The Ruin of a Rake

by Cat Sebastian

  Julian muttered something about not having slept well, but this only reminded him of Courtenay, and that would never do. He rose to his feet. “After I get changed, I’m going to Manton’s to fire some pistols.” If physically exhausting himself hadn’t worked to exorcise thoughts of Courtenay from his brain, perhaps forcing himself to concentrate on a target would.

  “Another time,” Rivington said, checking the clock on the wall. “I have to be going home.” He paused and gave Julian a crooked grin. “Cook’s making my favorite supper.”

  Julian regarded his companion with astonishment. Dining at four in the afternoon in London was positively déclassé. Perhaps this was what happened when a man was cast out by decent society. Julian shivered. He’d dearly like to avoid finding out if this were typical.

  He bid good-bye to Rivington and sat back on the bench, resting his head against the wall and letting his eyes droop closed. God, he was tired. And still his brain was assaulted by thoughts of Courtenay.

  As if summoned up by his own imaginings, he heard his name spoken in Courtenay’s drawl.

  “Medlock, is that you in that getup?”

  He opened his eyes and saw Courtenay peering down at him. He clenched his jaw. “This is perfectly normal fencing attire.”

  “If you say so. Your valet told me I’d find you here.”

  “Briggs? How the devil did you find my lodgings?”

  “I asked your sister’s butler.”

  Julian goggled. “Tilbury told you where to find me?” Tilbury hated Courtenay.

  “Under the circumstances, he was happy to oblige.”

  Julian stood so he wouldn’t have to keep tilting his head back to look at Courtenay. “What circumstances?”

  Courtenay gestured to a sort of alcove where they wouldn’t be overheard. “Your brother-in-law has returned. He evidently hadn’t informed anyone of his intentions, so Tilbury may have an apoplexy over household arrangements.”

  “I should damned well think he might.” Julian was feeling dangerously close to apoplexy himself. “How is Eleanor?” He couldn’t imagine how she would feel, literally couldn’t puzzle out whether she’d be happy or sad or some combination of the two, because he had worked so hard never to talk to her about this one topic. He had to go to her.

  “Shocked.” Courtenay had dark circles under his eyes and his brow was wrinkled in concern that was at odds with his usual careless manner. “She’s safe with him?”

  “With Standish?” Julian was taken aback. “Yes, of course she is. We practically grew up with Standish. His father was with the East India Company.”

  “What I mean is that . . . When he walked in he took us unawares. He might have gotten the wrong idea about what was happening.”

  Julian drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, might he have?”

  “I had gotten some bad news and she was comforting me.”

  “Was she now? This comfort occurred horizontally, I take it? Christ, Courtenay, can’t you keep your hands off my sister?”

  “It wasn’t like that.” His voice was now a sinister whisper. “If you think I went from you to your sister you’re bloody depraved. But I’m not going to stand here in a fucking corner and defend myself. You can think what you want as long as you see to it that your sister is well. I have an urgent appointment to keep with a couple of whores.”

  Courtenay doffed his cap ironically and left without sparing Julian another word. Shaken, Julian lingered alone in the alcove. He had heard the pain in Courtenay’s voice, and felt an unexpected wash of shame at having put it there.

  Chapter Eleven

  Julian found Eleanor’s house in the kind of deliberate silence that only comes when people have no idea what they ought to say or what they ought to do, so they try their hardest to not do or say anything. The footman who opened the door informed him that his sister was in her bedchamber. “The master,” the footman informed him with wide eyes, “or am I to say his lordship?—is in the green bedchamber.”

  “Where is Tilbury?”

  The butler was setting and resetting the dining table. “Oh, Mr. Medlock,” he intoned. “What is to be done?”

  Julian resented the old man’s air of grief. To bemoan Standish’s arrival seemed to assume so much about Eleanor that it was very nearly a violation of Eleanor’s privacy. Had the entire household speculated about their mistress’s situation? The entire ton, perhaps? Were Julian and Eleanor the only people who hadn’t discussed the topic? Julian was ashamed for not having spoken to Eleanor months or years ago, to ask her if she was all right. He only hadn’t because he feared what the answer would be, and that it was his fault, and that there was nothing to be done for it now.

