The Ruin of a Rake

by Cat Sebastian

  “Some bad, some good, but I’d rather not think of any of it. I prefer moving forwards.”

  “Yes,” Courtenay agreed. He hadn’t considered that perhaps that feeling of not wanting to revisit the past was a common thing; he had assumed it had to do with not wanting to dwell on scenes that had memories of his failings sprinkled liberally over the top like coarse pepper on a cheap cut of meat. Before he could think twice, he reached over and squeezed Medlock’s hand. He felt Medlock go still beneath that layer of fine kidskin. But Medlock’s fingers wrapped around his own, briefly but unmistakably, before he pulled his hand away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As they approached the stable block, Courtenay realized that his heart was racing.

  “Needs a new roof,” Medlock muttered, indicating the stables. “Four servants sitting idly about. Terrible use of that money you so kindly send.” Medlock’s voice was tight with irritation. Courtenay smiled, distracted momentarily by Medlock’s annoyance.

  After Medlock’s coachman had turned the horses over to the stable boys, Courtenay led the way along the path that led to the main door.

  Courtenay had no preconceived vision of what this visit would be like—what he would say, what his mother might look like after the past ten years, whether he would meet his mother’s husband and stepchildren. It was all a blank. So, he was entirely grateful when Medlock took the matter in hand, producing his calling card and his best manners when a footman—too young to recognize Courtenay as the exiled master of the house—answered the door.

  After a wait that Courtenay found disorienting and Medlock, judging by the sad shake of his head, found grossly improper, they were ushered into a sitting room that Courtenay remembered as his mother’s morning room. And there, half reclined on a sofa, sat his mother. Her hair was the same black it had been ten years ago, unspoiled by gray. Her back was to the window, but Courtenay saw no signs of increased age on her pale face. Her gown was the soft green that she always favored because it brought out the unusual color of her eyes. Their eyes.

  He was filled with the old, futile desire to please her, to do something right for once.

  “Mrs. Blakely, how kind of you to receive us,” Medlock said in much the same tone he would likely use to inform a person that they had a something embarrassing in their teeth.

  His mother murmured something about the visit being a pleasant surprise, in a tone that left no doubt about the visit being deeply and profoundly unpleasant. Then her eyes cut over to where Courtenay stood, slightly behind Medlock, and he saw recognition dawn slowly on her face. Just as quickly, her expression resumed its indifference.

  “Jeremiah, my dear, I had no idea you were back in England.”

  Courtenay opened his mouth but Medlock spoke first. “Dear Mrs. Blakely, of course you did not. Perhaps the vicar’s daughter knew, but I dare say she wouldn’t trouble you with such unwanted information.” As he spoke, he angled his body slightly, as if to shield Courtenay from the conversation. Before the lady could reply, Medlock briskly changed the topic. “I came to see if you required assistance in removing from the house before . . . what day was it I specified?”

  As if he didn’t know perfectly well. Courtenay’s mouth twitched in the beginning of a smile he hadn’t thought possible in this room, in this company.

  “It was Midsummer, I believe,” Medlock continued, without waiting for an answer. “And now it is halfway through April. When you supply me with the address to which you intend to remove, I can provide whatever assistance you may require.”

  Courtenay watched as his mother calculated how best to manage her unwanted visitors and how to thwart their purpose. “Who precisely are you, Mr. Medlock?” she asked, not bothering to rise from her sofa or to offer the gentlemen seats. If anything, she sank even deeper into the cushions as if to signify her contempt for her visitors.

  Medlock glanced at Courtenay over his shoulder. “I see you learned from the best,” he said, loud enough to be heard across the room. Much lower, for Courtenay’s ears alone, he murmured, “And I was right about your looks.” Courtenay stifled an unexpected laugh.

  “You wouldn’t have heard of me, except that I’m managing your son’s business affairs. He requires that this house be emptied.” He glanced around, as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. “Except, of course, for any property belonging to the estate.” From his coat pocket, he produced a small book and a pencil.

