Chapter Ten
James
James pulls at his cravat as he follows the porter through the Oxford Club. It’s been two days of shallow breaths and the
horrible sinking realization that he deserves every unkind word that’s ever been said about him, and then some.
Neither Lady Gwen nor his cousin would look at him for the rest of the performance, and he didn’t even see Mason as Lord Havenfort
escorted him out. Then he sat with Lord Havenfort and Lord Mason at the Havenfort townhouse, listening to them detail all
the work they’ve been doing, and he felt like more and more of a cad with each passing second.
And now he’s here, at the viscount’s club, and he feels like his stomach would escape up his throat if it weren’t so tight.
How can he face Lord Mason after he treated his brother and family so callously? Surely Mason has told him about James’ behavior.
And if Mason didn’t, Lady Gwen must have. His cousin’s disappointment was a quiet simmer, but Lady Gwen’s was outright defiant—a
curl to her lip and a darkness to her eyes that didn’t let up through the whole performance.
He reaches Lord Mason’s corner, surrounded by tall bookshelves with one high, narrow window letting in the dreary daylight.
The room is hazy with cigar smoke. There are two finished cups of tea on the table surrounded by all manner of papers covered
in ink stains and cramped, small writing.
“Thank you,” James tells the porter. The man bows and hurries off with a mutter of bringing more tea.
The viscount looks as bad as his work area. His narrow face is drawn, bags under his bloodshot eyes. James watches him run
an agitated hand through his hair. He gestures without a word for James to take the opposite seat.
James sits, trying to gird himself. He’s good at being dressed down, has lots of experience. And at least this time, he deserves
it. But as he waits, and waits, the viscount offers nothing, simply turning back to his papers, riffling through them and
muttering to himself.
“There’s a page over there,” Lord Mason says after an uncomfortably long minute.
“What?” James manages, his voice a squeak against the silence.
“In that stack. Has notes from Lord Hirsmith about his wife’s palsy. Find it and pass it here, would you?”
James straightens up to page through the stack. His hand twitches and he knocks another stack of mildly organized pages across
the table. Lord Mason drops the paper he’s holding to rub at his temples.
“Sorry,” James says meekly.
“No, no. Hardly ruining a system here. My apologies, Demeroven. How are you?”
James pauses in his nascent search to meet Lord Mason’s eyes. “I’m well. How are you?”
“Exhausted,” Lord Mason admits, stretching his arms over his head. “Was up half the night trying to collate these, and then
a letter arrived from my wife and I—” He pauses as the porter arrives with their tea.
The man places down a fresh pot and china set with nary a blink as he moves papers around to make more space. James wonders if Lord Mason has made a practice out of working here. Wonders if the staff is as worried as he is.
“Thank you, Lars,” Lord Mason says. Lars bows and then fades away. “Good tea,” Lord Mason adds, pouring cups for himself and
James.
“How is your wife?” James asks, holding his teacup on the saucer. He’s a bit worried if he picks it up, he’ll shake the tea
right out of it.
“At her wit’s end, honestly,” Lord Mason says, taking a gulp of the scalding tea as if it’s lukewarm. “They’ve tried everything
to get the vomiting to stop, but so far, she can barely keep anything down. I’m worried that—” He presses his lips together
and sets down his cup. “Hirsmith’s notes had something about the antiemetic properties of some herb. I’ve been trying to find
it, but my system is... dismal, to quote my brother.”
James shifts uncomfortably at the mention of the younger Mason, sure the viscount is about to start in on him. But Lord Mason
only scrubs at his face.
James scans the table, realizing that each paper is a different set of notes. He knows they’ve been asking prominent families
to refer them to physicians for further discussion, but this is extreme. “How many husbands have you interviewed?”
“Twenty?” Lord Mason wagers. “I’ve done a lot of ancillary research based on each conversation.”
“I see,” James says, nudging his teacup over so he can pick up a few of the pages.
