Chapter Three
Bobby
There’s a cigar burn on the crushed red velvet siding of their carriage. Bobby stares at the spot as they trundle along, heading
to the Kingsmans’ for the first tea of the season. He feels his eyes start to go fuzzy and blinks, moving his gaze higher
up, only to find another burn.
“I’ll make a note to have the interior replaced,” Albie says gruffly.
Bobby looks across the cabin at his brother, sitting stiffly in his navy frock coat. Albie messes with his bow tie, frowning.
Everything about him is taut these days. Bobby practically had to drag him out of the house to attend this tea.
“Will Cunningham be there?” Bobby asks.
“I believe so,” Albie says, fiddling with his cuffs next. “Be good if he were, I can ask about his stepmother’s attending
physician when she broke her leg.”
“Right,” Bobby says, looking back at the window. There’s a piece of velvet missing along the edging, like maybe a drunken
viscount pulled it off.
“Hopefully Lord Bletchle will be there as well. We have Father’s debt left to settle there, and if I can find Lord Highton
first, perhaps that will cover it.”
Bobby rolls his shoulders. There’s no escaping the shadow of their father, whether it’s his debts or the damage he did to their only carriage. At least sometimes at the balls or the teas he manages to forget, but when it’s quiet like this—when Albie’s listing off his never-ending tally of tasks—it’s like their father is in the carriage with them, drunk and turning yellow while he laughs at a distasteful joke.
Bobby wishes their other uncle was here to help Albie. Maybe he’d actually accept Uncle Jonathan’s help. But Aunt Gertrude’s
gout is acting up, so they won’t be down for the season. Which leaves Bobby as the only audience for Albie’s tirades about
debts and taxes and expenses.
It’s like living with a walking abacus.
“I wonder if Prous will have any hunting stories,” Bobby says, cutting in when Albie takes a breath.
“Probably not. The Kingsman estate doesn’t have the same game as Prous’ father’s.”
“Surely he spent some time at home over the year,” Bobby says, wincing on Prous’ behalf.
“Lord Kingsman is setting him up to run most of his holdings. I think he was with Lady Eloise the whole winter.”
“Dreadful,” Bobby says.
Albie laughs. “Being with his fiancée?”
Albie, happily married and disgusting about it, probably thinks it the height of romance. But being trapped beneath a woman’s
father’s thumb in an endless courting ritual sounds like hell to Bobby. And now Prous is in town for the entire season because
Lady Kingsman wants to remain an active part of the ton, despite her daughter being happily promised and soon to be wed. Dreadful
indeed.
“Trust me, someday you’ll meet the right one, and you’ll be as soppy as the rest of us,” Albie says.
The carriage pulls up to the grand Kingsman townhouse and Albie promptly hops out.
“Not bloody likely,” Bobby mumbles as he climbs down.
They’re not late, but they’re not early either, and the back garden is already teeming with the toast of the ton when they
step through the gate. As usual, Lady Kingsman has made ample use of her gardener’s talents. The blossoms aren’t yet in full
bloom, but the hints of color on the green flowering bushes promise a spectacular season.
In and among the greenery, everywhere he looks, there’s a nice young lady sitting artfully on a bench, or daintily splayed
on a picnic blanket, or fanning herself while standing charmingly by a tall topiary. Dozens of lovely young women, all with
slightly predatory smiles, whom Bobby would like to hide from for as long as humanly possible.
Of course, Albie is ready to abandon him as soon as they reach the edge of the patio. “I’ll be with the lords. Go have a good
time.”
Albie pats his shoulder a bit patronizingly and hurries off. Bobby fights a scowl. He has zero interest in finding a nice
young lady to chat up. There’s more than one nice young man he’d approach were things different, or if he was at Thomas Parker’s
infamous club.