  Courtenay hadn’t expected that Medlock would cast himself as the humble man of business, it being very close to the origins he had tried so hard to rise above.

  “Lord Courtenay,” Medlock continued, “will you do me the favor of indicating which items you recall as being the property of the estate rather than your mother’s personal effects?”

  That might have been the first time Medlock used his title, and it was all to remind his mother who she had cast off and that she was about to find herself without the lion’s share of her possessions if that was what her son wanted.

  Courtenay nodded, helplessly borne along the current of Medlock’s wishes.

  “Now, Mrs. Blakely,” Medlock said, cordiality underlaid with a core of ruthlessness that Courtenay found made him want to simultaneously take a step backwards and take the man into his arms, “against my advice, your son has decided to settle an annuity on you and to assist you in procuring a suitable house.”

  Courtenay could see how this negotiation would go: every time his mother balked, Medlock would remind her of what she stood to lose by being difficult, and what she stood to gain—or retain—by cooperating. No wonder the man had been able to manage his family’s company when he had been little more than a child. He was frankly terrifying.

  “I read that book about you, Jeremiah,” his mother said in a blatant effort to regain the upper hand. “It seems like you’ve had a good many adventures.”

  Medlock opened his eyes wide. “What book is this?” he asked innocently. “The only book I can possibly think of is that coarse novel people like to say is about Lord Courtenay but is likely nothing but the filthy imaginings of a pamphleteer. You can’t mean that one, though.”

  Courtenay watched as his mother’s green eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He knew that look. It was like watching a man reload a pistol.

  “I was so relieved to hear that Simon was settled in England. All that gallivanting around Europe in such low company can’t have been wholesome.” She gave a sad shake of her head. “Have you seen him lately?” she asked, a sinister smile playing over her mouth. “I heard his father is . . . protective. I’m so glad that somebody is.”

  Courtenay felt cold, as if an icy hand had wrapped around his neck. Being kept away from Simon was bad enough, but the fact that virtually everybody else—even his mother—thought that he was a bad influence made him want to sink into the earth. Simon had learned at least four languages by what his mother was called gallivanting, and had been happy and loved. Courtenay had been a part of making that so.

  “Oh, heavens, I’m so glad you brought that up, Mrs. Blakely. I thought it was going to be devilish awkward, because nobody really wants to mention the fact that Simon doesn’t like to see you or his aunt. Sporting of you to get that out in the open. I say, my sister, Lady Standish, will be so glad to hear that her dear friend Lord Courtenay has been restored to the bosom of his family. I’ll be sure to tell her to spread the good news far and wide.”

  Courtenay nearly choked at that. He realized that he was watching his mother get blackmailed, and that he was perfectly fine with it. Medlock sank gracefully, albeit uninvited, into one of the pretty fireside chairs. “Now, how about you ring for tea and we can hash out the details?” Medlock spoke with all the affability of a viper. And then he turned deferentially to Courtenay. “Is that acceptable, my lord?”

  “Of course, Mr. Medlock,” Courtenay agreed, and it felt right that the first words he uttered in this house—his house—after so long should be to this man.

  “What
the devil was going on in there?” Julian muttered as soon as they were back in the carriage, finally heading away from Carrington Hall. “You hardly spoke. I was expecting an onslaught of your usual charm but instead you were as meek as a kitten.”

  “I’m perhaps not at my best around my mother,” Courtenay said with a weak smile.

  “Well, no. I can’t imagine you would be. One usually expects one’s mother to at least feign affection. That woman’s like Lady Macbeth.” This earned a faint laugh from Courtenay. Julian shook his head. “I’ve never seen you like that.” But as soon as Julian spoke he realized he was wrong. He had seen Courtenay meek and undemanding once before, and it had been in Courtenay’s bed, when the man had been unwilling to ask Julian for the care he so plainly required. No—that he so plainly craved. Courtenay wanted affection and kindness and warmth, but didn’t want to ask for them. Julian let a thought creep to the forefront of his mind, a thought that he’d been doing his best to ignore and deny: he wanted to give Courtenay all those things and more. He wouldn’t, of course, because that would mean giving Courtenay access to all his hidden vulnerabilities, and he didn’t think he could live with that.

