Chapter Twenty-One
Bobby
“The entire chandelier came down,” Lady Harrington says.
They all gape at her, gathered around the card table in the sitting room. Beth, Gwen, and Meredith have made a team of three,
with Albie and Lady Harrington, and Bobby and James paired up in what has become a truly competitive game of whist.
“Was anyone hurt?” Beth asks as Lady Harrington takes the latest trick.
“No, but Mr.Pinches’ father did have to pay for the chandelier and about seven ladies’ gowns, since it came down on the drinks
table and sent wine flying everywhere. Your father wasn’t allowed out for two weeks after that,” Lady Harrington tells Meredith.
“As I recall, he got his revenge by convincing five of his school friends to sneak in, steal Mr.Pinches out of his bed, and
float him into the lake in the park on a skiff,” Meredith says, playing her ace to take the next trick.
“And he stayed asleep the whole time?” Bobby asks.
“Well, Lord Harrington may have paid a valet to get him drunk,” Lady Harrington says with an innocent shrug. “Honestly, it’s
a wonder we ever got married.”
“It did take another season for Father to prove himself to Grandfather after that,” Meredith says.
“It’s a good thing they were a few years ahead of my father. It would have been chaos,” Gwen says, clearly intentionally losing a few low hearts as they go around the table.
“Absolutely,” Beth agrees.
“Oh, like your mother wouldn’t have helped,” Gwen says.
“Lady Havenfort wouldn’t have gone that far,” James says. All six of them stare incredulously back at him. “Would she?”
“Assume that your aunt has the schemes of Gwen, the calculation of Beth, and every mad impulse of Uncle Dashiell. She just
hides them better than we ever could,” Albie says.
“Oh, dear,” James mutters. He glances across at Bobby and plays his ten of hearts.
Bobby nudges his leg beneath the table in understanding. It’s shameful, actually, that they’re cheating and still getting
beaten. Because of course after Bobby plays his king, Albie has the ace, and takes the trick, winning the round.
Bobby leans back in defeat. “Lady Harrington, is there any mischief you and your husband didn’t get up to during the season?”
Lady Harrington fixes him with the most sardonic look he’s ever received, and he flushes up to his ears. “In terms of pranks,
of course.”
“I never played any pranks,” she says slowly.
“You gave Father all the ideas!” Meredith says.
Gwen and Beth cackle and Lady Harrington shrugs, taking a large sip of her wine. “Maybe,” she admits.
James snorts and then Bobby finds himself perfectly upright as James’ foot makes its way up his ankle.
“Final round,” Albie says, taking his turn to deal out the table. “You’d have to win... oh, every trick to overtake us,”
he tells Bobby and James. “And you three are simply playing for pride,” he tells the girls.
“Or we’ll just be trying to ensure you get no tricks at all,” Meredith says.
Bobby watches his brother try to look competitively at his wife and completely fail. He’s just too besotted, and something else behind his eyes Bobby can’t name. At least not with James’ foot trailing against the most sensitive part of his calf.
He needs to concentrate. He kicks James lightly, raising his eyebrows. James sits up straight. Albie looks between them and
Bobby gives him an innocent smile.
Albie shakes his head and turns the trump. “Diamonds, everyone.”
James taps his left hand and Bobby sucks on his cheek. They’re getting better with their tells. They might just win this hand
yet.
Or not. Because despite their furtive cheating, and Gwen’s, Beth’s, and Meredith’s attempts at intervention, Albie and Lady
Harrington beat James and Bobby by almost thirty points.
“Well, that was humiliating,” Bobby declares as he tosses his remaining card toward James, who’s gathering the cards while
Albie does their final tally.
“Escort me upstairs, ladies,” Lady Harrington says, allowing Gwen to help her up and guide her around the table toward the
hall. “Don’t stay up too late smoking now,” she tells Bobby, James, and Albie.
The three girls follow Lady Harrington out, Meredith turning to smile at Albie before leaving the room. Albie waves her on
with a tight smile, and then rises to hover by the mantel, toying with a cigar they both know he won’t smoke.
