Chapter Four
James
James sits in his opulent carriage, staring out at the grimy, gaslit street. There’s mist in the air, everything has a hazy
glow, and his leg won’t stop shaking. James balls his fists. He walked into parliament, for God’s sake. He can get out of
the carriage, walk down the street, and knock on that door. He can.
But now all of him is shaking.
Maybe he should just scrap the idea entirely, in case someone’s seen his idling carriage and puts two and two together. But
then he contemplates the alternative: a stuffy dinner with his mother and stepfather, listening to them snipe at each other.
Or worse, listening to his mother go on about all the lovely young women she’s planning to invite for dinner.
That thought is enough to propel him out of the cabin. His feet hit the damp cobblestones and he nearly slips, hanging on
to the carriage door. He must look a sight.
But he can do this. He wants to do this.
So he closes the door, adjusts the lapels of his navy frock coat, and sets off with an entirely false confidence. He crosses the street and begins the three-block trek to the alley. He feels like everyone he passes must be able to hear the gallop of his heart. He’s been to clubs before; he doesn’t know why this is making him so anxious. But when he turns down the narrow alley, marked only by one brass-capped brick at eye level, he knows why he’s nervous. It feels like the first days at Oxford all over again.
Except this time, he’s not just a gentleman’s stepson. He’s a viscount, skulking down an alleyway to get to the back entrance
of 122. It’s an unassuming servants’ entrance and he hesitates, fist raised, heart pounding.
He could just go home. He doesn’t need to face this tonight.
He glances both ways down the alley, but he’s alone in the haze. Home isn’t somewhere he belongs. And he wants to belong somewhere.
Somewhere could be here.
James takes a deep breath and raps sharply on the door: three raps, two taps, a beat, and one more knock.
And then he waits, feeling like the blurring mist is creeping up on him, hiding shadows. It makes him break out in a cold,
clammy sweat, and after a minute he’s almost ready to bolt back for the carriage. But then the door slits open just enough
for a human head to pop out.
James stares up into the grinning face of a broad, muscular man, wearing an askew, sky-blue top hat.
“Password?” he prompts, that smile mischievous beneath his russet mustache.
“D’Vere is D’Vine,” James forces out, his voice hoarse and tight.
“That it is,” the man says jovially, opening the door wide and ushing James inside.
James stumbles up the two-step stoop, wincing as the man snaps the door shut behind him. The interior is little more than
a narrow staircase lit by dripping candles that leads up to another plain door.
“Thomas Parker welcomes you,” the man says, his hand pressing gently against James’ back to nudge him up the stairs.
“Um, thanks,” James says, taking a few steps before glancing back, just in time to see the man slipping into a hidden door beside the exit. He tips his cap and closes the door. To the untrained eye, it’s just a plain wall with fading beige wallpaper.
Secret doors and passwords—he’s clearly not in Epworth anymore. He squares his shoulders and heads upstairs, pretending he’s
not about to sweat through his new white shirt. Because he’s James Demeroven, and he can do this.
Far from a cramped little back room at the local inn, the door to D’Vere opens onto an opulent, wealth-laden cigar club. Bright
gas lamps and candles light the wide, welcoming space, which is filled with young upstanding men, loitering with cocktails.
The front room is rimmed with deep red leather armchairs and well-stocked bookcases. The wallpaper is a bright blue brocade
to match the doorman’s jaunty top hat. The curtains are a deep purple, and even the chessboards and checkers on the low tables
around the room are royal purple and lavender. Gilded mirrors and beautiful paintings adorn the walls, and the whole space
smells of hops and lilac.
James is definitely not in Epworth anymore.
He stares out at the room, intimidated, excited, and intrigued. He’s never been anywhere that looks like this, nor that’s
filled with quite this many men, who must all... be of his persuasion, or they wouldn’t have found the place.