He catches Jeremiah Prince’s eye across the garden. The poor man’s gone and gotten engaged to MissCatherine Langston, a round-cheeked
young woman with a pretty smile and lustrous brown hair. Prince raises his glass in Bobby’s direction, a hint of a smile playing
against his chiseled jaw.
Bobby supposes Prince and MissLangston don’t look terrible together, but it seems an awful waste of a life. Prince is a bright,
cheerful man, and a shockingly good kisser. He’s made quite a name for himself at Parker’s club. And now that’s all over for
him, shackled to a woman and a marriage and a future Bobby can’t fathom wanting for himself.
Bobby notices Prince’s eyeline shift and glances back at the gate. Lord Demeroven has entered the party, looking just as handsome and uncomfortable as he did a few days earlier at the ball, and no less indifferent.
Bobby turns back and settles his sights on the alcohol, pouring himself a dram and a half. He may have promised Beth he’d
take the man under his wing, but he doesn’t have to make the effort sober. He stalls for the next few minutes, painstakingly
perusing the finger sandwiches. Crab and cucumber? Ham and cheese? It’s an important decision.
By the time he’s made his selection and regretfully turned back to the party, Demeroven has been pulled into conversation
on the patio, freeing Bobby from obligation at least for the moment. He merrily pops the first of four crab-and-cucumber sandwiches
into his mouth and wanders over to lean against the hedge that surrounds the garden, people watching.
Prince and MissLangston have broken off from the group to whisper to each other on a bench. Across from them, Lady Eloise
and Prous are holding court with a group of Gwen’s society friends, both of them looking hearty and hale and not at all like
Lord Kingsman has held a tyrannical rule over them all winter.
In fact, everyone looks blissfully happy to be here. Prince laughs, that rich baritone bouncing around the garden. It sends
shivers down Bobby’s spine in a way none of the ladies’ polite giggles ever seem to elicit. Bobby’s last sandwich loses some
of its appeal and he sags against the hedge. It’s going to be a long season.
But just as he’s contemplating slipping into the house to peruse Lord Kingsman’s books, he notices Uncle Dashiell, Gwen, and
Beth arriving fashionably late, as always. Finally, some entertainment.
He strides across the lawn toward them, thinking it’s a shame Aunt Cordelia is so heavily with child and won’t be attending most of these events. She’s a right laugh. Of course, in her absence, Gwen and Beth will suffice, and Bobby grins as they spot him, their eyes lighting up.
It’s nice to know someone is happy to see him, even if it’s just his cousin and her partner.
Uncle Dashiell extends his hand and Bobby shakes it, smiling up at him. Uncle Dashiell smiles back, though Bobby can see there’s
a tightness around his eyes. Even when he’s at something as simple as a garden party, he always has more to worry about.
“Good to see you, Bobby,” he says.
“You too, sir. Please give my best to my aunt. I hope she’s feeling well?”
“She’ll appreciate it,” Uncle Dashiell says. “And she sends her best. She was tired this morning.”
“Just tired,” Gwen puts in. “Father’s being overprotective.”
Uncle Dashiell frowns down at Gwen, but she’s immune to his disapproval.
“She’s all right,” Beth adds, linking her arm through Gwen’s. “But it’s probably best she stays off her feet for a day. We’ve
multiple dinners to attend this week.”
“Right,” Uncle Dashiell says. “Speaking of which, Bobby, may I have a word?”
Bobby nods, surprised, and lets his uncle guide him over to an uncrowded part of the garden. Beth and Gwen meander toward
the drinks, deep in renewed conversation. He wonders what they’re up to this time, always scheming.
“Is everything all right?” Bobby asks as he looks back up at his uncle, whose face has taken on a more serious set.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Uncle Dashiell says quickly. But his blue eyes remain a little distant. “I wondered if I might ask a
favor of you.”
Bobby straightens his shoulders eagerly. “Of course. Anything I can do to help.”
“I wondered if you might be able to help James fit in a bit more.”