  “Put an extra plate out for me, if you please. How long is Sir Edward staying?”

  “Nobody knows.” Tilbury had the air of a man who was barely holding back a wail. “I didn’t realize he was a foreigner. Somebody might have told me so I could have prepared the staff.”

  Julian bristled. “He isn’t a foreigner. His father’s family has been in England since the Conquest.” His mother’s family was also perfectly respectable, but Julian didn’t think Tilbury was interested in that aspect of Standish’s parentage. “If any of the servants take issue with their master’s lineage, they’re quite free to seek other positions.”

  “Indeed, sir,” Tilbury murmured, sounding unconvinced.

  “Lord Courtenay will be staying here for the next fortnight, so if you’ll please ready one of the spare rooms I’d most appreciate it.” Julian had come up with this plan on his way from the fencing studio. If Courtenay stayed with Eleanor and Standish, it would look like Standish was unconcerned about any rumors regarding his wife’s relations with Courtenay. He probably ought to have asked Eleanor’s leave before informing Tilbury, but the staff here had gotten used to taking orders from Julian. He probably ought to have asked Courtenay as well, but he’d sort that out later.

  Tilbury looked as if he’d dearly like to scream, but he confined himself to a dour, “If that’s what the mistress wishes.” He fiddled with a place setting. “If I may make a suggestion, sir, does Lady Standish have a female relation she could perhaps invite for a few weeks?”

  Julian had had the same thought. “I’m afraid not, Tilbury.” It had always been only him and Eleanor, with nobody to turn to but each other.

  Eleanor appeared in the doorway. “Quite a pleasant surprise we had this afternoon, Julian!” she cried. Really, she was not any good at false merriment. Any hope Julian had that Eleanor had enjoyed a happy reconciliation with her spouse went straight out the window when he saw his sister’s rictus of a smile.

  “In your parlor, Eleanor.” Not in front of the servants, was what he meant. Once the door was shut safely behind them, he asked, “How long does he plan to stay?”

  “I can’t imagine how you expect me to know.” An irritated furrow appeared on her forehead. “He hasn’t said more than ten words to me since arriving. First I thought he wanted to hit Courtenay, but of course he’s too well bred for that, even if he did mind how I amused myself.” The furrow disappeared and was replaced with a look of resignation. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Are you all right, Nora?” he asked hesitantly, six years too late.

  Her lips trembled a bit. “Not really, no.”

  He took a step towards her and then stopped. He knew he ought to do something, but what? Pat her hand? Embrace her? He had spent so long trying to avoid his own less presentable emotions that he didn’t know what to do with another person’s. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked feebly.

  Eleanor looked as if she wanted to say something, but instead she gave her head a small shake.

  There had to be, and he’d figure it out, but first he’d attend to a problem he could actually solve. “Courtenay needs to stay here.”

  “Here?” Eleanor looked bewildered. “Why on earth?”

  “It’ll put any rumors to rest that Standish came back because of you
r misbehavior.”

  “Do you think that’s why he came back?” She looked slightly less bleak, which made no sense.

  “I suppose it depends on how fast gossip travels. Where was he most recently?”

  “His valet told my maid they had been in Vienna.”

  Vienna? He had always thought Standish farther away than that. “I dare say it’s possible. What was Courtenay doing here this afternoon? He said you were comforting him.”

  “He got a nasty letter from Radnor’s secretary and was cut up about it.”

  “Did he, now? Well, I think I have a plan to settle that business.”

  “I’m so glad.” She gave him a bleak smile. “Will you stay for dinner?”

  He did, and a wretchedly awkward meal it was. Julian couldn’t speak freely to Eleanor with Standish sitting there stone-faced. And, oddly, Julian had the sense that Standish and Eleanor couldn’t speak freely with him there either. They were studiously avoiding the issue of whether they used first names or titles, which seemed unnecessarily exhausting for two people who had climbed trees together as children and who were presently man and wife.