That nagging voice that always sounds too much like his stepfather’s cackles in his head: He’s bad with people. He’s bad at
conversation. He’ll be a disappointment here, just like he is in parliament, just like he was at the garden party.
“Ah, a new guest—come in, come in.”
James blinks, startled to find his entrance hasn’t gone unnoticed. Instead, a tall, willowy man, dressed in a frock coat that matches the blue brocade wallpaper, stands there beaming at him. He’s got the same large mustache as the man downstairs, but in a dark chestnut.
His face is familiar. Round and open, with the widow’s peak and notch in his eyebrow... “You must be Thomas Parker, Reginald’s
brother,” James hears himself say.
“Lord Demeroven!” Parker says, his smile turning somehow more magnetic. “My stars, it is such a pleasure to meet you. Reginald
talks about you in all his letters—discreetly, of course.”
James feels himself blushing. “Well, he talks about you just as much,” he says, taking Parker’s extended hand.
Parker gives him an enthusiastic handshake and then quickly slides his hand up to link his arm through James’. “A tour,” he
announces, spinning them to gesture broadly at the room. “Welcome to D’Vere, where every type of man is welcome, the drinks
flow freely, and the secrets stay inside.”
James looks over the room again, noting the fine details, like the multicolored glasses and the blue suspenders on the bartender,
who also has a large, well-styled mustache. James still hasn’t managed to grow a respectable one, and Mother never talks about
his father, so he has no idea if his delayed facial hair is inherited or not. Not that he’s ever worked up the courage to
ask.
“What’ll you have?”
“Oh, ah, whisky?”
“Excellent choice,” Thomas says, tapping the bar. “Jeremy, the best whisky we have for Lord Demeroven.” James fights a wince
as his voice bounces around the room. “Don’t worry,” Parker says, smiling as James looks up to meet his eyes. “Like I said,
secrets stay inside.”
“Right,” James says, taking the whisky from Jeremy the bartender. He takes a sip, delighting in the smooth, rich flavor and pleasant afterburn. “Delicious.”
“Isn’t it? Jeremy, remind me, we want to place a standing order with them. It’s made at this charming distillery on the border
with Scotland, you know?” he tells James as he guides him away from the bar. “Lovely chap by the name of Gaddie. Met him in
one of the Edinburgh clubs. Have you ever been?”
“No,” James says, trying to keep up with Parker’s rapid-fire delivery and also take stock of the second room they’ve entered,
inviting with deep burgundy couches, armchairs, a bearskin rug, and even more bookshelves. “I see you collect,” James says,
gesturing with his drink to the shelves.
“Of course, of course,” Parker says, smiling fondly around at the books. “I make it a point to worm my way into every salon
in each city I visit. These books have seen the furthest reaches of Europe.”
“That sounds fascinating,” James says, intrigued but unsurprised. It’s clear just to look at him that Parker charms each person
he meets.
“There’s a library upstairs as well, if you ever need somewhere comfortable to study up,” Parker says, gesturing toward the
staircase they passed between the two rooms.
“How many floors are there?” James asks.
“Three,” Parker says proudly. “The library and further salon rooms are on the next floor, and the rented rooms are on the
third.”
“Rented rooms,” James repeats, feeling his back stiffen. He tries to pass it off with a smile, but Parker raises an eyebrow.
“To be rented by consenting men who need a safe place to meet. I’m sure now you’re here you realize how few spaces such as this exist.” James winces guiltily. “Though, if you are looking for some respectable men for rent, I can point you in any number of directions,” Parker continues, that look of reproach melting into a sly smirk.
“Oh, no, thank you,” James says quickly. He’s so outgunned here.
“Well, if you ever need recommendations, for good houses, good food, good theater, you just come and see me. Reginald will
send you to the stuffiest of spots. I’ll find you the fun.”
James forces his shoulders to relax and takes a sip of whisky. “Thank you—I’ll remember that.”