Bobby’s stomach sinks straight to his toes. This is about Demeroven? “Oh?” he manages, keeping his face neutral.
“He doesn’t seem to be making many connections,” Uncle Dashiell says, glancing back to the patio where, it’s true, Demeroven
is standing awkwardly alone, sipping his drink while the lords talk around him. “Perhaps if you took him out, introduced him
to some of your friends and their older brothers, he might make better acquaintances and feel a bit more at ease. I think
his demeanor might be off-putting if he remains so unattached.”
“And you think I’m the best person to help him make connections?” Bobby asks, struggling to maintain his poise.
Of course the favor he can do isn’t actually about him. Of course it’s about babysitting James sodding Demeroven.
“I think you are an affable young man with many good connections, and the kind of poise and demeanor I wish my nephew-in-law
to have,” Uncle Dashiell says.
Bobby forces himself to smile. He’s being very kind, but the message that Bobby’s good qualities only matter if they have
power attached rings loud and clear.
Still, he can hardly refuse. Uncle Dashiell has been so generous and deeply supportive of both Bobby and Albie. Paid for their
education when their father defaulted on payments. Pays for their lodging at events. Takes them out with Gwen. He can’t say
no. Even if it smarts, he owes his uncle this.
“Thank you, Uncle,” he says, smiling and humble. “I’ll do my best to make sure he falls in with the right crowd.”
“I appreciate it,” Uncle Dashiell says, clapping him on the shoulder and squeezing. But then he turns on his heel and marches toward the patio and the waiting lords, leaving Bobby alone with only his thoughts and his lack of political worth.
It seems his one purpose this season is to make sure James Demeroven makes the most of his connections. Uncle Dashiell and Beth are counting on him.
Bobby takes a moment to let himself mourn his own pride, knocking back the rest of his whisky, before he plasters on a smile
and turns to find Beth and Gwen—to pretend nothing’s amiss.
“I’m just not sure I want to bother,” Gwen says as Bobby steps up to her and Beth, idling by the refreshments.
“All right, but the alternative is spending the season with my mother, listening to her talk about her swollen ankles and
all the parties we should be attending.”
Gwen winces and takes a sip of her champagne.
“What are we debating?” Bobby asks, looking between them.
“We’re trying to decide on a charity to volunteer with for the season,” Beth says, adjusting her pale blue skirt so it’s not
crumpled against Bobby’s leg.
“Oh, that sounds fun. Could I join you?” Bobby asks, delighted by the idea. It would give him something to do .
“You can hardly join us at the women’s charities,” Gwen says archly. “And I’m not convinced. For the first year ever there’s
no pressure. Why celebrate that by working?”
“Why celebrate it by becoming slovenly either?” Beth counters. “And again, I remind you, the alternative is being with my
mother.”
“I like your mother,” Bobby puts in playfully. He does so love fueling their arguments, like the devious, annoying younger
cousin he is.
Gwen sniffs and brushes back a lock of her blond hair. “I suppose it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to have somewhere to go on days without events.”
“An honest day’s work could be rewarding,” Bobby agrees, laughing when Gwen frowns at him. She hates it when he plays both
sides.
“Speaking of honest work,” Beth says, raising her hand and motioning someone over.
Bobby nearly groans. Demeroven’s reluctantly heading their way. “That is not what I meant,” Bobby tells Beth.
Beth winks at him and offers her cousin a wide smile. Demeroven steps up to their little circle, looking uncomfortably buttoned
up in a tight blue frock coat, starched shirt, and black bow tie. Even his hair looks stiff with pomade.
“Cousin,” he greets. “Lady Gwen.”
“Lovely party, isn’t it?” Beth asks.
Demeroven bobs his head and they stand in awkward silence for a disquietingly long beat. Bobby would wait them all out, but
he’s now promised Uncle Dashiell and Beth that he’ll try, and he can’t leave all the effort on Beth’s shoulders, especially
since he knows Gwen won’t be the one to break the silence. She delights in awkward pauses.
