Page 15 of The Ruin of a Rake
Having thereby discussed rape, bigamy, prostitution, andpolitics, Courtenay gracefully rose to his feet and smoothed his trousers. “I think I’ll be joining the ladies in the drawing room.” He flashed the stunned gentlemen a dazzling smile and strode out of the room.
Julian didn’t know whether to be relieved to discover that they were of one mind about the bloody Poor Laws or incensed that Courtenay had in a few very deliberate sentences jeopardized his prospects, and Julian’s good name right along with it.
“What is wrong with you?” Medlock hissed once they were outside on the pavement.
“What’s wrong withme?” Courtenay began walking in the direction of his lodgings, hoping Medlock wouldn’t follow. He hadn’t expected Medlock to rise and follow him from the dinner table, nor to make civil excuses to the hostess explaining their early departure. But Medlock had done so all the same, smoothing over Courtenay’s behavior in a way Courtenay didn’t appreciate: hewantedto offend those men. “It’s a sin and a crime that those lackwits are in charge of this nation.”
“Strictly speaking, they aren’t,” Medlock said, keeping pace beside him. “You and Lord Lippincott were the only ones present with seats in the House of Lords. There were no members of Parliament.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Courtenay shook his head, dismissing this unwanted reminder of his birthright. “They’re the ruling class. These people who think poverty can be punished out of a person. And I saw your face, Medlock. You don’t agree with them any more than I do. How could you sit idly by and let them talk such gammon? People will starve.”
“Because it’s tasteless to discuss politics at the dinner table,” Medlock said primly.
“Rubbish. You tolerate it because you don’t want anyone to dislike you. You’re determined to be as bland as an unbuttered slice ofpain de mie. Just like that wallpaper.”
“Pain de—And what wallpaper are you talking about? Are you in your cups?”
He sighed. “No, Medlock. I’m not.” But Medlock was. Courtenay could smell it on his breath. And if the man were sober he’d likely realize where they were heading and scamper off somewhere safe. “I’m angry. I hate this blasted country.”
“You can’t seriously mean to tell me that the poor are treated better in France or Italy or Constantinople or wherever else you’ve been?”
They most certainly were not. The situation of the poor in Athens was the stuff of nightmares. But that wasn’t the point.
This was England. This was his bloody home.
This was a place where, as Medlock had reminded him, he had a seat in Parliament and could theoretically do something about injustice. He groaned.
“What now?” Medlock looked peeved, one hand on his hip, his lips in a tight line.
“We agree about the Poor Laws,” Courtenay said.
“Hurrah,” Medlock said unenthusiastically. “That’s something we can talk about after neither of us is ever invited anywhere ever again.”
“Surely that’s a bit dramatic.”
“You discussed rape, bigamy, and prostitution at Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s dinner table.” He strung his words together coherently enough for a man who had downed three glasses of port in half an hour. Probably long years of practice being inoffensive. “The entire point of refined society is to not discuss sordid things. We pretend the uglier aspects of life do not exist.”
“I thought that after the ladies withdrew, it was permissible to discuss more interesting topics.” He hadn’t really. He also hadn’t cared. If being accepted by society meant putting up with the type of ruinous palaver he had heard tonight, he simply wasn’t capable of it. He’d figure out a different way to reunite with his nephew.
“At the absolute utmost, men talk about their mistresses, Courtenay. Or gambling. Not crimes against nature.”
Courtenay shrugged. “In a few weeks they’ll forget you ever... sponsored me, or whatever this is. You’ll go back to being modestly appreciated by everyone, bland as bland can be.”
“Modestly appreciated. What a pleasant thing to say. This is a far cry from the charm you exerted at the dinner table this evening and, one presumes, which you also exerted to fuck your way across Europe and back again. Modestly appreciated. Thank you kindly.” Was Medlockpouting?If he knew how he looked with his hand on his hip and his lips pursed like that, he’d stop. Courtenay was suddenly very aware of how close they were.
“But I’m not trying to get you into my bed.” Lord, he wanted Medlock to stop following him.
“I gathered as much.” Medlock suddenly stopped walking and looked at his surroundings.“Where are we?”
“I’m going to my lodgings,” Courtenay ground out. He was fast losing patience with Medlock, and didn’t want the man to know where he lived.
“On foot?”
“I was planning to fly but I only do that without witnesses, so kindly leave me be.”
“We’re on the edge of St. Giles. I’ll see if we can get a hackney before we’re beset by footpads. You can’t possibly live near here. You’re lost. Where the devil are your lodgings?”
“On the edge of St. Giles, in fact.”