Parker walks them back into the main parlor. James can feel him starting to pull away and fights the urge to hold on. It’s
not that conversation with Parker feels safe, exactly, but it certainly feels safer than facing the glut of intrigued faces
milling about the front parlor.
“Now, Viscount, I’ll leave you in the capable hands of”—Parker looks around just as Jeremiah Prince shuffles through the door—“ah,
Prince, wonderful. I’d love for you to meet—”
“Demeroven!” Prince says, stepping up to them with a beaming smile on his handsome face. “It’s been ages, how are you?”
“I’m well,” James says, wilting in relief. His old sculling teammate Prince—this night might actually be fun after all.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up. You say goodbye before you leave, both of you,” Parker says, bowing to them before
striding off to mingle. He’s greeted with boisterous shouts.
“He’s something, isn’t he?” Prince asks.
“Something,” James agrees, tilting his chin toward the bar.
Prince smiles and walks with him, only to be handed a drink in a bright-green glass before he can even open his mouth. “Jeremy,
my good man, always so quick.”
“Only for you, Mr.Prince,” Jeremy says, winking at Prince before spinning away to help another customer.
“Liar,” Prince calls after him before leaning against the bar and taking a sip of the drink. “Delicious, as always.”
James watches the bob of his throat, slightly entranced, but trying desperately not to show it. “How have you been?” he asks,
a little haltingly.
But Prince doesn’t mind. He’s always been a kind, lovely man. Never looked at James twice, and now that he’s about to be married,
James supposes he never will. Though, looking around, he thinks a few of the men in quiet, intimate corners are surely married
already.
He’s not sure what other course there is for a man of his persuasion. Marriage is the only logical next step, even if it can
never be to the object of one’s most fervent desires.
“I’m well,” Prince says, bringing James’ attention back to his bright, smiling face. “MissLangston and I have planned the
most wonderful honeymoon in Paris, and I’m eager as ever for the wedding to arrive.”
James bobs his head with a forced smile. He doesn’t think he could ever be so jovial about cutting off such a big part of
his life. Or at least pretending to. Those two men in the corner are both definitely married—he noticed them at the ball with
their wives earlier in the week. But it’s not stopping them from sauntering up the stairs to the private rooms.
“Congratulations, by the way. Never got a chance to say,” James forces out.
Prince beams at him. “Thank you, thank you.”
“She sounds like a lovely young woman,” he adds, trying to recall what his cousin said about her.
“She is, at that,” Prince agrees. “The most wonderful dancing partner, and sharp as a tack. I think you’d like her, actually.
You and that chap... Brightley? You used to have those long, convoluted Shakespearean quoting competitions.”
“Yes,” James says, remembering Frank Brightley, a most pugnacious man. But oh, could he quote Shakespeare.
“MissLangston might be able to best you both,” Prince says.
“Oh?” James wonders. “Well, we might just have to test that, then.”
“She’d be delighted!” Prince says happily, those dimples lifting his cheeks. “I’ll have her reach out for a dinner. Perhaps
the two of you could compete over drinks afterward.”
“That would be grand,” James says, almost meaning it.
Drinks suggests there would be other people. He’s not great under pressure with real eyes watching. His sweaty mates on the sculling
team weren’t the same.
“But you’re happy?” he asks, forcing himself to ignore his unnecessary nerves.
“Very,” Prince says. “Really,” he adds. James must not have done a good job of hiding his skepticism. “It’s a love match,
good boy.”
“That’s wonderful,” James says honestly.
“You’ll have to come to the stag night as well,” Prince continues.
“Of course,” James agrees. “Just tell me when.”
“Excellent! Oh, good—Cunningham,” he calls out, raising his hand.
The Mason brothers’ broad friend from the opening-night ball appears from the second parlor. He’s lost his overcoat somewhere
and is walking around in a white shirt and red suspenders with an undone tie, deep brown hair mussed. James isn’t sure why
he’s so surprised to see him; really, he should have guessed, given Cunningham’s dour references to his own fiancée at the
opening ball. But James’ inattention to signals is hardly his most pressing concern now.