James glances between them while he puts the cards away. “I’m actually rather tired,” he says with a theatrical yawn. “I’ll
see you in the morning.”
He stands and comes around the table to clap Bobby on the shoulder. Bobby looks up at him and James jerks his chin toward Albie, who’s now staring down at his cigar with a pronounced frown. Bobby briefly squeezes James’ hand before letting him go. Brother first, other... matters second.
James heads out into the hall and Bobby sits in his chair, waiting. Albie usually does best when left to his own devices.
He’ll talk; he just needs a minute.
But after five, Bobby starts to worry. Albie’s simply standing there, slowly squashing the cigar into a mangled tube.
“Shall we head out onto the terrace, light that?” Bobby suggests, standing to approach his brother slowly.
“Oh. Sorry, I, ah, got distracted. You can head to bed. I’ve work to do.”
Bobby plucks the cigar from his hand and wraps his free arm through Albie’s. “Watch me smoke this on the terrace, get some
fresh air in your lungs. Then you can work yourself to death, all right?”
Albie goes to protest, but Bobby tugs on his arm. The only real advantage of his new physique is his strength. Albie spent
the winter months tied to a desk, and Bobby spent those months outside, running and riding and sword fighting. They were both
hiding, he thinks.
But his coping method has the added benefit now of giving him enough strength to bodily haul his big brother wherever he wants.
Something to keep in mind when Albie isn’t quite this pliable.
Bobby gently shuts the patio doors and guides Albie over to the solid sandstone railing so they can look out over the gardens
and across to the lake together. They used to sit out here and try to enjoy Father’s cigars as boys, hacking up their lungs
and snickering. Not so much fun when Father caught them, but at least then they were in for a beating together. The two of
them against the world.
It hasn’t felt much like that in a long while. Albie behind that desk, Bobby aimless out in the world—they haven’t stood still together, outside of being in a carriage, in months.
“Here, sit,” Bobby says, pulling Albie down to brace their backs against the railing, like they did as children.
“You’re not really going to light it, are you?” Albie asks, looking over at him, his head resting back against the railing,
legs splayed out in front of him, exhausted and drained.
“No,” Bobby says, pocketing the mangled cigar for another time. “Just thought we could use some... air.”
“Air’s good,” Albie says, his eyes drifting back toward the sitting room. “’S been good for Mere.”
“She seems well,” Bobby says cautiously. “And so happy to see you.”
“Yeah,” Albie says, his mouth quirking upward for a moment before that all-too-familiar frown settles over his face again.
“It’ll be lovely to have her with us in London. Really brighten up the place.”
Albie nods, but his frown only deepens. Bobby watches as he balls a fist against his thigh.
“Albie, she’s fine. The doctors have said. You can stop worrying.”
Albie turns his head, fixing Bobby with a glare that could rival their late father’s. Bobby forces himself to remember that
this is his brother, not his father. The look still makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
“Stop worrying? What if she catches cholera? What if she gets consumption? What if the jostling in the carriage makes her
go into labor early? What if someone knocks her down in the street? I could more easily stop worrying if the world wasn’t—
If she wasn’t—”
He breaks off, heaving in air, and Bobby scoots closer, all fear forgotten. Instead, a hollow sadness overtakes his chest. Albie begins to sob quietly, curling in on himself, and Bobby can do nothing but wrap his arm around his big brother and hold on as grief and pain and fear pour out of him. Like they’re boys again, but in reverse—Bobby holding Albie together instead of Albie putting Bobby back to rights.
“She’s strong, Albie,” Bobby murmurs. “We’ll take care of her. And Lady Harrington will only be a few doors away, and Aunt
Cordelia too. And Beth, and Gwen, and God, even Lady Ashmond might come to help, and bring more doctors with her. She’ll have
the very best care.”
“But they die anyway,” Albie says, raising his sniffling head to meet Bobby’s eyes, looking so young and vulnerable.
He’s been telling himself Albie has the viscountcy under control, parliament, marriage, everything. And maybe all along he’s
been cracking while Bobby’s been falling to pieces. They just didn’t bother to talk about it.
