He heard Medlock suck in a breath. He was irritated. Good.
Courtenay decided to take pity on the fellow. “Look, you don’t need to do this,” he said. “We’ll tell Eleanor you tried your best to make me respectable but it didn’t take.”
Medlock made a noise that might have been a snort in a less correct gentleman. “If you think it’s that simple, you don’t know my sister.”
“She’s . . . tenacious.”
“Tenacious doesn’t cover it. And she’s . . .” a whisper of pain flickered across his face “. . . not herself lately.”
It went unsaid that Eleanor’s association with Courtenay constituted this great departure from her usual behavior. Courtenay might have been hurt if he hadn’t already developed a convenient callous over that part of his heart.
But Courtenay wouldn’t let that casual aspersion on Eleanor’s character go unanswered. “A lucky few people have desires that map onto what the world expects of them.” He spoke slowly, giving Medlock time to reflect on how little he belonged in that group. “For the rest of us, it’s like holding down a balloon.”
“A balloon?” There was a hefty dose of scorn in Medlock’s voice, but Courtenay had plenty of practice ignoring worse.
“Before they launch a hot-air balloon,” he said, all patience, “it’s tethered to the earth with the thickest ropes you’ve ever seen.” Eleanor had taken him to a see a balloon launch the previous month. He had at first thought it simply an expensive form of suicide, but then watching the colorful orb coast into the sky, he thought he understood. “The thing is made of nothing but wicker and silk and air, but it’s straining these ropes to the breaking point trying to float away.” And then once it was released from its tethers, the balloon went anywhere it damned well pleased until it fell out of the sky, more or less. He felt that his metaphor stood.
“And you’re telling me that Eleanor’s desires”—he said the word with an audible cringe, like one might say sewage or lice—“are similarly strained.”
“We aren’t lovers and we never have been.” Was it his imagination or did Medlock look relieved in a way that had nothing to do with his sister’s virtue? “But desire isn’t always about fucking.” He enjoyed the shiver of distaste, or whatever it was, that went through Medlock’s lean frame at the sound of that word. “Has it occurred to you that your sister’s intellectual pursuits depend on her husband’s absence? All those natural philosophers she corresponds with assume she’s managing her husband’s business interests while he’s away. If they are ever reunited, that would all be over for her.” He paused, not sure whether to go on. “However, she may have other wants that require a husband’s more immediate presence.”
“I see.” Medlock’s mouth was a tight line. “And she has confided these secret desires”—another moue of distaste—“to you.”
“No, Medlock, she has not. But I can read between the lines.” It was a wonder that Medlock hadn’t. “I had a sister of my own, you know.”
“From what I understand, your sister had little in common with mine.”
He meant that Isabella had been a hellion, whereas Eleanor was a paragon. “My sister made a marriage that was founded more on practicality than on affection.” He paused, letting Medlock decide whether there was a parallel. “Later, she found the marriage to be unsatisfactory.”
“That, I believe, is when she ran off with the Italian.”
He hadn’t been Italian, but that was hardly the point. “She left her husband, taking Simon with her.” Simon had been little more than a baby, Isabella hardly more than a child herself. Courtenay had followed them on the next boat, not to bring her back, but to make sure that wherever she went she had a friend.
“And then she died.”
“Six years later she became ill and died. Even the strictest moralizer would hardly attribute her death to her behavior.”
Medlock’s hesitation indicated that he might not agree with those hypothetical moralizers. “I hardly see what this has to do with Eleanor.”
“You may not, but I do. I’d hate to see your sister as sad as mine was. Not everyone is cut out to be an outcast.” Isabella hadn’t been. Eleanor certainly wasn’t. Even Courtenay had his moments of doubt.
“Is that a threat?”
Courtenay abandoned his pretense of bored lounging. “For God’s sake, man! Listen to yourself. No, I’m not threatening your sister’s virtue or her happiness. I’m trying to say that when I leave, you’ll need to be there for her, regardless of what she chooses.”