“Another for the guest list,” Prince says.
“Fantastic,” Cunningham says, blue eyes sparkling. He rubs his hands together and looks James up and down. “You’ll do nicely. I think you might be lean enough to stand through the carriage roof.”
“Excuse me?” James manages. Cunningham doesn’t seem at all surprised to see him, but James feels like the walls are starting
to press in. Cunningham is far too close to his world.
“He’s kidding. We’ll be having Rupping stand and look through the carriage roof to fit everyone inside. He’s got another head
on Demeroven here,” Prince says.
“Ah, well, it is your party,” Cunningham says. “Whatever are you drinking?”
“A Jeremy special,” Prince says.
Cunningham raises a hand, flagging down Jeremy. He points to Prince’s drink. “Add a splash of Gaddie’s whisky. Are we running
low?”
“Mr.Parker’s already planned a standing order. You’re behind on the news,” Jeremy says as his hands fly around the bar, mixing
Cunningham’s drink.
“You’re writing up the weekly backers report, so it’s really your delay, isn’t it?” Cunningham asks, laughing when Jeremy
just rolls his eyes.
Jeremy glances at James, an eyebrow raised, but James shakes his head. He hasn’t even finished his first whisky yet, too busy
trying to get the lay of the land.
“You’ll learn to keep up,” Jeremy says as he hands Cunningham his drink.
“’Course he will. We want Lord Demeroven to be a repeat customer, after all,” Cunningham says.
James isn’t so sure, but he leans back against the counter, trying to look relaxed. Trying to convince himself that this is D’Vere, and secrets stay inside. He doesn’t need to panic. Cunningham clearly has a financial stake in the club. It isn’t like he’ll be out telling anyone about James, nor will Prince. He’s... among friends.
Cunningham hails another patron. A tall, wide man with a short-trimmed mustache and a light sheen of sweat on his brow slots
into their little circle.
“Demeroven, this is Lord Wristead,” Prince says. “Wristead, this is Demeroven’s first season. Wristead was a few years ahead
of us at Oxford.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” James says, taking the man’s hand. His grip is almost painfully tight. James hopes his
palms aren’t sweating.
“And yours as well,” Wristead says.
“Demeroven will be joining for the stag night,” Cunningham says.
“Oh, excellent, excellent. Between you and Rupping, I think we can easily boost Prince back into his room without his father
being any the wiser.”
James opens his mouth; he wants no part in anything that could upset Lord Prince—
“Father’s funding the entire night,” Prince says with a laugh. “No need for subterfuge.”
“Unless we want to sample more than London’s finest liquors,” Cunningham says eagerly. “We were just compiling a list of the
most tempting—”
“There will be no establishments of the night,” Prince says quickly, giving James an apologetic look. “I am very happily-to-be-wed
and need none of that particular entertainment.”
“Speak for yourself,” Cunningham says with another slug of his drink.
“That reminds me, Mary Ann has been asking to see Abigail. Might we schedule that oft-promised visit when we’re back in the country?” Wristead asks him.
“Of course, of course. Abs would be glad for the company.”
“Shame she couldn’t make it down with you,” Wristead says blithely.
“It is,” Cunningham says. “But her mother wouldn’t hear of her being here without a wedding, and I need to get my feet under
me with my father’s holdings while I handle... other matters.”
James can’t quite tell if it’s an excuse or reality.
“No need to leave her on her own for the season if she doesn’t have to be, nor under the scrutiny of a prolonged engagement
with all these mothers about,” Prince says.
“Exactly,” Cunningham says. “Though, you’ll understand, Prince, why this bachelor party of yours is a bit of my last hurrah
as well.”
“There’s no need for it to be a final hurrah,” Wristead says. “Mary Ann and I have an understanding.”
