His heartbeat slowly calms as he walks home, passing the backup of hired coaches outside Westminster. Raverson will have other concerns this season. He’ll probably avoid James altogether; no need to focus on him or worry about him. Schoolboy fancies are in the past.
But as his panic over Raverson fades, he thinks back on Lord Mason’s insulted look. He didn’t mean to give off the impression he doesn’t care about parliament. But it’s not as if his vote will matter, not as if they’ll make any lasting change with these acts. The country’s deeply unequal. A registration of physicians won’t matter to the poor; they’ll take any doctor they can get—who cares where he’s educated?
By the time he reaches the Demeroven townhouse, James is feeling downright dour. He’s disappointed his only real connections in the Lords already, proved himself worthless merely by getting distracted. Some triumphant first day.
Then he pushes open the front door of his townhouse.
“It’s not your money to decide!” his mother shrieks from the first landing, glaring down at his stepfather, who’s teetering by the base of the stairs, red-faced and already drunk at midafternoon.
“You cannot understand the pressure I’ve been under!” his stepfather shouts back. “Keeping this place running while your disappointment of a son finally grew up. And now—now—you want to tell me I haven’t any authority anymore because he’s come of age? How dare you—”
“James, tell him, tell him!” his mother insists, spotting him as he tries to quietly slip back outside. She’s wearing a dressing gown, her graying hair falling out of the plait over her shoulder.
“Tell him what?” James asks, exhaustion heavy on his tongue.
“Tell him to give me my allowance.”
“She’s already gone and spent it,” his stepfather interjects. “You can’t give her more.”
“You give him drinking and gambling money, but you won’t allow your poor mother an extra few pounds for dresses?” she asks, blue eyes wide and pleading.
“A few pounds—how many dresses do you need, woman? You hardly leave with those blasted headaches. You cannot have any more.”
“That’s not your decision to make!”
James listens as they continue their argument, the sound bouncing dully around the room. For all that the paintings his mother acquired are horrible, at least they muffle some of the echo.
“Weigh in here, Viscount,” his stepfather sneers. James forces himself to shuffle into the middle of the room. “You’re the man of the house now.”
James rubs at his temples and glances between them. “How much do you need, Mother?”
Her face lights up, all that angry bitterness falling away. She beams down at him. “My son, the sweetheart.”
“Your son the weakling,” Stepfather cuts in. “Can’t even stand up to your own ma, can you?”
“Will another month’s allowance suffice?” James asks his mother, ignoring his stepfather’s groan.
“That would be wonderful, dearest,” she says, nearly dancing on the spot. “Oh, I’ll have such lovely dresses, and I’ll get you new top hats, and gloves, and cuff links as well.”
“That’s great, Mother,” James says, forcing a smile for her.
She claps her hands and spins to head back upstairs, leaving James and his stepfather alone in the foyer.
“You’re pathetic,” Stepfather says.
James bobs his head. “All right.”
Stepfather glares and then storms into the study to slam the door. It shakes the walls with a resounding boom and James stands there alone in the ringing resulting silence.
Pathetic. That appears to be the opinion of the day.
He stares around at the garish paintings and busts. It seemsparliament won’t provide any meaningful connection. And being in this house offers nothing more than exhausting arguments, insults, and further wounds to his already minuscule pride.
Perhaps he should try Thomas Parker’s club, see if he can’t find a single place in London where he can feel safe. Where he can feel like he belongs.
Chapter Three
Bobby