  Impulsively, he reached out and grabbed Courtenay’s hand, squeezing it once before releasing it. “At any rate,” Julian said hastily, “I understand why you don’t like being called by your Christian name. The way she says it makes it sound like something a witch would whisper over her cauldron. Jeremiah. It gives me the shivers.”

  Courtenay was silent a moment. “As soon as I inherited, everyone called me Courtenay. Even Isabella. It was a relief.”

  “I should damned well think it would be. Is there an inn nearby?” Julian asked, striving for a normal tone. “I’m half starved.”

  Courtenay’s infernal mother had made things as difficult as possible, insisting that her husband be present, and then pretending to forget what she had agreed to mere minutes previously. But Julian had finally gotten her to understand that she was to leave Carrington Hall in June, along with her husband and stepchildren, for a perfectly reasonable, although significantly less grand, house in Bath.

  Now Julian’s stomach was growling. For the sake of appearances, he had only had a single tea cake, not wanting to look ravenous during negotiations. He had taken a diffident nibble of the cake, then turned directly to Courtenay and congratulated him on the proficiency of the cook whose wages he paid. Courtenay had nearly spit out his tea and Julian had been quite satisfied with himself.

  Really, Julian was all around satisfied with himself today. A few times during the afternoon, he had caught Courtenay looking at him with something like wonder, maybe even gratitude, as if he had never seen anyone half so clever. Courtenay’s opinion on Julian’s cleverness really shouldn’t have mattered. Julian already knew he was clever. But knowing Courtenay thought so too—knowing that Courtenay thought anything good about him at all—made him almost giddy. Besides, he enjoyed the sense of coming to Courtenay’s defense. It seemed that nobody else had for a good while.

  He tried to remind himself that he was only helping Courtenay because Eleanor required it. But he couldn’t quite keep up the pretense. He was helping Courtenay because he cared about the man, damn it. And maybe because he owed him after that blasted book had caused him such trouble.

  “What was your father like, Courtenay?” Julian asked after they had settled into a table in the private parlor of the tavern Courtenay had indicated. “I take it he was bewitched by your mother’s looks, but that can happen to the best of men. Was he terrible as well?”

  Courtenay stared into his ale—thus far untouched, Julian noticed—for a moment before smiling slightly. “You might think so. I honestly don’t know. He died around the time I was sent down from university, you know.” He flicked a glance across the table, and Julian remembered that Courtenay had been made to feel responsible for his father’s death. “He was disappointed in his children. And he wasn’t shy about letting us know about it.”

  Julian pursed his lips. “Hmph,” he sniffed. “That ended in the usual fashion. One child dead, one married to that sapskull in Somerset—I looked her up in the peerage, and if she’s married to who I think she is then I sincerely doubt it was a love match, so I have to assume she married the first eligible soul to offer so she could get out from under your father’s thumb—and one—”

  “A washed-up dissolute?”

  “No,” Julian retorted. He hated the way Courtenay was looking at him now, like a criminal in the dock waiting for a guilty verdict. “One is a self-pitying, self-censuring dilettante with no sense of his own worth.” That sounded too warm, so he added, “And who is execrably bad at maths.”

  “I’ll grant you that last bit,” Courtenay said, cracking a smile. He swirled the ale in his mug.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t harangue your mother about the state of the village.”

  Courtenay looked up, his brow furrowed. “I don’t follow.”

  “For a man who has such concerns about the plight of the poor—and I’m not disagreeing with you, so save your argument for people who need it—your own tenants could be doing better. Every cottage we passed needed a new roof, and there was at least one footbridge that had collapsed. And those are only the things one can see from the road.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Courtenay murmured, sounding troubled.

  “It’s a good thing you’re to take the property in hand.”

