Far from a cramped little back room at the local inn, the door to D’Vere opens onto an opulent, wealth-laden cigar club. Bright gas lamps and candles light the wide, welcoming space, which is filled with young upstanding men, loitering with cocktails.
The front room is rimmed with deep red leather armchairs and well-stocked bookcases. The wallpaper is a bright blue brocade to match the doorman’s jaunty top hat. The curtains are a deep purple, and even the chessboards and checkers on the low tables around the room are royal purple and lavender. Gilded mirrors and beautiful paintings adorn the walls, and the whole space smells of hops and lilac.
James is definitely not in Epworth anymore.
He stares out at the room, intimidated, excited, and intrigued. He’s never been anywhere that looks like this, nor that’s filled with quite this many men, who must all... be of his persuasion, or they wouldn’t have found the place.
That nagging voice that always sounds too much like his stepfather’s cackles in his head: He’s bad with people. He’s bad at conversation. He’ll be a disappointment here, just like he is in parliament, just like he was at the garden party.
“Ah, a new guest—come in, come in.”
James blinks, startled to find his entrance hasn’t gone unnoticed. Instead, a tall, willowy man, dressed in a frock coat that matches the blue brocade wallpaper, stands there beaming athim. He’s got the same large mustache as the man downstairs, but in a dark chestnut.
His face is familiar. Round and open, with the widow’s peak and notch in his eyebrow... “You must be Thomas Parker, Reginald’s brother,” James hears himself say.
“Lord Demeroven!” Parker says, his smile turning somehow more magnetic. “My stars, it is such a pleasure to meet you. Reginald talks about you in all his letters—discreetly, of course.”
James feels himself blushing. “Well, he talks about you just as much,” he says, taking Parker’s extended hand.
Parker gives him an enthusiastic handshake and then quickly slides his hand up to link his arm through James’. “A tour,” he announces, spinning them to gesture broadly at the room. “Welcome to D’Vere, where every type of man is welcome, the drinks flow freely, and the secrets stay inside.”
James looks over the room again, noting the fine details, like the multicolored glasses and the blue suspenders on the bartender, who also has a large, well-styled mustache. James still hasn’t managed to grow a respectable one, and Mother never talks about his father, so he has no idea if his delayed facial hair is inherited or not. Not that he’s ever worked up the courage to ask.
“What’ll you have?”
“Oh, ah, whisky?”
“Excellent choice,” Thomas says, tapping the bar. “Jeremy, the best whisky we have for Lord Demeroven.” James fights a wince as his voice bounces around the room. “Don’t worry,” Parker says, smiling as James looks up to meet his eyes. “Like I said, secrets stay inside.”
“Right,” James says, taking the whisky from Jeremy thebartender. He takes a sip, delighting in the smooth, rich flavor and pleasant afterburn. “Delicious.”
“Isn’t it? Jeremy, remind me, we want to place a standing order with them. It’s made at this charming distillery on the border with Scotland, you know?” he tells James as he guides him away from the bar. “Lovely chap by the name of Gaddie. Met him in one of the Edinburgh clubs. Have you ever been?”
“No,” James says, trying to keep up with Parker’s rapid-fire delivery and also take stock of the second room they’ve entered, inviting with deep burgundy couches, armchairs, a bearskin rug, and even more bookshelves. “I see you collect,” James says, gesturing with his drink to the shelves.
“Of course, of course,” Parker says, smiling fondly around at the books. “I make it a point to worm my way into every salon in each city I visit. These books have seen the furthest reaches of Europe.”
“That sounds fascinating,” James says, intrigued but unsurprised. It’s clear just to look at him that Parker charms each person he meets.
“There’s a library upstairs as well, if you ever need somewhere comfortable to study up,” Parker says, gesturing toward the staircase they passed between the two rooms.
“How many floors are there?” James asks.
“Three,” Parker says proudly. “The library and further salon rooms are on the next floor, and the rented rooms are on the third.”
“Rented rooms,” James repeats, feeling his back stiffen. He tries to pass it off with a smile, but Parker raises an eyebrow.
“To be rented by consenting men who need a safe place to meet. I’m sure now you’re here you realize how few spaces such as this exist.” James winces guiltily. “Though, if you are looking for some respectable men for rent, I can point you in anynumber of directions,” Parker continues, that look of reproach melting into a sly smirk.
“Oh, no, thank you,” James says quickly. He’s so outgunned here.
“Well, if you ever need recommendations, for good houses, good food, good theater, you just come and see me. Reginald will send you to the stuffiest of spots. I’ll find you the fun.”
James forces his shoulders to relax and takes a sip of whisky. “Thank you—I’ll remember that.”
Parker walks them back into the main parlor. James can feel him starting to pull away and fights the urge to hold on. It’s not that conversation with Parker feels safe, exactly, but it certainly feels safer than facing the glut of intrigued faces milling about the front parlor.
“Now, Viscount, I’ll leave you in the capable hands of”—Parker looks around just as Jeremiah Prince shuffles through the door—“ah, Prince, wonderful. I’d love for you to meet—”
