Chapter Five
Bobby
Bobby bows to the porter at the Steton townhouse and heads around the side of the four-story, white-brick fa?ade that’s always
covered with immaculate ivy and flowers. Perhaps he should take up gardening, make the yard of their rather modest townhouse
into something visually resplendent like the Steton backyard, full to bursting with early flowering trees and bushes. Tables
have been laid out throughout the shockingly green lawn. And at the back, multiple badminton courts have been set up to provide
the entertainment.
Bobby sighs. There probably aren’t funds for new landscaping, not if they’re going to refurbish the carriage and consider
throwing their own events if Meredith is ever well enough to join them in London. But it would be nice to have something lovely
for her to come home to if she does. And maybe he could actually get Albie out from under all his piles of papers and into
the sun if they had a nice back garden.
Bobby shakes himself. He can’t spend the whole afternoon brooding about his brother; otherwise Lady Steton, already roving
about the party in a beautiful and very wide floral gown, will find him and start trying to connect him with her young female
relatives. He needs a distraction, and fast.
He spots Beth and Gwen beneath the pink flowering tree by the badminton courts and immediately heads their way. He only hesitates when he notices Demeroven standing on Gwen’s other side, as if he might like to disappear directly into the tree trunk.
That image of Demeroven heaving onto the cobblestones fills Bobby’s mind again. He remembers how nerve-wracking his own first
visit to D’Vere was. If Cunningham hadn’t escorted him, Bobby’s not sure he would have worked up the gumption to knock. And
even then, he spent the whole night sweating through his brand-new frock coat.
The thought of marching up to the club door alone for the first time seems excruciating. Bobby can’t blame the man for succumbing
to his nerves, nor his anxious, slightly rude behavior afterward. He watches Demeroven shift by the tree now, looking as out
of place at the garden party as he seemed at the end of the night at D’Vere.
Bobby feels a renewed sense of purpose bubbling up inside him. The chap’s rather moody, but Beth and Uncle Dashiell asked
him to help. Bobby’s sure it isn’t what they intended, but helping Demeroven fit in with London’s underground—helping him
find his place and happiness in the community—that feels like a worthy use of his time.
Perhaps if the other half of Demeroven’s life gets sorted, Demeroven will be better able to focus on his duties in parliament,
and hopefully on making amends with Aunt Cordelia and Beth. Bobby assumes Demeroven wasn’t personally responsible for Aunt
Cordelia and Beth being kicked out of their home when he came of age, or surely Uncle Dashiell wouldn’t be working with him.
But someone has to apologize for their abrupt eviction, and worse, for Beth’s forced almost-marriage into the terrible Ashmond
family as a result.
He’ll make that his next goal, he decides, before pasting on a smile as he reaches Gwen and Beth.
“You’re being rather petty, don’t you think?” Beth asks Gwen before Bobby can get a word in edgewise.
“Petty?” Gwen repeats, her face darkening. “That’s rich, given you’re acting as if there’s nothing the matter at all.”
“There isn’t!” Beth returns, hands on her hips, rustling the skirts of her green dress. Bobby thinks it may be one of Gwen’s,
actually. “It isn’t her fault that I jilted her son. She has money she wants to donate, and time to fill, just like us.”
“And you have no qualms about buddying up to her? What, are you looking for information on Montson?”
Bobby would try to mediate, like Albie’s always able to do, but he doesn’t want either of their furies turned on him instead.
So he slips around them to lean back against the tree beside Demeroven, more than close enough to keep listening.
“Have they been at this long?” he asks Demeroven.
“Are you seriously asking me if I have some kind of latent interest in Lord Montson?” Beth demands.
“About fifteen minutes,” Demeroven replies without looking at Bobby.
He’s staring up into the tree and Bobby follows his gaze, tracking a squirrel sitting above them. He wonders if it too is
interested in Beth and Gwen’s fight about Lady Ashmond. It sounds as if perhaps she’s funding refurbishments at the Foundling
Hospital where the girls have just started volunteering.
“I think you have some kind of interest in Lady Ashmond,” Gwen snipes back.
“I do!” Beth exclaims.
Gwen huffs and goes to stalk away, but Beth clutches at Gwen’s arm. She pulls Gwen in close, exchanging a heated glance that’s
palpably intimate.
“I’d like to make sure Lady Ashmond is all right. Is that so wrong?”
Gwen sighs and pulls Beth around the tree, removing their argument from earshot. Bobby hopes they’ll make up. He does so enjoy their more ridiculous fights, but he knows Montson and the entire engagement from last season remains a sore subject between them. How could it not?
With them bickering on the other side of the tree, Bobby’s left beside Demeroven, all the awkwardness of their night in the
alleyway pulsing between them. He glances down at the man and finds him almost breaking his neck to avoid eye contact, staring
off and up in the other direction. Bobby looks up into the branches, but the nosy squirrel has deserted them.
