“I look forward to it,” Raverson says, nudging James.
Stepfather nods brightly and then looks back to the game, immediately engrossed in the intense scrum on the field. Leaving James sandwiched between his stepfather and Raverson, on the edge of a panic attack.
Stepfather hasn’t let James get a word in edgewise on the agenda, just barked his instructions, as if James couldn’t possibly have any opinions of his own on the matter. And now he’s going to lunch with Raverson? James has never been worth his time; it stands to reason he’ll be looking for a replacement son while he’s here in London. What a happy accident that Stepfather gets what he wants and gets to demean James in the process.
But what does Raverson get out of it?
“What are you doing?” James asks, impressed that it comes out as anything more than a strangled whisper.
“Watching rugby,” Raverson says, winking at him.
James clenches his fists and nudges Raverson, forcing him a little further down the bench so James can scoot a few feet away from his stepfather. Raverson shifts without comment, pulling out his handkerchief to blow his nose.
“Why are you inviting my stepfather to lunch?” James demands, watching Raverson meticulously fold the handkerchief into a delicate series of small triangles.
“You must use your contacts, Demeroven. First rule of parliament.”
James narrows his eyes just as something exciting happens on the field. A goal, a scrum, a dance break, he isn’t sure. Theuproar from the crowd is immediate, including Raverson, who shouts gleefully. But the loudest in attendance by far are Lady Gwen and Mason, hooting for much longer than the rest, and then breaking into giggles while Miss Bertram watches them fondly.
James finds his eyes stuck on the three of them, envy gnawing at his gut. There they are, happy and carefree. How is it fair that Bobby Mason gets a loving family, and he has... this?
“Awfully conspicuous, aren’t they?” Raverson asks, bringing James’ attention back to his smarmy, beautiful face.
James feels a frustrating need to defend his cousin, which means he has to defend the lot of them. “They’re enjoying themselves.”
“Yes, they do like their pleasures, don’t they?” Raverson asks, before whipping the handkerchief back out to sneeze.
“You still have hay fever?” James wonders, frowning as Raverson makes a show of folding the handkerchief again.
And then James’ blood runs cold. That’s Mason’s handkerchief. The one he used to try to clean James up that night at Parker’s club. White with little yellow daisies. Dainty and lovely, and in Raverson’s hand, covered with Raverson’s snot.
It could be nothing, James rationalizes. Mason offered it to him to wipe his own vomit; it’s not like it’s a treasured possession.
But then James thinks of his own handkerchief, the one Raverson kept and used in all of their mutual classes, at all of their social gatherings. A token as if to say:Look what I know about you. Look how intimate we’ve been. Look what I could tell all these people.
If Raverson has Mason’s handkerchief—
Mason whoops again down the stands.
“He is loud, isn’t he?” Raverson remarks, twisting the handkerchief between his fingers.
“I suppose,” James manages, glancing over at Mason. He blinks against an onslaught of images of Mason and Raverson... together. It twists something in his stomach, horror and arousal mixing into nausea.
“You know, he’s loud during other activities too,” Raverson continues, with such a carefully calculated, casual air. Like he lets these things slip in subtle ways all the time. Which James knows he does.
“What are you planning to do with this information?” James asks, wincing at his own lack of tact. But that pressure in his chest is growing larger. If Raverson knows about both Mason and James, the damage he could find a way to inflict on both of their families with just a little more proof—
“Oh, nothing. Yet,” Raverson says, shrugging and leaning back against the stands in a stretch that does everything to accentuate the lithe, long line of his body. “But it’s always good to have some insurance, isn’t it? For when times get lean.”
James grinds his teeth together. “You’ve more than enough to give up these childish games for drinking money,” he mutters.
“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Demeroven. You’ve always thought small.”
“A title and land aren’t enough for you?” James wonders, looking up at Raverson to find his eyes sharp and calculating.
“True power, true influence, requires much more than my father’s meager estate,” he says, leaning around James as Mason and Lady Gwen continue to heckle Lord Mason. “But what you have—the intimate connections...”
A chill runs down James’ spine at his words. “You wouldn’t dare.”
