Alex stood up to shake Oliver’s hand—looking way more comfortable with him than I did. “Of the Devonshire Twaddles.”

“Alex, this is my…um…boyfriend, Oliver Blackwood.”

“Are you sure?” Alex glanced between us. “I thought you didn’t have a boyfriend. Didn’t we have this entire plan where you were going to find someone to pretend to be your boyfriend because you didn’t have a boyfriend?”

I sank down into my chair. “Yes. We did. And this is him.”

“Ah. With you.” He transparently was not with us. “How about a drink, Oliver?”

“That would be lovely.” Oliver settled onto the sofa next to Alex, crossing one leg elegantly over the other, and looking very much at ease.

While I was teetering on the edge of my crap chair like I was waiting outside the headmaster’s office. At least the headmaster’s office of the kind of school Alex and Oliver had probably gone to. They probably had portraits of the queen everywhere. They probably used them as blackboards. Fuck. I might as well go home and leave my fake boyfriend to bond with the office ninny.

“Did you say the Devonshire Twaddles?” enquired Oliver smoothly. “Any relation to Richard Twaddle?”

“My father actually, God rest his soul.”

I stared at him. “Alex, you never told me your dad died.”

“Oh, he didn’t. Why would you think that?”

“Because…never mind.”

“So”—Alex turned back to Oliver—“how do you know the old bugger?”

“I don’t know him, but he’s a big advocate for restricting the right to trial by jury so I have a sort of professional interest.”

“That sounds like him. Talks about it round the dinner table all the time. Says they cost the government a huge amount of money, that people are only in favour of them because of silly sentimentality, and they spread tuberculosis.”

“I’m not sure,” said Oliver, “but I think you might be getting jury trials mixed up with badgers.”

Alex snapped his fingers. “That’s them. He can’t stand the things. Little black-and-white furry bastards causing unnecessary delays in our already overstrained criminal justice system.”

Oliver opened his mouth, then closed it again. At which point we were mercifully interrupted by James returning with another glass of whatever Alex’s usual was.

“Thank you.” Oliver sampled the drink decorously. “Ah. What a fine amontillado. I feel quite spoiled.”

Trust Oliver Blackwood to be able to identify sherry by taste. It was fast becoming apparent that what I’d hoped would be me and him against the posh dingbat was actually him and the posh dingbat against me.

Alex slid his own glass over. “Have mine if you like. Can’t abide it.”

“That’s very generous of you, but I think I’ll stick to one drink at a time for now.”

“You don’t need to stand on ceremony here, old chap.” At this juncture, Alex decided to pat my fake boyfriend’s knee. “Lord Ainsworth usually has a glass in each hand the moment he walks through the door. That’s why they call him Double Fisting Ainsworth. At least, I think it is. Could be something to do with the prostitutes.”

“Yes,” agreed Oliver. “It’s always hard to tell, isn’t it?”

“So.” My voice was much louder than I expected it to be. “What’s the problem with jury trials?”

They both glanced at me, with eerily similar expressions of mild concern. Probably, with my inappropriate volume and my awkward segue, I’d deeply embarrassed both of them. But at least Oliver had remembered I exist.

He fixed his cool, silver-grey gaze on me. “Well, as far as I’m concerned, nothing. I think they form a vital part of our democracy. I believe Lord Twaddle would advance the argument that they’re slow, inefficient, and leave complex decisions in the hands of people who don’t know what they’re doing.”

“Also”—Alex wagged a finger—“they leave terrible holes all over… Sorry. Badgers again. Do disregard.”

This was honestly not an issue I’d given any thought to ever. But, goddamn it, Oliver was my fake boyfriend, not Alex Fucking Twaddle’s. We were going to have a pleasant conversation over sherry if it killed us both. “I suppose,” I arse-pulled, “that if I’d been accused of something I didn’t do, I’d be far more willing to trust a legal professional than twelve randomers. I mean, have you met people?”

Oliver gave a faint smile. “That’s an understandable position but, interestingly, one that is seldom shared by lawyers.”

“Seriously?” I asked. “Do you really want to leave your fate in the hands of a dozen people you don’t know, none of who want to be there, on the off chance one of them pulls a Henry Fonda?”

“In real life, juries aren’t made up of eleven bigots and an angel. And I would far rather leave my fate in the hands of a cross-section of the public than a single person who sees the law entirely in abstract terms.”

I adopted what I hoped was a thoughtful pose, but was largely motivated by a desire to stop my left buttock going to sleep. “But don’t you want someone to see the law in abstract terms?” What was that line from Legally Blonde? “Didn’t Socrates say, ‘The law is reason free from passion’?”

“Actually, it was Aristotle. And he was wrong. Or rather, he was right in a way, but the law is only one part of justice.”

Oliver was looking distractingly intense. I guess I could admit that, under most circumstances, he was a better-than-okay looking man. But when he was being passionate about shit, and his eyes got all sharp and his mouth got all interesting, he probably got upgraded to hot. And this was just about the worst possible time to start noticing that because, while I was noticing how attractive he could be, he was noticing what a complete piece of human garbage I was.

“Oh?” I said intelligently, while not staring.

“The point of a jury trial is that reasonable people—and before you say anything, most people are reasonable—get to decide whether the defendant truly deserves to be punished for their actions. The letter of the law is, at best, half of that question. The other half is compassion.”

“That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

I think what I’d meant was, That’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard. But I couldn’t admit that and now wished I’d said nothing because Oliver had snapped closed like a fan in the hands of an angry drag queen. “Fortunately I don’t need you to validate my beliefs.”