  “Lord Courtenay is to make a visit with us,” Eleanor said to her husband. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not. Why ever would I?” said Standish in frigid tones.

  “Oh. Good,” Eleanor replied tepidly, and from that point on didn’t even try to make conversation with either Julian and Standish, and instead fed morsels of fish to the cats who congregated around her feet.

  Julian left as soon as decently possible.

  He hired a hackney to take him to his lodgings, but when the carriage pulled up to his door, he hesitated. He didn’t want to go upstairs and endure the ministrations of his valet, the unwinding of his tie and the hanging of his coat silent reminders of the status and position he only acquired through Eleanor’s excellent marriage and subsequent unhappiness.

  He had been deluded to think it was a bargain. Even at eighteen, he ought to have known that Eleanor gained nothing by leaving India. She didn’t care about London society and he had been a rank fool to have believed her. She had done it for him; she had left her home and somehow lost her husband along the way, in order to convince Julian to move to a climate more conducive to his health. He never would have left for his own good and she must have known it. So she convinced him it was a bargain, a fair trade: she would go to London a newly minted baroness, and he would go with her to assist her rise to the top.

  They had left the worsening cycles of illness that Julian had endured in India; he had never liked to dwell on how that required Eleanor to leave her bridegroom. But he had always assumed Standish would come along eventually. If he allowed himself to think about this for another minute he was fairly sure he’d puzzle out how that was his fault too.

  He rapped on the roof. “I’ve changed my mind. Take me to Flitcroft Street.” He didn’t want to be alone, stewing in his guilt.

  “You sure about that?”

  It was the only thing he was sure of.

  There was a dreadful pounding at the door. Courtenay ignored it and went back to staring at the liquid in his glass.

  “Open the door, Courtenay.” It was Medlock, and the people in the downstairs flat were not going to be impressed with this banging. “I know you’re in there. I could see the light from the street.”

  Courtenay staggered up from his chair and opened the door. Medlock was all neat and tidy again, wearing his usual boring clothes and the beginnings of a frown. Courtenay had quite enjoyed the sight of the younger man rumpled and sweaty at the fencing parlor. “What do you want?”

  “I came to tell you that you’re staying with my sister for the next fortnight,” Medlock said.

  “That’s a terrible idea.” Courtenay hadn’t missed the look of fury on Standish’s face when he saw his wife with another man.

  “It’s a brilliant idea. You and Standish are to be the best of friends.” Medlock peered over Courtenay’s shoulder into the room beyond. “I knew you hadn’t any ladies here!”

  He shouldn’t find it so adorable that Medlock referred to the sort of women who might be found in a bachelor’s lodgings as ladies. “My plans changed.”

  “No, I don’t think they did.” Medlock shouldered past him into the room. “These are not the lodgings of somebody who does much in the way of whoring. It’s like a monastic cell.” He turned in a slow circle but stopped short. “Is that a bullet hole in the wall?” He stepped back and surveyed the wall. “Were you aiming for that stain?” He indicated a patch of damp.

  Courtenay cleared his throat. “I was aiming for a pigeon across the way.”

  “You were—” Medlock looked at the open window, then at the bullet hole, half a yard away. “Either your pistol is faulty or you’re a terrible shot.”

  “It’s definitely the latter.”

  “Or perhaps you were drunk.” Medlock looked around the room, his gaze catching on the bottle of brandy and the glass. He held the bottle up to the light, then approached Courtenay and performed an exaggerated sniff.

  “You’ve noticed my irresistible scent, I see.”

  “Shut up,” Medlock said. “You aren’t drunk at all. There’s hardly a glass’s worth of brandy missing from the bottle, and your glass seems untouched. And I don’t smell any spirits on you, so I know you didn’t stop at a gin palace.”

  “I was working up to it.”

  Medlock gave him an appraising glance. “It’s like that, is it?” And then he took the bottle and the glass and poured the contents of both out the window.