“Bet it’s having a better time,” Bobby mutters.
“What?” Demeroven asks.
Bobby winces. “Um, the squirrel. I bet—” God, this is silly. “I bet it’s having a better time than we are.”
“Too right,” Demeroven says, staring up into the leaves with him. “Nothing to do but eat nuts and sleep, what a life.”
Bobby laughs, startled, and looks down at Demeroven. Demeroven himself seems a little surprised, but there’s a tug at his
lips and his shoulders have come down, so that’s progress.
“Think he likes one particular type, or prefers to diversify?” Bobby asks before he can stop himself.
“If it’s all you can eat, why not a sample?” Demeroven wonders, glancing up to meet Bobby’s eyes.
Bobby watches his cheeks go pink before he looks away again. Adorable, really. Bobby waits, wondering if Demeroven might make
another joke, but Demeroven doesn’t offer anything else and they stand in a growing awkward silence.
“Have you been making morning calls?” Bobby asks. Banal, but it will have to do.
“No,” Demeroven says, shrugging. “My mother’s made a few, I think.”
“Right, right. Mother’s prerogative,” Bobby agrees, ignoring the pang in his chest. He doesn’t know if that’s a mother’s prerogative, actually, having never gotten to see his mother attend the season. “Parliament starts early too.”
“It does,” Demeroven agrees. “Bloody early. Makes me miss lying in at Oxford.”
“How did you ever lie in at Oxford if you were on the rowing team?” Bobby wonders.
Demeroven glances over at him, a brief look of mischief on his face. “I had my ways.”
“Yeah?” Bobby wonders. He could get used to that look. “What, did you bribe the coach?”
“With his very favorite wine, by the caseful,” Demeroven says, looking rather proud of himself. “Got every other Saturday
to sleep in. It was bliss.” Bobby stares at him. “What?”
“You consider having a lie-in every other Saturday bliss?”
“Yes,” Demeroven says slowly. “How... often do you have a lie-in?”
“In the country? Every day,” Bobby exclaims.
“Don’t you have anything you have to do?”
“Well... sometimes,” Bobby says, fighting back a defensive edge. “What, are you up at seven every day on the Demeroven
estate?”
“Mostly,” Demeroven says, his straight nose rising, giving him an air of superiority Bobby hardly thinks is earned simply
by being a morning person.
“And if you ever have a late night out?” Bobby presses.
“Then I’m tired,” Demeroven says archly.
“Mmm, all right, now I see how it is,” Bobby says, wanting to get the man out of his shell—see that glimmer of someone sly
and mischievous and adorable again.
“How what is?” Demeroven asks.
“You must be out late rather often in London, then, if you’re always eager for a lie-in,” Bobby continues, glancing around. They’re quite alone here by the tree. “Have you been to any of the other clubs? There are a few that are quieter. Not quite as open, but nice spots all the same. Might be a good way to ease into the community a bit, you know?”
But instead of donning that playful expression, or some manner of their earlier camaraderie, Demeroven’s face goes completely
blank. His head twists about, as if they might be suddenly interrupted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, Parker’s club isn’t the only place to—” Bobby starts, his voice low.
“Parker? I don’t know a Parker,” Demeroven whispers quickly.
Bobby stares at him, nonplussed. “You can’t be serious.”
“You’re clearly mistaken. You must have gotten incorrect information at the many clubs you attend,” Demeroven says, his voice cold, posture going stiff.
Bobby takes a step away from the tree so he can face Demeroven fully. “You’re not seriously trying to claim you weren’t rubbing
shoulders with Cunningham and Prince at—”
“Shut up,” Demeroven clips out, his blue eyes darting this way and that. “We are in public. Our maiden cousins are right behind
us. How on earth can you be this careless?”
Bobby stares, his mouth falling open. No one can hear them! “I’m being nothing of the sort.”
Demeroven pushes off from the tree, stepping close enough that Bobby’s nose is almost brushing his forehead. “You never know
who could be listening. You would do well to keep your lifestyle to yourself, and protect your cousin and Miss Bertram before
your loose lips get them or anyone else hurt.”
“I am far from—” Bobby starts just as Beth and Gwen traipse back around the tree, arm in arm.
“We’re going to play badminton,” Beth announces.
Gwen pulls her to a halt and Bobby and Demeroven step back from each other. Indignation simmers in Bobby’s gut, tingling down
his arms and into his fingers. How dare Demeroven suggest he would do anything that would endanger the girls? How dare he insinuate Bobby’s attempt at simple conversation, at trying to help, is somehow—
How can he judge Bobby for doing exactly what he himself has done—attend and make use of one of the only safe spaces in London
for men of their persuasion? Like it’s something dirty, instead of something to be celebrated?