“Do you remember that strange professor at Oxford, who taught medieval history? Always wore a bright-red bow tie?”
Demeroven blinks, as if surprised Bobby’s addressing him. “Professor Marchbank.”
“Yes,” Bobby says with forced cheer. “Did you hear that he’s moved to Stratford-upon-Avon and is apparently compiling a new
Shakespearean folio?”
“Really?” Beth asks. “How exciting. That class must have been fascinating.”
All three of them look to Demeroven, but he merely offers a bland smile.
“It was,” Bobby says after a moment. “You know, Gwen and Beth love Shakespeare.”
Another bland smile. Bobby looks to the girls, praying for help. But Gwen’s just sucking on her cheek to keep from laughing
at his efforts, and Beth is watching him imploringly.
“Did you ever go to that club he liked? The White Rabbit?” Bobby continues, watching Demeroven for... any sign of engagement.
He doesn’t think it was common knowledge that there were sometimes gatherings in the basement of the White Rabbit—he highly
doubts Demeroven would know anything about them. But the main club was good for a pint on a cold day, whether or not you wanted
to try and pick up a nice gentleman for an afternoon treat.
Demeroven shakes his head stiffly. “No.”
Bobby waits, but he doesn’t elaborate. It’s going to be a long season if this is the only way the man cares to communicate,
or... not.
Bobby glances at Beth with a small shrug as if to say I tried . Beth frowns and then looks to Gwen, raising an eyebrow. Gwen sighs dramatically and swallows the rest of her champagne,
unceremoniously handing her glass to a confused Demeroven.
“All right,” she calls out, making Demeroven jump, which is, honestly, a little entertaining. “Let’s have some festivities,”
she continues, turning to face the rest of the party and beckoning the young ton to her side.
Lady Eloise leads Prous over, both of them looking dangerously amused. “Are you going to cause a scene at every one of my
mother’s garden parties, then?” Lady Eloise asks.
Bobby vaguely recalls something about Aunt Cordelia accidentally whacking Uncle Dashiell in the knackers last year with a croquet mallet at the Kingsmans’ first season tea, well before they were even engaged. It was... probably an accident.
“I plan to have as much fun as possible this year,” Gwen replies, winking at Beth.
Beth wraps her arm through Bobby’s. “Fun, trouble, they’re really the same thing, aren’t they?”
“With the two of you, absolutely,” he says, laughing as Beth swats at him.
“I think it’s time we made use of the lovely lawn-bowling setup your mother so kindly supplied to have a tournament,” Gwen
tells Lady Eloise.
“Only the debutantes and sons,” Lady Eloise says. “My father said after last year the parents aren’t allowed to participate.”
“That’s a shame,” Beth says. “Your mother was very good at croquet.”
“Yours, not so much,” Gwen says. Beth laughs and Lady Eloise gapes. “What? She’s my stepmother now—I say it with love,” Gwen
defends.
“So, lawn bowling?” Prous puts in, before the ladies can devolve into a fast-paced squabble.
“Yes,” Gwen says. “We’ll play in teams, so everyone gets a turn.”
“In couples, of course?” Lady Eloise asks.
“Well, of course. What would be the point otherwise?” Gwen says brightly. “Lady Eloise and Prous, naturally; Lady Annabeth
and Johnson; MissSusan with Haroldson; obviously MissLangston and Prince; and we’ll finish up with MissBertram and Mason;
and Lord Demeroven, you’ll be with me.”
The couples pair off excitedly. Beth squeezes Bobby’s arm and he meets her smile.
“We’re going to wipe the floor with all of them,” he says loudly. Beth laughs.
He glances at Gwen, who has stepped up to Demeroven, making equally heckling comments about the other couples, he’s sure.
Demeroven looks exceedingly uncomfortable, but he hears the man mutter, “Given your prowess at billiards, according to your
father, I’m not sure we’re giving them any chance.”
