Chapter Thirteen
Bobby
Bobby downs his current drink, relishing in the warmth along the back of his neck. The stag party is clustered at the back
of their first pub of the evening, packed into a raucous booth beneath dripping candles. He’s trying to focus on the tipsy
discussion Cunningham and Prince are having about the upcoming cricket match, but he keeps getting distracted.
There’s a light pink flush making its way up Demeroven’s neck as he sits between Rupping and Wristead on the opposite side
of the booth. His sandy-brown hair is curling adorably with the humidity and sweat, and his eyes are a little big, trying
to keep up with their motley group.
Bobby wants to be so insulted, so angry, so over Demeroven. But the man looks entirely out of his depth and it does something
to Bobby’s stomach. Something swirly and swoony. He raises his glass, trying to flag down the beleaguered barmaid to get another
scotch.
Prince’s stag night is off to a very successful start, and Bobby might die before the evening runs out.
“Here you go, love,” the barmaid says, leaning across the table to pass Bobby another glass.
She has a pretty round face and very ample cleavage, rather on display. Doesn’t do much for Bobby, but Prince’s eyes glide over the barmaid, his rattle of cricket statistics trailing off, and Bobby hears Demeroven snort across the booth.
“And some waters,” Bobby says, meeting her eyes. “If you’ve got them. Otherwise, some weak beer, please, if you can.” They
need to pace themselves.
“And all the bread you have,” Demeroven puts in.
The barmaid laughs and gives them both a wink before straightening up and sashaying away. Bobby’s and Demeroven’s eyes meet
briefly and then skid away. He forces himself to turn back to Prince, who’s still ogling the barmaid’s luscious figure.
“I see love hasn’t tamed your roving eye, man,” Bobby says.
Cunningham snorts while Prince gapes at Bobby, his brown hair flopping into his eyes as if in admonishment. “I admire a lovely
lady,” Prince says innocently.
“And a lovely gent, if there’s one around,” Cunningham adds, reaching around Bobby’s back to flick Prince’s ear.
Bobby notes Demeroven glancing around. But the dim, crowded pub is more than loud enough to drown out any secrets they may
reveal in their drunken revels. It’s why he and Cunningham picked the Thirsty Pig as their first spot. And they’ll only get
more rowdy from here.
“It’s my stag night. I’ll ogle anyone I please, thanks,” Prince says haughtily, before letting out an enormous belch.
The whole table laughs. “And does your fiancée enjoy seeing you this sloshed?” Wristead asks merrily, his face already flushed,
hair plastered to his forehead.
“She does,” Prince says easily. “What about Mary Ann?”
“She’s such a lightweight, we’ve never managed,” Wristead admits. “But she mixes an excellent cocktail. Could give Jeremy
a run for his money.”
“We should get her together with my cousin and Miss Ber tram,” Bobby says. “Lady Gwen has developed a keen interest in mixed drinks over the last year.”
“Has she?” Demeroven asks, blinking at his own question.
“She makes a mean sherry cobbler,” Bobby finds himself saying. Nothing strange about them discussing Gwen, when they’ve yet
to speak a direct word to each other all night. Let alone about anything... important.
“Oh, that could be dangerous territory,” Rupping says, his voice loud and scratchy already. “Lady Gwen gets ever so competitive.”
“I think Mary Ann can take her,” Wristead insists.
“If she’s a better sport than you are, Lady Gwen would delight in challenging her,” Bobby says as Wristead frowns over at
him.
“That’s right. Didn’t you break your croquet mallet two seasons ago after a run-in with Mason’s dear cousin?” Cunningham asks
Wristead while Prince chuckles into his drink.
“I didn’t break it. It broke. Very different. And she cheated,” Wristead insists.
Bobby rolls his eyes. “Lady Gwen doesn’t need to cheat to beat every one of your arses at whatever sport she chooses. You’re
just a sore loser, Wristead.”
“Truly,” Prince agrees.
“The worst,” Rupping says.
“You’re making me long for the country,” Wristead grumbles. “And I hate the country.”
Prince belches again and Bobby glances over toward the bar. He catches the barmaid’s harried eyes, her arms laden with orders.
She shakes her head.
“All right, lads, I think it’s time we hit the next bar, before our groom drinks himself to death at this one,” he suggests.