“Did we interrupt something?” Gwen asks, an eyebrow arched, even if her eyes do look a little bright, like perhaps there were
tears on the other side of the tree.
“No,” Bobby says, pushing it all down deep into his chest, next to his thoughts about his father and his worries about his
sister-in-law. Maybe someday if he pushes those feelings down far enough, they’ll simply disappear. “We were talking about
which smoking club Demeroven’s going to join.”
“Right,” Demeroven says immediately, offering Beth and Gwen a truly uncomfortable smile. “Badminton?”
“Yes,” Beth says, glancing at Gwen before breaking away to take Demeroven’s arm. “You’ll be with me, Gwen with Bobby.”
“All right,” Demeroven says, allowing Beth to lead him back to one of the courts.
Bobby forces himself to focus on Gwen, rather than continue trying to figure out what the hell just happened. “Are we teaming
up so we’ll win and you’ll start smiling instead of grimacing?” Bobby asks.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Gwen says, her arm tight around his. “Are you trying to distract me from whatever heated moment we just
interrupted?”
“Oh, get off,” Bobby says, nudging her. “He’s a bit difficult is all.”
“Seems like it, doesn’t it?” Gwen agrees as they reach the pitch.
Bobby stoops to grab rackets for them and they separate to face off against Beth and Demeroven across the net.
“But perhaps he’ll grow on you,” Gwen says, lowering into a ready stance.
“Like fungus?” Bobby wonders, smiling as Gwen lets out a loud hah .
“Like big mushrooms, yes,” Gwen says.
“Are you ready to lose?” Beth asks loudly.
“Yeah, right,” Bobby says, winking at Gwen. He’ll shake off his encounter with Demeroven by wiping the floor with him. “As
if you could beat me and Gwen. We’ve decades of experience.”
“Against each other,” Beth agrees, serving the shuttlecock. “But James and I are unknowns. We have the element of surprise,
don’t we, James?”
“Right,” Demeroven says, seemingly caught between bemusement at his cousin’s competitive edge and pride at being included.
“We’re, um, crafty.”
“Ah, yes, the craft of badminton,” Bobby says, returning Demeroven’s rally. “Did you study that at Oxford? Learned the art
of the shuttlecock?”
He’s not exactly sure why it comes out quite... like that, but the way Demeroven’s gaze darkens begs a challenge.
“Not as well as you did, apparently,” Demeroven returns.
Bobby clenches his jaw. The chip on this guy’s shoulder...
“Is there really a course in badminton at Oxford?” Beth wonders as she and Gwen trade hits.
“No, no. But some colleges were more interested in it than others,” Bobby says, watching as Demeroven’s face flushes.
“And some halls in particular. Badminton boys had their own little clubs and everything, really,” Demeroven says.
“Been to a few of those, have you?” Bobby asks, hitting the shuttlecock a bit too hard so it sails out of bounds.
“Not nearly as many as you. I’m far more discerning about where I spend my time, and with whom,” Demeroven says stiffly, waiting
patiently as Beth retrieves the off-sides shuttlecock.
“Have we missed something?” she asks Gwen. She serves the shuttlecock across the net again.
“It appears so. Albie’s never mentioned anything about... badminton clubs.”
“He wouldn’t,” Demeroven and Bobby say together.
Demeroven narrows his eyes at Bobby, almost missing Gwen’s volley. But not quite. He sends the shuttlecock careening over
the net and Bobby has to jog backward to hit it, only narrowly sending it back. Beth vaults forward and hits the shuttlecock,
but tumbles to the ground in the process.
“Must you always be so reckless?” Demeroven exclaims at Bobby as he goes to help Beth up.
Bobby stands gaping. It’s not like he meant for her to fall. Gwen hits the shuttlecock over their heads to land in the back
third.
“Hah!” she crows.
“That’s just low,” Beth says, sticking out her tongue.
“I guess Bobby and I are rather unpredictable as well,” Gwen says smugly.
“Oh, you’re plenty predictable,” Beth returns, with exasperated fondness. “Him,” she adds, pointing at Bobby, “maybe a little.”
“I do aim to be disarming,” Bobby manages as she comes back to standing. “You all right?”
“It takes far more than grass stains on my gown to do me in,” Beth says, taking the shuttlecock from Demeroven to line up to serve again.
“ My gown,” Gwen mutters. “Mrs.Stelm will have my hide, not hers.”
“Oh, posh, she’ll be glad to get out from underneath Mrs.Gilpe’s and MissWilson’s word games,” Bobby says.
Gwen’s housekeeper, Mrs. Gilpe, and her lady’s maid, Mrs. Stelm, were a force to be reckoned with before, but with the addition
of Beth and Aunt Cordelia’s lady’s maid in the mix? They’re a terror unto themselves now.