Gwen laughs and Bobby files that away. Demeroven is capable of having some manner of charm, then.
“All right, I believe Lady Kingsman has three sets available?” Gwen says, turning back to the group.
“Yes,” Lady Eloise says, her hand threaded with Prous’.
“Then we’ll play in groups of four, and then the winning three teams can be in the final tournament,” Gwen decides. “Lady
Eloise and Prous versus Lady Annabeth and Johnson, and MissSusan and Haroldson versus MissLangston and Prince. Beth and
Mason, you’ll be against us. And we are going to obliterate you, aren’t we, Demeroven?”
“Yes,” Demeroven says, glancing at Gwen and trying vainly to match her tenacity.
“In your dreams,” Beth says, leading Bobby toward the bowling set furthest from the patio.
“Are you any good at lawn bowling?” Bobby thinks to ask as they watch Demeroven stiffly unpack their set of balls.
“Oh, God, no,” Beth says brightly. “But I insist we win. We both know she’ll be insufferable if we don’t.” They both look
at Gwen, who’s practically doing calisthenics to warm up.
“And that’s the woman you love,” Bobby mutters.
Beth giggles. “With all my heart, the terrible winner she is. You think James has any skill at this?”
Bobby’s about to say no, but then Demeroven removes his coat and lays it on a nearby bench. He has a shockingly strong, lithe physique, and coupled with those sharp cheekbones and piercing eyes—
“Bobby?”
“Oh, uh, no. Can’t have. Doesn’t seem like the lawn-games type,” Bobby hurries out, pretending he is not at all feeling any
rush of anything at the sight of Beth’s cousin’s body.
“A friendly family game?” Albie asks, sauntering up to them.
“Perhaps,” Bobby says, hoping his voice sounds normal despite the pickup of his pulse.
“Your father told me to come over and referee so we don’t have any sort of repeat of... last year,” Albie tells Gwen.
“Is he worried Beth is going to punt a bowling ball into Bobby’s—”
“It’s nice of you to join us, Albie,” Beth cuts in, rolling her eyes as Gwen snickers. “Perhaps you can keep James and Gwen
in line.”
“Oh, are you a troublemaker, Demeroven?” Albie asks, tossing the jack to the end of their pitch.
Demeroven looks over at him, startled. Bobby swallows thickly as he rolls up his shirtsleeves. “I... endeavor to be very
little trouble, mostly.”
“Oh, well, we can’t have that,” Gwen says eagerly, grabbing Demeroven’s arm. “We’ll take the first round.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Bobby grumbles as Beth laughs.
Gwen’s two tosses land predictably close to the jack, and Demeroven’s balls nudge up against hers. Demeroven might actually
end up a fair hand at darts, even if he will refuse to play for money.
“You’ve a good arm,” Gwen says brightly. “And a lot of muscles,” she adds as she lightly tugs him out of the way so Beth can
push Bobby forward.
Albie passes Beth her two balls, chuckling at Demeroven’s discomfort. Bobby glances back and feels his throat tighten. Demeroven’s tugging at his collar, those muscles in his biceps flexing. Bobby does like arms—always has.
“You rowed at school, didn’t you?” Albie asks Demeroven.
“I did,” Demeroven says.
Bobby splits his focus, watching Beth bite at her lip in concentration, lining up her toss. But he’s got an eye on Demeroven
as well. He never did bother to attend any of the sculling heats. Perhaps he should have, if all the rowers looked like Demeroven.
Perhaps they would have met before, in better, less socially severe circumstances.
“Yes!”
Gwen groans and Bobby looks over to find that Beth has knocked Gwen’s ball out of place. Her blue ball now sits closest to
the jack.
“We’re so good I’m not even necessary,” he crows, laughing as Beth jumps in excitement.
Gwen’s glowering, but Demeroven looks nonplussed.