“When you leave?” It was a terrible habit Medlock had, this repetition of phrases with only the barest hint of a question mark to give the pretense of civil discourse. “I thought you meant to stay in England to be near to your nephew? Why the devil are we doing this, if you only plan to leave?”
“If I leave, then. Which is what I’ll need to do if you fail in your efforts to change Radnor’s mind.”
“Nonsense. I won’t fail.” He spoke with a degree of confidence Courtenay would have found galling if it weren’t his fate—and Simon’s—that Medlock was so confident about.
“It’ll take more than a visit to the opera.”
The barest pause, the hesitation of a man before throwing a coin into the center of a card table. “I’ll get you an invitation to the Preston ball.”
It took Courtenay a moment to realize who and what Medlock was referring to. “No, Medlock, you most certainly will not.” Lord Preston was Chancellor of the Exchequer; Lady Preston was one of those ladies who secretly ruled all of London society. If Courtenay were on fire in the middle of their ballroom, they wouldn’t stop the ball to douse the flames.
“Oh, yes I will.” There was a steely resolve in the man’s voice that made Courtenay almost believe him.
Julian didn’t know exactly why he was about to do this, but he was absolutely determined that he would.
Partly because he wanted to prove Courtenay wrong. That was understandable, he told himself.
Partly because he wanted to make things right with Eleanor. Even if this only constituted the tiniest sliver of his motivations, it was enough to justify his actions. Surely that was the way these things worked, one pure motive washing away the fatuity of his third reason, which wasn’t even a reason at all, but rather a confusion of lust.
Julian couldn’t remember when he had started to fantasize about Courtenay. It was years before meeting him. He knew of Courtenay from rumors and gossip; even though he disapproved on principle of everything Courtenay had done to deserve his notoriety, he found his speculations about Courtenay taking a decidedly unwholesome turn. The idea of a man whose only compass was his pleasure drew Julian in like the sweet scent wafting from a bakery. Meeting him had only made it worse; now he could hardly shut his eyes at night without an unbidden fantasy. And while he knew that spending time around the man would only make things worse, he wanted more. Now his self-recriminations about his uncontrolled lust would be tangled up in Courtenay’s own words about pleasure and tethered balloons and manhandling, which took him right back to tethers in a less metaphorical sense, God help him. His mind was refusing to behave in the linear, well-regulated fashion he expected of himself.
They left the opera a few minutes late, after the bulk of the crowd had dwindled but the lobby was far from empty, and Julian could be certain of orchestrating the scene he had in mind.
They passed a handful of people on the stairs. Mr. Fitzwilliam—no, he wouldn’t do. Mrs. Anderson, Sir Francis Legerton . . . and then he saw Lord John Ramsay, the youngest son of a duke. He was snobbish and rude and exactly what Julian needed. Best of all, Julian had never liked him and had no qualms about throwing him to the wolves.
“Lord John,” Julian said affably. They belonged to the same club and, as two of London’s short supply of eligible bachelors, had been at many dinner parties together. “I daresay you haven’t had a chance to see Lord Courtenay since he returned from France.” Truth be told, Julian wasn’t entire
ly certain where Courtenay had returned from, but it hardly mattered. He was telling people France from now on. “Lord John Ramsay, allow me to present Lord Courtenay.”
Lord John looked precisely as aghast as Julian had hoped. “I . . . good evening, Medlock,” he said, his voice full of reproach. And then he walked away.
Perfect.
“What the devil are you up to?” Courtenay asked under his breath. “If that was one of the Duke of Linfield’s sons then you’re barking up the wrong tree. I went to school with one of that lot. All sermonizing and hellfire.” He paused. “I think you’d get along damned well with them.”
Well, that was an insult if Medlock had ever heard one. “As you can tell, I certainly do not. Now be quiet, because I need to talk to this fellow.” It was Lucius Barry but it could have been nearly anyone for this part of his scheme.