“You do?” James hears himself ask, shocked. All three men turn to look at him and he has half a mind to run away. “Pardon
me,” he says, his voice tight. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Think nothing of it,” Wristead says. “I’m one of the lucky ones. Mary Ann knew right away I fancied more than women.”
“Terrible bluff, this one,” Prince agrees. “An attractive man within six meters and his eye is wandering.”
“What can I say, I have taste,” Wristead says, as if these types of conversations happen every day. “She confronted me about
it rather early on. Felt like I owed it to her to be honest. I’m allowed my own life here in the city, and she asks only that
it never come home to the country. I find it more than bearable. She is a most excellent whist player.”
James bobs his head, as if the arrangement makes perfect sense. But he can’t imagine asking his wife to share him that way. Asking her to accept being only half of his life, never mind his heart.
“Have you thought about—” Wristead asks, but Cunningham shakes his head. “You might—”
Cunningham’s face turns pinched. “Not all of us are so lucky as to marry a woman as open-minded as MissMary Ann.”
Prince glances behind him. “Oh, look, Cunningham, Mason just arrived. That’ll cheer you right up.”
James feels his whole body go rigid. Mason? He glances stiffly over his shoulder and sure enough, Bobby Mason is standing
in the entryway in deep conversation with Thomas Parker.
Bobby Mason, who he was obsessed with at school, his cousin’s stepsister’s cousin—Bobby Mason is here ?
That means Bobby Mason is—
“Excuse me, I need the washroom,” James hears himself say, placing his glass too loudly down onto the bar before stumbling
through the group, away from Bobby Mason.
He slams into the small washroom, his heart thundering in his chest. Bobby Mason likes men. Bobby Mason knows Thomas Parker.
Bobby Mason is of his persuasion and here and could see him and oh, God—
James braces his hands against the closed door, forcing himself to take deep breaths before he faints dead away in the small
lavatory closet. Which, even for a lavatory closet, smells wonderfully of lavender. There isn’t an inch of this place Thomas
Parker hasn’t carefully curated.
But that brings him back to Thomas Parker, and Bobby Mason, and the other lords, and how the whole ton could see that he’s
here, and talk, and it could get back to his stepfather, or, worse, to Lord Havenfort, and his aunt, and—
James slams a fist against the door and forces himself to stand upright. He will not be taken down by this fear again. Thomas Parker runs a tight ship. This is a safe place, Reginald promised.
Expose one man in anger, you risk exposing yourself and everyone else. It’s mutually assured secrecy. He is safe here. And
if Bobby Mason is here, Bobby Mason will just have to keep his secret as well, just as James will keep Mason’s.
James takes a deep breath, and then another, the way Reginald taught him all those years ago. In through his nose, out through
his mouth, until he can’t feel his pulse against his ears anymore.
This is what he wanted—a group of men who understood. Friends. Possibly more than that. He’s never going to find either hiding
in the water closet.
So he pushes the door open, forcing himself to move before he’s formulated a plan about how he’s going to explain this to
Bobby Mason. Or face him. Or not just turn bright scarlet now that he knows the boy he used to idolize is someone who thinks
like him, could maybe even fancy him—though of course he wouldn’t. Someone like Bobby Mason could never fancy him .
“Distracted, Viscount?”
James looks up just before he walks straight into Lord Raverson. Just as tall, strong-jawed, and strikingly handsome as he
was at Oxford, Raverson looks down at James with a crooked smirk that makes James break out in gooseflesh.
“Raverson,” James manages.
Even with their school days far behind them, James finds that now, standing in the hallway to the water closet at Thomas Parker’s club, he feels no more a man or a sensible adult than he did at Oxford. Raverson’s grin still makes his stomach clench, and he’s immediately thrust back to the wretched week Raverson gave him up. It should have only been a relief to finally be out from under his thumb, but he spent that week weeping in his room, feeling worthless and pathetic.
How much has really changed?