“Think you can beat that?” he asks, looking for any reaction at all.
“Possibly,” Demeroven says simply. “Though that was a very good throw, cousin.”
Ah, so he can be polite too, when he wants to be. “It was,” Bobby agrees, smiling at Beth, who shrugs humbly. He makes his
throws, which both land respectably.
“Hardly as impressive as sculling,” Beth says.
“They’re very different skills,” Demeroven allows. He and Bobby trade places while Albie jogs out to send all the balls rolling
back to them.
Demeroven makes his next toss, landing perhaps six inches from the jack.
“I don’t know,” Gwen says, taking her ball and seemingly effortlessly tossing it down the grass to bump into Demeroven’s. “They both take teamwork, don’t they?”
“They do,” Demeroven admits. “Though this has so far involved far less shouting, so I appreciate that.”
“Don’t count on it,” Albie mutters and Bobby laughs.
“Father told me you won most of your races. Do you ever think about joining one of the Henley-on-Thames teams?” Gwen asks.
“Oh, goodness, no,” Demeroven says.
Bobby listens as Demeroven, Gwen, and Albie get into a rather in-depth discussion about the odds for each team for the upcoming
regatta. Demeroven is rather animated when he’s interested in the subject at hand. And the brightness in his eyes, it’s almost
captivating.
That, and the thin sheen of sweat around his neck, which has him pulling at his collar constantly and making the rest of his
starched shirt go taut, giving a hint of what appears to be quite the set of defined abdominals beneath.
“Are you paying attention... at all?” Beth asks.
Bobby blinks and looks back at the jack, which he’s missed by more than a foot. “Um, of course?”
Beth shakes her head. “She’ll be insufferable now, you know.”
Bobby shrugs guiltily and steps back for Gwen and Demeroven to make the uncontested winning throws. Beth did a perfectly commendable
job, but he’s pants at lawn bowling. Which normally doesn’t rankle—he’s long since given up on any hope of besting either
of the girls at sports—but it does make him a little ashamed in front of Demeroven.
He pulls off his coat just as Albie declares them the losers. Gwen whoops while Beth politely congratulates Demeroven. Albie then leads Gwen, still gloating, off toward the other teams for the next round. Beth looks over at Bobby and shrugs helplessly before she follows them, giggling at Gwen and Albie’s antics.
Bobby stretches, shaking his head, dejected. He glances over and finds Demeroven staring at him, his face a bit flushed. Bobby
stills, confused, and then realizes he’s sweaty and unjacketed himself. And Demeroven is... admiring him? How interesting.
Maybe they finally have something in common.
“Would you like to join me at the club this evening? I have a feeling you must have opinions about what sailing bets to place
at Cowes, given your background, and I could use some serious help, or Gwen will bet me under the table,” Bobby says.
Simple, innocent, but friendly. That’s all he’s extending. Friendship. He is absolutely not imagining an evening at Thomas
Parker’s club. At least not yet. They have to learn to swim before he throws Demeroven directly into the deep end. He needs
to really suss the man out first.
But all that open regard on Demeroven’s face disappears in a single blink. Demeroven hurriedly pulls on his jacket and adjusts
his collar, his face flushing. “I don’t gamble, if you recall,” he says.
“Right,” Bobby manages, too surprised by the sudden chill in the man’s voice to come up with something more elegant. “I, ah,
simply thought it might be fun.”
“Well, I don’t gamble,” Demeroven repeats. “Gambling makes men incautious.”
“I... suppose that’s true,” Bobby agrees slowly. “I just thought it would be something we could—”
“I cannot afford to be incautious, regardless of how much our cousins want us to be friends,” Demeroven says, his words rushed and clipped. Then he turns on his heel and marches stiffly after Beth and Gwen.
Bobby stands there, totally perplexed. He isn’t incautious. Was that meant to be a slight against his family reputation? He doesn’t even know if Demeroven has any
inkling of his father’s past.