“Fox and Toad?” Rupping asks the group.
“Fox and Toad,” they all chorus, even Demeroven.
Bobby gets distracted watching Demeroven slide out of the booth, his slender, muscled frame unfolding as he stands. He’s got
his frock coat over his arm and his shirt cuffs rolled up to his biceps, tie undone around his neck. Ruffled and sweaty—the
look brings back memories of their tryst behind the tent flap and Bobby shakes himself.
It was a onetime thing. He can’t let himself become captivated by the idea. The man isn’t interested. And he’s not in the
business of chasing someone who doesn’t want him.
Prince pulls Bobby up, leaning into him with a dopey little smile. He was able to get over his crush on Prince, after all.
And now he’s happy for the man, off to a life of wedded bliss with a lovely young woman. He’ll... get over Demeroven, somehow.
Cunningham struggles up behind him and Bobby has enough presence of mind to get Prince’s arm around his shoulder. He turns
to Cunningham and nudges him. “Give her something extra; we’re a handful.”
“Steady on,” Cunningham agrees, pulling a few crumpled notes from his pocket.
They traipse through the crowded pub and Bobby ensures Cunningham runs into their barmaid to hand the money to her directly,
before they all spill out onto the street.
Rupping and Wristead are swinging around a lamppost, singing some shanty and garnering glares from the still fairly respectable
citizens on the high street. It’s early yet. Too early for dirty sea shanties.
Prince stumbles against him and Bobby eyes their drunker friends. “Demeroven,” he says, catching the man’s attention. Demeroven
looks back at him, then glances at Rupping and Wristead. “Take Prince. I’ll handle them, and Cunningham will—”
“This way, lads!” Cunningham proclaims, dancing down the street ahead of them.
Both Bobby and Demeroven laugh. Their eyes meet as Bobby passes Prince over to Demeroven and he feels that pull again. He
knows there could be something more than animosity between them, if they let it. But Demeroven skirts his glance away and
starts guiding Prince down the street, leaving Bobby to corral Wristead and Rupping. A good distraction if ever he knew one.
Four pubs later, Bobby’s impressed any of them are still standing. He cut himself off at the third pub, and his buzz is beginning
to wear down. But the rest of the gents are still going strong. They’ve already lost Rupping. Not quite sure where he got
off to.
Wristead’s starting to nod off against the wall as they stand at the entrance to the Pewter House, waiting for Cunningham
to close their tab. Bobby wonders idly how much Prince’s father provided for this evening.
“On to Twildings!” Cunningham decrees as he guides a stumbling Prince out of the pub. Demeroven brings up the rear, hands
out to catch Prince should he fall backward.
“Wristead, you should take a coach,” Bobby says.
Wristead startles and starts to fall sideways. Demeroven runs up to catch him, buckling under his weight. Prince turns to
help, slipping out of Cunningham’s grip, and Bobby rushes forward to brace him.
He and Demeroven exchange a glance. They’re reluctant partners in keeping their friends alive tonight, it seems. He supposes
that’s nominally better than being partners in evading extortion.
“I’ll get Wristead into a coach. Cunningham, help me, would you?” Demeroven says, beckoning Cunningham over while Bobby steadies
Prince on his shoulder.
He jerks his chin toward the end of the block and Demeroven nods, ushering Wristead and Cunningham toward the curb. Bobby helps Prince begin to shuffle in the opposite direction.
“My lover’s eyes are the sea. She walks on air and clouds to me. Each morn I wake I feel a glow, her skin like cream and hair
like...” Prince hesitates, tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration.
“What are you doing?”
“Sonnets,” Prince says, as if it’s a normal pastime. “What rhymes with glow ?”
“ Snow ,” Bobby suggests, laughing as Prince gives him a truly affronted look.
“Her hair is brown.”
“Sorry. Um, know ?”
“Why would her hair be like know?” Prince demands.
“Poetry is not my forte, Prince. But, oh, easy there,” he says as Prince trips over an askew cobblestone.
“Catherine’s like poetry,” Prince says dreamily. “You should find a woman like poetry.”
“I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” Bobby says honestly, guiding Prince over to a stone wall they can lean against until
Demeroven and Cunningham catch up.