  “I hadn’t planned on it. But yes, I daresay I will.” He spoke slowly, as if realizing the import of what he was saying only as he spoke. “I daresay I will,” he repeated. Then he absently lifted the mug of ale to his mouth before quickly putting it back on the table.

  “Order tea for God’s sake. You’ll be taken ill if you don’t have anything to drink, and we both know you’re not going to drink that ale.” Courtenay froze, and Julian realized he had spoken too freely. Damn it. “Or do what you please,” Julian added with belated nonchalance.

  “No, you’re right,” Courtenay said. “I’m not going to drink it.”

  He had better stop buying the stuff, then, but Julian wasn’t going to be the one to point that out. “It’s damned hard, what you’re doing. There was no getting between my father and the bottle. What you’re doing . . . I admire it.”

  “Well,” Courtenay said. “I see.” He looked bashful, as if he had been issued a compliment rather than told a basic truth. “Your father . . .” His voice trailed off, as if he weren’t sure he ought to ask. Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t.

  “Hasn’t Eleanor told you?” Julian asked, pushing his own mug of ale to the center of the table beside Courtenay’s. “Our father was a sot. Useless. Stupid. And he knew that because his father told him so. Left the business to me, even though I wasn’t of age, bypassing my father. He died shortly after.” Julian had no fond memories of his father but couldn’t help but wonder if his father’s vices were driven by his own father’s scorn, and what he might have become with a bit less criticism and a bit more kindness.

  “How old were you when your grandfather died and you took over? I’ve done the sums in my head but I can’t make you out to have been anything more than a child.”

  “Sixteen.”

  “You were a child, then.” Courtenay said, staring at him curiously.

  Julian felt his breath hitch. “I was never a child!” He hadn’t meant it to sound so vehement, so angry. But he hadn’t had any kind of childhood, not when it was divided between the sickroom and the counting house.

  Courtenay didn’t look surprised, though. He nodded, as if to indicate that he had guessed as much, or that he commiserated without the need for further elaboration. His silence felt like a gift, and Julian didn’t know how to respond. He felt like he ought to be grateful, and hated it. He had gone a good long time without accruing debt of any kind and didn’t want to start today, and especially didn’t like the notion he had that he might not mind so much being indebted to Courtenay.

  The de
liberate clink of dishes interrupted them, saving Julian from figuring out how to proceed. The inn servant placed hot platters before them with an amount of clatter and fuss that Julian would ordinarily have found excessive and ill-bred, but now he was glad to have a few moments to collect himself.

  Julian pointedly ordered a pot of tea. When he turned back to Courtenay, he saw that the man had carved a joint and heaped slices of it onto both of their plates. He found that he was pleased by this bit of domesticity.

  “Stupid habit,” Courtenay apologized, holding the carving knife with an air of embarrassment. “But I used to do it for Simon and Isabella.”

  Again, the hint of a Courtenay he hardly knew, somebody who had sat at a table with a family he had lost. It should have been hard to reconcile this man with the man whose sprees of libertinism were common knowledge. Then again—he glanced at the untouched ale, thought of Courtenay’s vicious mother—maybe not so hard after all to reconcile those two sides of the coin.

  “Tell me about them,” Julian said.

  And Courtenay did. By the time their plates were empty and their teacups drained, Julian had heard tales of Courtenay’s travels with his sister and nephew around Italy and through the Mediterranean and Adriatic. He also told Julian stories about trying to teach his nephew to swim, and the dog he had taken in during a cold winter, the times his sister and nephew had both fallen ill with fevers.

  “My sister wanted to see everything. At the beginning, there was a year or two when she insisted on not waking up in the same bed more than seven times in a row. Simon thought it was all a grand adventure, but what he really wanted was to visit the stables at every inn we stayed at. He wound up learning every language the stable hands spoke.”

  “It all sounds very jolly.” Julian felt unreasonably envious of Courtenay’s nephew, allowed to explore and wander and never confined to sickrooms or forced to contend with ledgers.