, thinking of the small back room at the Inside Inn near Epworth. The comfortable chairs, the worn wooden
table, the back door that led out to the woods. Safe, guarded, secluded.
He can’t imagine how Reginald’s brother, Thomas Parker, could possibly create a space that secret or comfortable in London.
His club is supposed to be the safest refuge for men of a certain persuasion in the city. But James doesn’t know how that
can be true when it feels like there are eyes everywhere.
“Give it some thought, that’s all,” Reginald says. He pushes back his chair and gets up. “It’s not like you’re going to meet
a nice man elsewhere.”
James nods and looks back down at his plate, the crumbs of his scone too closely resembling the shambles of his life.
“What would you like pressed for tomorrow? I’ll tell Gabriel on my way to bed.”
James lets out a low moan. He’d almost forgotten. “I don’t care.” He puts his head back into his hands.
“Come now, it’s your very first day. We need to make a good impression.”
James is tempted to tell him to sod off, but he knows Reginald is right. Even if just to keep his stepfather off his back,
he needs to make some effort. “Nothing my mother bought me. Classic, elegant, simple.”
“Aye-aye,” Reginald says merrily, drawing James’ gaze up to find him posed, hands on his hips. “We’ll make you the best-dressed young lord in parliament. On my honor.”
“Sod your honor,” James says gruffly, laughing despite himself as Reginald lets loose a low, rumbly chuckle. The man’s too
charming for his own good.
“Get some sleep, yeah? Gabriel will have everything ready come morning.”
James forces a smile and watches Reginald head out the servants’ door and down toward his room. Tonight was exhausting, and
tomorrow promises to be even worse. Him, a sitting lord? Him, making laws? Him, the blockhead who couldn’t even be charming
to the man he’s fancied since university—how is he ever supposed to impress the House of Lords?
***
He pulls at his collar as he sits beside Lord Mason the next morning. The red leather bench below him is stiff. He stares
up at the gilded walls and ceiling of the parliament chamber, trying not to fidget as the lord chancellor goes on and on about
the rules of procedure and the order of discussion and votes.
James is stuck between Lord Mason and Lord Havenfort, who both seem deeply interested in procedure, forcing James to at least
pretend to care too. It’s almost an hour in and they’re only now getting to the actual bills on the docket.
“The third act for discussion will be the Medical Act, proposing the establishment of a General Medical Council, which will
require and oversee accreditation for physicians, to be added to a public registry of those wishing to practice. Debate will
be held—”
The chancellor goes on to the schedule for the debates and someone sneezes loudly across the room. James glances across the aisle and his whole body goes cold. Richard Raverson stares back, giving James a sly, triumphant smile.
Raverson was the most handsome man in his class, with a smile so magnetic he could get away with anything. Skipping classes,
a poor essay, stealing plates and trinkets and possessions—he was untouchable. And his way with men... no one was immune.
Least of all James, who became Raverson’s obsession in his second year. Raverson wooed him with dinners, expensive wines,
and outings to all manner of activities. He made James feel like he was the most sought-after, most intriguing man alive.
And James fell for it, head over arse.
He was so beguiled by Raverson’s affections that he didn’t see the true man beneath until it was far too late. Until he’d
told his darkest secrets and shared his body with a man who would just as quickly tell him of other men’s secrets and bodies and prowess. Eventually, Raverson saw a new, shinier young man and left James behind. But by then,
it was too late, and James couldn’t recapture his safety, couldn’t reclaim himself from Raverson.
And now, Raverson is sitting in the House of Lords, surrounded by red leather and gold leaf, with all those secrets, all that
information, still at his fingertips. James knew, of course, that Raverson’s father had died last year. But somehow in the
flurry of turning twenty-one, taking over his own unwanted title, and leaving his quiet country existence behind, James hadn’t
put two and two together that he would be sitting in the Lords with the man who—
“Absolutely preposterous,” Lord Havenfort hisses. “It’s 1858.”
“We’ll join the committee, make sure it’s done correctly for a quick passage in the Commons,” Lord Mason says across James,
his face about as purple as Lord Havenfort’s.
James blinks, pulled back to reality as the chancellor moves on to some final announcement. He thinks the last bill mentioned was to create a registry of doctors. Shouldn’t that already exist?
“You don’t agree?”
James nearly jumps, turning to Lord Mason as he notices everyone around them starting to move. “Beg pardon?”