“But it’s so nice to have a lady. She’s so smart and pretty and nice. Ladies are so kind, Mason.”
“I’m sure they are,” Bobby agrees. Beth is, at least. Gwen is... something.
“You need a good woman to love,” Prince insists.
Bobby sighs and looks over at his friend, who’s leaning against the wall at an absurd angle. “Prince.”
“You never know who will light up your life,” Prince says, his gaze suddenly serious. “Sometimes they just stumble into you
when you’re not looking.”
“Whatever you say,” Bobby agrees, his head a little heavy—with melancholy or alcohol, he’s not sure.
Prince smiles blearily and opens his mouth, but whatever he plans to say is drowned out by the sound of Cunningham falling
against a bush, heaving his guts out.
Demeroven stumbles back from him, checking that he made it out of the splash zone. “Wristead’s gone home.”
“Just us left, then?” Bobby asks, trying not to look at the mess seeping out from the roots of Cunningham’s bush, or at Demeroven,
who looks even more beautiful under the lamplight. Frazzled and frustrated suits him. Oh, Lord, no wonder he’s become...
infatuated; he frustrates Demeroven every time they speak.
“Perhaps we should think about ending the night before someone winds up sleeping in the gutter?” Demeroven suggests.
“Nonsense,” Cunningham says, straightening up and wiping his mouth. “We’ve three more pubs to hit before dawn.”
Prince sags against Bobby’s shoulder, and Bobby and Demeroven exchange a look. “Cunningham, if we take this man to another
pub, he won’t make it to his wedding tomorrow. Look at the poor sod.”
Cunningham gives Prince a once-over and sighs dramatically. “Fine, fine. Put him in a coach and we’ll drink to his honor.”
Prince hiccoughs and wraps his other arm around Bobby’s stomach. “Nighty-night.”
“I think I’ll see him home,” Bobby says, glancing from Cunningham to Demeroven.
Demeroven jumps in. “And if the groom is leaving, I think I should—”
“Nonsense, Demeroven, we’ve hours left!” Cunningham insists, reaching out to take Demeroven’s arm.
“I see only the strongest have survived,” a voice calls out.
Bobby looks over as Thomas Parker strolls across the street with Jeremy the bartender in tow. They’re a pair of grins with matching mustaches and overeager eyes. Cunningham whoops in excitement.
“The club’s gone quiet without you lot, so we thought we’d come and join the party,” Parker continues, glancing among them.
“Cunningham show you the spots I recommended?”
“And then some,” Cunningham says brightly. “Just about to take Demeroven on to Sloughthams. Mason’s making Prince pack it
in.”
Demeroven meets Bobby’s eyes, terror on his face. Cunningham, Parker, and Jeremy would eat him alive, and possibly get him
tossed in jail. Bobby can’t leave the man alone with them.
“Demeroven, help me get Prince home? Cunningham, gentlemen, we’ll see you in the morning. Early, remember?”
“Of course, milords,” Cunningham says.
He sweeps into a deep bow, belches, and then turns to Parker and Jeremy. He merrily wraps his arms about their shoulders.
Parker and Jeremy salute Prince, Demeroven, and Bobby, and the three of them saunter off, exchanging shouts of delight.
“If he makes it to the wedding in proper attire, I’ll be shocked,” Bobby mutters.
Demeroven hums exhaustedly. He steps up on Prince’s other side and gently tugs Prince’s arm from Bobby’s stomach. Bobby tries
not to watch the way Demeroven maneuvers Prince’s arm over his shoulder. Tries to ignore the little smile he gives Prince
as Prince blathers something about Demeroven being the best. Bobby’s focus needs to be on getting everyone home safely; that’s
it.
“Think they’ll all even be alive by daybreak?” Demeroven mutters, shuffling under Prince’s weight as they head for the next coach stand. Their height difference definitely isn’t helping.
“Alive, yes. Functional, debatable,” Bobby says. “Cunningham’s beyond drunk.”
“What can you do with a drunken sailor?” Prince sings hoarsely.
Bobby and Demeroven both laugh. Bobby looks across and catches Demeroven’s eye, smiling.
“C’mon, Demeroven. We sang this every practice,” Prince whines.
“For what?” Bobby wonders. It’s hardly a good pace-keeper.
