Page 12 of The Ruin of a Rake
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
Therewasrather 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 saida 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.”