“I say, Barry. Just had the oddest thing happen. Have you talked to Ramsay recently? I think somebody ought to check on him. We were leaving Lady Montbray’s box”—this was a lie, but only a little one—“and Ramsay gave me the cut. He couldn’t possibly have meant to. Oh, I say, have you met Lord Courtenay?” He performed the necessary introductions between a dazed Barry and a slightly alarmed-looking Courtenay. “He’s devilish good friends with Eleanor, you know. Science and all that. But really, I do think somebody ought to check on poor Ramsay in case—” he glanced furtively around him and lowered his voice—“in case he’s gone as barmy as his uncle was.” Julian knew nothing of Lord John Ramsay’s uncles, barmy or otherwise, but the Duke of Linfield had relations all over the kingdom, and it stood to reason that at least one of them had to be somewhat off.
He watched in suspense as Barry performed the required calculation: snub Julian and Courtenay and therefore align himself with the possibly demented and widely disliked Lord John, or go along with what Julian—proper, affable Julian Medlock, whom nobody quite disliked and everybody always was glad enough to see—was suggesting, which was to accept Courtenay as an acquaintance.
“I daresay Ramsay ate something that didn’t agree with him,” Barry finally said, including Courtenay in his remark. Julian wanted to congratulate him on hitting on so diplomatic a response. “Good to see you again, Courtenay. I think you were a year behind me at Oxford.”
To Julian’s delight, their conversation had been overheard by several passersby.
Ten minutes later they were on the street. “How much of that was planned?” Courtenay asked.
“That was why we went to the opera.” Julian tried not to look triumphant. But really, he had done well, and was glad Courtenay knew it.
“The rest of it—visiting your friend and getting trussed up in my best coat, that was all stage craft.” He suddenly looked aghast. “I sat through that for nothing?”
“Well, we could hardly have only shown up at the end,” Julian pointed out.
“What you just did in there . . .” Courtenay shook his head. “That was some combination of snake charming and verbal acrobatics.”
Yes! Julian wanted to shout. That’s precisely what it was. It was a damned hard trick and of necessity not exactly the sort of accomplishment one could share with the world. He shrugged with as much nonchalance as he could muster and said, “Well, that should do it. Send me any invitations you receive and I’ll decide which to accept.”
It was only later that he realized he now had no choice but to foist Courtenay on society, regardless of whether Courtenay wanted it. Because now his own reputation—and Eleanor’s—would hinge on Courtenay’s success. But also because now he had a purpose, something to do with himself. It felt like a gift, like a relief, and he’d be damned if he didn’t succeed.
Chapter Six
There was rather an excessive number of cats in Eleanor’s parlor. Every time Courtenay visited, there seemed to be an increase.
“Eleanor.” When she didn’t look up from the letter she was writing, he rose and gently removed the kitten who had nestled into her shoulder.
“Hmm? Oh, are you still here, Courtenay?”
Hardly flattering, but that was Eleanor for you. “Afraid so. These aren’t all the mouser’s kittens, are they? Have you been taking in cats off the street?”
She didn’t meet his eye. “Perhaps one or two.”
He sat on the edge of her desk, looking down at her. “Eleanor, my dear, you’ll have every tomcat in London howling at your door.”
“It’s my house, and if I want it to be floor-to-ceiling cats, that’s what I’ll have.”
As far as the law was concerned, the house was not hers but her husband’s and they both knew it. “What you mean is that Standish can come and stop you if he doesn’t want his house turned into a menagerie.”
Well, that got Eleanor’s attention. “I’m not talking about that,” she snapped. Courtenay ought to have known better: Eleanor wouldn’t tolerate any mention of her marriage. And then, in her usual distracted tone, she said, “It’s hardly a menagerie if it’s only one species of animal. Besides, I like them. They’re sweet.” She idly stroked a kitten who was trying to get inside an empty teacup. “Do you know, before the mouser had her kittens, I hadn’t touched another living thing in months?”
He knew this was her roundabout way of alluding to her marriage. “I, ah, offered to help out with that.”
She laughed, and he was glad to see the forlorn expression drop from her face, however briefly. “That’s not the same thing,” she said, scooping the kitten up and burying her face in its fur.
“I should damned well hope not,” he said, feigning affront. But he took her hand and held it, and she squeezed his in return before pulling away.