Perhaps the viscount’s been too preoccupied with working up the Medical Act and simultaneously trying to find cures for his
sick wife to actually talk to his brother and discover what a lout James has been.
“I don’t have many contacts in the city, but I could work on organizing these, and meet with you twice a week to keep it going, if that would be helpful?” James suggests, hoping that making more of an effort will quell the burrowing feeling in his guts.
Here he’s been so obsessed with his own reputation while Lord Mason is clearly killing himself to do this research for his
desperately ill wife on top of his parliamentary duties. The least James can do is help with the parliamentary business. And
perhaps if he organizes it, he can be seen as a little more useful to the effort—earn the good reputation he waved beneath
Mason’s nose at the opera. Because if Lord Mason is Mr.Mason’s standard of work, no wonder he finds James so lacking.
“That could be—” Lord Mason starts.
“Hand them here,” James says, sitting up straight and reaching out for the stack furthest from Lord Mason. “Do you want it
by specialty, region, or surname?”
Lord Mason’s lips turn up, the closest to a smile James thinks he’ll get. “Region, to start.”
“And then subcategories for specialty. Good thinking,” James completes.
Lord Mason’s shoulders droop in relief and James vows silently to show up three times a week to help from now on, whether
Bobby Mason sees him do it or not.
***
James leans back against the wall, watching the swirl of dancers on the floor. He’s been loitering at the edge of the ballroom
for over an hour, and not a single person has stopped to greet him or say anything at all. Granted, he’s mostly hidden behind
a large floral arrangement on a plinth.
He should be concerned, but the reprieve of being unnoticed is a relief. A moment’s escape from the endless rounds of notes and organization he’s been doing with Lord Mason. He misses the silence and solitude of the country keenly at balls like this. But as the minutes tick by with nothing to occupy his hands, James begins to get antsy.
He spots his cousin and Lady Gwen across the floor, standing with a group of pastel-clad debutantes. His cousin is wearing
a lovely green dress, and Lady Gwen complements her in a deep blue, the two of them clearly the center of attention in their
little circle. But though they look beautiful, unlike normal evenings, when it’s almost impossible to get a word in edgewise
between them, it looks like they’re barely speaking.
He watches Lady Gwen bend down to say something softly in his cousin’s ear, pointing to someone on the floor. His cousin huffs
and takes Lady Gwen’s arm, looking up at her to snip something back, before hauling her out of the room and toward the lavatories.
Concern slithers into James’ chest. He hopes they’re not fighting about something he said.
But that’s rather self-centered of him. His cousin and her stepsister have their own lives that have nothing to do with his
poor behavior. He hadn’t been planning on approaching them, still searching for a polite way to apologize for his deplorable
words at the opera. But James feels a pang of regret as they disappear from the room. Now even if he does work up the courage
to apologize, he can’t even manage that.
The antsy, unsettled feeling in his chest starts to crescendo and James gives in to the pull of the drinks table, venturing
forlornly out of his little hidey-hole to cross the room. He notices Mason and Cunningham ducking out to the patio and thinks
for a moment of following them. Mason deserves an apology too, especially given the nights they’ve awkwardly avoided each
other at Lord Mason’s townhouse. For all he knows, Mason hasn’t even been home this week. Chasing the man out of his house
certainly wasn’t his intention in trying to help his brother.
But the thought of Mason being out all week brings deeper, darker thoughts to the fore, and James sighs. He reaches the drinks table, and the bartender’s already pouring him another whisky.
“These things are such a bore, aren’t they?”
James winces. It’s as if he’s conjured Raverson out of thin air.
“Almost worth avoiding altogether, but then we wouldn’t get to keep our connections warm, would we?” Raverson continues, following
James away from the table.
James has half a mind to simply run out of the ballroom. But that would be far too conspicuous, so he leads Raverson over
to a high top. He tries to school his features into something other than panic or dread, and takes an overlarge sip of his
drink.