“Were you paying any attention? Lord Havenfort wants us to join him this week at the club to do research into the independent
lists of physicians kept by local hospitals, to prepare to join the standing committee.”
James must not do a good job of hiding his confusion, because Lord Mason shakes his head and files out ahead of him. James
glances back, but Lord Havenfort isn’t even there, already walking out of the room with more important lords.
He tells himself it doesn’t matter. No one thinks he’s worth talking to, because he isn’t. No one missed the Demeroven vote
last year, so why does it matter how he votes or participates now? If Lord Mason and Lord Havenfort have already written him
off simply for being less invested, then that’s their choice.
He shuffles out of the chamber, trying not to look for Raverson while simultaneously searching fervently in hopes of avoiding
him. But clearly James isn’t a big enough fish for Raverson to trifle with because he spots nothing but blank, monotonous
faces on his way out. At least that’s one confrontation he doesn’t have to face today.
His heartbeat slowly calms as he walks home, passing the backup of hired coaches outside Westminster. Raverson will have other
concerns this season. He’ll probably avoid James altogether; no need to focus on him or worry about him. Schoolboy fancies
are in the past.
But as his panic over Raverson fades, he thinks back on Lord Mason’s insulted look. He didn’t mean to give off the impression he doesn’t care about parliament. But it’s not as if his vote will matter, not as if they’ll make any lasting change with these acts. The country’s deeply unequal. A registration of physicians won’t matter to the poor; they’ll take any doctor they can get—who cares where he’s educated?
By the time he reaches the Demeroven townhouse, James is feeling downright dour. He’s disappointed his only real connections
in the Lords already, proved himself worthless merely by getting distracted. Some triumphant first day.
Then he pushes open the front door of his townhouse.
“It’s not your money to decide!” his mother shrieks from the first landing, glaring down at his stepfather, who’s teetering
by the base of the stairs, red-faced and already drunk at midafternoon.
“You cannot understand the pressure I’ve been under!” his stepfather shouts back. “Keeping this place running while your disappointment
of a son finally grew up. And now—now—you want to tell me I haven’t any authority anymore because he’s come of age? How dare
you—”
“James, tell him, tell him!” his mother insists, spotting him as he tries to quietly slip back outside. She’s wearing a dressing
gown, her graying hair falling out of the plait over her shoulder.
“Tell him what?” James asks, exhaustion heavy on his tongue.
“Tell him to give me my allowance.”
“She’s already gone and spent it,” his stepfather interjects. “You can’t give her more.”
“You give him drinking and gambling money, but you won’t allow your poor mother an extra few pounds for dresses?” she asks,
blue eyes wide and pleading.
“A few pounds—how many dresses do you need, woman? You hardly leave with those blasted headaches. You cannot have any more.”
“That’s not your decision to make!”
James listens as they continue their argument, the sound bouncing dully around the room. For all that the paintings his mother
acquired are horrible, at least they muffle some of the echo.
“Weigh in here, Viscount,” his stepfather sneers. James forces himself to shuffle into the middle of the room. “You’re the
man of the house now.”
James rubs at his temples and glances between them. “How much do you need, Mother?”
Her face lights up, all that angry bitterness falling away. She beams down at him. “My son, the sweetheart.”
“Your son the weakling,” Stepfather cuts in. “Can’t even stand up to your own ma, can you?”
“Will another month’s allowance suffice?” James asks his mother, ignoring his stepfather’s groan.
“That would be wonderful, dearest,” she says, nearly dancing on the spot. “Oh, I’ll have such lovely dresses, and I’ll get
you new top hats, and gloves, and cuff links as well.”
“That’s great, Mother,” James says, forcing a smile for her.
She claps her hands and spins to head back upstairs, leaving James and his stepfather alone in the foyer.
“You’re pathetic,” Stepfather says.
James bobs his head. “All right.”
Stepfather glares and then storms into the study to slam the door. It shakes the walls with a resounding boom and James stands
there alone in the ringing resulting silence.
Pathetic. That appears to be the opinion of the day.
He stares around at the garish paintings and busts. It seems parliament won’t provide any meaningful connection. And being in this house offers nothing more than exhausting arguments, insults, and further wounds to his already minuscule pride.
Perhaps he should try Thomas Parker’s club, see if he can’t find a single place in London where he can feel safe. Where he
can feel like he belongs.