Bobby bristles. “It was just—”
“Stupid,” Uncle Dashiell supplies.
It was stupid. It was reckless, and irresponsible. But it was just—it was just— “You wouldn’t be acting this way if you’d caught Albie with Meredith,” he says, a strange hurt surging up his throat.
“If I had caught Albert with Lady Mason before their engagement, I would have dragged him outside and shouted until his ears rang, and then he would have proposed to her on the spot,” Uncle Dashiell says, his face still that stone mask, shoulderstense. “But that would be the end of it. Your indiscretion here could cost all of us our livelihoods, let alone our reputations.”
“But it’s fine when Gwen does it?” Bobby hears himself say.
He clamps his lips shut and glances around. He needs to stop digging this hole before he reaches the other side of the earth. But how can his uncle act this way when—
“My daughter is protected, Beth is protected, and you know it is not in any way the same. Do not try and slander them to save your own skin.”
“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it!” Bobby snaps. “But if you’re willing to accept her, why am I— Why won’t you—” To his horror, his throat is starting to tighten, his eyes stinging.
“Because I do not want to see you thrown in prison,” Uncle Dashiell hisses back. “I do not care with whom you get your pleasure, though I suggest you take better care not to find yourself in dark corners with young men so eager to extort your relatives.”
Bobby curls his hands into fists. He is not going to cry, not here, not now, not in front of the uncle he’s already disappointed.
“You must keep your activities private, for all our sakes,” Uncle Dashiell says, staring him down until Bobby manages to nod. “Now, can I trust you to see the girls home?”
“Yes, sir,” Bobby whispers, struggling to breathe through his nose without sniffling.
Uncle Dashiell steps around him to head toward their box. Bobby stares at the empty corridor, trying to keep from letting his shoulders shake, his breath rattling.
“Robert.”
Bobby sucks in air and turns to find his uncle right behindhim. Uncle Dashiell places both hands on his shoulders and Bobby lets out a very quiet sob.
“It isn’t fair. You’re right. And I am sorry this is the world you must live in. When we are both less emotional, we can discuss this.”
“Okay,” Bobby mumbles.
“Go get yourself cleaned up,” Uncle Dashiell says, squeezing his shoulders before releasing him to walk over to his box.
Bobby nearly throws himself into the men’s water closet, unable to face seeing Demeroven off to do important work—off to impresshisuncle after Bobby has so disgraced him.
He stumbles to the water basin and stares down at the water. What if his father was just the prelude and it’s Bobby who’s finally going to sink the Mason name, and bring Albie, Gwen, and Beth down with him?
Chapter Ten
James
James pulls at his cravat as he follows the porter through the Oxford Club. It’s been two days of shallow breaths and the horrible sinking realization that he deserves every unkind word that’s ever been said about him, and then some.
Neither Lady Gwen nor his cousin would look at him for the rest of the performance, and he didn’t even see Mason as Lord Havenfort escorted him out. Then he sat with Lord Havenfort and Lord Mason at the Havenfort townhouse, listening to them detail all the work they’ve been doing, and he felt like more and more of a cad with each passing second.
And now he’s here, at the viscount’s club, and he feels like his stomach would escape up his throat if it weren’t so tight. How can he face Lord Mason after he treated his brother and family so callously? Surely Mason has told him about James’ behavior. And if Mason didn’t, Lady Gwen must have. His cousin’s disappointment was a quiet simmer, but Lady Gwen’s was outright defiant—a curl to her lip and a darkness to her eyes that didn’t let up through the whole performance.
He reaches Lord Mason’s corner, surrounded by tall bookshelves with one high, narrow window letting in the dreary daylight. The room is hazy with cigar smoke. There are two finished cups of tea on the table surrounded by all manner of papers covered in ink stains and cramped, small writing.
“Thank you,” James tells the porter. The man bows and hurries off with a mutter of bringing more tea.
The viscount looks as bad as his work area. His narrow face is drawn, bags under his bloodshot eyes. James watches him run an agitated hand through his hair. He gestures without a word for James to take the opposite seat.
James sits, trying to gird himself. He’s good at being dressed down, has lots of experience. And at least this time, he deserves it. But as he waits, and waits, the viscount offers nothing, simply turning back to his papers, riffling through them and muttering to himself.
“There’s a page over there,” Lord Mason says after an uncomfortably long minute.