“Your stepfather only had wonderful things to say about you at our lunch this afternoon,” Raverson says.
That pulls James from his internal struggle, and he looks askance across the table at Raverson’s handsome face.
“Well, no, not truly. But he did say you weren’t doing the worst job possible. Middling , I believe, was the term he used.”
Middling is perhaps one of the kinder adjectives James’ stepfather has used to describe him over the years. But the idea of it being
said directly to Raverson in some intimate conversation makes James’ skin crawl.
“Shocking, the entire affair with the Ashmonds, wasn’t it?”
James stiffens. “Pardon?”
“MissBertram walking out on Lord Montson and the ensuing fallout with Lord and Lady Ashmond? Your stepfather said Lord Havenfort
arranged for the woman’s attorney and everything. Took Lord Ashmond for a song in the divorce.”
James doesn’t reply, deeply unsettled by Raverson’s gleeful tone. What’s more, Raverson knows things even he doesn’t. Lord Havenfort was the one who arranged for Lady Ashmond’s attorney?
“And the whole ugly business with your aunt and Lord Havenfort,” Raverson continues.
James blinks. “There’s nothing ugly between them.”
“To hear your stepfather tell it, your aunt was trying to extort money from him for a year before she found Havenfort. Havenfort
clearly caved.”
James keeps his face carefully blank, but internally, he’s reeling. Not only has his stepfather told Raverson more than he’s
ever discussed with James about his aunt and cousin’s situation, he’s gone and twisted the story. Lady Havenfort was hardly
trying to coerce the Demeroven estate into giving her money. Instead, with James underage and none the wiser, his stepfather
refused to give his aunt any help at all after his uncle summarily wrote them out of his will. Left his own wife and daughter
to fend for themselves with nothing.
“I’d imagine Lord Havenfort is desperate to see the two young ladies married. The stink of that whole debacle must be hard
to fight.”
“I believe they’re all doing just fine,” James says, hearing the tightness in his voice.
He hates that Raverson makes him so off-kilter. He should have a better bluff than this. Should be able to stand tall against
this man, defend his family. He’s a viscount, for God’s sake. But the idea his stepfather might prefer this vile man to him
stabs at his innards.
“Thought I might make a call, get to know one of the young ladies after all. Do you find Lady Gwen or MissBertram more approachable?”
James opens his mouth and Raverson leans in uncomfortably close.
“Well, Miss Bertram, obviously. Lady Gwen has such a... reputation. I wouldn’t want a tarnish on my name. And I don’t really like to double-dip, as it were.”
James blinks. “Excuse me?”
“With Mason. Might be too conspicuous with Lord Havenfort as well. Did Mason tell you that Havenfort caught us at the opera?”
James’s heart thuds in his chest. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mason was clearly having a poor time, so I offered to entertain him for a bit, and Havenfort bumped right into us. He was
more than willing to pay for my silence. And surely he’d be interested in continuing to keep all this... information in
the family. Of course, my being in line for the lion’s share of the Havenfort fortune wouldn’t be a hardship either,” Raverson
says slyly before knocking back the rest of his drink.
“You’re vile,” James spits out, too shocked and horrified to mince his words. “Neither of the girls would ever have you.”
“We’ll see about that,” Raverson says breezily.
“And Lady Havenfort is—”
“There’s no surety in that child surviving,” Raverson says. At what must be the revolted look on his face, Raverson rolls
his eyes. “Oh, don’t be so sanctimonious. Her age, the likelihood of childhood mortality, I’m not saying anything you don’t
already know.”
James grits his teeth. “Your games won’t work. I’ll tell Lord Havenfort—”
“What, that both of his nephews are poofs?”
James hesitates, a deep mortification and shame rolling through him at the idea of disappointing Lady Havenfort and Lord Havenfort—at
explaining why he needs to tell them, why they’d be forced to reckon with such a heavy secret.