Bobby hovers for a moment, unsure. He watches Demeroven join Beth, Gwen, and Albie, observing the last of Prous’ game. Watches
Albie lean down to ask Demeroven something, Gwen listening eagerly beside him. Bobby feels his shoulders come up. He heads
for the drinks table, too confused and oddly discomfited to force himself to join the group and cheer on Demeroven and his
cousin now.
No matter what they do, there’s just no escaping the mess their father left for them, is there? Bobby pours himself another
dram and retreats to his original spot against the hedge, the party coming full circle. He watches at a remove as Gwen and
Demeroven go on to trounce the remaining competition. There was never any doubt.
Bobby lets the burn of alcohol down his throat mirror the quiet discontent he feels. He’s just insulted, that’s all. It’s
not that, for a brief moment, it felt like he might be able to make a friend out of James Demeroven. That he was getting along
with Gwen and Beth, that he maybe shares a particular worldview—that he seemed mildly interesting, with his history of sport
and his ability to discuss races with Gwen.
He can’t be disappointed. So he must be angry. That’s what he’s feeling. It’s the only other option.
Beth breaks off from the crowd to head his way and Bobby sighs. He won’t be good company now, and, even though it’s sort of
Beth’s fault for sticking him with the baffling man, he can’t be mean to her.
He’s only known her for a year, but already she’s like the sister he never had. Gwen will always be his annoying, delightful cousin. But Beth is a kindred spirit.
“I think it’s going well,” Beth says, turning to lean back beside him.
Her blue skirt presses into his leg. She holds out her hand and he passes his drink into her waiting palm. “You do?”
“He and Gwen are certainly getting along.”
“That’s something,” he admits. Gwen is usually a decent judge of character. But this time he’s not so sure.
Beth passes his drink back to him and takes his arm. He groans and she laughs. “I’ve been sent to get you. Gwen wants to discuss
our week.”
“With Demeroven?”
“Of course,” Beth says primly, winking at him.
He really does want to pull away from her, but she’s such a petite woman, it wouldn’t be fair. And she’d best him in a contest
of strength any day, even with all the boxing he’s been doing over the last six months.
Gwen, Albie, and a clearly uncomfortable Demeroven meet them by the large weeping willow at the back of the garden. Beth releases
him to take Gwen’s arm, and Bobby watches them lean against each other, there in broad daylight, with no one any the wiser.
That pit in his stomach only grows deeper as he listens to them plan out his week, and Demeroven’s with Albie. Gwen has Beth,
the two of them secretly in love and free to spend all their time together as they please. And now Albie has Demeroven in
parliament. Where does that leave him?
“I am sorry to hear about your wife,” Demeroven says. “Is she feeling any better?”
That pulls Bobby back, forcing him to shake off his melancholy.
“Thank you,” Albie replies. “The doctors swear she’ll be better in a month or so, but it is... difficult to see.”
“I guess the registration of physicians might go some way to ensuring your wife has proper care,” Demeroven says.
Albie nods seriously. “Speaking of which, we’d best meet those gentlemen Uncle Dashiell told us about before they escape.”
And then it’s just Bobby, Beth, and Gwen once again. Bobby stands glumly beside them, listening as they make plans to cheer
Meredith up, and then move on to what they want to have for dinner, and then something whispered too low to hear. But it makes
Beth blush scarlet, so that was probably rather the point.
Bobby leans back against the tree and looks up into its newly green leaves. He closes his eyes and breathes in the damp spring
air, running his fingers over the etched initials on his signet ring. Perhaps he should go to Thomas Parker’s club, see if
he can’t build connections beyond his cousin, her lover, her dyspeptic cousin, and his brother. Somewhere where he’ll be distracted
enough to forget about Meredith’s dangerous pregnancy, and his aunt’s upcoming dangerous childbirth.
Somewhere where perhaps someone would hold his hand and tell him everything will be all right.