“The title suits you,” Raverson says, his voice dripping honey. “As do the years. My, you’ve outgrown that adorable gangly
frame, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” James says tightly, trying not to look like he feels as trapped as he is. Here in the narrow hall, he can only pass
if Raverson deigns to allow it, unless he wants to start a brawl.
“And I look as good as ever, don’t I?”
“Yes,” James grinds out. “But I’ve actually—”
“Sitting in the Lords is a chore, isn’t it?” Raverson asks, bracing an arm against the wall and leaning against it, so he’s
entirely blocking the hall. “Makes me think of that professor—who was it, Archer?”
James pushes down his old discomfort. Raverson may have held sway over him in school, but his tricks won’t work here. At least,
James hopes not.
“The chancellor does sound a bit like Archer, that’s true,” James says, going for calm.
“I thought I might find it interesting, but so far the actual work has been the least compelling part of this season. Did
you see that Wristead and Mason are here?”
James forces himself to keep his face blank. “Oh?”
“Didn’t think either of them would be here so openly, given their situations.”
He doesn’t want to contribute to Raverson’s penchant for salacious gossip, especially not if that gossip might someday be
turned on him. At least Raverson will no longer be trading favors and secrets for social status and wealth. He doesn’t need
to expand his purse any longer, now that he holds all the strings.
“I was sorry to hear about your father,” James says, hoping to divert the conversation.
“Were you?” Raverson asks, his voice morphing from that sweet, honeyed tone to something sharper. “I wasn’t.”
James fights a wince. Damn. “I remember you weren’t fond of him, but still, I extend my condolences. I know how hard taking
on the mantle of a title is.”
“Yes, that’s right. You would remember, wouldn’t you? You were in my bed when I received the letter about my brother.”
A sick feeling settles in James’ stomach. He remembers that morning. Waking in Raverson’s bed to find Raverson sitting in
his desk chair in an open dressing gown, a letter dangling in one hand, a letter opener in the other. His older brother had
died in a carriage accident, and Raverson was now the heir apparent to the Raverson title.
James hadn’t known what to do, how to comfort him. How to respond when Raverson showed him the letter, which said only, “Your
brother is dead. You are now my heir. I expect you home for Yule.”
James had tried to comfort him then—had let Raverson take him back to bed, let him lose himself in James and his body. He
thought maybe he had helped, but instead that was the beginning of Raverson’s slow dismissal. He had the title and no need
for James any longer.
No need for James’ secrets after that.
Now Raverson stares past him, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder. James can’t seem to find his words. Part of him is still
stuck in Raverson’s bed, staring at the ceiling as Raverson moved on top of him, unsure of whether Raverson was mentally there
in the room with him at all.
“So, have you found anyone you might fancy for the season?”
James flinches as Raverson steps suddenly to his side and wraps an arm around his shoulders, pushing him into the doorway from the washroom hallway so they’re left looking out at the parlor together.
“Um, no, not yet,” James stammers, his shoulders held tight, stomach in knots.
Between the feeling of Raverson’s arm on his shoulders, too heavy and too stiff, and the sight of more than twenty men in
the parlor, he feels like his heart might burst out of his chest. There are members of parliament playing chess by the window,
heirs hobnobbing by the bar, Prince and Cunningham and Wristead still talking with a larger group, rowdy and boisterous.
If Raverson is here, Parker’s world isn’t nearly as secure as he thinks it is. There is no mutually assured secrecy with Raverson.
His authoritative lies could fool even the most suspicious father at school—get him to pay good money for Raverson to keep
quiet without ever questioning how Raverson had garnered his information.
James’ secrets weren’t worth enough to trifle with telling his stepfather. Not in school, when he was just a gentleman’s stepson.
But now, with the Demeroven title...
James feels himself beginning to get lightheaded again, the whisky starting to swirl in his stomach. He needs to leave. He
needs to leave right now.