“And how will you prove that?” James asks, pushing the thought out around his panic. “Going to tell Lord Havenfort you’ve slept with both of his nephews? Are you so self-hating you’d risk your own reputation?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Raverson says, that glint of a scheme coming into his eyes—a tall tale about to
be expertly told. “You both came on to me. You at school, and Mason at the opera. Simply grabbed me and groped me.” He holds
up his palms in feigned innocence and something gold glints there on his pinky. A signet ring with the initials RJM—Mason’s
signet ring.
James’ stomach plummets.
Raverson smirks. “I was too polite to fight either of you off, but you both understood that it wasn’t to occur again. I’m
far too much of a gentleman to try and take either of you to the authorities. I wouldn’t want to sully your cousins with such
news.”
James stares at Raverson, rage, revulsion, and disbelief at war in his chest. He cannot let this man take them all down just
to slake his perverse need for power, for control. James isn’t sixteen anymore. He won’t let Raverson see him scared, even
if everything about this conversation has terrified him to his very core.
“Go and get your sick pleasure and power somewhere else. Or better yet, leave these atrocious schoolboy schemes in the past.”
“You’re so naive, Demeroven,” Raverson says, smirking at him. “School was just the start.”
James squares his shoulders. “Stay away from my family, or you’ll live to regret it.”
Raverson just winks at him. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
And with that he turns and strides away, slipping Mason’s ring into his pocket, looking confident and entirely unruffled,
while James stands there, thoroughly shaken.
He has to stop this. He has to figure out a way to outplay Raverson at his own game. A way that will keep his and Mason’s reputations intact, keep his cousin and her stepsister safe, and keep Lord and Lady Havenfort out of all of it.
The very last thing his aunt needs right now is further stress.
He knocks back his drink. He’ll need reinforcements to fight this, and that means teaming up with Mason—who’s caused this
problem in the first place.
What was the man thinking, messing around with Raverson at the opera? Did James’ words really— But no, Mason wouldn’t be so
affected by anything James has to say. He’s sure Mason rarely thinks of him at all, other than to bad-mouth him to his cousin.
And it’s not as if James is spending all his time thinking about Mason.
Yet, when he sees him alone, leaning against the railing of the patio, smoking, looking devil-may-care and aloof, James can’t
quite halt the familiar nervous flutter in his chest. But no matter how attractive he is—no matter how much James envies Mason’s
relationships with his cousin and friends—no matter how much James wants to be like Mason, Mason has put them all in danger.
And now Mason must help him fight back against Raverson.
But just as he steps onto the patio, still formulating the proper entrée into this... presumably horrible conversation,
Mason spots him, sneering in dislike.
“Ah, there he is, the golden boy.”
James bristles. “Excuse me?”
“Been off hobnobbing? Gathering votes? Playing nice with the lords you hate so much? Are you humbled?”
James stares at Mason, indignance flushing through him as the man pushes upright, teetering a little. “Better than skulking in the shadows downing whisky like a dilettante,” James returns, even though that’s exactly what he was doing up until a few minutes ago.
“Charming,” Mason says, taking a long drag of his cigar. “I hope you’ve had a drink to drown your pride. How low you must
feel to be doing Albie’s busywork.”
“At least I’m living up to my obligations,” James hisses, stepping forward so there’s only a foot between them. “Instead of
getting caught being buggered behind curtains at the opera.”
Mason’s sneer drops and he stares blankly back at James. “What?”
“What were you thinking?” James continues, all thoughts of a rational, reasoned conversation flying out of his head. “What
if you’d been caught by someone else? Someone with the power to ruin us all? It’s bad enough Raverson thinks he can milk more
money from Lord Havenfort without you making it easier for him. Giving him your ring—what were you thinking?”
Mason gapes, glancing down at his hand in confusion. “I didn’t—”
“Your need to get whatever you want, whoever you want, whenever you want could ruin the entire family.”
