That pit in his stomach only grows deeper as he listens to them plan out his week, and Demeroven’s with Albie. Gwen has Beth, the two of them secretly in love and free to spend all their time together as they please. And now Albie has Demeroven in parliament. Where does that leave him?
“I am sorry to hear about your wife,” Demeroven says. “Is she feeling any better?”
That pulls Bobby back, forcing him to shake off his melancholy.
“Thank you,” Albie replies. “The doctors swear she’ll be better in a month or so, but it is... difficult to see.”
“I guess the registration of physicians might go some way to ensuring your wife has proper care,” Demeroven says.
Albie nods seriously. “Speaking of which, we’d best meet those gentlemen Uncle Dashiell told us about before they escape.”
And then it’s just Bobby, Beth, and Gwen once again. Bobby stands glumly beside them, listening as they make plans to cheer Meredith up, and then move on to what they want to have for dinner, and then something whispered too low to hear. But it makes Beth blush scarlet, so that was probably rather the point.
Bobby leans back against the tree and looks up into its newly green leaves. He closes his eyes and breathes in the damp spring air, running his fingers over the etched initials on his signet ring. Perhaps he should go to Thomas Parker’s club, see if he can’t build connections beyond his cousin, her lover, her dyspeptic cousin, and his brother. Somewhere where he’ll be distracted enough to forget about Meredith’s dangerous pregnancy, and his aunt’s upcoming dangerous childbirth.
Somewhere where perhaps someone would hold his hand and tell him everything will be all right.
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, heknows 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 glancingback, 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.