“Ah, would you look at the time,” James says, glancing down at his hand as if he has a pocket watch to check. There must be
a Demeroven pocket watch somewhere he could start wearing.
“Half past nine, you mean?” Raverson asks, his arm tightening on James’ shoulders. “You’re not starting to get overwhelmed,
are you? I’d have thought you’d have grown out of that.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” James says brusquely. “I simply have matters to attend to.”
“I could always fix that for you. I remember exactly what used to limber you up at school. Wouldn’t take a moment, we’re right by the—”
“Excuse me,” James says, pulling away from Raverson without a backward glance.
He strides across the room, trying to look like he has somewhere to be. He should find Parker, but doesn’t think he can keep
his stomach down long enough. Instead, he marches around the bar and pulls open the door to the entryway stairs, only to bump
straight into Bobby Mason, who’s lounging in the stairwell having a smoke.
“Demeroven? Thought I’d heard you were here,” he says, as if everything is perfectly normal. As if it’s completely fine that
they’re both here, and they both know, and—
“I have to go,” James mumbles through clenched teeth. He heads for the stairs but trips, groping wildly for the banister only
for Mason to catch him.
“Easy, man,” Mason says, wrapping his arm around James’ back, his grip tight, but nothing like Raverson’s. “Let’s go out,
get some air, yeah?”
James can only nod, feeling like his heart is about to burst out of his chest. His limbs are tingling again, those pinpricks
back in his fingertips. But he doesn’t think he can fight it off this time. His nerves are going to get the better of him.
He just needs to make it outside.
Mason waves to the doorman, who opens the door with a muttered, “Careful, yeah?”
And then they’re in the cool night air. James gulps it in, pulling away from Mason to stumble down the two-step stoop and
into the alley. He just manages to catch himself on the wall, bracing with both hands as he loses the fight with his stomach.
He vomits up whisky and bile, his back shaking, fingers digging into the rough stone wall. He wishes he could vomit up his past with Raverson, and his fear of being seen, being known, being judged. Wishes his fear would seep into the cobblestones like his sick, and leave him indomitable, instead of this hunched, terrified husk.
“All right?” Mason asks, laying a warm, heavy palm on James’ back as he braces himself on the wall, sucking in air around
the burn in his throat.
James jerks, Mason’s touch as comforting as it is mortifying. Not only does Bobby Mason now have proof that James fancies
men, but he’s also seen him in an uncontrolled panic, rushing out of what is supposed to be an upstanding, safe, exclusive
club.
He’s seeing him too weak. He’s seeing too much.
“Here,” Mason says. He extends a handkerchief to him and James stares down at it, white and covered with little daisies. Dainty,
for a solid man like Mason. “There’s another pub down the way—we could get you some water... or bread, maybe?”
Mason’s kindness and soft words burrow against a dark part of him that squirms in horror.
“I’m fine,” James rasps, forcing himself upright before he’s ready.
He steps back, glancing at Mason, who stands there, handkerchief outstretched, looking too concerned, and too handsome, and
too... everything.
He can’t do this.
It was a far-fetched fantasy—that he’d meet a nice man who understood him, who could know him, who could love him as he is.
There is no fairy tale for him in London. Just the prying eyes of the ton, and the lords, and his past, running after him
as he tries to stay one step ahead.
“I have to go,” he says, lurching around Mason to make for the street.
“You can hardly walk in your—”
“I’m perfectly fine,” James repeats, turning to stare just past Mason’s ear. It’s easier to lie, he’s found, if you never meet their eyes, but make them think you have. “I simply have too many important things to do than to waste my time here. Excuse me,” he says, shocked by his own poise and pompous arrogance.
He turns on his heel and walks as steadily as he can toward the street. He’s left with a heavy feeling as he stumbles back
toward his carriage, waiting half a mile away. That life full of love he daydreamed about in Epworth—how can it ever exist
when London is just a bigger, darker, wider repetition of his past?