Page 18 of The Ruin of a Rake
Julian was pleasantly surprised that Courtenay believed in paying his servants. “That’s what I’m working on now.”
He also seemed to believe in paying tradesmen and settling his debts, judging by the canceled notes he found in the trunk. “Courtenay,” he began, trying to figure out how to phrase this as delicately as possible, “do you have any debts that perhaps I might not know about from the contents of this trunk?”
A shadow passed over Courtenay’s face. “I pay my debts.”
“I don’t mean to give offense,” Julian said hastily. “Most people don’t.” Hell, when Julian had moved Medlock Shipping’s principal offices to London in advance of selling off his India interests, he had needed to borrow money, which he hadn’t repaid until the last possible minute because that was how these things worked. Julian’s understanding of profligate gentlemen suggested that they were even less inclined to promptly repay debts.
“I pay my debts. It’s one correct thing that I can do, so I do it.” Then he shut his eyes, and Julian was given to understand that the conversation was over.
Later, long after a clock in the distance had chimed two, Julian reached over and tapped Courtenay’s shoulder to rouse him. “What’s this property near Stanmore?” It was very close to London, and if the house were halfway decent it could command a decent price. “Is it entailed?”
“No. But I can’t sell it.”
Julian narrowed his eyes. There were several letters in a feminine hand requesting funds for what seemed to be the running of this household in Stanmore. Had Courtenay pensioned off a former mistress? Was he supporting an illegitimate child? Surely he hadn’t been in England long enough to have acquired a new mistress, not when he spent all his time in London and seemed to haunt Eleanor’s house like a particularly alluring ghost.
“Carrington Hall is where my mother lives.”
Julian gasped. “You have a mother?” He collected himself. “I mean, a living mother?”
“Alive and well and only a few miles away.”
“Who is she?” He searched his memory for any recollection of a Lady Courtenay, and came up with nothing.
“Mrs. Blakely.”
Julian paused. “Your mother remarried after your father’s death yet lives in a house you inherited from your father? And you support her? What does your stepfather think of this?”
“I couldn’t say, as I’ve never met him.”
Julian checked the signature on the letters that tersely demanded funds. “Who is this Miss Chapman who writes on your mother’s behalf?”
“I believe she’s the vicar’s daughter.”
Julian pursed his lips in disapproval. “Your mother is very infirm, then? She cannot hold a pen nor even dictate a letter?”
“As far as I know, she’s quite well. She disowned me a good ten years ago, so I’m not certain.”
Julian barked out an astonished laugh. “Disown? You pay for her upkeep. She lives on your sufferance. She’s not in a position to disown you.”
“I don’t suppose she’s bogged down by the technicalities.”
“Well, I am. It’s admirable to support your mother, presuming she has no money of her own, and please don’t correct me if I’m wrong, because I’m not sure I can stand to hear it. But you might keep her in a considerably more modest style. You pay for over a dozen servants. And based on the grocer’s bills, which Miss Chapman helpfully encloses, she seems to entertain a fair bit.”
“I believe Blakely’s children live there as well.” Somehow Courtenay delivered this information as if it were in the least bit normal. “I daresay they eat their heads off.”
“And so do their horses. If I’m reading this correctly, she has three grooms and at least six horses.”
Courtenay was silent for a moment. “I had to sell my own horse in January. Couldn’t keep him anymore.”
Julian would not hear another word and held up his hand to stop Courtenay from elaborating. “Where’s your writing paper, Courtenay? I’m putting a stop to this nonsense immediately.”
“You will not. It’s my affair.”
“This here”—he nudged the now-empty trunk with the toe of his boot—“is testament to how unfit you are to manage your own affairs.” Julian took a deep breath. “Your mother evidently thinks she’s above your touch. Perhaps she is. But in that case, she and her husband and stepchildren don’t need to take your money.” Julian had never heard of such a preposterous arrangement. “I think not. I’ll write a very cordial letter informing Miss Chapman that you find yourself in straightened circumstances and will happily relocate your mother and her hangers-on to a cottage someplace more suitable.”
“It needs to be near Somerset,” Courtenay said blandly. “That’s where my sister lives.”
“I didn’t even know—Oh, I suppose she disowned you too.”