“When we brought the boats down to the river in winter. Kept up morale,” Demeroven says. “But, Prince, I really don’t—”
“Sing, or I’m lying down,” Prince threatens, digging in his heels.
Bobby lurches forward, as does Demeroven, the three of them nearly toppling headlong into the stone wall along the sidewalk.
“Weigh hey and up she rises,” Demeroven sings gruffly, blushing as Bobby tries not to laugh.
“Weigh hey and up she rises,” Prince repeats happily.
“Weigh hey and up she rises, early in the morning,” Demeroven continues.
“Put him in the longboat till he’s sober,” Prince slurs.
“Maybe we should do that to you,” Bobby suggests, turning their awkward threesome to approach the curb just as a coach arrives
at the stop.
“Put him in the longboat till he’s sober, early in the morning!” Prince exclaims, loud enough for the whole street to hear.
Demeroven groans. Bobby digs in his pocket and fishes out a pound to pay the coachman, hoping it’ll cover any damage should Prince go the way Cunningham did.
“My apologies in advance,” Bobby says as he passes it to the driver.
The driver just shakes his head and pockets the money. “Where to?”
“Maddox and St.George,” Bobby says.
Demeroven hops up first and braces himself in the cabin to help pull Prince up.
Prince mumbles something incoherent and Demeroven snorts as Bobby pushes Prince up the steps. Demeroven gets him settled inside
and Bobby vaults up unsteadily. Everything feels a little hazy, though that could just be the hour.
He hesitates, stooped in the door of the coach. Prince has sprawled out on the opposite bench, leaving Bobby no choice but
to sit beside Demeroven. And Demeroven is seated ramrod straight, as far to his side as humanly possible. Excellent.
With a sigh, Bobby slides in, keeping as much distance from Demeroven as he can, and slams the door closed. Prince groans
and just for that Bobby taps the ceiling hard enough it makes his own head hurt.
The carriage lurches off from the curb, throwing Bobby and Demeroven into each other. They scramble to separate, pointedly
not looking at each other. Prince watches blankly and Bobby thanks God that he’s not sober.
“Catherine is so pretty,” Prince says.
Ah, more than preoccupied enough with his own love life, then.
“I look forward to meeting her tomorrow,” Demeroven says.
“She’s looking forward to meeting both of you. Told her loads about you.”
Bobby and Demeroven do exchange a glance then. “Oh?”
“How you’re both lovely chaps who need to get married,” Prince says merrily.
“Prince,” Bobby whines.
Prince rolls his eyes and looks to Demeroven. “When are you settling down with a nice girl, hmm?”
“Oh, I’m—I’m not even thinking about it,” Demeroven says.
“Well, that’s not good enough. It’s not something you do with your head, anyhow, is it?” Prince says brightly.
“Depends on which head we’re discussing,” Bobby mutters.
Demeroven snorts and Bobby can’t help but grin. Prince looks over at them, puzzled.
“Your heart!” he says dolefully.
“Right, right, the heart,” Bobby says, holding up his hands. “My apologies. Demeroven, what does your heart say?”
Demeroven groans. “That it’s been fed too many poems and sonnets, and had too much fish and chips, and now it burns.”
“My heart burns for Catherine,” Prince says.
“I’m sure it does,” Demeroven says primly. He then glances at Bobby and blushes, running a hand through his hair. “What do
you think it’ll be like, marriage? I know you love her, but the marriage part’s a whole other thing.”
Oh, he’s clever. A bit of a treacly question, but Prince does like to pontificate when he’s drunk.
“I think it’ll be glorious,” Prince says, his indignation falling away to that dreamy look Bobby finds both endearing and
annoying. “’S like living with your best friend for the rest of time, isn’t it? What could be better?”
Neither Bobby nor Demeroven seems to have a good response. Prince begins to wax poetic about Miss Langston’s various attributes as they turn down the long avenue that will eventually arrive at Prince’s townhouse. Bobby can’t bring himself to look at Demeroven.
He hasn’t hated tonight. Taking care of the group together has almost been... fun, in its way. And Demeroven makes a good
teammate. Are he and Demeroven friends? Would they really have enough of a foundation to build something more? And does that
matter, really, if Demeroven’s unwilling to even consider it?