Mason looks up, his lip curling. “Oh yes, because denying myself and pretending I’m someone I’m not forever would be better,
so I could end up bitter like you, lying to myself and everyone else about who I am.”
“At least I care more about my family than my own cock,” James spits back, pushing through the hurt that gathers in his chest.
Is that really what the man thinks of him?
“How dare you?” Mason’s voice is a sharp rumble. He steps forward and James instinctively steps back. “How dare you pretend
to know how much I care about my family?”
Up close like this, Mason is broad, and tall, and James feels unease creep over him. The need to make himself small, to cower away, is too strong to fight. Like he’s back in the barn on his stepfather’s estate, waiting for a lash.
Mason steps forward again and James stumbles backward, his hands coming up of their own accord. And then his foot hits the
corner of the railing and suddenly he’s falling, tumbling down the rough stone steps to land in a heap on the patio below.
Pain blooms across his cheek, at his elbow, flaring out from his hip. He sucks in air, taking a moment to brace himself. He
doesn’t think anything is broken, other than his pride.
But before he can gather himself, or figure out a way to rise with a shred of dignity, Mason’s hand is on his shoulder, his
other coming up to brush the hair out of James’ eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Demeroven. I never meant to push you onto the stairs,” he says, genuine remorse and deep concern etched across
his face.
That hand slips down to cup his cheek and James blinks up at Mason. His head is backlit by the lamps, giving him an almost
ethereal glow. It makes James’ chest clench in a way wholly unrelated to his recent fall, and there’s that damn familiar bubbly
feeling zipping over his skin—sparks and excitement and hesitation swirled into one. But he’s lying on the ground after a
bout of nerves so insistent that he fell down the stairs, all because Mason raised his voice.
The shame of the whole evening closes in on him, and he shuffles out from beneath Mason’s hands, pulling himself to standing
without even a grunt, though pain screeches across his skin.
“Don’t touch me,” he gets out, his voice wobbling and low.
Mason rises slowly, hands held up. “All right. I’m sorry.”
James searches for something to say—some way to come back from this. From their fight. From the blackmail. From his fall. All that rises is a gripping nausea, and he cannot stand for Mason to see him vomit, again, like a weak little boy overcome by emotion.
Instead, he turns on his heel and marches haltingly off across the grounds.
“Demeroven,” Mason calls, but James continues on, refusing to look back.
He holds his head up high until he reaches the side of the ridiculously large townhouse. He turns the corner and limps down
the narrow alley until he can collapse against the granite wall, heaving in air. His eyes are leaking, his nose is running,
and everything hurts more than it has in a long while. His pride most of all.
How could he let himself get that panicked? Mason isn’t his stepfather. Though, in truth, he doesn’t really know what kind
of man Mason is.
The back of his mind taunts him with the feel of Mason’s hand on his shoulder blade in the alley outside D’Vere, the caress
of his fingers against James’ cheek just now. With the way Mason has tried to engage him in conversation at every uncomfortable
event. With the way Mason smiles and laughs with his cousin and her stepsister, how he clearly loves them so hard and so fiercely.
James doesn’t truly think Mason would intentionally have put them in danger, and insinuating as much...
Got him bruised and humiliated.
If he’d simply told Mason about Raverson’s designs on the girls—on the family—after the rugby match... But who’s to say
Mason would have listened anyway? All the ifs and maybes of what he could have done are irrelevant now.
Slowly, he hauls himself back to standing, unwilling to stay still long enough for anyone to find him. He limps his way off the property and down the street to where he thinks he’ll blend in with the surroundings should anyone be watching from the great house. He hails a passing coach and overpays the driver, sinking into the worn cabin bench with a groan.
How on earth is he supposed to find a way to save his family’s reputation, to protect his cousin, her mother, her stepsister,
and Lord Havenfort—the only adult to show him even an ounce of kindness—when he can’t even face Bobby Mason without having
an attack of nerves?