  “What the hell are you doing?” He could ill afford another bottle.

  “If you wanted to drink it, you would have done so hours ago. I think you wanted not to drink it, so I helped.”

  He was right, but that only made it more annoying. “It wasn’t yours to pour out.”

  “I’ll buy it off you.” Medlock resumed his inspection of the room. “It was dark last night or I think I would have noticed the absence of vice.” Courtenay suppressed a smile, trying not to imagine what Medlock would have considered evidence of vice if not the presence of his prick in Courtenay’s mouth. “I think you’ve been trying to be on your best behavior since arriving in England.”

  “I’m too old to carry on the way I used to.”

  “That would hardly stop you if you really meant to continue debauching yourself. My father drank and caroused until he died.”

  Eleanor had hinted that the late Mr. Medlock had not been an exemplar of virtue. “What else did your father do?”

  “Oh, the usual. Gaming, women, drink.”

  “I feel certain he and I would have gotten along swimmingly.”

  “I thought so too, at first,” Medlock said without elaboration. “Monastic,” he repeated, glancing around the room.

  “Not entirely,” Courtenay reminded him with a pointed glance at the sofa.

  “Oh, that’s different,” Medlock said with a wave of his hand.

  “True, I’d bet monks did a fair bit of what we did last night,” Courtenay suggested. “It was probably the only way to keep warm.”

  Medlock’s mouth twitched with the effort to hold back a smile. “What I meant is that we were discreet. Perfectly acceptable.”

  “Oh, yes, I’d wager most of the ton would find nothing indiscreet or unacceptable about what we did.”

  “Don’t be daft. Of course I know they wouldn’t. But I’d likely go mad if I were celibate.” He said this as if it quite settled the question. “You’re going to have to pay for that wall before quitting the lease.”

  Medlock had to know Courtenay didn’t have cash on hand for that sort of expense. He sighed. “This visit’s been lovely but I’m for bed.”

  Medlock held up a hand as if to halt Courtenay. “Eleanor told me you got a letter from Radnor’s secretary. I have a plan to get Radnor to let you see Simon. Do you think you’d mind if Radnor sets fire to Carrington Hall?”

  “I suppos
e it would depend on whether the house was inhabited.”

  Medlock furrowed his brow. “Unfortunately, I would have resettled your mother in Bath by then,” he said apologetically.

  Courtenay managed to keep a straight face. It had been so long since anyone had taken Courtenay’s part, had thought him worthy of defense, that Medlock’s venom towards the parent who had cast Courtenay off warmed a part of his heart he had long thought decayed. “Then I see no objection.”

  “I’ll let you know when the papers are ready for you to sign.”

  Courtenay had no idea what papers Medlock was referring to and didn’t much care. “I didn’t want to pay for company. Not after last night, Medlock.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.” He turned his back to Courtenay and suddenly became focused on tracing the bullet hole in the plaster.

  “I think you follow perfectly fine.” The man’s mind went at twice the speed of any normal brain. He could certainly keep up with Courtenay.

  “If you’re intending to compliment me,” Medlock said, still facing the wall, “I suppose I’m gratified to learn that my services compare favorably with those of a prostitute.”

  “Services be damned.” Courtenay closed the gap between them so he was speaking nearly into Medlock’s ear. “It had nothing to do with services. It was you.” With one hand he drew the shabby curtain closed and with the other he brushed a strand of hair behind Medlock’s ear.

  Medlock shivered at the touch. “You probably say this sort of thing to all the people you consort with. It’s why they jump back into bed with you time and again, I suppose.”

  He was half right. More than half. Courtenay knew what to say to endear himself to the people he wanted to consort with, as Medlock appallingly put it. But that wasn’t what he was doing now—Medlock had no use for pretty words. “Is it working?”

  Medlock rested his forehead against the wall. “Always. I think I get half hard whenever you start talking. It’s a character flaw on my part, I’m quite certain.”

  “Good.” Courtenay bent to kiss the tender spot beneath Medlock’s ear. “You need more character flaws.”