“What I mean is . . . well, never mind.” She didn’t need to spell out what it was she wanted, and how a fling with a scoundrel wasn’t even close to the mark.
He picked up a paperweight from her desk. It wasn’t a proper paperweight at all, but rather a very peculiar rock. It fit perfectly in his palm, however, and when turned over revealed a core of the most incongruous lavender sparkly bits. Eleanor had called it a geode, and when he had asked her where she got it, had only said a friend.
“I daresay the cats go some distance toward vexing your brother, which seems to be a new hobby of yours.”
“Julian? Heavens, no. He’s always been fond of animals, the dirtier the better.” He noticed that she didn’t deny going out of her way to irritate her brother.
“Impossible.” He passed the rock from palm to palm, running his fingers over the rough surface and letting the crystals bounce flecks of colored light across the insipidly pretty flowered wallpaper. He wondered if Medlock had chosen it. “Only last week I saw him nearly have an apoplexy when a cat threatened to scratch his boots.”
She furrowed her brows. “He has gotten finicky. But in India he was forever rescuing three legged dogs and birds with broken wings. Once he kept a mongoose in the library for a fortnight.”
“Why the devil didn’t anyone stop him?” Courtenay didn’t like this new picture of Medlock. The youth who had rescued animals might have grown into somebody Courtenay might actually have liked. He much preferred thinking of Medlock as he currently was, stiff collar and stiff posture.
And a stiff cock, he recalled. No, damn it. He would not let his mind wander in that direction.
“Well, I was fond of the little beast.”
“Your brother or the mongoose?”
She threw a wadded-up piece of paper at his head. “The mongoose! Really, there was nobody to stop Julian from having a mongoose in every room. He was so sick, one did tend to indulge him.”
Oh Lord. Medlock as a sickly child cuddling wounded animals was just the limit.
“And our grandfather gave Julian whatever he wanted, mainly to annoy Papa.” A cloud passed over her features.
Courtenay curled his fingers around the geode, temporarily stopping the play of light across the room, and studied his friend’s face. They had known one another since Christmas and now it was jus
t past Easter. This was the first time she had spoken of her father. He had noticed the omission, which, in his experience, was generally not a good sign. And now that she had mentioned her father, she hardly seemed to know what to say, as if she had never before spoken aloud of him. “Not a good sort?” he asked casually.
She opened her mouth and closed it again before finally saying, “What a gloomy topic.”
“Is it?” he asked mildly.
“Papa was . . . I suppose you’d call him a bon vivant.”
That didn’t sound so bad, certainly not bad enough to warrant the way Eleanor was twisting the fabric of her skirt. “I thought he was some kind of shipping magnate.” Courtenay was under the impression that those fellows did nothing but count their coins and arrange for them to multiply much in the way of Eleanor’s cats.
“Oh, no. My grandfather kept the business out of my father’s hands, and instead brought Julian up to manage all of it. And that’s what he did, from the time he could add a column of numbers. Julian is excessively good at that kind of thing,” she said with a hint of pride.
Eleanor stared pointedly at the letter she had been trying to write, and Courtenay took the hint and returned to his chair, still gripping the now warm rock. He didn’t like any of the things he had learned about Medlock today: rescuing animals was bad enough, but being some kind of mathematical prodigy was worse. Courtenay could feel himself starting to like Medlock—or at least a theoretical version of Medlock—entirely despite himself. And then there were the circumstances under which he had been conscripted into the family business while his father had been idling about; that was far enough from common practice that Courtenay had no doubt there was an unpleasant story behind it.
He settled back in his chair, again watching the flecks of light from the geode sparkle across the room. It was impossible to think of anything else. Everything was glints of color, a universe of dazzling light that he held in the palm of his hand. Nothing else could possibly matter. It reminded him of the days when people had flitted in and out of his life like so many glittering flecks, everything dissolving into a confusion of dancing light, beautiful and joyful and fun. He had thought it would always be like that. That was what hope felt like, he realized. How long had it been since he felt that way?
The Ruin of a Rake Page 5