“Truly dreadful,” Gwen agrees. “Do you like the London staff, Demeroven?”
“Oh, uh, I guess,” Demeroven says as he hits the shuttlecock back to Gwen. “Don’t know them all that well.”
“Except for your cook, right?” Beth asks. “My lady’s maid, MissWilson, said he’s been with your mother since you were small.
He has a brother in town somewhere?”
Demeroven’s face goes slightly pale. “Ah, yes, he does.”
“Runs a club, I think,” Bobby says, feeling triumphant when the color in Demeroven’s face drains even further.
“Oh, well, you should be a shoo-in there, then,” Beth says brightly.
“Perhaps,” Demeroven says, his voice halting and high. “Point,” he adds, spiking the shuttlecock over the net in a kill shot
Bobby can’t hope to catch.
“Well, it’s one-one, then,” Beth says.
“What club have you chosen, Mason?” Demeroven asks, staring pointedly at Bobby.
“I haven’t,” Bobby says honestly. “Been trying a few out.”
“Ah, yes, well, that tracks, doesn’t it?”
Bobby hits the shuttlecock across the net, imagining it’s De meroven’s smug face. “Wouldn’t want to settle on a decision without doing proper research, would I?”
“Even if it could make you look indecisive?” Demeroven returns.
The most infuriating part of all of this is that Demeroven looks unfairly good right now. Heaving in air, all riled up, his
face flushed. Bobby feels a flare of want deep in his gut. He bends down and snags the shuttlecock, squeezing too tight against
that clench in his belly. He will not be attracted to sodding James Demeroven. He won’t. He’ll just... push that down like
everything else.
He lines up to serve. “Actually, bothering to do research makes me informed, not indecisive. You might know the feeling if
you were doing even half the work Albie is.”
He serves the shuttlecock hard over the net, but Demeroven’s ready, rallying it back with enough force that Bobby has to jerk
to the side to hit it across to Beth.
“Oh, right, because your gambling and drinking and cavorting is a much better example to the ton,” Demeroven grits out.
“At least I’m able to make a decent impression. I’m not the one stumbling out of clubs and running away,” Bobby says, feeling
a catch in his chest the moment the words are out of his mouth.
Gwen hits the shuttlecock across toward Demeroven, but he doesn’t move. It sails over his head as he stares at Bobby, wide-eyed.
No matter what kind of arse the man is being, he didn’t deserve that.
“Demeroven, I—” Bobby starts.
Demeroven’s face shifts, a look of determination falling over him. “No, you’ve all the arrogance and disregard for decorum
of your father, haven’t you?” Demeroven says. “Well on your way to being an even bigger disgrace than he was.”
Bobby stands there slack-jawed and winded. Beth and Gwen look between them, rackets held awkwardly, all of them still. Demeroven runs a hand through his tousled hair, chest heaving. He meets Bobby’s gaze, looking as shocked as Bobby feels.
Bobby would say something back—something cutting, something apologetic, something... something—but he can’t seem to make
anything pass around the sudden lump in his throat. His own words were cruel, he knows. But he didn’t think Demeroven’s could
feel like a knife in his chest like this.
“I didn’t— It wasn’t—” Demeroven starts, meeting Bobby’s eyes, breathless and seemingly horrified. But he doesn’t manage an
apology. Then again, neither does Bobby.
After a charged, truly dreadful moment, Demeroven cuts his eyes away from Bobby’s. He stumbles back and picks up the shuttlecock.
“Point,” he rasps out, hitting it forcefully across the net.
Neither Bobby nor Gwen makes any move to rally and it glides over them to land in the back third of their court.
Demeroven fiddles with his jacket buttons, glancing among them. “I’ll, ah, see you later, ladies. Please give my apologies
to Lady Steton. I’ve... work to do. Excuse me.”
He drops his racket and walks around Beth, almost jogging out of the garden.
“Bobby, are you—” Beth starts.
“I’m fine,” Bobby says automatically, offering Beth and then Gwen a tight, forced smile. “I’ll go get a drink, cool off.”
“Right,” Gwen says. “Bring some back for us, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Bobby says, stumbling off toward the drinks, his hands curling into fists at his side.
He came to this tea planning to help Demeroven become more at ease. And instead, it feels like he’s been punched in the chest. All he wanted to do was help—to find something in common, to maybe be something other than uncomfortable acquaintances together—but how can he, if that’s Demeroven’s opinion of Bobby’s father—of Bobby’s family?
And how could he just let the prick... say that? He didn’t defend himself, or his father—he just let Demeroven walk away,
again. Not only does it seem like he’s going to fail Uncle Dashiell, and Beth, but he’s failing Albie too, and his father’s
memory, for whatever that’s worth.