“Honestly, it’s MissBertram you should really be watching out for,” Bobby says. “Demeroven skated by on her prowess.”
“I’d hardly say I skated,” Demeroven says, flipping the final card. “Trump is spades, gentlemen,” he says, gesturing for everyone to take their cards. “I believe my cousin and I are simply a team well suited.”
“Suited, he’s funny,” Cunningham says.
Bobby turns the first trick, playing his two of diamonds. He tries to ignore Demeroven fidgeting beside him.
“Always was a cutup on the sculls,” Prince says.
“I wouldn’t have guessed,” Bobby says, hearing the snide edge to his voice as Prince plays a five of diamonds on his two.
It bothers him that Prince seems to know only the funny, charming version of Demeroven Bobby’s briefly seen in flashes.
“Yes, well, you are fond of assumptions, aren’t you?” Demeroven replies. “Isn’t he?” he adds to Cunningham.
“I suppose,” Cunningham says, glancing at Prince’s five and then at his own hand.
“Oh, stop stalling and play, Cunningham,” Prince says, exasperated. “He always does this,” he adds for Demeroven’s sake.
It’s why Bobby loves a hand of whist with Cunningham. Gives you enough time for a few sips, and Cunningham’s lethargy always allows Bobby to recall the suits. Unfortunately, it seems the same goes for Demeroven, who’s lightning fast to lay down a ten of diamonds on Cunningham’s six of clubs.
“I was thinking we’d make the stag night a pub crawl, complete with hats,” Cunningham says, winking at Prince.
“Hats,” Bobby repeats.
“Gaudy ones,” Cunningham says brightly. “Not quite sure where to get them, but we could even have letters sewn on in honor of Prince’s stag night.”
“I don’t think we should have any identification on us if it’s to be a pub crawl,” Prince says while Bobby hesitates to lay down his next card. He has a jack, but has the sneaking suspicion that Demeroven has a king.
“My mother has found a most garish modiste. I’m sure I could persuade her to make them for us if I go in at an off hour,” Demeroven says.
“Perfect,” Cunningham says.
“When would you have time to visit a modiste for personalized hats?” Bobby wonders, watching Prince mull over his next hand.
They’re a contemplative batch of card players, and he can tell it’s starting to grate on Demeroven.
“I’ll go when parliament’s in session, at high tea time,” Demeroven says, tossing an ace down on top of Cunningham’s triumphantly played king. Blast.
“You’re going to skip a parliamentary session for hats?” Bobby asks, indignant.
Demeroven shrugs as he gathers the trick. “There’ll be another.”
“Yes, another,” Cunningham says, glomming on to the last word, as is his habit when he’s not really listening. He grabs his empty glass. “Prince, help me get the next round.”
Prince holds up a finger to pause their game before following Cunningham back toward the kitchen. Demeroven sighs gustily.
“Why are you here?” Bobby asks, the whisky and his general dour mood leaving his tongue loose and emotions high.
“I beg your pardon?” Demeroven turns to look at him, the two of them sitting close at the far side of the table, pressed up to the wall.
“You should be at Uncle Dashiell’s tonight with Albie, working. And instead, you’re here, planning hat nonsense.”
This close, he’s scruffier than Bobby realized, like he hasn’t shaved in about a day, his eyes slightly bloodshot. “You seem to think my entire life has to revolve around preparations for parliamentary sessions, as if most of the lords don’t spend the entire season drunk or coughing up smoke.”
“And you’re fine with that,” Bobby deduces. “The elder lords don’t care, so why should you? All that power, all that money,all that social capital just thrust under your nose and you’re happy to let it slip through your fingers because it’s too much work?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Demeroven says, his voice a few degrees cooler.