“You’ve been reading too many studies,” Bobby says, pushing past the truth of it. “Meredith will be fine. Aunt Cordelia was.
And just think, you’ll have your own little baby soon, even cuter than Frederic. Though, honestly, that’s a high bar,” Bobby
says, smiling as Albie snuffles out a laugh. “You’ll see, it’ll all be fine.”
Albie sighs, his sobs quieting. Bobby lets him sit, tries to provide what meager comfort he can. He doesn’t know that it’ll
all be fine, but he can’t bear to live in the alternative for another four months until Meredith’s baby comes. It would kill
him.
“I feel like I’m walking around in Father’s shoes again,” Albie whispers. Bobby looks over at him and he shrugs, working his
handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his face. “When we were small, we used to put them on and race?”
“Right,” Bobby says, smiling at the memory. “You always won.”
“I had bigger feet,” Albie says simply.
“And now?”
“Parliament, and the finances, and Meredith—it’s like all of it is a few sizes too big. All I want to do is smash things,
Bobs, all the time.”
Bobby blows out a slow breath. “If it helps, me too?”
Albie chuckles wetly. “Uncle Dashiell was terrified while Cordelia was pregnant, but he still—he still managed it all, and
so easily. And I just want to throw everything through a window the second it gets quiet.”
“If it’s the difference between punching the wall and throwing one of Father’s hideous ashtrays out the window, I think smashing
things is the way to go.” Albie looks over at him in exasperation. “Beats smashing people.”
“I guess,” Albie mutters. He wipes at his nose. “I just—I don’t know if I can do this, all of it, and be... good at it.”
Doing this apart, Albie with the title, Bobby out in the world with the family reputation, it’s just made them both angrier.
“So let me help,” he says, shifting to look at Albie head-on.
“I can’t put that on you,” Albie deflects, avoiding Bobby’s eyes to refold his soiled handkerchief.
“I’m offering,” Bobby says, nudging his shoulder. “I’m not trained for much, but I can help with more than the tea parties. I can do research, go to meetings, and do the social stuff. You don’t have to martyr
yourself for the family just because the title fell on you.”
“Bobby,” Albie says gruffly.
“I’ll get Uncle Dashiell to give me... lordly lessons, or something. James could use them as well. And hell, we’ll get
Gwen and Beth in on it too, give them something else to do. I’m sure Uncle Dashiell would approve.”
Albie snorts. “Planning to overthrow me?”
“God, no,” Bobby says, laughing.
“We don’t both have to suffer this,” Albie says.
“We suffer less together than separately,” Bobby says firmly. “And maybe with two of us, it’ll be doable, even fun. Give you
and Meredith some time together. Actually, Meredith being with us will make the social stuff easier. We can host dinner parties.
A team of three, that’s what you said when Father died.”
“I did,” Albie admits, his eyes large and still red-rimmed. But that haunted look has lessened, and Bobby considers it a win.
“Then we’re a team. Of like... six now. Gwen and Beth can help Meredith, and James can work with you and me.”
“It’s ‘James’ now, huh? When did that happen?” Albie asks.
Bobby shrugs as they both haul themselves up to standing. Not quite as comfortable at twenty as it was at seven, but the patio
did its job. Still has some of that brotherly magic in it.
“He’s not so bad,” Bobby deflects, gesturing for Albie to precede him into the sitting room.
The house is still, everyone already in bed, and Bobby finds himself more relaxed after the whole upheaval. Everything out
in the air, a real plan for getting themselves back on track as the... weird little family they are.
“Oh, by the way, you might try to be a bit quieter tonight,” Albie says as they round the second landing onto the third floor.
“What?” Bobby blurts, turning to meet his brother’s all-too-knowing gaze. “I don’t, ah, I don’t know what you mean.”
“I heard some things when I came down last night. Couldn’t sleep is all. Wouldn’t want the staff to get any ideas, though,
you know? So keep it down, but good on you.”
Bobby stands rooted to the spot, openly gaping at his brother. “How did you— How long have you— What...”
