Page 11 of The Ruin of a Rake
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?”
“IfI 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 entirely 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.”
