“What?” James manages, his voice a squeak against the silence.
“In that stack. Has notes from Lord Hirsmith about his wife’s palsy. Find it and pass it here, would you?”
James straightens up to page through the stack. His hand twitches and he knocks another stack of mildly organized pages across the table. Lord Mason drops the paper he’s holding to rub at his temples.
“Sorry,” James says meekly.
“No, no. Hardly ruining a system here. My apologies, Demeroven. How are you?”
James pauses in his nascent search to meet Lord Mason’s eyes. “I’m well. How are you?”
“Exhausted,” Lord Mason admits, stretching his arms over his head. “Was up half the night trying to collate these, and then a letter arrived from my wife and I—” He pauses as the porter arrives with their tea.
The man places down a fresh pot and china set with nary a blink as he moves papers around to make more space. Jameswonders if Lord Mason has made a practice out of working here. Wonders if the staff is as worried as he is.
“Thank you, Lars,” Lord Mason says. Lars bows and then fades away. “Good tea,” Lord Mason adds, pouring cups for himself and James.
“How is your wife?” James asks, holding his teacup on the saucer. He’s a bit worried if he picks it up, he’ll shake the tea right out of it.
“At her wit’s end, honestly,” Lord Mason says, taking a gulp of the scalding tea as if it’s lukewarm. “They’ve tried everything to get the vomiting to stop, but so far, she can barely keep anything down. I’m worried that—” He presses his lips together and sets down his cup. “Hirsmith’s notes had something about the antiemetic properties of some herb. I’ve been trying to find it, but my system is... dismal, to quote my brother.”
James shifts uncomfortably at the mention of the younger Mason, sure the viscount is about to start in on him. But Lord Mason only scrubs at his face.
James scans the table, realizing that each paper is a different set of notes. He knows they’ve been asking prominent families to refer them to physicians for further discussion, but this is extreme. “How many husbands have you interviewed?”
“Twenty?” Lord Mason wagers. “I’ve done a lot of ancillary research based on each conversation.”
“I see,” James says, nudging his teacup over so he can pick up a few of the pages.
Perhaps the viscount’s been too preoccupied with working up the Medical Act and simultaneously trying to find cures for his sick wife to actually talk to his brother and discover what a lout James has been.
“I don’t have many contacts in the city, but I could work on organizing these, and meet with you twice a week to keep itgoing, if that would be helpful?” James suggests, hoping that making more of an effort will quell the burrowing feeling in his guts.
Here he’s been so obsessed with his own reputation while Lord Mason is clearly killing himself to do this research for his desperately ill wife on top of his parliamentary duties. The least James can do is help with the parliamentary business. And perhaps if he organizes it, he can be seen as a little more useful to the effort—earn the good reputation he waved beneath Mason’s nose at the opera. Because if Lord Mason is Mr.Mason’s standard of work, no wonder he finds James so lacking.
“That could be—” Lord Mason starts.
“Hand them here,” James says, sitting up straight and reaching out for the stack furthest from Lord Mason. “Do you want it by specialty, region, or surname?”
Lord Mason’s lips turn up, the closest to a smile James thinks he’ll get. “Region, to start.”
“And then subcategories for specialty. Good thinking,” James completes.
Lord Mason’s shoulders droop in relief and James vows silently to show up three times a week to help from now on, whether Bobby Mason sees him do it or not.
***
James leans back against the wall, watching the swirl of dancers on the floor. He’s been loitering at the edge of the ballroom for over an hour, and not a single person has stopped to greet him or say anything at all. Granted, he’s mostly hidden behind a large floral arrangement on a plinth.
He should be concerned, but the reprieve of being unnoticed is a relief. A moment’s escape from the endless rounds of notes and organization he’s been doing with Lord Mason. He missesthe silence and solitude of the country keenly at balls like this. But as the minutes tick by with nothing to occupy his hands, James begins to get antsy.
He spots his cousin and Lady Gwen across the floor, standing with a group of pastel-clad debutantes. His cousin is wearing a lovely green dress, and Lady Gwen complements her in a deep blue, the two of them clearly the center of attention in their little circle. But though they look beautiful, unlike normal evenings, when it’s almost impossible to get a word in edgewise between them, it looks like they’re barely speaking.
He watches Lady Gwen bend down to say something softly in his cousin’s ear, pointing to someone on the floor. His cousin huffs and takes Lady Gwen’s arm, looking up at her to snip something back, before hauling her out of the room and toward the lavatories. Concern slithers into James’ chest. He hopes they’re not fighting about something he said.
But that’s rather self-centered of him. His cousin and her stepsister have their own lives that have nothing to do with his poor behavior. He hadn’t been planning on approaching them, still searching for a polite way to apologize for his deplorable words at the opera. But James feels a pang of regret as they disappear from the room. Now even if he does work up the courage to apologize, he can’t even manage that.
The antsy, unsettled feeling in his chest starts to crescendo and James gives in to the pull of the drinks table, venturing forlornly out of his little hidey-hole to cross the room. He notices Mason and Cunningham ducking out to the patio and thinks for a moment of following them. Mason deserves an apology too, especially given the nights they’ve awkwardly avoided each other at Lord Mason’s townhouse. For all he knows, Mason hasn’t even been home this week. Chasing the man out of his house certainly wasn’t his intention in trying to help his brother.