Albie smirks, giving him a cheeky wink before he turns to head down his and Meredith’s hallway, leaving Bobby standing there, flabbergasted. Albie figured out Beth and Gwen early on. But he’s never said anything to Bobby about his—about any of it. Don’t ask, don’t tell. It’s how they made it through life with their father, and they haven’t had to discuss it until now. But did Bobby and James mess up somehow, or is Albie just like a bloodhound for relationships that sit... outside the usual parameters?
“It was my foot you were toying with earlier, by the way,” Albie says.
Bobby jerks, turning to find Albie smirking at him before he enters his bedroom. The door shuts and Bobby groans, dropping
his head into his hands.
He stumbles toward his room and then swerves, opening James’ door without knocking. James looks up from his book, startled,
the most darling pair of reading glasses sliding down his nose. But Bobby doesn’t have the words.
Instead, he about-faces and storms back across the hall into his room to flop onto his bed in mortification. When he doesn’t
hear James following, he raises up on his elbows, watching in amused frustration as James peeks out into the hallway, looking
left and right before closing his door and scurrying across the hall into Bobby’s room. He shuts the door and spins around,
looking at Bobby in confusion. If Bobby wasn’t quite so horrified, he’d give James flak for being so overcautious.
As it is, he’s just glad they’re in this together now. He moans and sinks backward, an arm over his eyes. He feels James sit
down at his hip and tries to summon the right words.
“What happened?” James asks, concerned.
“I played footsie with my brother,” Bobby says hoarsely, lowering his arm to look up at James.
“Oh, God,” James says, his face going a bit pale. “Does he—”
“Know about us? He heard us last night,” Bobby whines out.
James’ face loses the rest of its color, his back going straight, and Bobby internally winces. He meant it to be funny. He didn’t mean to put James into a panic.
“Hey,” he says softly, sitting up so he can reach out and stroke James’ cheek. “Albie’s happy for us,” he says, surprised
by the hitch in his own voice. James’ eyes meet his, wide and bright. “Truly. He won’t tell anyone you don’t want to know.
He keeps secrets, you know that.” Perhaps he’s reminding himself as much as he is James, after all. “Hell, you didn’t know
about Beth and Gwen until this weekend, and really, you of all people should have figured it out.”
James huffs out a laugh, his body relaxing just a bit. “I guess.”
“Don’t worry. Albie’s on our side,” Bobby insists, scooting forward to press a soft kiss to James’ lips.
James is stiff beneath him for a moment, and then slowly melts, letting Bobby lay him back against the mattress. He’s already
in his pajamas and a sinfully soft blue robe. “If you’re sure,” James whispers.
Bobby smiles, something bright and warm and free easing softly into his chest. He’s very sure. “You’ll just have to be quieter
tonight,” Bobby mumbles as he leans in to take James’ mouth and works his hand down the front of his robe.
James snorts and pushes Bobby back, giving him the most fantastic look of consternation. “ I am not the problem, Robert.”
“Who, me?” Bobby asks, laughing as James’ look goes from disapproving to predatory. “Am I loud?”
“The loudest,” James says, hands already tripping down the buttons of Bobby’s vest.
“Well, that’s your fault,” Bobby says, unashamed to already be breathing heavily and squirming against James’ thighs.
“My fault?” James returns, pushing the vest off Bobby’s shoulders and then heading straight for his trousers.
“That thing you do with your tongue is utterly incomprehensible,” Bobby insists, laughing as James’ smile turns into a self-satisfied smirk.
“And you want me to stop, so you’re not so loud?” James asks, rucking up Bobby’s shirt.
Bobby raises his arms so James can lift it off him, sighing in delight as James sits up and runs his lips down Bobby’s newly
exposed throat.
“Not on your life,” Bobby groans.
James laughs, the sound rumbling across Bobby’s body. James’ hand slips down his stomach, and Bobby decides he can forget
everything else for the night. Nothing matters except for James’ mouth, and his hand, and his wonderful body. Not pregnancy,
not finances, not parliament, and not the too-big shoes they all have to toddle through adulthood in until they fit.
No, tonight he’ll slick his tongue into James’ mouth and grind down against the hand toying with him, and forget everything
else.